Rensselaer Semi-Weekly Republican, Volume 37, Number 29, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 14 April 1905 — CRIPPS, THE CARRIER [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

CRIPPS, THE CARRIER

BY R. D. BLACKMORE

Author of “L 0 RNT A DOO NE," “ALICE LORRAI N E," ETC., ETC,

CHAPTER XIV. —(Continued.) “No, Missy; but I daresay, a thunderW beak, as hare sent me to prison; and jiow I have got you in prison, too. No •omiu' out, wi’out paying of your hue. *»/ dear.” The scamp laid hold of poor grace’s trembling hand, and drew her towards him; while she tried vainly to shriek, for her voice had forsaken her—■when bodily down went the rabbit man, felled by a most inconsiderate blow. He dropped so suddenly that he fetched poor <3race to her knees, by his violent grasp •f her; and when he let go, she could ■ot get up for a moment, becauso her fcead went round. Then two strong hands were put into hers; and she arose and ■need a young gentleman. In her confusion, and sense of vile indignity, she did the natural thing. She •taggered away to a tree, and spread both hands before her eyes, and burst (forth sobbing, as if her heart would •reak. Instead of approaching to comfort her. the young man applied himself •rst to revenge. He espied on the path the stick of the prostrate rabbit man, •nd laid hold of it. Then striving to keep His conscience clear, and by no means hit a man on the ground, he seized the poor dealer in fur by the neck and propped him well up in a saplin fork. Having him thus well situated for penal operations, he proceeded to exhaust the ■tility of the stick, by breaking it over

Us owner's back. The calm wood echoed with the sound of wooden thumps, and the young buds trembled at the activity of a stick. “Mercyl'’ cried the rabbit man. "\ou bo gooiu'. outside of the bargain, sir!" “Oh, don't —oh, please don’t!’’ (Jrace exclaimed, running forth from her retirement. “I dare say he did not know any better. Poor fellow, he lias had quite enough. Oh. stop, do stop, for my sake.’ “For nothing else —in the world—would I stop.” said the youth, who was breathless with hitting so hard, and still looking ' yearningly at tne stick, now splintered by so much exercise: “but if you beg him off. he gets off, of course — though lie has not had half enough of St. You vile black rascal, will you ever look at a young lady in your life again V" “Oh,* no. sir-—Oh, no. Sir;" cried the rabbit man. rubbing himself all over. “l*o 'ee let me whisper a word to you.” "If 1 see your filthy sneaking face two seconds more. I’ll take a new stick to you, and a much tougher one. Out of my sight with your carrion!” Black George, with amazement and fury, gazed at the stern and threatening countenance. Then, string the elbow beginning to lift, lie hobbled, as fast as his bruises allowed, to his bundle of •kins in the brushwood. Then with a whimper and snivel lie passed ihe broken •taff, now .thrown at him, and with exaggerated limps departed. "See if I don't show this to your governor," lie muttered, as he turned hack and scowled, when out of sight and hearing; “1 never were took in so over a job 5u nil my life afore,’wore II One hull Ifor a hiding liko that!" he grumbled, as ike pulled out « sovereign, and looked St it. "Five, bull would hardly cover jit. Why, the young cove can’t a’ been (told nort about it. A scurvy joke—a jvery scurry joke. I ain't got a hone in toe as don't ache!” [.caving him thus to pursue his <le||n rttire, young Christopher Sharp, with xreat self-content nt the good luck of |ltiis exploit, turned toward Grace, who |-«ras trembling nnd blushing; and lie tremftded and blushed in his turn ut her. • “I am so sorry I have frightened you." |Ke said In the most submissive wav; "1 jhnro done you more harm than good. I (fear. I hope you will not despise me p»r it.” j< “Despise yon! Cnn I ever thank you'/ [But I aut not tit to do anything now. I [think I had better go home, if you please. (I am not likely to be annoyed again. And (there la a good man in a field, half way." “Te be sure, you know best," the Eg md answered, cooling into disapowat. “Still, I may follow nt a ece, mayn't I? The weather looks ■■fte as if it would be dark. And at ptte time of year, scarcely anybody

knows. There seem to be tramps almost everywhere. Hut I tun sure I do not wish to press myself. 1 can go on wjth the business that brought me here, I am searching for the true old wind flower.” “Oh, are you?” said Grace; "how exceedingly lucky! I can show you exacts ly where to find it; if only you could manage to come to-morrow.” ‘‘To-morrow? Let me see —to-morrow! Yes, I believe I have no engagements. But will you not be afraid —I mean — after that blackguard's behavior to-day? Not, of course, thnt he should be thought of twice—but still —oh, I never can express myself.” “I understand every word you would say,” the young lady answered decisively; “and I never mean to wander so far again. Still, when I know that you are botanizing; or rather, I mean when a gentleman is near—but I also can never express myself. You never must come —oh, I mean good-bye. But I feel that you ought to be careful because that bad man may lie in wait for you.” That evening Grace made one more trial to procure a little comfort in her own affairs. In the dark low parlor of the eottage. where she had lived for the last tliree months, with only Miss Patch and a deaf old woman for company and comfort, she sat by the fire and stitched hard, to abide her opportunity. At the

corner of the table sat the good Miss Patch, with her spectacles on, and occasionally nodding over her favorite author, Ezekiel. This tn 11 and very clear-minded lady was by nil in-and-out kind of way related to Squire Oglander. She called him her "brother; and the Squire once had gone so far as to call her his “sister." Still that, to his mind, was a piece of flattery. From no pride oh his part; lint because of his ever-abiding execration of her father —the well-known Captain Patch. Captain Patch was the man who married the last Squire Oglunder's second wife, that is to say, our good Squire's stepmother. Captain Patch took her for her life-interest under the Oglander settlement; and sterling friends of his declared him much too cheap at the money. But the Oglauders took quite tiie contrary view, and hated his name while he drew their cash. Yet the captain proceeded to have a large family, of whom tliis Hannah Patch was the eldest. "Oh, Aunty,” said Grace, "when shall I hear from my father'/" "Young girls must submit to those whose duty it is to guide them. The principles, or want of principle, inculcated now by had education, can lead to nothing else but ruin nnd disgrace. How different all was when 1 was young! My gallant and spirited father, well known as n brave defender of his country, would never have dreamed of allowing us to he inquisitive ns to his whereabouts. But nil things are subverted now; filial duty is a thing unknown.” "Oh. but Aunty, of course we never pretend to be half ns good as you were. Still I don't think that you can conclude that I do not love my dear father, because I am not one bit afraid ’of him." “Don’t cry, child. It Is ’foolish nnd weak. All things are ordered for our good." “Then crying must he ordered for our good, or we should be able to help it. nin’am. But you can’t call it ’crying.’ when I do just what I do. It is such a long and lonely time; and 1 never have been away more than n week nt n time, from my darling father, until now; nnd now it is fifteen weeks nnd five days since I saw him! Oh, it is dreadful to think of it.’*’ “Very well, my dear, it may be fifty weeks, or fifty years, if the Lord so wills. Self-command is one of the very first lessons that all human beings must learn." “Yes. I know all that. And I do command myself to the very utmost. You know that you praised me—quite praised --me yesterday: which is a rare thing for you to do. What did you say then*/ Please not to retract, and spoil the whole beaaty of your good word.” “No. my dear child, you need not be afraid. Whenever you deserve praise.

you shall have it. You saw an old sack with the name of ‘Beckley* on it, and although you were silly enough to set to and kiss it, as- if it were your father, jou positively did not shed one tear!” "For which I •deserve a gold medal a least. I should like to have it for my counterpane; but you sent, it away most ruthlessly. Jiow I want to know. Aunty, how it come to be here —miles, leagues, longitudes, away from darling Beckley?” —Miss—Patch looked a little-stern again at this. She perceived that her duty was to tell some stories, in a case of this kind, wherein the end justified the means so paramountly. Still every new story which she had to tell seemed to make her more cross than the one before; whether from accumulated adverse score, or from the increased chances of detection. "Sacks arrive and sacks depart,” she answered, laying down an over-true dogma, “according to tile decrees of Providence. Ever since the time of Joseph, sacks have had their special mission. Oar limited intelligence cannot follow' the mundane pilgrimage of saekx.” “No, Aunty, of course, they get stolen so! But this particular sack I saw had on It tlie name of a good honest man, one of the very best men in Beckley, Zaechary Cripps, the Carrier. His name did bring things to my mind so —all the parcels and good nice things that he carries as if they were made of glass; and the way my father looks over the hedge to watch for his cart at the turn of the lane; and his pretty sister Etty sitting up as if she didn't want to be looked at; and old Dobbin splashing along, plod, plod; and our Mary setting her cap at him vainly; and the way he goes rubbing his boots, as if he would have every one of the nails out; and then dearest father calling out, ‘Have you brought us Her Majesty'S new crown, Cripps?’ and Cripps, putting up his hand like timt, and grinning as if it was a grand idea—oh, Aunty, shall 1 ever see it all again?" “Well, Grace, you will lose very little if you don’t. Unhappily you always exhibit, both in word aud action, something so—l will not use at all a harsh word for it —something so sadly unsolemn.” “What can I do. Aunt? It really is not my fault. I try for five minutes together to be solemn. And then there comes something or other—how can I tell how? —that proves too much for me. My father used to love to see me laugh. He said it was quite the proper thing to do. And he was so funny that without putting anything into anybody's head, he set them all off laughing. Aunty, you yould have been amused to hear him. Quite in the quiet time, almost in the evening, 1 -have known my father make such beautiful jokes, without thinking of them, that I often longed for the old horn lanthorn, to.see all the people laughing. Even you would laugh, dear Aunty, if you only heard him.” “The laughter of fools is the crackling of thorns. Grace, you are. nothing but a very green goose. Even a stray lamb would afford me better hopes. But knock at the wall wit., the poker, my dear, that Margery Daw may come iu to prayers.” (To he continued.t

THE SCAMP LAID HOLD OF POOR GRACE'S TREMBLING HANDS, AND DREW HER TOWARDS HIM.