Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 10, Number 43, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 24 April 1880 — Page 7

THE MAIL

A PAPER FOR THE PEOPLE.

AT LAST.

BY R08S1TER W. RAYMOND, AUTHOR OF "THANKSGIVING! JOB."

CHAPTER I.

SQUIKE AND DEACON.

It was a bright, still day, after the first bard, frost. The chestnuts were dropping in tbo woods and Squire Hawkins, one of the selectmen ot tbe town ol Hucklebury, was burning brush on lila side hill ten acre lot. The aquire had got through with tire heavy work, and had nothing to do but to watch the fire while he tinkered here and there at the leuco. So, when Deacon Pfeabody's white horse, pulling a shay wit tbe deacon in it, came in sight on tbe hill road, the equire had no reason to deny himself the expectation of a oomfortabio and leisurely chat. From whore bo stood, be conla see tbe turnpiki that came from tbe corners and went through tho valley, past the red ischoolhouoe, and jwyrt Westcotfssa^ytnllL to Hnoklebury Center and South Hucklebury, and 80 on to larger places. And when ho saw# the deacon's sh*y turn fr»m the pike 'and begin tt ascend the bill road, he knew that in about fifteen minutes the deacon would be at hand. Tbst gave him time to fix up one more length of fence, and to fold hia arms Boolably on the top rail, ready for an interview. The deacon's horse stoppod opposite thesquire, without needing any hint from his driver. lie knew the custom of the country, and was not averse to it, particularly when the opportunity to observe it occured on a convenient, level spot, at tbo end of a R&OOp pull. i/Yyal, Deacon,' said the squire, heartlly, "I'm glad to see ye out agin. W«'ve kind o' missed ye at meetin', an' everyparson, ho saya he's all lost ou Sundays about yoa to look at dunno whether he's been a'fflclently explicit on a toogb pint o' doctrine, or not. You toojk it most too hard, Dcacon. Grief is nateral of oonrs.?, to a reasonable extent but Mis' peabody bad boon a fHilin' so long, ye ktiow and it was a great marcy she passed away comfortable in body an' mind an' on tho hull, there's much to be thaukful for. I expect it \9 kiudo' lonesome, now she's gone and the squire paused, with tbe air of one who bad admlnlaterod consolation and rebuke in wise proportions.

Deacon Pbineas Peabody took no offense whero none was meant. He had nursed his invalid wife through her long illness—an old fanbioned, slow consumption— and lie had shut himself up for a month after her death, in a silent sor row too doop for words but now he had braced himself again for the duties of life, and ho quite assented to the rough but woll meant observations of his friend. "Yes," said the deacon meditatively, "she lasted a good while an' I dunno'a I ever quite give up hopin' about her. She'd git a little better some weeks, an' thes agin a little wuzz an' she was alius lookin' on tho dark side herself, so I sort o' got in the way o' s'posin' mebbe she wa'u't so bad as she thought for. Them last drope that her sister Mahaly sent up from Boston seemed to take right hold of lier cough. But it wa'n't no use it was ordained. Cyntby was right, after all. I s'pose tbe Lord kind o' prepared her for what was coniinV ••There's^usan," said the»quire. "She must be a srext comfort to ye. She's a good gal, Susan is. I've follered her ever sence she was a little bit of a tuing. comin' vt?r to our house after maple sugar. I u*el to think young Jothaia Bakes and she would make a match on't but. bless you! these yoang folks will hev their own idees, ami they're too aharp for us old fellows to find 'em out. I toll \e, I was jest tip and down mortified when Jot ham came to me, and told mo he was copied to Westeott's darter Nancy. Not tshe was a nice gal, an' I had uothin' agin the match, except that old Westcott was a Methodist anf a Democrat, an' it did seem Kind o' mean to bold Nancy responsible lor that. But I thought, after all his goin's on with 8usao, it wasn't jest exactly right for him to go off arter another one an' 1 told him so. Says I, 'Jotbam, my boy, there ain't no otyection to your takin' a wife, in the fear o' the Lord, wherever yoa find her, amongst tbe Moabites, or tbe Hittites, or tho Methodists, or the Jemocrats but I don't like this philander In' at tbe same time with Susan PeaJtody.' Jotbam, be bust ont a lafliu', an' saya he, 'Why, Susan has know'd all about it ever since it began. Thet's what 1 talk about to Susan,' saya he. 'Weil,' says I, 'it's none o' my bualaem, you know, Jotbam yon horn't got to answer to me for yer doin*s bot I'd like to know how long ago it began.' "Wal, he was ready enough to talk about it. He'd a talked all day if I'd let him. You aee, I was an old friend of hia family, an* Widder Raker aot a good deal by my advice an' Jot ham, he was like a son to me. So he told me be had acquainted with Nancy Weatcott aenee the quiltin' down to West sou's, j«A afbre last year's donation party. 'Do tell!' saya I, tol'ble soornful •an' you've know'd Susan Peabody all yonr life. Yon must excusei ma for aayin* of it, yoang man bnt Susan Is wath desen of her.' is tb* beet girl, thai lived,* say* he, 'exceptln' Jfcancji but that's a very different matter. I tell ye, 8aaan wonldnt look at me. onlesa aa a frtend.' So off be went, an' that's 'most tbe last time I see him. He sailed tor th« East Injees that fall, an* now it's about two year, an* be hain't been beerd ilud from time to tell ye

I've had it on my ml about that ttik

says I to myself, 'per^i^JS

.-BBS##

AXSA C. BRACKETT.

go steadily ronnd

aud

The millstones roand, And the corn Is ground. !$ Every kernel, yellow and fair, Longing to grow in the sun and air la crashed and torn beneath the teeth Of the stones above and underneath. Till the li/e that might have been, nevi ™°re Can be found in the meal that runneth o'er. Pitiless stones so full of death! How many a life has yielded Its breath, Leaving Its shetl in the hardening clay, Ta give you the power yoa boast to-day I Ah! haa the tortured being known, Gasping Its Ufeout, teonsagone. It should live anew but to hand down pain, Tearing the life from the tortnred grain, Death more bitter perchance bad grown For now the steady stcnes go round, And the corn Is ground! But then—what then Millions of years of death and Millions of bushels of corn am And then what Is found-? The cruel millstone? themselves are ground Deadened and blunt! At last, at last The sure footpd future revenges the past!

4-

I

ver-

§ince

2 pain, id grain,

From Camp and Cabin.

WIDOW BAKER.

A NEW-ENQLANJ) STOR Y.

many a Nsaaae,'

the deaoon

he'd the same'idee aa I did, aa' he might think strange on it that Jotbam Baker got engaged, afore be sailed, to Nanoy Weatoott, arter he'd been payin' attentions to Susan Peabody.'"

The Deaoon had listened totheeqnire 8 voluble story in an absent minded way, paying, in truth, very little attention to it. He had never quite realized that his little Susan had oeme to be a yoang woman- To him she was a dutiful and comely daughter, deeply but not demonstratively loved, a brisk housekeeper, a skilful nurse to her invalid mother, a melodious singer in the choir, and a

reat favorite with the Widow Baker, his wife's death, he bad thought more about Susan, aad now the squire's allusion to her aroused a boetof feelings and reminiscences, in which tbe love affairs of Jotham Baker 'had not the remotest share. "Exactly," said the deacon—not very exactly, so far as a logical reply was concerned. "Susan's a good darter, an a middlln' manager. She used to be a bright, healthy lookin' gal but I think It has wore on her, tendin' to her ma. She ain't so spry as she was, an' the color is kind o' faded out of her cheeks. I'm afeared she's goin' to be delicate. Fact is, I was Jest ridin' over to Widder Baker's to talk to her about Susan. I thought mebbe she'd fix her up sutbin* to take that'd do her good, an' set her up. Susan mopes an' reads too much though I dunno as she slights her housekeepin' any. But she's a great hand for books—tafeea alter her ma. But she won't never be sech a woman as her ma was. Mies Baker was a great friend o' my Cyntby." ..

The deacon's simple admiration of his deceased wife would have been amusing if it had not been pathetic. Probably nobodv else would have extolled the intellect of the late JSirs. Peabody and certainly nobody would have dreamed of pronouncing Susan her inferiorSusan. who talked on terms df equality withtne parson and tho doctor and tho schoolmaster, aDd who bad even writtea poetry which had been published with editorial commeudation in "The Advertiser. But to the patieut and apparently prosaic deacon there never had come an end of tbo romantic admiration with which be had in his youth regarded Cynthia. Indeed, bis present visit to tbe Widow Baker, undertaken on tho pretext of talking about Susan, was really inspired by the longing to talk about his wife with one who had known and loved her.

CHAPTER II.

THE SXpRY OF THH BAKEKS. "Goin' over to Widder Baker's, bo ye?" answered the squire. "Expect ye hain't beerd tbe news. Lawyer Marigold, over to the Center, has foreclosed on that Baker mortgage an' its likely Widder Baker'll be turned out o' house'n home. I was over to the Center yesterday to see what could be done about it. Marigold, ho was reasonable enough didn't want nothin' but his money, an' he's waited for that this ten year, notwishin' to disturb tbe family. Ye see, the kernel borrowed the money. Kernel Baker was a woll meanin' mas but all his geese was swans, an' be was shiftier besides,—allers contrivin' suthin, cr inventin' sutbin' an' never reelly anaountin' to nothin'. There was that patriotic warfle-iron o' bis'n—In tbe shape of the American eagle He was

ege o'apecubook. An*

Lawyer Marigold be said he'd wait another year to aee what'd oome of it. 1 dunno bow much you've heerd o' thia afore. Deacon what with Miie Peabody bein' »o thick with Widder Baker, an* rour Susan eech good friends with Jotbam, it's more'n likely you kep' tbe ran o' the whole thing. Bat what I'm comlu' to'Ube news to ye. About a week ago I aee in 'The Advertiser' that Jotbam'a ahip had been give up for loet, an' the insurance company bod paid tbe inaataooe on her. That's a party sartin sign, ye know. When one o' them companlee pays up, it mast be a tol'ble clear ease. "So, aa I waa aayin', I hitched up yeetarda?. an* drove over to tbe Center, to aae Lawyer Marigold about it. Says I, There's tbe Widow Baker without kith or kin, an' how shell git aloag*s more'n I asa see. Jotham left ber hia winter's 'arnin'fc an' theifarwi haa jeat about kep' her in vittlea. One o' my men worked It on shares. But be give her all it perdueed, aa* I made it all right with him, I want goin* to hev Jotham oome back an'find we'd let tbe old lady suffer. However,' says I, 'that's no way to get along.*

'Won't Westcott do nothin'?' says Marigold. 'Westcotfs not a bad man.' says I, 'but he's cluss. But I don't think tbe widow'd take and help from him. Ye see, she knows it was along o' Nancy that her boy went off, an' she takes it hard that Nancy hain't been to Bee her. (Jala is gals, an'I don't want tojedge 'em but the fact is, Nanoy never did care quite so much for Jotham as she made out to. An' about a year arter he was gone, that smart young filler from Boston came cuttin' around, an' sbe was mightily taken with bim. They say there want no reg'lar engagement between ber an' Jotbam the old man wouldn't hear on't. So the loag an' short on't is, they're goin' to be married the day before Christmas, an'she's goin' to live in Bustou, an' keep her own kerridge. No wonder sbe was a little sby o' ihe widder!'

Tbe deacon listened to the squire's long story, and gently poked off with bis whip tbe flies that settled on the white horse. His kind heart was beginning to stir within bim, and to take an interest in the trials and sorrows of other people. "Seems to me," Baid the deaoon, "I hexi' heerd a good deal o' this afore bnt I cal'iato I've ben too much occupied with my own troubles. I sort o' let it go through my ears without stoppin'. I do remember Susan lettin' out tbe other day about Nancy Westcott, an' »ayin' it was a shame she was goin' to git married but I jest nut it down as gals' talk. Wal, what did Li awyer Marigold say?" "He said be hadn't no idee o'turnin' the Widow Baker outo' house an' home at ber aee but he didn't see no good o' leavin' her there when sbe couldn't git her livin'. He guessed he'd hev to foreclose so's t) get a clear title to the farm, ef it over should be worth anything. Somebody'd hev to pay taxes', au' keep up tbe fences, an' so on. Wb«n the branch railroad come into Hucklebury, the land might be wanted. It wlis a good place for a tunnel,, anyhow. But bo was ready to give a bond, tfiat ef Widder Baker, or any other Baker, wanted tbo place back agin, they should have it for what it cost him.

u*Wal,'

about

cOokln', ye see—an' I let him have a hundred dollars juit to start the thing. Wall, he brought the very fust one down to our house, ah' made a present on't to my wife an' the minit she sot eyes on it, she took tbo sense o' the thiiiKr and was sartin it wouldn't work. Tbejulee waS good enough for anything but warfle iron but ye couldn't make a warllo ou it, to save hour life. When the beak an' the thunderbolts was done to a crisp, the innards WJVS 'most raw! Now that was Kernel Baker —overdone in one spot, an' underdone in another spot, as long's be lived. "Wal, aa I was sayin', Marigoli let him have two thousand dollars on his farm. The land ain't worth tbe money, you know, not even if you throw in the house and bam. But the kernel he had found a gold mine up in tho rocks on top o' tho hill an' sure enough he -did show somo gold that he got out on't, an' I guess that sort o' stirred old Marigold's blood. Ye know tliet hole the kernel's cow fell into au' broke her neck? Wal, thet's tbo mine. They never could make it pav an' the kernel he pottered around about it, washin' an' 'malgamatin', au' the Lord knows what, till ho got the rheumatiz, an'salivated himself with the quicksilver, an' kind o' run down an' died. Then Eliakiui started off out West to seek his forlin' an' Marigold promised him to wait five years, o's to give him a chanco to ret&eem the old place. It want wuth the money bat folks will get their hearts sot on the place they WHS born in, if it's too poor lor a chicken-pas: Tin t's natera!. But afore the five years W up, Eliakim he'd took a fever out therein Illinois, an'died, an'left nothin'. So there was noHody but the wider an' Jotbam. I tell ye, De»ca*n **ome mighty hard on jotham to make up his mind to go away an' leave his mother. He tried every way to git a livin' out o' the farm but all bo could do be couldn't moro'n make both ends meet, an' hard scratchin' at that,—teacbin' school in the winter, an' workiu' at Westcotfs sawmill, besides all tbe farm work an' chorea at home. Then cowue that courtin' business with Nancy an' Westcott didn't half like it. Bat tbe gal was headstrong, an' there was nothin' to be said agin Jotbam, only he was poor. But Westcott he had been poor himself an' he didn't stand so much on thet only he said tbe young folks most wait. Fact is, Jotbam waa too proud to settle down onto a fatber-in-law, partic'ly with hia mother. So be started off tbe sea. Advised him to go myself. He couldn't do so well any other*way. It waa a good chance-super* with mid-

says I, 'Mr. Marigold, thet's

fair'n square. As for the widder,, I don't see but she'll hev to come on the tawn."'

When Deacon Peabody teard that, he winced a little but on second thought he said reflectively, "Wal, it ain't a disgrace, so far as I know, for a good woiian to be took care of by her neighbors, when she's brought up her family well, an' lost 'em all, an' got beyond takin' bare of herself." /'Jest so," replied tbe squire, "i. thought I'd go over an' break it to her but I didn't quite like to doit, partic'ly now, with this news about Jotbam's ship bein' lost, an' the boy drowned. Aa' I had an idee that there wan'c nO need o'tellin' her tbo hull on't. We might auction off her board, accordln' to law an' then the lowest bidder could jest step over, aa' invite her to stay with bim."

The deacon suddenly broke off the conversation, "I must be gittin' on," said he, and addressed the white horse with a suddon "G'dap!" that surprised that venerable animal Into a trot up hill.

A iistener unacquainted with the characters of these worthy people would bave been shocked to hear a conversation wbici\ showed at least some fruity -Krfi*jrin* trmrTrnxuw liaker, terminate with the oold blooded proposition to put her up at auction aa a pauper, and let her go to tho cliizSb who would give her board and lodging for the smallest sum.. Yet such a judgment would have been unjust. Under jjlalu words and ways, both the squire and the deacon meant nothing but kindness. Either of them was ready to take the widow into his own boxne, and make her old age comfortablo. Neither would have exacted payment from ber but that was no reason why the town shouldn't pay something for keeping hor. Indeed, strange as it may appear, not only these two men, but many another substantial citizen, would hsvo argued that whoever, not being a relative, aud so bound to support her, should undertake ber maintenance, ought, as a matter of right to bis neighbors, to accept from the common treasury some payment for his pains. It was tho only way in which all could contribute. This way of looking at tbe matter would not long have survived auy considerable increase in the number of the poor. But Hucklebury bad bardly any paupers. A blind man, a paralytic, and one or two old people who had, like

Widow Baker, outlived their relations and means of subsistence, comprised the entire list. Every year the selectmen put them up at auction, alter town meeting and on this small scale, and among such simple and kind bearted folks, the plan worked well.

Tb$ deacon, softened by bis own recent grief, and touched with the remembrance of tbe relations between bis lost Cyntby and the Widow Baker, bad made up his mind at onco and irrevocably to give the latter a home in bis own household. He didn't mean to wait for the auction even. He would take her in, if he bad to pay her whole support himself. Bat, ol course, he would bid, like other people and no false delicacy would prevent him from accepting tbe stipend wbich tbe selectmen were bound to pay. t'J

CHAPTER III.

TS'

BOARD AND LODGINCF.

Widow Baker was in ber sitting room alone. It waa not a handsome apartment indeed, it bad no element of beauty except that spotless neatness wbich is tbe sole adornment within tbe reach of^poor folks. People used to say, "Widder Baker's settia' room as clean 'a a Junesky," and the expression oar ried a sense of thoroughness with it which was well deserved. One wss sure that under the clean rag carpet there was an unstained floor, tbat tbe shining brass candlesticks on tbe rnantlepiece hid no lurking windrows of dast. that under tbe settee, and behind tbe doom, and always oa the top shelf of tbe dreseer, a bride might rub tbe finger of ber white kid glove without sullying its purity. Just so unspotted of the worhl seemed Widow Baker herself she sat in her high backed rocking chair, with her snowy cap, and ber kerchief crossed on ber breast! tbe great Bible open on her knee, aud lying on its ample page her hands clasped, and holding ber silver rimmed spectacles. It could not be a mere coincidence tbat the folded bands covered the words, "Though He slay me, yet will I trust In him."

The widow's eyes were turned to the wide prospect that spread itself beneath her windows bat she seemed to be

looking far beyond over tbe blue borison, beyond the valley fielda, where the thick stubble told of tbe fruitful

valley fielda, where tbe fruitful

harvest beyond the comfortable fira •ending up banners of hospitalinto tbe noatj ity from their chi air beyond the tbe Hucklebury meeting it the floating clouds aad tbe

mneys into ti fire tipped steeple of leeting boose beyond aad the crystal aky,—

to '*s belief country, that ia, aa heavenly." Dearon Peabody drove up to tbe state descended from his shay, hftcbed his

hone (a superflous proceeding), and walked into tbe house, shouting to the widow aa he passed the window, "Don't ye git up now jeat set there comfortable, 'n. I'll open tbe door Myself." But she arose, nevertheless, and met bim at tbe threshold with a smile of grateful welcome. "This is very good ot you, Deacon," she said, "to think of me in your own sorrow." "Yes," said tbe Deaoon, not meaning to accept the phrase exactly, but following a habit of his,—"yes, I thought I'd come over' 'n' to-day."

He looked at her as he spoke, with asudden doubt whether sbe had beard tbe whole of the evil tidings concerning ber own fate,—tbe loss of ber last son, and the impending loss of home. Her placid air told him little aad it was to cover his embarassment that he plunged into the subject, yet with an instinctive delicacy that the squire could never have imitated. "We're right lonesome down to our house, Miss Baker, Susan an* me an' it occurred to my mind that p'raps you'd bo willin' to come down an' spend a— stay as long's ye could, an' keep us compady, Snsan an' me. Susan misses he ma—an' so do I. You»was a good friend to my Cyntby, an' I cal'late you'd be a good friend to ber darter, 'S tong's you expected to meet Jotham agin, it was nateral to want to keep a home for bim. But—"

Here the deaoon, remembefing that perhaps she did not know of Jotbam's death, hesitated for au instant and then continued, "But ye know, if Jotham should come back, he'd be weloome to. Jotbam's company is worth more'n his board any day. "Phin'eas Peabody*" Said the widow earnestly, "you come like an answer to prayer! There's no news of my boy and I should be wearied with waiting if I didn't know, tbat, wherever he is, he has not forgotten his mother. But I am sure he would not wish me to be a burden on my friends aud that I shall be,' if I try to keep up the farm any longer. I'm too good a housekeeper, deacon, not to have found oat that the squire has helped a good deal this year. There's more oats and corn aud potatoes than my half of the crops, and yet there'll be nothing to pay interest or debts. If Jotham comes back, ue ought to start fair and so—I've made up my mind—tbat tbe old place—will have to go. As for me—well, I've thought over it a good deal, and I'm not asbamed, in my old age, to be poor."

There were tears in her eyes, which the deacon did not see, because ol something in his own. "Sho now yes, yes," said the deacon hastily, "don't ye worry about that. You just come an' visit with Susan an' me. That reminds me, I want you to kinder doctor up Susan a little. There's suthin' the matter with ber. She misses ber ma, an' sho don't have her uzhal appetite."

A few days after this conversation, tbe deacon's shay carried Widaw Baker to her home and the- deacon's lumber wagou and ox team followed with a load of bedding and furniture—only one load, enough to furnish a single room. Close upon this event followed an auction of all the remaining personal property of the Baker family. The proceeds amounted to very little—about two hundred dollars—and the squire, somewhat to the surprise of tbe community, claimed tbe money in payment of bis oWn advances during the past two years, -iv oeeuiwr eo -uoniraaiec TJIS~ previous generous behavior but the squire explained his conduct to the deacon in a

JBW words. "Two hundred dollars amounts to nothin'," said he "but, 's long's the widder's got any money, we can°t take her up 'n support her, accordin' to law. Sho'd bey to spend all her money fust. You jeat giv6 her a hint, deacon if she wants any spendin' money, she can draw on me, an' I'll mako it right, besides, in my will." Moreover, it turned out that the squire had bought all the household stuff himself, so it was his own money ho was saving for tho widow.

Nexticame the auction of the farm Under the foreclosure. Tbat was bought by Lawyer Marigold, who, beiuu able without cash expenditure to oiler the full sum expressed in the mortgage, had no competitors. After the sale, however, there was a friendly and shrewd conversation between tbe lawyer and the deacon, which resulted in the absolute purchase of tho farm by the latter for five hundred dollars.

Then came the queerest action of all— tbe sale ot the widow herself. This was not carried on with tbo noise and publicity of an ordinary public sale. The selectmen and freeholders simply talked the matter over, and the few paupers of Hucklebury were allotted to the lowest bidders for the privilege of boarding them. As for the Widow Baker, there was quite an animated competition for her. Plenty of people were willing to take her at small profit, and a few offered to accept tbe bare cost of ber subsistence. But when tbe squire and tbe deacon began to bid below cost, "the boldest held their breath for a time." They ran down tbe scale with prudence, vet with firmness, until at last Phineas Peabody having bid two shillings a week—equivalent to thirty-three and one-third cents—the squire said, "Wal, deacon, this is gittin' redie'lous. Ef ye don't look out, ye won't realize nothin' at all. But, sense you're bound to have tbe widder, I'll give up an' I must say it's the best thing for Dotbon ye."

All of which was quite unknowb to tbe good old lady, who went on, in her quiet cheerful resignation, "visiting" at the deacon's bouse. She did sot know tbat tbe money which the deacon gave ber every Sunday to put ifito the contribution plate (aside from his own contribution, let us add) was tbe price of her board. But, if abe had known it, ber esteem for tbe deacon would not have been diminished for sbe would bave understood, as a stranger in Hucklebury could not* have done, tbe combination of genuine kindness with habitual business like exactness snd economy which formed a part of the local character. In fact, tbe deacon was more delicate in bis generousity tban any of his neighbors would bave been. It is true, not even they alluded to tbe widow'a poverty in her presence bnt tbat was chiefly becaase it did not occur to them as a matter separating them and her in anyway. Tbeir treatment of the poor, however disguised beneath the hara forms of a bargain, was in apirit more like tbe Christian communism of tbe New Testament tban like tbe almsgiving of ancient (and modern) Pharisees.

Bat, ss a bargain, tbe boarding of tbe Widow Baker was an unqualified success. It soon proved tbat abe, and not her boot, bestowed benefaction. What a blessing in the boose is a serene and wise seuH What a contagions peace is which is the fruit of sorrow rightly

The widow's unworldly spirit

bcrueft waa not tbat of a dreamer. She fall of activity and helpfulness. Sbe did aot ran from barn to Kitchen, and from attic to cellar, like Susan yet her directing mind was everywhere, and anew spirit of system and order began to pervade tbe establishment. Hie deceased Mm. Cynthia Peabody bad been one of tboee restless housekeepers who "fuss" when they are well,, and worry wben

they are sick and Susan, as the result of her taition,.was apt to bustle more, aud plan less, than olroumstancea required. It wa8 wonderful to see how, after the command of affairs had gradually lapsed into the old lady's hauds, everything began to work smoothly in doors and out. The very hired meu on the farm caught the new fashion. The yard and the barn emulated the house in orderly neatness. The old white horse and the shay and harness were curried, washed and oiled into new youth and beauty. The deacon's shirt besoms, and, what was more important, the deacon's brow appeared without a crease or wrinkle. And, as a consequence of this universal decrease of friction, there was a saving of power in the whole machinery of bouse and farm. A shrewd observer like the deason could not fail to se that the presence of this motherly guest was not only pleasant but profitable. And Squire Hawkins saw it too, and summed it up very neatly, when, in reply to old Weucott's remark that "the deaoon couldn't be makln' much, boardin' Granny Baker at two shiliin' a week," he replied, 'Wal, now, I dunno'a Phineas Peabody kin make money so fast any other way as by boardin' Miss Baker at two shiliin'a week. I tell ye, Westcott. 'godliness is profitable an* tbe kind that

Widder Baker has got is the quiokest payin' investment y' ever see." This remark waa made tbe week before Christmas, when Westcott was distributing invitations to his daughter's wedding with the gentlemen from Boston. Hence the squire's concluding observation was not without point: "I won't undertake to say nothin' about young Jotham but it's certain sure as you live, Westcott, your Nancy's missed the best mother-in-law that ever was raised in these parts. Tbey don't have 'em so good as that iu Boston."

4 CHAPTERIV. *'"w

**SUSAN PEABODY.

Ol all who were blessed by the saintly and yet practical influence of the Widow Baker, Susan was, and had reason to be, tbe most grateful. She fouud what she had hitherto greatly lacked in two directions wise counsel in her daily duties on the one hand, and sympathy for all ber aspirations on the other. It was Susan who first began to call the widow '-Mother Baker and Phineas aad the whole household followed her example. Indeed, it Bpread through the town for she seemed like a mother to everybody.

No one ever heard her complain and seldom did she speak of the sorrows of tbo past. But somehow, to Susan it was natural for her to talk about old times, and that led to the mention of later and later times, until at last all their conversations wound up with Jotbam, as all roads lead to Rome. The difference between them was, that, while Mother Baker gradually settled into tbe conviction tbat ber son was no longer on earth and ranked him in her thoughts with the host of dear ones tbat waited for her In the new home that could not decay, nor be broken and scattered, Susan vehemently Insisted tbat Jotham was still alive, and would return. "Two years is not so very long," she used to urge. "People are often missing for tw.Q years—particularly in the East Indies."

And that creature, Nancy Westcott, had T!ett6r from Jotham in her pocket, and nevec told, anybody!. .It waa rather em harassing to Tier ana like a good many of us, when caught iu the current of troublesome circumstances, she drifted in tbe vague hope tbat matters would somehow fix theraselve?. The chief elements of the case were these first, she never had loved him "so very much as all that secondly, his letter did not arrive until she had as good as accepted the Boston gentleman thirdly, its contents were not satisfactory, as they told of shipwreak and disaster, and offered no other hope than that of further waiting until he could make a new start with "an idea" tbat he had—for all tho world just like his shiftless father fourthly, of course he bad written to his mother, and she knew all about it, and bad probably informed him tbat Miss Wostcott had thrown him overboard figuratively about tho time that the typhoon had done bim the same service literally fifthly, why should sbe go to see bis mother, just because ho asked it or write a letter to meet bim ou his arrival at Boston, which, of course, the Boston gentleman would not approve? sixthly, sbe would decide to-morrow or next day what to do about it seventhly, sbe forgot all about it, except so far as an occasional momentary uneasiness might be called a recollection. So it came to pass that those who longed to see the living Jotbam knew not of his coming, while sbe who knew it was not at all desirous of it. Once she might havo told Susan as they met on the meetiag bouse steps but Susan was "huffy/' and carried ber bead very high, which made Miss Westcott huffy likewise "Heartless thing!" soliloquized Susan. "She's mad," thought Nancv, "because I'm engaged and she ain't. Shouldn't wonder if sbe stands up for Jotbam Baker she was always a friend of bis'n nothin' more'n a friend, though, that's one comfort. He's told me so a dozen times." Kven after dis carding ber humbler lover, she didn't quite like to think of his "takin' up' with anybody else.

As for Susan, concealment was no "worm i' tbe bud" of ber cheek. Since tbe coming of Mother Baker she bad grown contented and even bappy. Sbe sang in tbe choir, and taught in tbe Sunday school, went to sewing society and quiltings, patronized tbe very young gentlemen (who could be kept at a distance), made butter and pies, dried apples, preserved quinces, and attended to other duties dally and periodically, each in its season, aa tbe almanac indicated, and with it all read poetry, aad tboagbt a good deal about Jotbam—In a sisterly manner, of course, and merely by way of indignation at tbe wrong tbat bad done him, and query whether he would feel it so much, wben be should come home, as to go right away again in his despair. Tbat would be very wrong, and sbe would certainly tell bim so. It would be bis daty to styy—on bis mother's account.

A fortnight before Christmas came tbe cards which formally announced, what everybody knew, the ceremony of Miss Westcott's wedding. It was to be tbe sensation of the age for Hackiebury. Everything was to be imported from Boston for tbe occasion, "down, to tbe vittles and fiddlers." As Sqaire Hawkins said, sdding, in bis disenchanting way,•"tbe settln' room is goin' to be jest kivered with hemlock, an' I have beerd that they intend to light ap the stoop in tbe yard." Of coarse everybody was eager to be invited: and nobody was disappointed. Miss Westcott would not willingly omit a single witness to ber trinmpb.

Sasan flung the cards Into Mother Baker's lap with a passionate exclamation of contempt. "To think," said she, "after tbe way sbe treated Jotham! I wont go near ber horrid wedding!" "My dear," said the placid old lady, with that innocent air which old ladiea can assume wben they are up to mischief, "you were good friend to Jotham and if be were alive—"

"He is alive! I know he is," interrupt* ed Susan. "Well, do you want him to come home and marry Nancy Westcott against her will? Shn was not bound to bim you know and sbe has found some* body who is better suited to her." is "How she could ever prefer that dandy to Jotham!" said Susan hotly. "We wouldn't, of «urse," replied Mother Baker. "But there's no accountIng for taste? and, if you stay away from her wodding on that kcoount, won't folks say you thiuk.top much of A —Jothnm's mother?"

4""

This suggestion was sheer nonsense but it bad a startling effect upon Suaan, who turned red and white in a moment, then blushed a^ain to think that she had blushed, and and at la*t said that sho was sure there was Mime.thing burning in the kitchen, whither she departed with all sp^ed, and pmrecded to quench tbe something that was burn- ,' ing by plunging her face into a b&sinful

Pitcher's

W 4

SA PHYSICIANS TE8TIM0NY.

Into merited obscurity.

1

of col ti water. The active preparations wbich beann next day, iu the wny of clearstarching and Ironing, indicated sufficiently that Susan was going to the party. sif'l [TO BB CONCLUDED NEXT WKRK

tjyfS

Castoria

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