Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 14, Number 48, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 24 May 1884 — Page 2

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THE MAIL

A PAPER FOR THE PEOPLE.

TBRRE HAUTE, MAY 24, 1884

MISUNDERSTOOD.

A FABLE,

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a solemn troth which bears a leaBon good, Tla better not to speak at all than be misunderstood. I11 silence there may be a balm, in speech a deadly bane, Therefore, 'tis best to silence be: and always thus remain. Please call to miad the story of the Lambkin and the Bear. A Lambkin sported gay and free, life was a

Joy to him

When In his pathway there Jappeared a Bear morose and grim. "Good day," quoth Brain, with a grin, "now is your dear ma-ma?" The Lambkin trembled with affright, and only answered •Ba-a." "And do you dare say 'Bah'to meT" the monster fiercely cried "I'll eat you up," and so be did, and tbos the lAmbklndled. 80,1 bold It is a solemn troth which bean a lesson good, Tis better not to speak at all than bemlsunderatood. —[Stanley Wood, in June Scrlbner.

A Humble Romance.

Mary E. Wilklns, in Harper for June. She was stooping over the great kitchen Kink, washing the breakfast dishes. Under fostering circumstance her slendemesa of built might have resulted in delicacy or daintiness now the harmony between strength and task bad been repeatedly broken, and the result was ugliness. Her finger joints and wrist bones were knotty and ont of propor tion, her elbows, which her rolled-up sleeves displayed, were pointed and knobby, her shoulders bent, her feet spread beyond their natural bounds— from bead to foot she was a little discordant note. She had a pale, peaked face, her scanty fair hair was strained tightly back, and twisted into a tiny knot, and her expression was at once passive and eager.

There came a ringing knock at the kitchen door, and a face of another description, large, strong-featured, and assured, peered out of the pantry, which was over against the sink. "Who is it, Sally "I don' know, Mis' King." "Well, go to the door, can't you, an* not stan* tbar gapiu'. I can't my hands are in the butter."

Sally shook the dish-water off ber red, sodden lingers, and shuffled to the door. A tall man with a scraggy sandy mustache stuod there. He had Bome scales in bis hand. "Qood mornin', marm," he ^said. "Hev you got any rags "I'll see, said the girl. Then she Went over to the pantry, and whispered to her mistress that it was the tin peddler. "Botheration cried Mrs. King, impatiently "why couldn't he hev come another day Here I am right in the midst of butter, an' I've got lota of rags, an' I've got to hev some new mijk pans right away."

All of this reached the ears of tbe tin peddler, but he merely stood waiting, tbe corners of his large mouth curving up good-naturedly, aud scrutinized with

Eitchen,

feasant blue eyes the belOnginfcs of the and" especially the slight, slouching figure at the sink, to which Sally had retnrned.

I s'pose,"' said Mrs. King, approacbae'

ing tbe peddler at length, with decision thinly veiled by doubt, "that I shall hev to trade with you, though I don' know how to stop this mornin', for I'm right in the midst of butter-making. I wish you'd »a happened along some other aav." "Wa'al," replied the peddler, laughing, "an' so I would, marm, ef I'd only know. But I don't see jest how I could hev, unless you'd 'a panted it up on the fences, or had it put in tbe newspaper, or tneobe in the almanac."

He lounged smilingly against the door-casing, jingling bis scales, and waiting for the woman to make up her mind.

She smiled unwillingly, with kultted brows. "Well," said she, "of course you ain't to blame. I guess I'll go an' pic'* up my rags, up in the garret. There's quite a lot of 'em, an' it '11 take some time. I don't know as you'll wai.t to wait." "Lor\ I don't keer," answered the peddler. "I'd jest as soon rest a leetle as not* It's a powerful hot mornin' for this Uiue 0' year, an' I've got all the day afore we."

He came In and seated himself on a chair near the door with a loose jointed sprawl.

After Mrs. King had gone out be sat a few minutes eyeing the girl at the alnk Intently. She Kept steadily on with her worn, though there was a little embarrassment a^d uncertainty in her face. "Would It be too much trouble ef I should ask yon to give me a tumbler of water, miss f"

She filled on® of her hot, newly washed glasses with water from a pail standing on a shelf at one end of tbe sink, and brought it over to him. "It's cold," she sakf. "I drawed it myself jest a few minutes ago, or I'd get some right out of the well for you." "This is all right, an' tbanky kindly, mlvt it's proper good water."

He drained the glass, and carried it berk to her at the sink, where she had returned. She did not seem to dare absent herself from her dish-washing task an instant.

He set the empty slam down beside id pail tifca he caught hold of the girl by her slender shoulder^ find faced her

round toward him. Si .' turned pale, and ga«e a smothered scream. "Thar! tbar! don't you go to being afeared of me," s*ld the peddler. "I wouldn't hurt you for the whole world. I jest want to take a ^uare look at you. You're tbe worst-oflMookin' littlecretur I ever set mv eyes on.*'

She looked up at him pitifully, still only half ressssured. There wete itifiaraed circles arouud bor dilated bine eye* "You've been cryln', 'alnt you?",

Tbe girl nodded meekly. "Please let me go, abe aaid. Ves, 1*11 let you go: hot Vm a goin* to »»k von a few questions first, an* I milt von to answer *em, for 1*11 be hangi I ever eeo— Ain't she good to you indicating Mr*. King with a wav» of id toward tbe door through whi -b hud departed. "Yes, she nough, I

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«'A .f\ I «tt kin ler oet»Tni with tbe wt -K«* vtftt Wt rkla* pr^::y Stlddtr. v!»n*t»oe "Yea thtrVi consider"Ide to do this time o' year." "Oookin' for hired men, I s'poee, and

butter and milk

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"How long hev yon been livin' here?" "She took me when I was little." "Do yon do anything besides work —go roand Uke other gals?—bev any good times "Sometimes." She said it donbtfnlly, as if casting about in her mind for reminiscences to prove tbe truth of it. "Git good wages?" "A dollar a week sence I was eighteen. I worked for my board an' close afore." "Got any folks?" "I guess I've got some brothers an' sisters somewbar. I don' know jest whar. Two of 'em went West, an' one is merried somewbar in New York State. We was scattered when father died. Thar was ten of us and we was awful poor. Mis' King took me. I was the

foungest

'bout four, they said I was.

ain't never known any folks but Mis' King." Tbe peddler walked up and down the kitchen floor twice Sally kept on witn ber disbee then he came back to her. "Look a-here," he said: "leave your dish-wasbin' alone a minute. I want yon to give me a good look in tbe face, an' tell me what you think of me."

She looked up shyly in hi& fiordid, freckled face, with its nigh cheek-bones and scraggy sandy mnstache then she plnnged Her hands into the dish-tub again, "I den' know," she said, bashinlly.

Woll mebbe you do know, only you can't put it into words. Now jest take a look out the window at my tin cart tbar. That's all my own, a private con sarn. I ain't runnin* for no company. 1 owns the cart an' horse, an' disposes of tbte rags, an' sells the tin, all on mv own book. An' I'm a doin' pretty well at it I'm a-layin' op a leetle money. I ain't got no family. Now this was what I was a-comin' at: s'pose yop should jest leave tbe dishes, an' the scoldin' woman, an' the batter, an' everything, an' go a-ridin' off with me on my tin cart. I wouldn't know you, an' she wouldn't know you, an' you wouldn't know yourself, in a week. You wouldn't have a bit of work to do, but jest set up tbar like a queen, a-ridin' and seein' tbe country. For that's tbe way we'd live, you know. I wonldn't hevyoukeepin'nousean'slavln'. We'd stop along the road for vittlee, and bring up at taverns nights. What d'ye say to it

She stopped her dish-washin' now, and stood utaring at him, her lips slightly parted and ber cheeks flushed. "I know I ain't much in the way of looks," the peddler went on, "an' I'm older than you—I'm near forty—an* I've been merried afore. I don't sjpose you kin take a likin' to me right off, butyon might arter a while. An' I'd take keer of you, you poor leetle thing. An' I don't b'lieve you know anything about how nice it is te be taken keer of, an' hev tbe hard, rough things kep' off by somebody that likes yer."

Still she said nothing, but stood staring at him. "You 'ain't got no beau, hev you?" asked the peddler, as a sudden thought struck him. "No." She shook her head, and her cheeks flushed redder. "Well, what do you say to goin' with me? You'll have to hurry up an' make up your mind, or the old lady'll be buck."

The girl was almost foolishly ignorant of the world, but her instincts were as brave and innocent as an angel's. Tainted with tbe shiftless weariness and phlegm of her parents, in one direction she was vigorous enough.

Whether It was by tbe grace of God, or an inheritance from some far-off Puritan ancestor, the fire in whose veins had not burned low, she could see, if she saw nothing else, the distinction between right and wrong with awful plainness. Nobody had ever called ber anything but a good girl. It was said with a disparagement, maybe, but it was always "a good girl."

She looked up at the man before her, her cheeks burning painfully hot, ber eyes at once drooping and searching. ,'1—aon't know jest—how you mean/' she stammered. "I wouldn't go with the king, ef—it wasn't to—go honest—"

The peddler's face flushed as red as hers. "Now, look a-here, little un," he he said. "You jest listen, an' it's God's own truth ef I hadn't 'a meant all right I wouldn't 'a come to you, bat to some other gal, hansummer, an' pearter, an'—but, oh Lord 11 ain't that kind anyway. What I want is to merry you bonest.an' take keer of you, an.' git that look on your face. I know it's awful sudden, an' it's askin' a good deal of a gal to trust so much in a fellow she never set eyes on afore. Ef you can't do it, I'll never blame you but ef you kin, well, I don't b'lieve you'll ever be sorry. Most folks would think I was a fool, too, an' mebbe I am, but I want to take keer on you the minute I set eyes on you an' afore I know it tbe wantin' to take keer on you will be growin' into lovin' yon. Now you hurry and make up your mind, or she will be back."

Sally had little imagination, and a loving nature. In ber heart, aa in all girl's hearts, the shy, secret longing for a lover had strengthened with her growth, but she had never dreamed definitely of one. Now she surveyed tbe homely, scrawny, good-natured visage before her, and it filled the longing nature had placed in her helpless heart well enough. His appearance dispelled no previous illusion, for previous illusion there had been none. No one bad ever spoken to her in this way. Rough and precipitate though it was, It was skillful wooing for it made ita sincerity felt, and a girl nlore sophisticated than this one could not have listened to it wholly untouched.

The erratic nature of the whole proceeding did not dismay her. 8he had no conscience for conventionalities she was too simple hers only provided for pure right and wrong. Strange to say, tbe possible injury she would do ber mistress by leaving her in this way did not occur to ber till afterward. Now she looked at her lover and began to believe in him, and as soon as she oegan to believe in him—poor, unattractive, Ignorant little thing that she was!—she began to love just like other girls. All over ber crimson face flashed the signs of yielding. The peddler saw and understood them. "You will—wont yon, little nn be cried. Then, aa ber eyes drooped more before his, and ber mouth quivered between a sob and a smile, he took a step forward and stretch**! out bis arms toward ber. Then IM. stepped back, and his arms Ml. "No," be cried, "I won't I'd like to give yon a hug, but I wont I won't so mnch aa touch that little lean band of yours ail you're my wife. You shall see 1 meat* honest. But 00roe along now, little nn, or she will be back. 1 dedar* ef I don't iaore*n half believe she's tell in a fit, or she'd ha' been back afore BOW. Come now, dear, be upty!" "Now?" aaid Sally In tan. "Now! why, of coarse now: what's the oae of waitin'? Mebbe you want to make some weddln* cake, but I reckon we'd better buy some over in Derby, for It might not tbe old lauiy out and tbe peddler chuckled. "Why, Vm jait a-goin' to stow you

TERRE HAUTE Si .TURD AT EVENING MAEL

of mine-

away in that 'ere tin cart there's plenty of room, for lve been on the road a-eellln' nigh a freek. An' ft his yard arter I've traded with your istseis, an innocent as the very innocenteslamb you ever see, an' I'm a-goin' to dive along a piece till it's safe an' then yol'rea-Koin' to git ont an' set up on the side of me, an' we're goin' till we git to Derby, an' thi merried, jest as soon as minister as wants to airn bill." "But," gasped Sally, "she' I am." "I'll fix that. You lay tljsr cart an' bear what I say. Lfr, as soon tell her to her face, myself, we was goin' to do, an' set yqa right up on the seat aside of me, aforl ber eyes but she'd talk hard, most Hkeljr, an' yen look scared enough now, an'you'd cry, an'your eyes would git redder an'she might sass you so you'd be ready to back out, too. Women kin [say bard things to other women, an' they ain't likely to understan' any wpman but themselves trustin' a atan overmuch. I reckon this is the best way." He went toward the door, and motioned her to come.

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"But I wants my bonnat." "Never mind tbe bunnit I'll buy yon one in Derby." "But I don't want to ride into Derby bare-headed," said Sally, almost crying. "Well, I aon' know as you do, little un, that's a fact but hurry an' git tbe bnnnlt, or she vriU, be here, I thought I beard ber a minute ago." "Thar's a leetle money I've saved too." "Well, git that, we don't want to make the old lady vallyblt presents an' you kin, buy yourself sugar-plums with it. But be spry."

She gave him one more icared glance, and hastened out of tbe room, her limp calico accomnWating itself to every ungraceful bitch of her thin limbs aud sharp hips. "111 git her a gown with puckers in the back," mused the peddler, gazing after her. Then he hastened out to his tin cart, and arranged a vacant space in the body of it. He had a great-coat which he spread over the floor. "Thar, little un, let me put you right in," he whispered, when Sally emerged, ber bonnet on her head, a figured green delaine shawl over her shoulders, and ber little board dangling from her hand in a# old stocking.

She turned round and faced him once more, her eyes like a child's peering into a dark room. "You mean honest "Before God, I do, little un. Now git in quick, for she is oomin'!"

He had to lift her in, for her poor little limbs were too weak to support her. They were not a moment too soon, for Mrs. King stood in the kitchen door a second later. "Here! you ain't goin', air you she called out. "No, marm I jest stepped out to look arter my boss be was a trifle uneasy with the flies, an* thar was ayaller wasp buzzln' round." And the peddler step-* ped up to the door with an open and artless visage. "Well, I didn't know but you'd git tired waitin'. You spoke so abcut not bein' in a hurry that I stopped to pick my white rags out from the colored ones. I knew they'd bring more ef I did. I'd been meanin' to bev 'em all sorted out afdre a peddler come along. I thought I'd hev Sally pi«k 'em over last week, but she was sick— Why, whar is Sally?" "Who?"

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"Sally—the girl that was washin' diihes wnen you come—she went to the door." "Oh, the gal! I b'lieve I saw her go out the door a minute afore I went out to see to my boss." "Well, I'll call her, for she'll never git the dishes done I, guess, an' then we'll see-about the rags."

Mrs. King strode toward the door, but the peddler stopped her. "Now, inarm, ef you please," said he, "I'd a leetle raytber you'd attend to business first, and call Sally afterward, ef It's jest the same to you, fer 1 am ittin' in a leetle of a hurry, and don't eelasefl could afford to wait much longer.'' "Well," said Mrs. King, reluctantly, "I don't suppose I orter ask you to, but I do hev such dlscouragln' times with help. I declare it don't seem to me as ef Sally ever would git them dishes done. "Wa'al, It don't seem to me, from what I've seen, that she ever will, either," said the peddler, as he gathered up Mrs. King's rag-bags and started for the cart. "Anybody wouldn't need to watch her for more'n two minutes to see how slow she was," assented Mrs. King following. "She's a girl I took when she was ababy to bring up, an' I've wished more'n fifty times I hadn't. She's a good girl enough, but she's awful slow —no snap to ber. How much is them milk pans?"

Mrs. Kino was reputedly a sharp woman at a Bargain. To trade with ber was ordinarily a long job for any peddler, but to-day it was shortened through skillful management. Tbe tinman came down with astonishing alacrity from his first price at the merest suggestion from his customer, and in a much shorter time than usual she bustled into the house, her arms full of pans, and the radiant and triumphant conviction of a good bargain in her face.

The peddler whirled rapidly into his seat, and snatched up the lines but even then he heard Mrs. King' calling the girl as he rattled around the corner.

A quarter of a mile from Mrs. King's there was a house a little bevond, the road ran through a considerable stretch of woods. Tbla was a very thinly settled neighborhood. The peddler drove rapidly until he reached tbe woods: then be stopped, got down, and peered into tbe cart.

Sally's white f.ce and round eyee peered piteously back at him. How're you gittin' along, little nn "Oh, let me git out an' go back!" "Lor', no, little un,you don't want to go back now I Bless your heart, she's all primed for an awful aassin'. I tell yon what tis, you sha'n't ride cooped up in thar any longer you ahall git out, an' set up here with me. Well keep our ears pricked up, am' ef we bear anybody comin', I'll stow yon In the box nnder tbe seat afore you kin say Jack Robinoon, an' thar ain't any bouses for three mile."

He helped tbe poor shivering little thing out, and lifted her up to the high seat. When be had seated himself beside her. and gathered up the linen, be looked down at ber curiously. Her bonnet tbe severe taste of Mia. King had regolated. It was a brown straw trimmed with brown ribbon. He it disapprovingly. "I'll git yon a white bunnit, ateh as brides "wear, in Derby," aaid be.

She blushed a little at that, and glanc«d up at him, a little gratefai light over ber nee. "You poor little thing !"aaid tbe peddler, and put out his hand toward ber. then drew It back again.

main street waa crowded on a fair day, when the roads were good, with any quantity of nondescript and antedilu-vlan-looklng vehicles, and the owners thereof presented a wide variety of quaintness in person and attire.

So this eloping pair, the tall, bony, shambling man, and the thin, cowedlooklng girl, her scant skirts slipping too far oelow ber waist line in the back and following the movements of her awkward beds, excited no particular attention.

After the tin cart bad been put ap in the hotel stable, and the two had been legally pronounced man and wife, or specifically Mr. and Mrs. Jake Russell, they proceeded on foot down the principal street, in which all the shops were congregated, in search of some amendments to the bride's attire.

If it was comparatively unnoticed, Sally was fully alive to the unsultableness of ber costume. She turned around, and followed with wistful eyes the prettily dressed girls they met. There was a great regret in her heart over her best gofen, a brown delaine, with a flounce on the bottom, and a shiny back. She had so confidently believed In its grandeur so long, that now, seen by ber mental vision, it hardly paled before these splendors of pleating and draping. It compared advantageously, in her mind, with a brown velvet suit whose wearer looked with amusement in her eyes at Sally's forlorn figure. If she only had on her brown delaine, she felt that she could walk more confidently through this strangeness. But, nervously snatching her bonnet and her money, she had, in fact, heard Mrs. King's tread on the attic stairs, and bad not dared to stop longer to secure It.

She knew they were out on a search for anew dress for her now, but she felt a sorrowful conviction that nothing could be found wnich could fully make up for the loss of her own beloved best gown. And then Sally was notver

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juick .with her needle she thought with ay of tbe making up the possibilbeing aided by a dressmaker, or a fr-made costume, never entered her

SIsmay

of tbe making up the possibil-

readysimple mind. Jake shambled loosely down the street, and she followed meekly after bim, apace or two behind.

At length the peddler stopped before a large establishment, in whose windows some ready-made ladles' garments were displayed. "Here we air," said he, triumphantly.

Sally stepped weakly after him up tbe broad steps. One particular dress in the window had exeited the peddler's warm admiration. It was a trifle florid in design, with dashes of red here and there.

Sally eyed it a little doubtfully, when the clefk, at Jake's request, had taken It down to show them. Untutored as her taste was, she turned as naturally to quiet plumage as a wood-pigeon. The red slashes rather alarmed her. However, she said nothing against her husband's decision to purchase the dress. She timed pale at the price it was nearly the whole of ber precious store. But she took up her stocking-purse determinedly when Jake began examining bis pocket book. "1 pays for this," said she to the clerk, lifting 'up her little face to him with sacred resolve. "Why, no, you don't, little un," cried Jake, catching hold of her arm. "I'm a-goln' to pay for It, o' course. It's a pity ef I can't buy my ownwife a dress."

Sally flushed all over her lean throat, but she resolutely held out the money. "No." she said again, shaking her head obstinately, "J pays for it."

The peddler let her have her way then, though he bit his scraggy mustache with amaze and vexation as he watched ber pay her bill, and stare with a sort of frightened wistfulness after her beloved money as it disappeared in the clerk's grasp.

When tbey emerged from the store, the new dress under his arm, be burbt out, "What on airth niade you do that, little un "Other folks does that way. When they gits merried they buys their own close, ef they kin." "But It took pretty near all you'digot, didn't it?" "That ain't no matter."

The peddler stared at her, half in consternation, half in admiration. "Well," said he," "I guess you've got a little will o' your

OWL,

Their way still lay through a thinly settled country. The tin peddler found readier customers in those former*' wives who were far from stores. It was late spring. Often they rode for a mile or two through the lovely freah woods without coming to a single house.

The girl had never beard of Arcadia, but* she waa riding through it under gold-green boughs, to the sweet broken jangling of tin-ware, all unexpressed to b6rs6lf«

When tbey stopped to trade at the farm houses, how proudly she sat, anew erectness in ber slender back, and held ber bnsband's horse tightly while he talked with tbe woman of tbe bouse, with now and then a careful glance toward ber to aee if she waa safe. Tbey always contrived to bring np at some town where there was worship on a Sabbath day. Then the blue silk and white bonnet were taken reverently from their hiding-place, and Sally, full of happy consciousness, went to church with her husband in alt ber bridal bravery.

These two single pilgrims, with all the beauty and grace there was In either of tbem turned only toward each other, and seen rightly only In each other's untutored, uncritical eyes, had journeyed together blissfully for about three months, when one afternoon Jake came oat of a little country tavern, where tbey had proposed Stopping for tbe night, with a pale face, wily had been waiting on the cart outside until be sbould see if tbey could be accommodated. He jumped np beside her and took tbe lines.

Well go on to Ware," be aaid, in a voice "it's only three mile further.

Jake drove rapidly along, an awful look on hia homely face, giving it the beauty of tragedy.

Sally kept looking up at bim with pathetic wonder, but he never looked at her or spoke to^her till they reached the l«st stretch of woods before Ware village. Then, just before they left the leafy cover, he slackened his speed a little, and threw his arm around her. "See here, little un," he said, brokenly. "You've—got—consider'ble backbone, 'ain't you? Ef anything awful sheuld happen, it wouldn't—kill you— you'd bear up?" "Ef you told me to."

He caught at her words eagerly. "I would tell you to, little un—I do tell you to," he cried. "Ef anything awful ever should—happen—you 11 remember that I told you to bear up." "Yes, I'll bear up." Then she clung to him trembling, "Ob, what Is ft

"Never mind now, little un," he answered "p'rhaps nothin' awful's goin' to happen I didn't say thar was. Chirk up an' give us a kiss, an* look at that 'ere sky thar, all pink an' yaller."

He tried to be cheerful, and comfort her with joking endearments then, but tbe awful lines in his face staid rigid and unchanged under the smiles.

Sally, however bad not much discernment, and little of the sensitiveness of temperament which takes impressions of coming evil. She soon recovered her spirits, and was unusually merry for her the whole evening, making, out of the excess of her innocence and happiness, several little jokes, which made Jake laugh loyally, and set his strickeu face harder the next minute.

In the course ef the evening he toek out his pocket-book and displayed his money, and counted It jokingly. Then he spoke, in a carele«, casual manner, of a certain sum he had deposited in a country bank, and how, if he was taken sick and needed it, Sally could draw it out as well as be. Then he spoke of tbe value of his stock in trade and horse and cart. When they went to bed that night he had told his wife, without her suspecting he was telling her all about his affairs.

She fell asleep as easily as a child. Jake lay rigid and motionless till be bad listened to her regular breathing an hour. Then he rose softly, lit a candle, which he shaded from her face, and sat down at a little table with a pencil and paper. He wrote painfully, with cramped muscles, his head bent on one side, following every movement of his pen, yet with a confident steadiness which seemed to show that all the Bubject-mat-ter bad been learned by heart beforehand. Then he lolded tbe paper carefully around a little book which he took from his pocket, and approached the bed, keeping his lace turned away from his sleeping wife. He laid the little package on his vacant pillow, still keeping his face aside.

Then he got into his clothes qulokly, his head turned persistently from the bed, and opened the door softly, and went out, never once looking back.

When Salley awoke tbe next morning she found her husband gone, and the little package on the pillow. She opened it, more turlous than frightened. There was a note folded around a bankbook. Sally spoiled out the note laboriously, with whitening lips and dilating eyes, it was a singularcomposition, its deep ffeling pricking through its illiterate stiffaess. "DJJAR WIPE,—I've got to go and leve you. It's the only way. Efl kin ever come back, I will, told you bout my btzness last night. YoO'd better d.-ive the oart of Derby to the Mister Arms, I told you bout, an' he'll help you to Bell it an^the hoss. Tell him your husband bad to go away, an' left them orders. I've left you my bank-book, so you can git the money out of the bank the way I told you, an' my watch and pocketbook is under tbe pillow. I left you all tbe mouey, cept what little I couldn't

goardea

arter all, little

un, an' I'm glad on't. A woman'd orter have a little will to back her sweetness it's all too soft an' slushy otherways. But I'll git even with you about the dresa

Which he proceeded to do by ushering his startled bride into the next dry

gress

oods establishment, and purchasing a pattern of robin's egg blue silk, and a delicate white bonnet. Sally, however, insisted on buying a plain sunhat with the remainder of her own money. She was keenly alive to tbe absurdity and peril of that airy white structure on top of a tin cart.

The pair remained in Derby about a week: then they started forth on tbelr travels, the blue silk, which 9 Derby dressmaker had made up after the prevailing mode, and tbe white bonnet, stored away in a little new trunk in the body of the cart.

Tbe peddler, having only himself to consult as to his motions, struck a new route now. Sally wished to keep away from ber late mistress's vicinity. She had always a nervous dread of meeting ber in some unlikely fashion.

She wrote a curious little iil-spelled note to ber at the first town where they stopped after leaving Derby. Whether or no Mrs. King was consoled or mollified by it she never knew.

it long without. You'u better git souiewhar in Derby, You'll hev enough money to keep you awhile, an' I'll send you some more when thet's gone, ef I bev to work my fingers to the bone. Don't ye go to worryln' an' workln'hard*. An'bearup. Den'tforglt thet you promised me to bear up. When you gits to feelin' awful bad, an' you will, jest say It over to yourself— 'He told me to bear up, an' I said as I would bear up.' Scuse poor writin' an' a bad pen. Yours till death, "JAKE RUSSELL."

When Sally had read the letter quite through, she sat still a few minutes on the edge ef tbe bed, her lean, roundshouldered figure showing painfully through her clinging night dress, her eyps staring straight before her.

Then she rose, dressed herself, put the bank-book, with the letter folded around it, and her husband's pocket-book, in her bosom, and went down-stairs quietly. Just before she went out ber room door sbe paused with her baad on tbe latch, and muttered to herself, "He told me to bear up, an' I said as I would bear up."

She sought the landlord to pay her bill, and found tbat it was already paid, and that ber recreant husband bad smoothed over matters in a direction for her by telling tbe landlord tbat be was called away on urgent business, and tbat bis wife was to take tbe tin cart next morning, and meet bim at a certain point.

So sbe drove away on ber tin cart in solitary state without exciting any of the wondering comments wblcb would have been agony to ber.

When she gathered up the lines and went rattling dawn the country road. If ever there was a zealous disciple of a new religion, sbe was one. Her prophet was her raw-boned peddler husbandand ber crxfd nid whole confession «w faith bis parting words to bor.

She did nut take the rond to Derby, tihe had made up ber mind about tbat ji# sbe pat on the edge of the b«d after reading the letter. She drove straight along tbe originally prescribed rout«, stopping at tbe farm houses, taking raga and selling tin, just aa she had seen ber husband do. There waa mnch astonishment and many curious questions among ber customers. A woman running a tin cart was an unprecedented spectacle, but sbe explained matters, with meek dignity, to ail who questioned ber. Her husband had gone away, and sbe was to attend to his customers until be should return. Sbe could not always quite allay the suspicion that there moat needs be something wrong, but sbe managed tbe trading satisfactorily, and gave good bargains, and so went on her way unmolested. Bat not a farmyard did die enter or leave without tbe words sounding in her beating little heart, Uke a strong, encouraging chant, "He told me to bear up, an' I said as I wonld bear up."

When ber stock ran low, sbe drove t* Derby to replenish it. Here sbe bad opposition from tbe dealers, but she almost abnormal persistence overcame it.

Sbe showed Jake's letter to Mr. Arms, the tin dealer with whom she traded, and be urped ber to take op witb^tbe advice in ft. promising ber a good bargain bat the was

TWO

an, instead of tinman, liked her. In addition to tbe regular stock, she carried various little notions needed frequently by housewives, such as pins, needles, thread, etc.

She oftener staid at a farm house over night than a tavern, and frequently stopped over at one a few day3 in severe weatner.

After ber trip to Derby she carried always a little pistol, probably more to guard Jake's watch and property than herself.

Whatever money she did not absolutely require for current expenses went to swell Jake's little heard in the Derby bank. During the three years she kept up her lonely travelling little remittance came directed to her from time to time, In the care of Mr. Arms. When one came, Sally cried pitifully, and put it iuto the bank with the rest.

Sbe never gave up expecting ber busband. She never woke up one morning without tbe hope in her heart that he would come that day. Every golden dawn showed a fair possibility to ber, aad so did every red sunset. She scanned every distant, approaching Igure in the sweet country roads with the half conviction in ber heart that it was he, and when nearness dispelled tbe illusion, her heart bounded bravely back from its momentary sinking, and she looked ahead for another traveller.

Still he did not come for three years from the spring he went away. Except through the money remittances, which gave no clew but the New York postmark en the envelops, she had not heard from him.

One June afternoon a poor lonely maiden, now without her beloved swain driving through her old Arcadian solitudes, whose enchanted meaning wan lost to her, beard a voice from behind calling to her, above the jangling tin, "Sally 1 §ally Sally 1"

She turned, and there he was, runins after her. She turned her head quickly, and, stopping tbe horse, sat perfectly still, ber breath almost gone with suspense. She did not dare Took again for fear she had not seen aright.

The hurrying steps came nearer and nearer she looked when they came abreast the cart. It was he. It always seemed to ber that she would have died if it bad not been that time. "JakeI Jake!" "Ob, Sally!"

He was up on tbe seat before she could breathe again, and his arms around her. "Jake, I did—bear up—I did." "I know you did, little un. Mr. Arms told me all about it. Oh, you dear little un, you poor little uu.a-driv-in' round on this cart all alone!"

Jake laid his cheek against Sally's and sobbed. "Don't cry, Jake. I've alrned money, I hev, an' it's in the bank for you." "Ob, you blessed little un! Sally, they said hard things 'bout me to you In Derby, didn't they?"

She started violently at that. There was one thing which nad been said to ker in Derby, and the memory of it had been a represbed terror ever since. "Yes: they said as how you'd run off with—another woman." "What did you say?" "I didn't believe it." fr#'* "I did, Sally." "Well, you've come back." "Afore I merried you I'd been meri4m afore. By all that's good an' great, httle un, I thought my wife was dead. Her folks said she was. When I come home from peddlin', one time, she was

fone,

lute.

Soon abe found tbat sbe was doing as well as ber husband bad done, if not better. Her customers, after they had grown used to the novelty of a tlnwom-

an' tbey said sbe was off on a visit, found out in a few weeks she'd ruu off with another fellow. I went off peddlin' agin without carin' much what become of me. 'Bout a year arterward I saw her death In a paper, an' I wrote to her folks, an' they said 'twas true. They were a bad lot, the whole of 'em. I got took In. But she had a mighty pretty face, an' a tongue like honey, an' I s'pose I was green. Three years ago, when I went into that 'ere tavern in Grover, tbar sbe wa-» In tbe kitchen a-cookin'. Tbe fellow she run off with had left her, an' she'd been a tryln' to hunt me up. She was Itwfhl poor, an' had come across this place and took it. Sbe was allers a ood 'ook, an' she suited the customers ust rate. I jjuess they liked to see her face 'round too, confound her! ell, little un, she knew me right off, an' hung on to me, an' cried, an' begged me to forgive her and when she spied you a-settin' thar on the cart, she tore. I bed to hold ber to keep her from goin' out an' tellin' you tbe whole story. I thought you'd die ef she did. I didn't know then how you could bear up, little un. Ef you ain't got backbone!" *3i£ If "Jake, I did bear up." "I know you did, you blessed little cretur. Well, she said ef I didn't leave you, an' go with ber, she'd expose me. As soon as she found febe'd got tbe weapons In ber own hands, an' could hev me up for bigamy, sbe didn't cry so mucb, an wa'n't quite so humble, "Well, little un, then I run off an' left yon. I couldn't stay with you ef you wa'n't my wife, en'

P"V&

®a

rtwas

all the way to

stop her tongue. I mpt ber that night, and we went to New York. I got lodging for her then I went to work in a box factory, an' supported her. I never went nigh her from one week's end to the other I couldn't do it without hevln' murder in my heart but I kep' tier in money. Every scrap I could save I sent to you, but I used to lay awako nights worryln* for fear you'd waut things. Well, it's all over. She died a month ago, an' I saw ber burled." *1 knowed abe was dead when you begun to tell about ber, because you'd come." "Yea she's dead this time, an' I'm glad, Don't youjook scared, little un. I nope tbe Lord *11 forgive me, but Pm glad. She was a bad un, you know, Sally. "Was sbe sorry "I don't know, little nn."

Ally's head was resting peacefully on Jake's shoulder golden flecks of light sifted down on them through the rustling maple and locust bough* the horae, wiiii bent head, waa cropping the tender young grass at the side of the road. "Now we'll start up the horse, an' go to Derby an' git merried over agin, Sally."

She raised!ber bead suddenly, and looked up at him with eager eyes. "Jake." "Well* little on "Ob, Jake, my blue ailk dress an' in* white bonnet is in tbe trunk in tbe cart jest tbe same, an' I can git 'em out, an*

put 'em on under tbe trees tbar, wear 'em to be merried in I"

j|y

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