heart,» she and her family continued his fast friends. He was never ostracized by his friends or outlawed by his family. No person of sense blamed him in the slightest degree for his action in piloting the Federal cavalry to where he had left the lame man (Booth) rather than have his brains blown out.>> Mr. Jett was in his spirits and demeanor in no way affected by the unfortunate circumstances with which he was innocently connected. He went to Baltimore a year after, engaged in business, traveling constantly in Virginia, and married the daughter of a prominent physician of Baltimore. Some sixteen years afterward he was attacked with paresis, and died at the hospital of MRS. Mrs. Thompson's Ten. [RS. THOMPSON softly closed her front door, and went on, through the two lines of dusty box, with her friend Mrs. Drivers. Her small, faded face wore a slight flush, and she smiled before she spoke. «He's such a tease,» she said; «he all but worries my life out; but all the Thompsons are just that way. They are bound to have their joke.» She gave an affected little laugh, drawing her glove, with jaunty pulls and pats, over her small, rough hand. Mrs. Drivers stalked on with uplifted chin, in ostentatious forbearance, and said nothing; but her lips were very thin. « Mr. Thompson 's mightily set against all those newfangled clubs and societies and things that you read about nowadays in the newspapers, and I reckon he thought I was going to join something like that. Men are mighty foolish about their wives: they don't want them to do anything that don't look just right.» Mrs. Drivers said nothing. Her glance was traveling over the shabby black dress and bonnet of the other. She was a large, slow woman, who rustled richly as she walked. << He could n't really have anything against the King's Daughters,» Mrs. Thompson went on; « and I think it will be real nice to belong to a Ten, and go to meetings and things->> a husband that wa' n't dependent on me,-like some you see.D They walked on a little way in silence, each with a slightly offended look. "There go the Smith girls into Emeline's,» Mrs. Thompson exclaimed, with some excitement of manner. She glanced down furtively at her rusty dress, but her eyes sparkled with anticipation. ABOUT half a dozen of the Bakersville ladies were seated about on the haircloth sofas and chairs, talking together, while they waited for the tardy members. A little crooked, black-eyed woman came and sat down by Mrs. Thompson as the hostess, a pleasant-faced old maid, flitted from her to greet a new arrival. ་ « Well, I certainly am glad to see you, Mrs. Thompson,» she said. «But I told Emeline, when I heard you'd joined, that the skies were surely going to fall. How's Mr. Thompson? >> A shade came over Mrs. Thompson's face. «His health is mighty bad, Mrs. King,» she said; «and he's one of that kind that won't ever say they 're sick, and so I'm uneasy about him all the time.>> "He looks mighty well,» the other suggested. I've never seen the man yet that would n't make a fuss if he had a finger-ache. Don't you bother about his being sick if he don't say he 's sick.» Mrs. Thompson flushed. «People that have dyspepsia, she said, with a touch of dignity, «don't know what's «You ought to go about some,» Mrs. Drivers said. «I the matter with them half the time.>> could n't live cooped up as you do.»> The little woman flushed and trembled with an indignation which seemed to have no adequate cause, and found no expression in words. "Some people don't find any pleasures as sweet as the pleasures of home,» she said. «I always was a stay-athome, and that just suits Mr. Thompson. He's the kind of man that's all but lost without a woman around.»> Yes-I reckon so.» Mrs. Drivers seemed to stop herself forcibly. Mrs. Thompson looked nettled. She sat rapt and enthralled during the reading and praying, her voice rose high in the hymns, and a faint color glowed in her cheeks, as if from pure enjoyment. "It certainly does do a person a heap of good to get away from home sometimes,» she confessed, at the close of the meeting, «even if there ain't any place like home. And there ain't, of course. I certainly am glad I joined. She stood laughing and chatting with her friends in a way that surprised herself. « Mr. Thompson wants to monopolize me so; I believe he 's real jealous of my Ten; but he 'll be bound to see "It certainly would hurt me,» she remarked, « to have it's a mighty good thing.»> Yes; if it just makes us tell the truth,» a bright, freckled-faced girl began. Mrs. Thompson turned to her suddenly. "If it does what?» she asked. «Oh, we bind ourselves to speak the truth just as far as we can. Did n't Miss Emeline tell you? And I declare, it certainly is hard.>> Mrs. Thompson looked at her as if she were thinking. "I reckon we all try to do that, anyway,» she said slowly, or we ought to.» She paused a moment. «But it ain't easy.» There was a wistful, half-appealing expression upon her face as she went on, looking from one to another. "Sometimes you sort o' believe something that ain't so, and you say it that way,-» she checked herself with a little affectedly careless laugh,-« but I don't reckon any of us would tell stories, even if we did n't promise.» «Oh, you are not going, Mrs. Thompson? » Miss Emeline said. We all stay and chat after the meeting is over. Do have some tea and cake.»> The color had faded from Mrs. Thompson's face, and she feit that her smile was dull and awkward. «Thank you, Emeline,» she said; «I'm feeling right poorly. I reckon I'd better be getting on.>> MR. THOMPSON looked at her in surprise as he sat opposite to her at the little table. He was a heavily built man, with small, fleshy-looking eyes. «You seem to have left your wits at the hen-party,>> he said. «Don't you propose to give me any supper, Mrs. Thompson ? >> She started, and looked about, in a half-frightened way. "What have I forgotten? Oh, the bread!»> She got up, and brought it to the table, and set it be fore him, taking none for herself. She sat balancing her spoon unskilfully upon the edge of her cup, till it dropped with a crash into the saucer. He shifted in his chair, and cleared his throat. "It don't make it any better to put (sweet for bitter, and bitter for sweet, as the Bible says; and I'm going Her husband looked at her with growing disapproba- to tell the truth this once, if I never did before! You've tion. got harder and colder and crosser, year in and year <«< What is the matter with you, anyway?» he asked, out. You've grudged me rest and pleasure and the pausing with his cup half lifted to his mouth. clothes on my back. You don't care any more about me She raised her eyes from her hard, brown hands, than a brick in that chimney; and I don't know but what clasped on the back of her plate. you 've killed dead every spark of love I ever had for you!» «Finish your supper,» she said, «and I 'll tell you.»> He picked up the loaf, and began to cut off a slice. «You might as well tell me at the same time,» he remarked. What's the matter with your bread? It 's as good putty as I want to see.» His eyes widened and contracted with a shock of pain, and his face twitched; but he said nothing. She sat with her hands clasped lightly on her knees, her head erect, and her face flushed and animated with He pushed back his chair from the table at last, and something akin to exhilaration. got his pipe from the mantelpiece. << Well? » he said, holding the stem between his teeth, and turning his eyes toward her without moving his head. She had gotten out her knitting, but it lay idle in her lap, and her hands were squeezed together on her knees. A spasm of nervousness passed over her face, and she did not look at him as she spoke. « << It certainly is hard to keep from saying what ain't so, she began. He was drawing at his pipe to kindle it, and said nothing. "It's mighty hard to tell the truth to yourself-let alone anybody else.»> He shifted his pipe in his mouth. «Did you learn all that at Emeline's?» he inquired, with satirical dryness. She looked at him, and her color rose. «Yes; I learned it at Emeline's-never mind how.» She went on, after a pause, in her former soft, plaintive tone: «I believe in confessing your sins, and I 've been sinning going on fifteen years.»> «Most all the time you 've been married,» he commented. She did not notice the interruption. «I believe in confessing your sins; but it's not just that. I've fooled myself and fooled myself till my head's been in such a muddle that half the time I did n't know make-believe from truth-till everything was like make-believe, and I did n't rightly believe anything.>> The earnestness of her manner drew his eyes to her, and he stared at her without speaking. « And now I've just got to speak out the truth that's been smothering and smoldering at the bottom of my heart all the time: I 've called it dyspepsia, and I've called it joking; I've made out I loved to cook and scrub and wear old clothes.» Her voice rose with excitement, and a red spot burned upon each cheek. He had taken his pipe from his mouth, and sat motionless, with his eyes fixed upon her, all other expression swallowed up in that of blank astonishment. «But it don't really make it any better, when you hurt me, to say you don't hurt me-» Suddenly she flew across the room, and threw her arms around his neck, with a passion of tears which shook her from head to foot, and swept away all words. Two large, slow drops forced themselves from under his lids, and coursed down his cheeks unchecked. He patted her awkwardly on the head, and cleared his throat to speak, but no words came. «Molly, honey,» he said huskily, at last, «I did n't go to be so mean.»> Annie Steger Winston. A Sea Change. WHO am I that yesterday Cut adrift from books and scholars, Art and commerce, bills and dollars- Am I he who, in the whirl And the glamor of the city, Scanned the roustabout with pity? From the counting-house and mart, I could vow I am not he. Something strangely odd, yet real, But an ancestor's reflection. « Crowd on sail and steer from shore!» Hail! familiar scenes of old, Rustling sails and heaving billows; Scatter slumber o'er their pillows! William T. James. THE DE VINNE PRESS, NEW YORK. |
