Entered at the Post Office at New York, N. Y.,as Second Class Mail Matter. Copyrighted 1879, by BEADLE AND ADAMS. Published Every BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS, Complete in this Number. Two Weeks, No. 98 Wit1aM Street, New York. Price, Ten Cents. A STRANGE GIRL. Albert W. Aiken. cil I! Hh SSS = A \ W:iltH A FACE AS WHITE AS THE MANTLEPIECE TO WHICH SHE CLUNG, LYDIA GAZED UPON THE MAN IN TEE DOORWAY. A STRANGE GIRL, A Strange Girl; ANEW ENGLAND LOVE STORY. BY ALBERT W. AIKEN. CHAPTER I. “~_ET ME DIB!” A BITTERLY cold evening in the month of December, the year 1870. A driving snow-storm. accompanied by a north- east gale had set in early in the noe and at the time of which we write—seven in the even- ing—full eight inches of snow covered in the streets and house-tops of the city of Boston. The night was dark as " remsik the. lighted gas flaring from the street lamps, seemed only to “make the darkness visible.” Few pedestrians were in the streets. Already the shops had begun to put up their shutters, and the good folks, snugly housed, and circling round their fires, began w speculate about the prospects for a hard winter. Through the drifted snow, piled here and there in great-heaps, in Causeway street, came a short, stoutly-built woman, all muffled up, and carryi 6 a large basket on her arm. A lit- tle yellow dog, with sharp ears and a stumpy tail, carried straight up over his back, followed the woman. Stumbling through the snow-drifts and re- solutely facing the biting blast, -that howled and raged around her as if to pluck the cloak from her shoulders, the woman came slowly ong. The lights streaming from the Eastern depot amet her eyes. ‘* Bress de Lor’! she muttered, in accents that lainly betrayed her to be of the dusky race of Mans: ‘“dere’s dat depot fo’ sure. By golly! dis yere ole woman’s t’ankful!” “Bow-wow!” said the dog, darting suddenly from the track in the snow left by the old wo- man’s footsteps, and approaching a snow-drift piled in a corner against the side of a house. “Wats de eae wid es ree Bed old woman, angrily, pausing ook after the dog. e Rowbvow-yowr !” eried the dog, sharply, and each particular hair on his body seemed to stand on end. “‘You good-for-nuffin’ Pete, w’at’s de matter wid ye? I ’speck’s you want fur to make me catch my deff of cold in dis yere wind.” The dog barked again and longer than before; then he began to root with his nose in the snow- bank; he called upon his paws to assist his nose, and began to scratch and dig with all his might. “Dat ki-youdle mad for sure!” muttered the negress, pxptoarting cautiously, plowing her way through the deep snow. As the old woman approached, the paused suddenly, having made quite a hole in the light snow, lifted his snout and gave vent to a long and laintive howl. ress de Lord!” cried the negress, in affright, “‘dat dog howls as if dere was somebody dead.’ The dog jumped to one side as his mistress ap- hed, and n sniffing with his nose in he hole which he made. The old woman acted with caution; #he night was dark, yet she could plainly distinguish the dark cavity in the snow. The action of the dog, unaccountable to her, had awakened a fear that she was about to behold something dreadful, and she was not disappointed. Framed in the snow was a human face—the face of a young girl. The long hair, black as night, flo loosely down, fri: in the pale face from whence the ruddy blood had fied. ‘That face was so beautiful with its clear, trans- parent skin, white aC marble in its regular outlines and perfect proportions, that the ot woman, in her simple way, thought at first she looked upon an angel who strayed from heaven to earth, riding upon the bosom of the snow-cloud, rather than on a mortal like her- self. s The negress stood like one transfixed: but the dog, being an animal, and therefore not given to human weakness, gave another howl, and then commenced to lick the face of the beauti- ful girl who lay in her bridal dress of snow, waiting for the coming groom, grim Death. Tenderly the rough tongue of the dog lapped away the snow-flakes from the girl’s face. Coming to her senses at last, the negress bent over the senseless girl, and seizing her in her strong arms pulled her out of the snow-drift. “‘She’s dead for sure,” the old woman mut- tered, as she held the light, motionless form of the girlin her arms, but when she pressed her pong black cheek against the alabaster one of he girl, she felt the warmth of the blood still coursing feebly in the veins. “‘Tspeck’s a little whisky would fotch her, kase dat’s w’at it’s good fur.” Then she looked - around her peers The inspection was hard- ly needed, for the driving snow and the howl- ing blast alone surrounded them. I reckon dere ain’t any State comfort’bles *round,” she muttered, ‘‘ kase I don’t want fur to have de whisky took away fromme,” — It was evident that the old lady referred to the State constables and the license law. ' She drew a good-sized flask from her pocket, and removing the cork, forced some of the liquor down the throatof the sensless girl. | he yellow dog sat on his haunches, and with an air of intelligence, which plainly signified his approbation, surveyed the proceedings. ‘Dere, honey, dat will fotch you!” the ne- gress said, caressingly smoothing back the coal- black hair which, dank as wet sea-weeds, fring- ed the lovely face. The liquor was of the worst kind, almost powerful enough in its strength and badness to raise the dead, Like a stream of liquid fire it coursed down the young girl’s throat; a convul- sive shudder shook her slender form, and a deep sigh came from her parted lips. he snow still poured dowu pitilessly, and the cruel north-easter still.roared and stormed, yet the old woman heeded not the driving snow nor the piercing wind; a human life trembled in the balance within her arms. What was the strife of Lr elements to the human struggle for exist- ence The negress poured some of the whisky into her hand and bathed the girl’s face with it. As the sufferer inhaled the powerful odor of the spirits, again she shuddered. The limbs stiff- ened for a moment, became rigid, then relaxed, and. with..a low..mournful. sigh, more like the echo of a sigh than a sigh itself, the great eyes opened—the great staring black eyes, almost superhuman in their wondrous beauty—so large, so bright, and within them shone a lus- trous light, like unto the shimmer of the sun- shining upon the rolling waves of the great green ocean. For a moment the girl stared blankly into the great black face that was peering down so closely into her own, then, amazement appeared within the great dark eyes. “Ye ain’t dead, honey, bress de good Lord for dat!” exclaimed the old woman, piously, the true spirit of thankfulness beaming in every line of her good, kindly face. The girl turned her head slightly as if to gaze about her; the dog noticed the motion. In- eoeney he stood up on his hind legs and in- dulged in a series of short, lively barks. He understood that with nose and claws he had not dug in the snow-bank in vain. “Don’t be afeard, honey; dat’s only Pete; he’s a good dog; he smelt you out in de snow, jest like a little yaller angel,” said his owner, with enthusiasm. ? ‘Oh! moaned the girl, feebly, her head sinking back on the arm of the negress. ‘“Does ye feel weak, honey?’ asked the old woman, benevolence beaming in every wrinkle on her sable face, ‘‘ Jes’ take ’nuther suck at dat whisky.” ‘Who are you?” muttered the girl, faintly. “Why, Lor’ bress yer I’se only Aunty Di- nah,” answered the sable-hued: Samaritan. “I doesn’t live yere. I lives down at Biddeford whar de big mills are, heap o’ miles from dis yere place. I was jes’ gwine to de depot when dat yaller dog o’ mine—dat Pete, smelt you out in de snow-bank.” * ‘ ‘‘Why didn’t you leave me alone?” the girl asked, s. ae and with broken accents. “Wat's t, honey?’ cried the old ‘‘ Aunty,” in astonishment. ‘‘ By golly! dis yere ole n nebber sleep a wink dis night if she’d left a gal like you in dis yere snow-bank. Dat t ’cording to de Scripters.” “Go away!” muttered the undeniably un- happy sufferer, striving feebly to release her- self from the grasp of the old woman. “Wat, me! Lordy, w’at’s dis ole nigger done dat you send her away?” cried the negress, in astonishment. “T want to die!” the girl murmured. ‘Oh, chile, I done guess you nebber reads de Good Book!” said Dinah, solemnly. ‘Dar ain’t any use fur to talk like dat. De Lord isn’t going fur to let you die, kase he sent Pete and me fur to pull you out o’ de snow.” At the mention of his name the dog a proached, and thrust his cold nose against the cheek of the girl; then he gave a quick, short bark, a very joyful bark, which - plainly told that he considered he had done a wonder’ thing in rescuing the girl from the snow-drift. “Dere, does you hear dat? It’s ole Pete tell- in’ yer how glau he is fur to see you ‘ “T don’t want to speak—I don’t want to live,” and the girl broke into a flood of tears—bitter, burning, scalding tears. “You mustn’é talk like dat, honey; dat’s wicked, dat is.” : “T am not fit to live,” was gasped through tears, oe ri are you ain’t done stole anything?” ° “Ye ain’t killed anybody?” That five old lexed, looked d en the old negress, perplex own at the hand of the girl; ae hand so white and air, it shamed the driven snow fresh from heaven’s ee “She ain’t married, kase dere ain’t any ring on her finger,” the old negress muttered to her- self. ‘‘Maybe, honey, dat de young man dat you loved has fooled yer?” k “No, no, I have never loved any one,” she murmured, the tears still streaming down her cheeks. ‘Fore de Lor’! I'd like fur to know w’at dis yere poor chile has done?” ; “Won't you go away and leave me alone?” the sufferer asked, plaintively. ; F ' “Leave you yere in dis snow-bank, honey?’ exclaimed, Dinah, in astonishment. ‘‘ Why, dis old nig nebber hold her head up arter dat. By golly! I ain’t gwine fur to let yer die dis bressed night.” “T must die!” “Tf yer don’t hush up now, bress de Lor’, I set Pete on yer!” said the negress, threaten- ingly. ‘I don’t care,” ‘muttered the girl, closing her eyes again. “Dat dog, Pete, jes’ eat yer right up now, sure. So, honey, git up and come wid yer aunty.” ‘“No; I laid down here in this corner, so that I could die in peace under the snow. Go away, and let the snow cover me up and hide me from all the world.” A sudden idea came to the kindly soul. ““T speck you ain’t got any money.” ‘ Not a cent in the world. ‘ Ain’t done got any friends, honey?” “No, no friends.” ‘* Dat’s de reason you want fur to die?” “Yes, one reason—but I am not fit to live!” exclaimed the girl, returning again to the old subject. ‘“Bress de Lor’! cried the negress, in aston- ishment; ‘‘ w’at has ye done?” in Nothing—nothing ez “Well, if ye ain’t done nuffin’, you isn’t wine to die. If you hain’t got — money, es’ you come right along wid yer ole aunty. lives ’way down in Biddeford, Maine. T’se jes’ gwine fur to take de keers fur to go home. ou kin come along wid me, an’ when I gets you down dar, den you won’t want to die.” A thoughtful expression came over the ee features; it was plain that she was thinking over the offer. ‘‘ Biddeford?” she said, slowly. “Yes, chile, it?s a heap of miles from dis yere. Dere’s whar de mills is.” “c Mills?” : § "Yea, hepers whar dey make de cloth.” “Tf I go with you, per ed I could get work there?” the girl said, thoughtfully. “Of course you kin!” cried the old woman, briskly. ‘I washes for de gemmen of de big- gist mill dere. I knows dem all.” “No one will know me at Biddeford,” the pirl murmured, evidently communing with ty and unconscious that she was speaking oud, “Dat so, honey; will you be a good chile and come wid yer ole aunty?’ the negress asked, assisting her charge to rise to her feet. Standing, the girl was of the medium hight, and even the loose peor cloak which she wore could not disguise the matchless beauty of her perfect form. She was very weak and could not stand with- out assistance. “But I have no money,” she exclaimed. “T kin pay fl fare, honey; dat’s only lendin’ to de Lord if you nebber pays me; but, bress ou, honey, you’ll make more money at dat y oney mill in a week dan yer ole aunty in a month.” “T will go with you; what is your name?” “Dinah Salisbury; Aunty Dinah de folks calls me.” “My name is Lydia—Lydia Grame.” ‘Dat’s a putty name.” The old woman adjusted the hood u irl’s head and smoothed back the da en she supported her to the depot. The 8 P. m. Express bore the three—the dog Pete being the third one of the party—eastward to the State of Maine. CHAPTER II. THE MINSTREL BAND, TuE town of Biddeford, Maine, in the pleas- ant month of August. In a large front room, in the Biddeford House. which fronted on the little square in the center of the village, were four men. One sat by the window—a little fellow, with short cut hair and a huge mustache of almost supernatural blackness. tt was just in the dusk of the evening, but still with light enough for him to read at a glaring *f r,” printed in red and black, which was affixed to a board, leaning against the wall of the post-office build- ing opposite, and which announced the coming of the “ Original Alligator Minstrels,” The little fellow was the ‘“ celebrated Johnny ome the Silver Cloggist;” vide the poster aforesaid. Two more of the “ Alligators” sat by a table in the.center of the room—one, a short thick-set fellow, with _a round German face; the other, a tall, Yankee-looking personage, with a in Ka wlecinall as ae wo was ) 0 as y Kline: the other, Professor Handel Hill, the a world renowned violinist ;” vide “ poster,” as ‘ore. The fourth one stood leaning carelessly against m the locks, cineca ee 4 ts iieracrenibomentits a ee = ** And may I ask what opinion you formed in regard to her, sir?” ‘I was very favorably impressed, Sinclair. She is very much of a lady, and White says there isn’t a girl in the mill who attends to her work better. “T can fully confirm Mr. White’s assurance in regard to that matter, from what I know of the pay-roll,” Sinclair added. ‘* Well, Sinclair, has it really gone as far as this letter implies?’ the father asked. “No, sir,” Sinclair responded, quickly. “I own I have — the lady in question some at- tentions, and do think a great deal of her; but there is no engagement between us, and I don’t know as I am really justified in calling it a love affair.” ““The young lady told me as much, I had quite a pleasant chat with her.” ‘Then [suppose if the lady and I make up our minds that we do care for one another, we ° may hope the union will not be without your sanction?” “From what I know of the lady I can see no reason to object. Both are old enough to know your own minds and to act for yourselves. I frankly confess, Sinclair, that I would have pre- ferred to have had you marry the daughter of some of the old families about us; but, perhaps, it is as well, if not better, that a little fresh blood should be infused into the old New Eng- land strain. But do you know any thing about her family?’ “ Very little, sir; I have never questioned her. In fact, father, the affair has not gone far enough = for me to proceed to that length. I know that she is only a poor girl, but that makes very little difference in my estimation.” ‘None at all!” the deacon exclaimed, quickly. “A man marries a woman, not a money-bag. The cardinal point is to consider whether she is suited to you or not, and whether she will make you a good wife.” ‘* Marriage is a wo ag you know, father.” “Yes, yes—terrible lot of blanks, my son, and very few prizes. As a general rule our family have not been lucky with their wives.” “So I have heard, father. I remember that aunt Jane used to hint mysteriously at some terrible curse hanging over our family, dating ’way back to the old Indian days.” ‘Yes, there is quite a legend. I suppose you ought to know it, as io are thinking about - etting married; my father told it tome just Fesave my marriage.” ‘“* Do you believe in it, father?” Sinclair asked, with a smile. ‘*My son, never doubt an old family legend, or yowll ruin the reputation of the house for- ever,” the deacon said, laughing. “ Legends are sacred things, you know, to be handed down from father to son, like old family plate. I am sorry to say, though, that the story doesn’t put one of our ancestors in the best ible light. But you shall judge for yourself. The legend commences just after the founding of the Saco colony. One of the first cabins put up here was built by our ancestor, Colonel Israel Paxton. Tradition says that it stood on precisely the same spot where this mansion now stands. The settlers lived in almost constant warfare with the Indians of the Facotribe. Finally the great chief of the Wampanoags of Rhode Island, Meta- mora, or King Philip, as the whites termed him, formed a great Indian confederacy, intended to drive the whites into the ocean. Philip’s defeat and death broke the power of the Indians for- ever. The Sacos, who formed part of the con- federacy, suffered severely; only a small part of the tribe ever came back to the river, and they pitched their village some fifty miles up the stream, in what is now the town of Hiram But, weak as the tribe was, it was still a source of considerable annoyance to the settlers at the mouth of the river. “Our ancestor, the colonel, was one of the volunteers who had marched to Boston and. hel to ron oi the power of oe Philip. After he returned to Saco, by some c become acquainted with an Indian girl—called after the fanciful fashion of the savages—Little Leaf. She was the daughter of Kennebunk, the great chief of the Saco tribe. The colonel, much to the astonishment of the colonists—for he was a Straight-laced, God-fearing man—mar- ried the Indian girl. This marriage should have cemented a peace between the whites and the Indians, but, so far from doing so, scme six months after the wedding, the Indian wife led a party of the colonists, headed by our ances- tor, the colonel, to the retreat of the red-men, and nearly all of the tribe were butchered in the fight. The few who escaped found shelter with the far-off tribes to the north, and never more with arms in their hands menaced the Saco colony. “Our ancestor, the colonel, received a large grant of land for his services; but the deed of treachery, by means of which nearly all of her kindred had fallen, aicees heavy on the soul of the Indian girl, and three months after the date of the slaughter she died in child-birth. in- voking the most horrid curses upon the head of her husband and predicting that the curse of the wronged red-man would cling unto the family of the Paxtons until the blood of the ance he — 44 A STRANGE GIRL. Indian should again mingle with their life- stream,” “ But this cure, father, has not been fulfilled; no fatality has ever attended our family.” * Well, yes, there has been a something which seemed like a fulfillment of the ‘Saco’s curse,’ asthe family legend calls it,” the deacon said, slowly. “Tn what way?” ‘The Indian wife died in giving birth toa son, and, from that day to this, with but one exception, all the Paxton wives have had but one child, a son, and have died in giving birth to that child.” ‘¢ Well, that certainly is very strange, father!” Sinclair said, thoughtfully. “Tt really seems as if there was some truth in the old legend after all, doesn’t it?” ef Yes; but you said there had been an excep- tion, “Yes, my father’s wife, your grandmother. Her first child was a girl—your aunt Jane, but your grandmother died soon after my birth. All these particulars were related to me by my father just before ay marriage. Of course did not believe in the legendary story and mar- ried without giving it a thought. But your birth cost_your mother her life, and, for the first time, I yo to believe that possibly there might be some little truth in the assertion that the Saco’s curse was clinging to our family.” * And the only way to remove the spell is for one of the Paxtons to marry an Indian girl?” Sinclair said, thoughtfully. “So runs the legend.” * But, father, did any of our family ever marry a second wife after the first one died?’ ‘“ No; I beliove that has never occurred. That might break the spell. I’ve half a mind to try that myself,” the deacon said, laughing. “T donot think the Saco’s curse will keep me from marrying if I find a girl I like,” Sin- clair said. “‘Oh, itis probably only accident, after all.” Sinclair departed, fully satisfied of his fa- ther’s consent. CHAPTER XIX. WIDOW, GARDNER. Ir was about five o’clock in the afternoon. Elmira Gardner, more commonly called widow Gardner, the mother of the grocery clerk, Jerry, and the woman with whom Lydia Grame boarded, had made all needful prepara- tions for supper, and had sat down in the rock- ing-chair to enjoy a few minutes’ rest. The widow was a brisk — little woman, wearing her age remarkab y well; as busy as a bee and as neat as wax. Biddeford folks said that there wasn’t a better housekeeper in the State of Maine than Elmira Gardner, The widow had opened the blinds, which had been carefully closed to keep out the sun, and, with an expression of placid contentment upon her face, was enjoying the cool breeze which swept over the town. Suddenly her eyes caught sight of a young lady tripping up the street. “My! she exclaimed, “if there ain’t Delia Embden!” And great was the widow’s astonishment when tho girl came directly to the house and opened the garden-gate, evidently intending to make a call, to Peis “Tlow do you do, Mrs. Gardner?” Delia said; *“‘Pve come to make a call.” “Come right in, Delia!” exclaimed the widow, hastening to throw open the front door. She escorted the girl into the parlor, and pressed her to lay aside her things, which Delia preferred not to do, saying that she was only going to stop a few minutes. “«T s’pose, . Gardner, that you had about come to the conclusion that I had forgotten all my old friends?” the girl said. ‘Well, to tell the truth, you hain’t been to see me for a long time, but { s’posed_ that you were busy. It’s a good deal of work to take care of a big house like yours up on the hill, and I don’t s’pose that you have any more timo than you know what to do with,” the widow re lied. ‘he widow had been just.a little bit put out because Delia had not called upon her lately. In the old time the Gardners and the Embdens had been very intimate, but since the skipper of the Nancy Jane had become wealthy, a sort of coldness had sprung up between the two families. Three or four years before, the vil- lage gossips had broadly hinted_that it was likely that Jerry Gardner and Delia Emben would make a match, but, when Daddy Emb- den made such a display of wealth, all imagined that Jerry, who was only a clerk in a grocery store, stood very little chance of winning the wealthy heiress. “Yes, the care of the hou.) does keep me pretty busy; and then, father, too, hasn’t been well for nearly four months now.” ‘¢Sakes alive!” exclaimed the widow, in as- tonishment, ‘‘Why, I never heard any one say any thing about your father being sick.” ‘Well, he’s not so sick as to need a doctor, but still he needs a good deal of looking after,” Delia e ined. “You're looking real well, Delia.” “Oh, yes, I’m always well.” ‘Well, now, you’re a good deal like me. I do declare I hain’t been sick for I don’t know when. And I work pretty smart, too. Is’ you know that I’ve got a boarder, and that al- ways makes more work.” “Yes, a Miss Grame, I believe; Mary Ann was telling me something about her the other day. ” Deliasaid, with an air of indifference. ‘Well, I want to know if Mary Annis still with you!” the widow exclaimed. “ es.” “ She’s a real smart girl, Her mother and I and your mother, too, we all went to school together. Yes, Miss Grame boards with me; real nice girl; she works in the mill across the river, in Saco. Ikinder have an idea, Delia, that mebbe she won’t board with me a great while longer,” and the widow looked mysteri- ous. ‘‘T spose you mean, Mrs, Gardner, that it’s likely she’ll go to eeapees house for herself?” Delia. half queried, smiling. * ‘Well, now, I guess that you have heard something about it,” the widow said, shrewdly. ‘< Yes, 'y Ann told me, but Icould hardly believe it.” “Well, now, I shouldn’t either,” said the widow, drawing her chair a little nearer to that of her visitor, and lowering her voice, ‘‘ but that the deacon, his father, called on her yesterday.” The cn looked astonished, and there was just a little shade of disappointment on her ace. “Why, that was strange,” she said, slowly. “Yes, I didn’t know a thing about it till after the deacon had gone away; then Liddy toldme —that’s her name, you know, Lydia Grame.” “ Yes. ” “Well, I vow, I believe you could have knocked me down with a feather when I heard of it, I was so astonished. Just like the deacon. though; he allers was one of the best-hearted. men that ever did live.” ‘And did he come on purpose to see Miss Grame?” “Yes, Liddy was sitting at the window, and he walked right in and introduced himself. Of course, when I heard that the deacon had been here, 1 was worried almost to death because I didn’t see him. You see, my dear, the deacon and I used to be the best of friends. I’ve danced many a time with him in the old town hall over in Saco. That was years ago, when we were both young folks. Liddy told me all about what the deacon said.” “Well, is he willing that Sinclair should marry Miss Grame?” and the young fl looked just a little bit anxious as she asked the ques- tion, ‘“Well, I guess so,” the widow replied, con- fidently. ‘Ofcourse he didn’t say right out, either one way or the other.” “But, what was the reason that he called upon her? I don’t understand that.” ‘Well, now, that’s the strangest part of the whole affair. “You see, the deacon got a letter without any name signed to it, telling him that Sinclair was gol g to marry Miss Grame, and so the deacon he up and come right over to see what the girl was like. It wasreal mean, who- ever did it. I don’t see why folks want to meddle with other people’s business, do you?” “No,” Delia rejoined, quite slowly, but the widow, deeply interested in her story, never noticed this hesitation. “T s’pose whoever wrote the letter thought *| that the deacon would getmad and forbid Sin- clair’s coming here; but, they never made a bigger mistake in all their lives. You see, it acted just the other way. The deacon came over to see Liddy ’cos he’s a real live Yankee and got nat’ral curiosity. But he_talked real good, and when hé found out that Liddy didn’t ve any friends or relatives, he up and told her that if she wanted assistance or advice she must come right to him. Now, Delia, folks can say what they like, but the deacon has got the real salt of the earth in his nature.” “Then I suppose that Sinclair will m: this Miss Grame pretty soon?” Delia said, thoughtfully. “Well, I don’t know; there’s no telling, my dear,” the widow said, with a shake of the head. ‘‘Liddy declares that there isn’t any engagement between her and Sinclair, but, as I tell her, there’s no knowing what will happen. The young man thinks a good deal of her, and she does of him, though she won’t own it. But, before long, I guess she’ll find out that she likes him. Young girls are very contrary with their lovers sometimes. I remember I used to just. plague the life out of Gardner afore we were married. I don’t believe that I would have ever consented to marry him, although I liked him better than any of the rest of the fellows, but we were on a picnic one day down to the Pool, and he got me to go out sailing, and when he popped the question for about the four hundredth time, and [commenced to laugh at him as usual, he grabbed me right by the arms, and says ho, ‘If you don’t say yes, El- miry, I swow I’llsouse you right into the water,’ and. I had on my best silk dress, I kinder screamed and hollored a bit, and said, ‘Oh, Josh, don’t!’ and then I said ‘ yes’ afore I ioe Pe it, and, Delia, I got jest one of the best men that ever lived.” Delia laughed at the widow’s story. ‘* And you never regretted it?” “‘ Never,” said the widow, emphatically; “he was a good provider, and when he died, it jest took away half my life. I don’t know what I should have done if it hadn’t been for Jerry He’s jest like his father, jest full of mischief, but jest as good as they make men nowadays.” ** How is dct ‘Oh, he’s well, thank you. He’s down to the ‘ocery store, jest where he used to be, clerking it. Gets forty dollars a month now, and he has full charge of the store. Is’pose he'll be a artner there fore long. Jerry’s very saving; e’s got close on toa thousand dollars in the bank.” “T must go now,” Delia said, rising. “Won't you stop to tea?” “Oh, I can’t; father will expect me home.” The widow accompanied Delia to the front oor. _ “Looks like a thunder-storm,” she said, glanc- ing up at the clouded sky. ! i" anew I can get home before it comes,” the girl sai “T say, Delia, when are you going to get mar- ried? ’Bout time for you,” the widow said, sud- denly. “Tl have to wait till somebody asks me,” the girl said, laughing. “Sakes alive! I yeas there’s fellows enough that would be glad to do that. I did hope, once on a time, that you and Jerry might make a match,” the widow said, slmconrdtias A little tinge of color came into Delia’s pale ‘ace. “ Why, how you talk, Mrs, Gardner!” she ex- claimed. ‘Jerry nevercared anything for me, I am sure!™ ‘‘Well, if your father hadn’t got so awful rich, I rather guess Jerry would ’a’ said some- thing, but the money frightened him away.” ““T guess it was me more than the money,” Detia said, with hightened color, ‘ Well, good- A CHAPTER XX. A SOFT CONFESSION. THE girl hurried down the path, and, as she opened the gate, took a aces look up at the sky. The clouds were very black indeed, and every now and then the dark cloud-banks opened and. the forked lightning came forth. Delia hesitated for a moment. “You had better wait a little bit,” the widow called out from the door; ‘Je will be up from the store soon with anumbrella, I'd offer ou one, but there ain’t an umbrella in the ouse.”” “‘T guess I can get home before the storm breaks,” and then Delia hurried off, the widow’s shrill ‘‘Good-by, come again!” ringing in her ears. She walked up the street as fast as she could, but the heavens grew darker and darker each minute, and by the time she reached the corner the rain came pouring down in big drops. Delia halted under a large tree which stood at the corner of the street. “This will save me from getting wet,” she murmured, as she took refuge under the spread- ing branches, _ And how it did rain! Down it came in great torrents. Delia had been standing under the tree nearly a quarter of an hour before the storm mani- fested the slightest intention of abating its force in the least, and then, though the ps were not so large as before, still the rain came down steadily. ‘ ‘*Oh, dear!” exclaimed the girl in dismay; ‘‘I wonder how long it’s going to rain like this? Will I ever be able to get home?” Then a man-came up the street, struggling with an umbrella, for the wind was quite high and he took refuge under the tree. He shut up the umbrella, and the two recog- nized each other. _ , , ‘Oh, Jerry!” cried the girl, in evident de- light at the meeting. ‘“‘Why, Miss Embden, how do you do?” ex- claimed Jerry, for the man with the umbrella was the grocery clerk. “Miss Embden!” and Delia made a face at him; ‘‘yow’re getting very polite of a sudden.” “Yes,” said Jerry, rather confused. “*T should think that between such old friends as you and I quite so much ceremony wasn’t needed.” 5 “Well, we ain’t been quite such good friends lately as we used to be,” he said, honestly. “Whose fault is it? Not mine, I’m sure!” Delia exclaimed, decidedly. i “T guess that it ain’t mine,” he said. ‘ Fact is, Miss—I mean Delie—there’s quite a leetle scene between you now and what you used 0 be. “T wasn’t aware that I’d changed a great ‘Well, I don’t say that you have changed, a —_ circumstances have changed,” he ex- ned. “That is, you mean that you’ve found some