Newspaper Page Text
10 THE VERMONT PHOENIX, BRATTLEBORO, FRIDAY, DECEMBER 18, 1891. l! )' it ; T J r $ THE OTHER SIDE, A Christians Mlorr 1J .Tlnrr R. IVIIUIna. Foni llarp-f' Basar.J "Sylvy got a letter to-night," said Syl vester Evarts, He was at the supper talile with his wife Jane ami bis daughter Im ogen. "Who was it from?'' asked his wife. "I gues it wan frfm Aunt Susan." "DM Sylvy nay what wan in itf" "No, she didn't. She jest took it quick, an' flipped it Into her pocket." "I'll warrant the did." said Jane Evarts. She was a large otnan with a handsome heavy face. Sylvester was small, and as darkly sallow as a Spaniard. He leaned over his plate and ate fast, his brows contracted with a nervously anxious scowl. "1 shouldn't w on der if we never knew what was in it," be remarked. His voice bad inflections curiously like his wife's. "I don't believe we ever shall either," said Imogen; "but I don't care, for my part." "I do," said her mother. "I've got jest as good a right to know about Aunt Susan as anybody. I think it would have looked full us wefl if she'd wrote to your father or me; an' anyhow I can't Man' folks bein' so close a Sylvy is I'm goin! to find out w hat's in that letter, whether or no. I'm goin' in the other side after supper." And after supper Jane Kvnrts went in the other side, as she said The house w as a double rottage, connected only through the cellar. She went heavily dow n one flight of stairs, holding her lamp well before her, and up another. Sylvia's door at the bead of the second flight w as locked. Jane oiind ed on it with imjmtient vigor, and waited. Presently Sylvia opened the door. "Oh, it's you," she said; her voice was very small and thin. She looked much like her brother. "1 thought I'd run across a minute," said Jane. "Imogen's uashiu' the dishes, an' Sylvester's gone down to the store." Jane settled herself in n rocking-chair near the stove. She bad brought her sew ing, and Sylvia sat opposite, with her hands in her lap. There was a look of restrained energy about her whole figure; her mouth was cloed as if it held down a coil of springs. Jane kept glancing unpleasantly at her. "I should think you'd die, settiu' there with your bands folded." said she, finally. "I can't help it if I do. I can't see to do anything evenin's, anyhow." "I think you'd ought to have some older glasses, Sylvy." "It ain't nothin' to do with glasses," re torted Sylvia. She was older than Jane, who never lost a chance of reminding her of it. Poor Syl via's extra ten years of life upraised heron an eminence which exposed her to many shots that stung through her good sense. "I guess you'd find out it was," said Jane. "I don't believe your glasses are any older than mine." Sylvia made no further remark. She sat quite still, her eyes fixed ujion the opposite wall. Jane sewed; now and then she glanced at the table, where a letter lay in full view, but she did not allude to it for some time. Finally she spoke in quite a casual tone. "I see you've got a letter," said she. "Yes," said Sylvia, in a dry voice. "Meb be you'd like to read it w ith your glasses 1" "Now, Sylvy Evarts, I don't see anything for you to be touchy about." "1 ain't touchy." "Well, you act touchy, if you ain't. I don't see anything for you to flare up about because I said you needed 6ome older glasses. I jest said it for your own good. I do think if you had 'em yo l'd take a lot more comfort, an' I can't help it if you don't like it." Sylvia said nothing. "I s'pose the letter's from Aunt Susan," said Jane, presently, in a peremptory man ner. "Yes, 'tis." "I guess I'll take it home an let Sylves ter read it when I go. He's always Inter ested in Aunt Susan's letters." Sylvia said nothing. "Well, of course I wont take it home if you don't want me to," said Jane. "1 s'posed you wouldn't have any objections. I knew Aunt Susan was as much Sylves ters aunt as yours." Jane gathered up her work, and arose. She opened the door, and was on the top step of the stairs, when Sylvia spoke. . "You can take it if you want to," said she. "Oh, I'm sure I don't want to see your letter." "She's comin' here." "Who's comin'!" "Aunt Susan." "W'Iio'b she comin' to see!" "Both of us, I guess. She wrote the let ter to both of us." " I should have thought you'd brought it in, then, instead of keepin'it here nil to your self." "I was goin' to," replied Sylvia. Her voice was quite subdued. She got the letter off the table, and handed it to her sistor-in-law. "When I'm goin' to have company, I like to know it," said Jane. "When's bhe coin in'!" "Next week." Jane gathered up her skirts, and went down the stairs. Her lamp gleamed out of the dusk below, and her voico lloated back. "I should have most thought she'd wrote to me," she said; but I fl'pose she thought you was the oldest, and would kind of feel it if she did." Mrs. Evarts was laughing when she opened the door at the head of her own stairs. "She had to give me the letter in Bpite of herself," she announced to Imogon. "It was wrote to me too " Imogen looked up iiulifTerentlv, almost sulkily, from some worsted work in her lap, "You don't act much interested," said her mother. "You act most as touchy lately as Sylvy does. I don't see any use in bein' so ugly about it, if you are goin' to be au old maid. I dun'no' as it's my fault. If you'd had a little better disposition " "What about Aunt Susan?" asked Imo gen, in a desperate voice. "She's comin' here next week " "Which side is bhe going to visit!" "I s'pose she's goin' to visit some of tho time in the other side, an' some of the time in hero, unless Sylvy manages to keep her there. She was jest as grouty as she could be aloiit this letter. Want to see ill" Imogen reached out her hand for it, and let the red wool capo she was crocheting fall in her lap. After she had read the let ter, she took the cape up again, und bent her faco abstractedly over it. Her cheeks were round and pink, but her handsome forehead scowled half miserably, half crossly, over her black eyes. "It'll be Christinas when she's here, an' you can give her that capo you're inakin'," said her mother. Imogon nodded. She thought to herself that she did not care who had the cape, and she did not care if she did not live to finish it, She had intended originally to give it to IsauoBryco's mother for a Christmas pres ent; but now she and Isaac bad quarreled, and that plan had to be changed, as well as others of more importance. Somehow to night this little bright mass of worsted work seemed to be the last weight that would quite break her heart. She wanted to bury her face in it and cry at the bare idea of giving it to anybody but Isaac's mother, but she only scowled. When she went to bed, she folded it carefully and put it away. "It will make a nice present for Aunt Susan, as long as you ain't goin' to give it to his mother," remarked Mrs, Evarts. i III -V .X lAi . y x j; h i uv ' J i mB. "Yes, 'twill," said Imogen, shortly. She swallowed hard and would not cry when she was alone in her chamber. She looked at her handsome face in her glass when she was brushing her hair, with a sarcastic and triumphant smile, as if she were defying Isaac Hryce in her own self. A week from that day her great-aunt Susan Parks came an old woman with a withered prettiness and dim sweetness like an old flower about her,stepping waveringly out of the wagon at the door, and returning her relatives' greetings with a timorous stateliness like a child. Susan Parks had never married, and had lived alone tho greater part of her life. Solitude fosters the growth of the individ ual will, and also, in some cases, weakens it from sheer lack of exercise anil opposi tion. Poor Susan Parks coming into association with other .people was quite helpless. The smallest suggestion from them rocked her that way like a strong current. She arose when they bade her, lay down when they bade her, and ate what they bade her. They were fond of her in their own way, and were, moreover, actuated by a certain forcible hospitality. They looked out stren uously for her comfort according to their own wisdom and their own devices. The old woman had never in her old life lain down in the day time, nor slept except at night, Now every afternoon she was con ducted into her bedroom, and made to take off her cap and lie down for two hours on the feather-bed, covered carefully with a best quilt. She lay there staring mutely at the patterns of the calico blocks and the flowers on the wall-paper. She could not sleep to order, although she had a guiltv feeling about it liut this break in her regular habits of life produced still another; she could not sleep much at night, and had te lie many an hour wide awake in the strange darkness of her tiedroom. She bad all her life bad a certain childish fear of the dark, and especially in a strange place. Her old heart beat like a scared baby's in her withered side, and she lay listening. Her life bad been so even nnd so monoto nous that she hail no vital memories to dis tract her at such a time ; she was nil in the present und alive to all its possibilities for n feeble old woman all alone in a spare bedroom in a strange house, Susan had always been, in a gentle inac tive way, a very busy woman. Her thin old hands were never still. Now Imth Syl via and Mrs. Evarts took her knitting-work from her at times, and condemned her to sit idle, for fear such constant industry would make her ill. She submitted to that as she submitted to everything, with timid do cility. The question during her whole life, with Susan Parks, and more especially as she grow older, had been not her willing ness to obey, but her ability. She was quite willing to be dealt with as her jealous rela tives chose, but she could not sleep at their order ; and in one other case, she was at a loss she could not be on both sides of the cottage at the same time, and she had a be wildered feeling that thut was demanded of her. No Booner was poor Susan Parks seated in tho rocking chair at one sitting-room stove than there would come a knock on the division wall. That signified that she was expected to go in the other sido. "Well, I s'pose you'll have to go, or she'll be mad," either Sylvia or Mrs. Evarts would say of each other. And the gentle old woman would lift her black draperies to her ankles, and trail weakly down und up the cellar stairs. Her old knees became leaner and weaker, but she never complain ed. She never knew in which sido of the house her next meal was to be, nor in which she was to sleep, She was as sub ject to that imperative knock on the wall as any slave in nil Eastern tale. Many a time when a meal was all prepared in the sido where she was sojourning, and the aroma of some favorite dish was pleasing her old nostrils, and she gontly anticipat ing some little grateful savor that material life still held for her, there would come that knock on the wall, "She wants you to come in there totlinner, Aunt Susan, an' I s'pose you'll have to go," her hostess would say, wrathfully. These sisters-in-law had a curious fear of and respect for each other; both submitted, however indignantly, The r 1 4f ""4 I . -Tttfir- c IP mL worst of the struggle cane upon poor Su san, who was in something of the jmsitiou of a living and painfully conscious bone be tween two dogs. Christmas day was just three weeks from the day on which she arrived, and then came the fiercest contention of all. She slept in Sylvia's side on Christmas eve, and ate breakfast there on Christmas morning. They had breakfast early, about seven o'clock. Sylvia worried a great deal as they sat eating in her little kitchen. "I'm sure I dun'no' what to do about din ner," said she. "Sometimes Jane she asks me in there Christinas, an' sometimes she don't. She ain't said a word about it to-day, an' I dun'no' what she expects. I've got a chicken, but ten chances to one, jest as soon as I get it on, she'll rap. I dun'no' what to do. She ain't said anything to you about it, has she!" "No, she ain't," replied Susan. She had lilac ribbon in her cap, and her delicate old face hail tinges of pink and lilac. It was a j cold morning and Sylvia's kitchen was ! chilly. Susan sipped her cup of tea with j meek amiability ; now and then she claiped her cold unsteady little fingers around the cup to warm them. "I'd like to had 'em all in here," said Sylvia ; "but land ! Jane don't think she can eat a meal in here nohow. Sometimes Imogen will. She's more like her father's i folks. She's got her mother's temper, ' though. I s'ose she's feelin' pretty down to the heel to-day, though you couldn't make her own it. She wont have nothin' from Isaac Bryce. Last year he give her alout the handsomest breastpin I ever set my eyes on. I dun'no' whother she give it back to him or not. It had red stones in it, nil' I s'pose they were real. I don't be lieve they were glass. Tho Bryces are pretty well off. There ain't noliody but Isaac an' his mother. Well, I dun'no' what to do. I dun'no' whether to put that chicken on or not." "Why don't you wait a Boell nn' see i" suggested Susan. "Mebbe she'll bo in." 1 "Well, I can wnit till ten o'clock, but I can't no longer if we're goin' to have that chicken for dinner. It's a nrettv good- sized one. I wish I knew if Jane was goin' to have n turkey. If sho's got a turkey, she's goin' to have us in. She most always 1ms a chicken when they're alone. I wish I knew." Sylvia cleared away the breakfast dishes, still worrying. Susan sat by the sitting room stove knitting. There was a white drive of snow past the windows. It seemed too cjld to snow, yet it had begun. Sylvia came in with the dish towel in her hand. "June she's flxin' some kind of n fowl nt her sink-room window," she an nounced, "an' the feet look to mo jest like turkoy's feet. I wish you'd jest go to my sink-room window, Aunt Susan. Maybe you can see through them far-seoin' glasses of yours." Susan laid down her knitting-work, put on her glasses, and went out in the unfin ished sink-room, where the windows were furred blue with frost. She shivered so she could hardly speak as she peered through u little clear space between tho ridges of frost. "What do you think it looks like!" de manded Sylviu, I'm 'fraid I can't make out ." Her little plaid shawl was pulled tightly over her bead j tho small wedgo of faco between its folds was ghastly in the blue-white light. "Well, I s'pose you'll catch your death out here j you'd better go back," said Syl via. "I didn't know but what you could see through your far-seein' glasses." "You -try 'em," shivered Susan. "Land I they'd be too old for me," said Sylvia, with a resentful embarrassment in hor voice. "You'd better go in. I'll wait till ten o'clock, an' then if she don't come in, I'll put that chicken on, whetheror no." Jane did not come in, and Sylvia put the chicken on to boil at ten o'clock. "I guess we'll have it stewed instead of baked. I like it full as well, don't vou t" "Yes, I do,".said Susan, happily.' She had an innocent pleasure in certain dishes, and stewed chicken was oueof them. She was inwardly delighted that she had not to goin the other side and eat turkey. Then, too, she much preferred a dinner with Sylvia j she was a little afraid of Jane, and also of Imogen. At qunrter of twelve the dinner was near ly done The vegetables were trailing fast; there were onions, and that also pleased Susan. "We'll have some onions, an' that's one thing you wouldn't have got if you'd gone in to Jane's to dinner," remarked Sylvia. "She wont have an onion cooked in the other side; she's terrible scared of 'em." The snow continued. At twelve o'clock Sylvia put on her rubbers, and went out to the well fora pail of water. After she had pumped it, she stood for a second peering sharply at a pail beside the shed door of the other side. She gathered up her skirts and waded cautiously over toward it, and look ed closer. When she had set her water-pail in her own sink, and shaken the snow off her skirts, she went in to Susan. "Them was turkey feet," she said. Susan looked up apprehensively. "They are out in the pail at the back door," said Sylvia "Well, there's one thing about it, if she raps on after I've got my dinner all ready, she can. I sba'n't go in a step. You can do jestas you'vea mind to." Sylvia gave a vicious jerk of her shoulders, and went out in the kitchen. Susan heard the plates go on the table with sharp claps, and trembled. She hoped that Sylvia would get the table set, and they might be already nt dinner if Jane should chance to rap on the wall. She thought that possibly in such a case she might not bo expected to obey the summons and go in the other side, but might be justified in remaining where she was. She knitted, and listened to Sylvia step ping briskly uliout and rattling the dishes. If only dinner could be fairly begun before a rap came on the wall. "Can't I help you, Sylvy?" she called out, anxiously. "No." replied Sylvia. "It's jest about ready." Every time that Sylvia hit a dish, Susan started, thinking the rap on the wall had come. More than for any pleasure in her visit she cared for this snug solitary dinner with Sylvia; tho chicken stow and the onions looked like sweet morsels of her childhood. "Dinner's ready," called Sylvia at last, and Susan laid down her knitting-work, mid went out with trembling haste. "Hadn't you better have your shawl on I It ain't quite so warm as 'tis in the sittin' room!" "No; I'm plenty warm enough," said Su san. She pushed her plate forward a little. "What part of the chicken do you like, dark or light?" asked Sylvia, standing over it with her knife and fork. "I like the dark pretty well." "This?" Susan nodded, happily. Sylvia put just the-pieco that she loved into her plate. "Onions?" said she. Susan nodded again. "Jane does net terribly silly about onions," said Sylvia. "I wouldn't give a cent for a chicken dinner without 'em." "I wouldn't either," said Susan, with un wonted assertion. Sylvia passed over her laden plate. Susan raised her knife. Suddenly there came a nip on tho wall. Susan laid down her knife, and looked at Sylvia with something like a gasp of despair. Sylviu looked back at her. "Jest the way I knew it would be," said she, grimly, "What shall I do !" "I dun'no', I know what I shall do," "Aiu't you goiii'in the other side 1" "No; I ain't goin' a step. You can do jest ns you've a mind to." Then came another rap on the wall. "Do you think I'd ought to go, Sylvy i" "I dun'no'. I ain't nothin' to gay about other folks. I ain't goin', I call it pretty work, for my part, waitin' till I get dinner all on the table, an' then knockin' over. It's jest like her." Sylvia was cutting the meat from a chicken leg. She brandished it as if it were the bone of au enemy in a cannibal feast. "I ain't goin' to knuckle in to her one mite," said she. Susan looked pitifully at Sylvia. ' 'Sylvy, do you think I'd ought to go t" "You can do jest as you've a mind to." "Do you s'pose she wont like it if I don't ?" "I dun'no', an' I don't care." "It don't hardly seem as if she'd ought to be put out, when we've jest set down to dinner so," ventured Sustn, timidly. "Put out ? Of course she hadn't ought to be." Suan laid her little cold skinny hand on ber knife again: she looked at the chicken on her plate. "Mebbe," she lxgan, but there was another rap, louder and more peremptory. "I s'M)se she will be madder'n hop if you don't go," said Sylvia "I know Imo gen has been makin' something for you for Christmas, but it'll jest serve her right." "Then you think I ought to go " ' "No, I don't ! You can do jest as you've a mind to. I know she'll lx put out with you, an' she'll lie put out with me. but I don't care if she is. I ain't a goin'. If you feel as if you didn't want to make her mad, you ca i go, that's nil there is aiiout it." "Sba'n't you bemad, Sylvy (" "No. I sha'n't. I ain't one of the kind that gets mad. I can stan' everything, an' not say a word." Susan rose up slowly. She cast one last wistful glance at her plate. "M;bbe I'd lietter gn." said she. "Well." said Svlvia, in a sweetly baleful voice, "you'll have n better dinner. You'll have roast turkei I know them was tur key feet but you wont have no onions, I can tell you that." "I don't feel as if I had ought to tut her out," said Susan, pitifully. She did not get her little shawl as she went through the sitting-room, she was so perturlied. She usually wore It on her jour neys from one side to the other. She shiv ered violently as the cold earthy breath of the cellar came in her face when she stood at the head of the stairs. She grasped the stair rail convulsively, arid went down a step at a time. Her knees bent under her. Nothing could exceed ber caution, she was in such terror of falling. But the stairs were dark. Somehow she missed the las. step, nnil sank in a little heap at the foot There was a sharp twinge through her an kle. She gaed for breath two or three times: then she did not know any more atioutit. rp-tairs Sylvia Evans, in her side, ate her dinner, and her brother, his wife, and daughter, in their side, nte their dinner. The raps on the wall hnd been continued for some time. Thev came at last in an impa tient volley. Sylvia had listened quite un moved and grim. She thought that her Aunt Susan had reached the other side, and that now they were knocking solely for her benefit. "Let 'em knock." she said, aloud : and she helMd herself to more chicken. At last the people in the other side gave up knocking. "If Aunt Susan an' Sylvy don't want to come in here, they needn't," said Jane Evarts "You'd Itetter cut up the turkey. Sylvester. I guess I shouldn't have got a great turkey if I'd known ; but I might have I tliought I smelt onions cookin'. Sylvy jest made up ber mind she wouldn't come, an' that's all there is alout it. Have some squash, Imogen !" "No. I guess I won't " "Wont have any squash I" "No, I don't want any." "Why, you've always been crazy for squash. WbatV got into you I Oh, I for got. I forgot he was over here last Christ mas. Well, if you wanted to get mad, an' quarrel with him, an' spoil your prospicU, I should think that was enough, without mak ing everyliovly else miserable Goin' with out wjuash when anybody's taken pains to cook it! I think there's a little something due to your own folks." "Do give mo a spoonful if you feel that way about it." retorted Imogen, miserably. She held out her plate. "You might see him an' make it up, if you had any sense, "said her mother, as she took up a spoonful of souash. "We've talked about'that all I want to," said Imogen, coldly. "Yes ; I'll warrant you'd die first," re turned her mother. "I don't see where you got your temper, for my part. 'Twa'n't from my sideof the family, I know that." Meanwhile that little unconscious heap lay at the foot of the cellar stairs. It was sometime before Susan came to herself; then she tried to get up, but could not. She called, but her voice was weak ; the people were at dinner in rooms under which the cellar did not extend, and nobody heard her. It was a good hour before Sylvia, going to the head of the cellar stairs, heard a faint moan from the foot. "Who's down there," she called out, in a scared voice. "Me!" "Aunt Susan ! What is it I What on earth's the matter I How came you there 1" Svlvia went down as she talked. "I fell," said Susan. "Fell! For the land's sake! Your bones ain't broke, lie they !" "I dun'no'. I guess I've hurt my ankle a little. I can't stand up. I hadn't ought to have come alone." "I don't see what you was thinkin' of, to fall," cried Sylvia. She grasped Susan's arm, but the old woman remonstrated with unwonted force. "I ain't goin' to be teched," said she. "I ain't goin' to be dragged up on that ankle. It's jest like knives." Sylvia rushed to the foot of the other stairs, and screamed, "Jane! Jane! come here, quick !" The door at tho head of the stairs opened. "What you hollerin' for i" inquired a cold voice. "Aunt Susan isdreadfully hurt. I dun'no but she's killed. Come down here, iiuick 1 Call Sylvester." "Oh dear! Sylvester went down to the village right after dinner," wailed Jane, rushing heavily down the stairs. "What is it, Sylvy 1 How did she do it !" "She fell, an she's been lyin' there all the time you was eatin' dinner. I call it a judgment on you for rappin' in, an' that's all I've got to say about it." Jane Evarts, strong-minded woman ns she appeared ordinarily, always fled beforo an emergeucy, with her wits at loose ends. "Imogen ! Imogen !" she screamed, "come down here, quick, quick ! Bring the cam phor an' the balm-Oilead bottle. Youruunt Susan's killed. Oh dear, I wish Sylvester was to home! Oh dear !" She and Sylvia bent over Susan, and in a minute Imogen was there. Susan struck out at them wildlv with her feoblo hands. "I ain't goin' to be teched," she protested in her trembling voice, that had a tone of strange fire in it. "Let mother and I carry you up stairs," pleaded Inogen, and sh spoke more softly than Susan had ever heard her. "Let us carry you up, Aunt Susan, and then we can find out where you are hurt." "I ain't goin'" to be teched." "We'll be real careful; we wont hurt you a hit, Aunt Susan." "Oh deur, I'm afraid she'j killed I" moan ed Juno. "I wish Sylvester was to home." "Come, Aunt Susan," said Imogen ; nnd she put her arm under the old woman's shoulders. Susan jerked herself away. "I ain't goin' to be dragged up stjirs bv women folks," she said. "If there ain't a man to carry me up, I'll stay where I bo. I'v been haul ed about from pillar to post over since I've been here, an' now I ain't goin' to bo killed to cap the climax. I 'ain't set or laid half an hour in one place before somebody has rapped on to go into another. I'm all wore out, an' I can't stan' it." "Poor thing I" sobbed Jane. "You'd ought to be ashamed of yourself, Sylvy. I know she ain't had a minuto's peace." "I guess I've given her as iducli peace as you have," retorted Sylvia. "Hero she ain't hud a mite of diu tier today because she's rapped on, an' she's fell, an' hurt her self too." "If you'd come with her she wouldn't have fell," said Jane. "I wa'n't a-comln'a step after I'd worked an' got my own dinner ready, an' had jest set down to it. You might have told me beforehand." "I s'posed. of course, you exprcted to come in my side to flintier," returned Jane. Oh, dear! I dun'tio' what's goin'ti be done. I expect Aunt Susan has come here to he killed. Oh, dear!" "Something has got to be done," said Im ogen, firmly, "or she will die down here. She'll catch her death of old if she don't dr. anything else. Now come. Aunt Susan ; you sha'n't be hurt a might. I'm reil strong." "Go 'way," said Susan, with feeble inap pishness, like a sick dog. "I tell you I wont have nobody but n man tech me to carry me up stairs. Women folks ain't strong enough. I ain't goin' to be dropped from top to Irattoin an' killed. I've got enough to suffer as 'tis " "Well, I've got to get somebody, then," said Imogen "There ain't a mau nearer than him for a mile, an' it's this driving storm," said her mother. "Be you goin' for him I" Imogen set her mouth hard. "I've got to get somebody." she repented. "Aunt Sylvy, you'd letter get something to cover her up with till I get back " ' I'll get a quilt," replied Sylvia, eagerly. "Don't you lie any longer than you can help, for mercv sake, Imogen." Sylvia hurried up one llight of stairs for the quilt; Imogen ran up the other. She threw a shawl over her head and ojwned the outer door Th now cuuie in ber fuce : she looked across the yard to a white peak of roof ami a house whose outlines showed dim and gray through the storm. Kac Bryce and his mother lived there, and it was the only house within a mile. Imogen hesitated. Then she nodded im periously, ns if her own double stood In jure her. "I've got to, anyhow," naid she. She gathered up her skirts und ent plung ing across the yard. The snow was quite deep. She knocked at the side door of the Bryce house ami Mr Bryce opened it. Sue started when she saw Imogen. "Good afternoon. Wont you come in ?'' she said, in a stiff, shy wuy. . "Where's Isaac (" asked Imogen, boldly. Then she blushed redly all over her face and neck. Isaac's mother blushed to, as if by re flection, anil drooped her meek-lidded eyes. "He's in the sittin'-room," snid she. - "Do you suppose he'd be willing to come over to our bouse a minute !' ald Imogen. "Aunt Susan ban fallen dou the cellar stairs an' we can't get her up. Father's gone down to the village." ' Is she hurt much !'' "I don't know ; I gums her ankle's sprained. We can't tell till we get her up." "I guess Isaac would be willing tooome," said Mrs Bryce, in a culm voice that was al most monotonous : but she trembled and looked up at Imogen in a scared way ; she was much smaller than the girl. "Will you ask him I" said Imogen. "Yes, I'll ask him. You step in." Imogen stepjml into the kitchen and stool, whitely powdered with snow, by the door. Mrs. Bryce went into the next room. In a minute she returned. She was quite pale. "He says he wont go unless you ask him," she reported, in a whisper. "Dou't you mind. He's terrible set. She'd ought to be got up. You'd better jest step in there an' ask him. He's been feelin' dread ful bad all day. He didn't eat scarcely any dinner. You'd better." Imogen looked at the sitting-room door reflectively. "Well," said she, "if he wants to stand out when a ioor old woman is dying he can. I'll go." She threw her shawl back, and went into the sitting-room. Isaac sat in a rocking chair reading the newspaper. He arose slowly and said, "Good afternoon." "Aunt Susan has fallen down the cellar stairs. Can you come over an' get her up I" asked Imogen, shortly. "Yes, I'll come," answered Isaac, and his tone was as short as hers. He got his hat without another word and they started across the yard. Imogen fol lowed in Isaac's tracks, and Mrs. Bryce watched them from her kitchen window. Neither Isaac nor Imogen spoke a word. She conducted him into the bouse and down the cellar stairs. "Oh, Isaac. I'm so thankful you've cornel" sobbed Mrs. Evarts. "Now do take her up careful. I dun'no' but she's killed." Isaac Bryce was a strong man, and now Susan made no resistance. He carried her up stairs easily, and laid her on the bed in the bedroom out of the sitting-room in Syl via's side. "Now you'd better see how much she's hurt, an' if you want me to go for the doc tor," said he. Then he went out in the sitting-room and waited. Presently Imogen came to him. "I guess there ain't any need of a doc tor," said she, in a stately tone. Then she looked up at him, and in spite of herself all her old love for him showed iu her face, and his answered back. The two hand some faces Hashed light and love at each other like two stars. Imogen's mother came out of the bed room. "I guess she aiu't hurt very bad," said she. "Her ankle's swelled some and I guess she wont be able to step on it for a few days, out that's all. Now I'm goin' to get her some dinner. Sylv y's goin' to warm up some onions, an' I wish you'd go in the other side, Imogen, an' get a nice slice of turkey. She's going to have some stewed chicken, but I think mebbe she'll relish some of the turkey. An' "her voico sank to u whisper "why don't you bring her that cape, an' let her have it over her shoulders. I guess 'twould please her." "You know I made that for Mrs. Bryce," said Imogen. Then she colored and looked away. Her mother cast a sharp glance at her and Isaac. "Well, you can make one for Mis' Bryce for New Year's," said she. "Can't she, Isaac ? Aunt Susan bed ought to havo this oue, poor thiug 1 I know it'll please her." Imogen went down and up the cellar stairs to the other side, and Isaac followed He stood looking out of the sitting-room window, while she got the turkey and capo. "I'll be back in a minute," she said, when she started to go iu the other side agaiu. She would not ask him to stay in any more direct way than that. Her mother made her carry the cape in to Susan, and she put it over her shoulders for her. "It's just as pretty as it can be, an' real becomiu'," said Mrs. Evarts. "Now I guess she'll get well. She's goin' to lay here jest us long as she wants to, too. An' Bhe ain't goin' to get rapped back and forth from one side to the other, is she, Sylvy I" "No, she ain't," answered Sylvia. "I think we'd better make up our minds to have a door cut through at the head of the stairs, an' save so much runniu' up an' down, anyway." "Well, I dun'no' but we hed," returned Mrs. Evarts. And nobody would have dreamed that this prospective dooi had been a subject of contention for years. "She's goin' to visit here as long as she wants to," continued Sylviu ; an' then vou sholl hove her, Jane. She sha'n't be pest ered another mite." Sylvia laid her hand on the old woman's gray head with n tonder touch, and she and Jane looked amiably at each other over her. In a moment Imogen stole away and weut home. She wondered if Isaac had gone. Her heart beat loudly as she opened the door at the head of the stairs. But Isaao was there, still standing by the window. He turned as she entered. "How is she I" he asked. "I guess she's better." "Well, I guess I must be going, if there a nothing else I oan do," he said, hesitating ly, after a pause. They looked in each other's faces again then suddenly they moved closer and kiss j each other. Christiana Unr. (Vactn Petli loquitur , A good old -fashioned Chris'inas. lth th i uiimi the boarth. The table filled with fst rs, an' the room a r .a- 'ith mirth. With the stoekin's cramrnwi to ou'stln'. and ti. rnefJders plld 'Ith snow -A good oU fiuhfmtnl Cbrtrt'ma like we bad s., long ago! . Now Mar the thing Td like to ee ag'ln afor- I die. Hut Chrts'mas In the city here It's different, oh, my'. . With the crowded hustle-bustle of the slu-liy ! noisy stref t. An" the scowl upon the faces of the Strang- that you m-et. . Oh. there's luyto', plenty of It, of a lot o ifr.r gnus toys: An- It takes a mint o' tnoney to please mfsl-ri. girls ami boys. Why. I mind the time a )ackknife an- a t..(Ti- lump fr Mf Make my Utile heart an" stocWn' jus4 ch.x-k f i, of CbrlVmas glee. An" there- feastin. Think o' feedln' with Ih-s-1 stuck-up city folk! Why, ye liare to sp-ak In hfepers, an" ) dar sr, t 1 crack a joke. Thru remember how the table looked all tr , 1 ed with jour Mm, When yon couldn't hear a whistle olow across it,. merrj' din ! You s I'm 0 old fashkHwfMIke I don't ur- much for style. An' to eat your Chris'mas lno,uts her- I wouldn't go a mile: I'd rather bate, like Solomon, a good varb-dnm-r st With rmldU friend than turtle soup with ail tt. nobs you'd get. Then yofir heart It kept a-swellln' till it n-a-lv ' liuVt your sW-. An' by night j-our jaws were aclnn' with j .ur smile four laches wide. An' your eiK-my, th- wo'st ow, you'd jut gral his band an' sav, I "Mebbe bith of us was wrong, John. Com- !-; . ! shake. It's Chrls'mas Day !" Mighty litt'e Chris'mas spirit se-nis to d-n 'tween city walls. Where each snowtlake brings a soot-Hake f.,r a brother as It falls: Mighty ittil Chrls'mas spirit: An' I'm pmur don't you know, Fora good oUi ftithitmnl Cbns'mas like we ha I so long ago. Ilicr Will, ami HrothrrtoH in Chrttlm,,. H tnry. SAVED BY A SONG. A Mi.py iTilh ihr Itrnl Chrl.tnin. Fin ror. It was Christmas Eve. A cold, old fash ioned Christmas, with snow lyin thick on the ground and still falling heavily, with a touch of fog in the air. It was past ten o'clock, and the streets and lanes of the great city wi re all but deserted. Merchant and broker, clerk and warehouseman, and the rest of the busy crowd who had thronged those streets by day had one by one drifted awjy to their homes, and the lofty wore house loomed black and forbidding over the silent thoroughfares. Here and there the gleam from a solitary window struggled ineffectually with the outer darkness, and served but to bring into relief the general gloom and solitude. And nowhere was the darkness deeper or the scene of desolation more profound than in St. Winifred's court. St. Winifred's is one of those queer little alleys which inter sect the heart of eastern London, and con sists with one exception, of houses let out as offices, and utterly deserted by night. The court is bounded on one side by St. Winifred's church, while in one corner stands a quaint old house, occupying a nearly triangular piece of ground and form ing the exception we have referred to, hav ing been for many years the residence of St. Winifred's organist, Michael Fray. Many of these ancient churches still re main in odd nooks and corners of the city; relics of a time when London merchants made their homes in the same spot whereon they earned their daily bread, worshiping on Sunday in their narrow aisles, and when their time came asking no better resting place than beneath those venerable flag stones on which they had knelt in life. The liberality of ancient founders and benefact ors has left many of these old churches richly endowed, and still, Sunday after Sunday, rector and curate mount their re spective desks, and struggle through their weekly task ; but portly aldermen ond dig nified burgesses no longer fill the high-back ed pews. A wheezy verger and pew-opener, with a dozen or so ancient men aud women, caretakers of adjoining warehouses or offices, too often form the only congrega tion. St. Winifred's, like many of its sister edi fices, though small in extent, is a noble monument of ecclesiastical architecture, having been designed by an architect of world-wide fame, and lwasting stained glass windows of the richest color nnd ex quisite design, and oaken carving of flower and leaf, to which the touch of a master had imparted all but living beauty. The western extremity of the church abuts up on a narrow lane, on a week day one of the busiest in the city ; but on Sundays the broad portal is flung open in vaiu, for its invitation is addressed to empty streets and deserted homes. The only sign of life on this Christmas Eve, in St. Winifred's court, was a faint gleam of flickering firelight proceeding from one of the windows of the quaint three-cornered house in which Michael Fray passed his solitary existence. Many years before the period of our story, the same mouth had taken from him wife and child, nnd sluce that time Michael Fray had lived desolate, his only solace being the rare old orgau, the friend und companion of his lonely hours. The loss of his wife nnd daughter has left him without kith or kin. His father and mother died in his early youth, an only brother, a gifted but way ward youth, had in early life run away to sea, and there found a watery grave. Being thus left alone iu the world Michael Fray's love for music, which had always been the most marked feature of his char acter, had become itensified into au abso lute passion. Evening after evening, when darkuess had settled on the city and none could complain that his music interfered with business or distracted attention from