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HAMILTON
III iiil y lit184
THE OFFICIAL^“?U,,, ’OP'HARRIS COUNTY.
VOL. XIII.
A Little Shop-Girl.
“She’s an old darling,” said Grace
Craxall, “and I :nean to help her all
I can. I’ve got a beautiful recipe
v ^ ( r chocolate elairs,, and- on J^riday
Evening I am going tbbre Tfir make
up all that I can, so that the school¬
children will buy them on Saturday
I know hofr to make cinnamon apple
tarts, too, and lemon drops and co
coanut balls.”
“Grace,T do believe you have ta¬
ken leave of your senses,” said Me¬
dora May’. “One would think it dis¬
grace enough for Aunt Deborah—
cut own mother’s sister—to open a
horrid little huckster shop without
our mixing ourselves up in the af
fair.”
“Aunt Debby must live/ you
know,” said Grace, who was perched,
kitten fashion, on the window sill,
feeding the canary with bits of spark¬
ling white sugar. “And cousm Nix¬
on couldn’t keep her any longer, and
her eyes are not strong enough for
fine needlework, and her education
has not fitted her to be a teacher ’
and her .poor old rheumatic bones
keep her fiom going behind a count
} fcr or entering a f actory. M
yqu wouldn’t be willing to have her
came here and live with you ?”
“I H cried Medora. “Do you
suppose I want to proclaim to the
whole town that I have such a dilap¬
idated old re!ation as that ?”
“I would take her quick enough,"
said Grace, “if I didn’t board with
Mrs. Howitt, and share the little up¬
stairs back room with the two chil
dren. Just wait until I marry some
rich man,” she ad .led, with a saucy
uplifting of her auburn brows, “and
then s:e if I don’t furnish up a state¬
ly apartment for Aunt Debby! ”
“Don’t talk nonsense.” said Medo¬
ra, acidly. “It’s very likely, isn’t it,
HAMILTON, GA;JUNE 9,1 15.
that a factory girl like you is going to
marry a rich man ? ”
# Grace Craxall laughed merrily. All
through life she and her cousin, Me
dora May, had agreed to differ on
rriost points. Grace, seeing no oth¬
er career before her, had, on the
death of her last surviving parent,
cheerfully entered a factory, while
Medora, taking her stand on the
platform of a false gentility,
done fine sewing-and embroidery x>n
the sly to support herself, putting on
all the airs of a young lady of fashion
the while. And now Aunt Deborah
-May, to the infinite disgust of her
aristocratically inclined niece, had
actually opened a little low windowed
shop in a shady street just out of the
main thoroughfare, and, as Medora
despairing expressed it. “gone into
trade!”
For Aunt Debby, in her bewildered
loneliness, had scarcely known what
to do until Grace Craxall came to
the rescue with her hopeful courage
and straightforward common sense.
“I only wish it wasn’t sinful
take a good big dose of
and put myself out of the way,” sigh
! ed the poor old lady.
“Now, Aunt Debby, that
sound a bit like you,” said Grace,
cheerfully.
“But what am I to do?” said Aunt
Deborah .
“What can you do ? ” said Grace.
“I don’t know a? I am good l<5r
anything,” said the old lady, with a
quiet tear or two, “except to help
around the house, and I ain’t strong
enough for regular hired help. Your
uncle always used to say that I was a
master hand at making bread.”
“Then make it,” brightly interrupt¬
ed Grace.
“Eh !” said Aunt Debby.
“There’s a nice little store to let
on Bay street,” went on Grace, “for
$io a month.”
NO. 23.
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“But I hadn’t got $io a month,*’
feebly interrupted Aunt Deborah.
“I’ll lend it to you/’ said Grace,
“out of the wages I have saved. And
there’s a pretty bedroom at the back
of die shop, and a clean, dry base¬
ment under it, where-you can bake
you bread. I know, for the sister of
the lady where I board is looking for
dressmaking rooms, and I heard her
speaking about it.”
“Do you mean to open a bakery?"
said bewildered Aunt Debby.
“Not exactly that,” explained
Grace. “But if Mrs. Howitt or Mrs.
Taylor, or any other of the ladies
arouud here could get real home¬
made bread, such as you make, do
you suppose they would put up with
the sour stuff they get at die baker’s
shops? And you could easily get up
a reputation on your raisin cakes
and fried crullers, and New England
pumpkin pies. Now couldn’t you?”
The old lady brightened up a little.
“I used to be pretty good at cook¬
ing,” said she. “And if yuu think
I could support myself so ----”
“I am sure of it! ” cried cheerful
Grace. “And I’ll go with you there
this very day to look at the place,
and will engage it for three months
on trial. And I can paint you a sign
to put over your door: ‘Home-made
bread by MnC Deborah May! * And
I’ll hem you some curtains and ar
range the shelves in the low window!
I almost wish I was going to be your
shop-girl! ” she added, merrily. ‘ But
I can help you in the evening, you
know.”
Grace Craxali’si prophecies proved
correct. Aunt Debfcy’s delicious
home-made bread, whiter than pow¬
dered lillies, sweet as ambrosia, soon
acquired a reputation, and the old
lady could scarcely bake it last
enough. People came half a dozen
blocks to buy the tarts; children
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