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THE SUNNY SOUTH.
i
“And the shower will be over directly,
sir,” appended the civil conductor, encour-
agfng. And somehow, between them and
beneath the solid stare of the whole omnibus
load, the hapless obstructionist felt so con
fused and perturbed, and altogether so unlike
himself that, without further resistance, he
suffered the withdrawal of a possession which,
as a part of himself, was sacred in his eyes,
and stumbled along to the vacant seat.
His discomfiture, however, was by no
means at an end even when thus much had
been accomplished. Not that he cared—was it
likely he should care—for the jeering looks
and scarely suppressed asides which testified
to the general reprobation ? But, with all his
undisguised ill-humor, Mr. Yedburgh had
some of the instincts of a gentleman, and
when he found himself squeezed in beside
another slight, girlish figure and recognized
in it the counterpart of the one now braving
the elements on his account, he could not
but force himself to growl out something of
an apology and an explanation. “I dare say I
seem a selfish old bear,” and in justice it
must be added that the speaker endeavored to
soften the intonation of an unusually harsh
voice as he spoke: “I little expected that a
lady would take pity on me,” looking sar
castically around, “and had I not been some
thing of an invalid, and obliged to be careful,
I should certainly not have accepted that
young lady’s kind offer. But coming out of
a warm office, as I do, I dare not ride on the
top, even in the finest weather
“Pray think nothing of it, sir;” Mr. Yed-
burgh’s white hair warrranted the “sir;”
“my sister usually prefers going outside.
Indeed, I may say she always does.”
“In the rain?” and the old gentleman
raised his eyebrows.
“She does not mind the rain if she is pre
pared for it. To-day, as it happens, we did
not expect it to be wet.”
“Bless my soul! my dear young lady,
where were your eyes? It has looked black
ever since noon.”
“We left home long before noon. When we
started this morning—”
“This morning! Oh, that accounts for it;
yes, it looked fine enough this morning.”
“And unfortunately we put on lighter
things than usual. It is so hot where we do
our work.”
“Ah, you do work? Very good—very wise
—very sensible.” Mr. Yedburgh’s bulky
form, well turned round, partly hid the rest
of the company as he spoke; and to his own
surprise, he found himself growing interested
in a conversation which had been entered
into from sheer stress of adverse circum
stances. To say that Mr. Yedburgh’s voice
sounded gentler and more inviting than it
ever did within the precincts of his counting-
house, or than it was in the habit of sounding
in the ears of his friends and acquaintances is,
perhaps, not saying much. Nature had be
stowed on him a voice whose harsh and
strident tone somewhat cruelly belied his
character; but when we add that it was many
years since he had addressed a fellow crea
ture in the benign, approving, even paternal
fashion in which he now spoke, anyone who
knew the wealthy merchant would have
guessed that other than apparent influences
were at work.
It was, indeed, so surprising to himself
that he should be willling to talk to anyone,
to a stranger, and a supplanter (for even if
her sister had done him a service ultimately,
had they not alike combined to cheat him of
his right beforehand ?)—it was, we repeat,
so new an experience to the gruff old bachelor
to find himself prolonging a colloquy which
he was quick enough to perceive his com
panion was presently inclined to think had
proceeded far enough, that he was almost in
clined to take her by the arm and shake her,
exclaiming, “What do you mean, you silly
chit, by not thinking it a great condescen
sion on my part to take an interest in your
trumpery little business? Can’t you see that
I am a person of note, and that by lifting up
my little finger I could obtain for you, and
that other baby-face above, good posts, worth
a dozen of those you are in, and think so
much of, at the present time? You say you
are ‘Post-office clerks’—andjsay it with an
air! You mean me to be quite impressed
with your position ! Well, I dare say it’s re
spectable, quit respectable—and that you are
a couple of good girls, and do your work
honestly—but you needn’t look so high and
mighty at me for all that! I’m not trying
to run up an acquaintance,” frowningly in
ternally. “That would be a good joke! No,
no, that’s not my line, young lady. I’m a
respectable as you are, whatever you may
think. However, as I have no means of prov
ing it, and as it is certainly to your credit
to be chary of speech in a public conveyance.
I suppose I ought to submit and sit mute as
as fish. I wonder, however, when I am to see
my umbrella back? It will be all wet and
nasty when I do, I’ll be bound, for the girls
are sure to get out before long—somewhere
about Baker Streets or the Edgeware Road, I
dare say, or at the Marble Arch—and into an
other ’bus bound for Maida Vale or Kilburn,
very likely. Well, I must make the best of
it; and I suppose I ought to be grateful, for
it was well meant, though a nuisance, all
the same.” Thus cogitating, he retired into
himself, and silence reigned.
But one halting place after another was left
behind; and, though passengers left and
came, there was no movement on the part of
Mr. Yedburgh’s young companion; so that
presently he and she were the sole orignal
occupants of the omnibus. On a sudden the
sun blazed forth, and the birds began to sing.
Trundling merrily along the Bayswater Road,
it occurred to the old gentleman that neither
of them had yet had their fares demanded,
and he could not resist the inquiry suggested
by this. “Oh, yes; we are regular pas
sengers,” replied the young lady, holding out
a handful of coppers to the conductor, who
came round, as she spoke; “we never pay
till we come near the end of our journey. My
sister will bring down your umbrella directly,
sir; we get down at Palace Gardens—”
“But—I also get out at Palace Gardens.
How — how have I never seen you before? ”
“I think I told you, sir, we go outside,”
but, even as she spoke, Mr. Yedburgh knew
by intuition that neither inside nor outside
would the sisters in future patronize that
particular omnibus. Every moment increased
the formality and reserve with which he
found himself being treated; the situation
ceased to be grim; it began to amuse.
“Dangerous, hey?” quotb he to himself.
“One would have thought I was old enough
and hoary headed enough, but the girls are
right, quite right; if they were my daughters
or grand-daughters—” A faint sigh escaped,
and the sentence remained unfinshed.
Instead, Mr. Yedburgh fell a-musing. He
had no children, not grandchildren ; he had
no one who could claim any but a distant
kinship with him ; and as it was this which
partially accounted for the even tenor of his
life, so also was it this which caused the
little hardship encountered that afternoon to
be felt so severely, and resented so acutely.
But the annoyance had passed, the amende
honorable had been made, and he was now
willing to encourage the flickering glow of
interest which had, strange to say, been
lighted in his bosom. To find this spark
firmly but resolutely stamped out on the part
of his co-deliverer that, in order to disabuse
her mind of the idea that he was endeavoring
to build up an acquaintanceship on the basis
of a mere act of humanity he must now hold
his tongue, was a new experience; so new,
and so odd, that he could not but yield an
internal smile. He, who never went out of hii
( way to make friends anybody—wh'i
rather avoided than sought intimacies of any ’
kind—whose mere nod could make or mar a
man for life; and who, perhaps, even at the
present moment, might have entertained a
vague, floating, desire to reveal himself in
the dazzling light of a benefactor,but nothing
else—to be forced to sit mum, reduced to
silences by the uneasy gravity of—a Post-
office clerk !
When the time came for handing out the
Post-office clerk, the witnesses of Mr. Yed
burgh’s peculiar entree into the omnibus,
who had obstructed his path as much as they
could, and sneered behind his hunched back
as he lumped down into the vacated seat,
would have stared had they been present to
behold Mr. Yedburgh now. Mr. Yedburgh
was quite in a fluster. For some minutes
previous to the stoppage he had been men
tally rehearsing little parting speeches, and
could not please himself with them. Either
they contained too much or too little grati
tude. It would be unheard-of boorishness to
make no acknowledgment; but, on the other
hand, and glancing sideways at the rigid
young figure at his elbow, he gave vent to a
little cough ’twixt dismay and approbation.
Not for worlds would he intrude upon or an
noy the poor young creatures who had obvi
ously learned to take care of themselves, and
whose lot, he gathered, was not an easy one.
“So young and pretty!” he murmured to
himself; “now if they were my children or
grandchildren—” but again the sentence had
been left unfinished, and again Mr. Yedburgh
had been buried in his own thoughts for some
minutes before the omnibus stopped. The
long ride from the city seemed a very eterni
ty to look back upon.
At length, however, the great gates of the
Palace Gardens hove in sight, and our mer
chant bounced up and was jerked back into
his seat again, a thing which had never hap
pened before, for he was accustomed to wait
tranquilly until the halt had been properly
accomplished ere he stirred a limb. Now,
however, he was all in a hurry to do his part
as behooved him ; he could at least offer each
of the young ladies his courteous aid to
alight, make brief but suitable acknowledg
ments, and receive back his umbrella. Yes,
there was the umbrella at the top of the
staircase, and there was the other fresh,
cheerful young face above it. In his hurry
and eagerness to play the horn me galant Mr.
Yedburgh remained upon the conductor’s
platform and stretched upward a polite arm,
having already handed out his former com
panion, who stood in the roadway, awaiting
with something of impatience of her sister’s
Rattlesnakes, Butterflies,
and... ?
Washington Irving said, he supposed a certain hill was called
“Rattlesnake Hill” because it abounded in — butterflies. The
“ rule of contrary ” governs other names. Some bottles are, sup
posedly, labeled “ Sarsaparilla ” because they are full of . . . well,
we don’t know what they are full of, but we know it’s not sarsapa
rilla; except, perhaps, enough for a flavor. There’s only one
make of sarsaparilla that can be relied on to be all it claims. It’s
Ayer’s. It has no secret to keep. Its formula is open to all
physicians. This formula was examined by the Medical Com
mittee at the World’s Fair with the result that while every other
make of sarsaparilla was excluded from the Fair, Ayer’s Sarsapa
rilla was admitted and honored by awards. It was admitted be
cause it was the best sarsaparilla. It received the medal as the
best. No other sarsaparilla has been so tested or so honored.
Good motto for the family as well as the Fair: Admit the best,
exclude the rest.
Any doubt about it? Send for the “ Curebook.”
It kills doubts and cures doubters.
Address: J. C. Ayer Co., Lowell, Mass.
descent. “Cors.e along, Sylvia!” she ex
claimed, peremptorily, and, “I’m coming,
Pamela,” rejoined the other, in equally ring
ing, fearless tones.
Pamela? Sylvia? Mr. Yedburgh felt as if
a hammer had struck two great blows upon
his heart. With a store of bewilderment
he turned from the countenance above to
that below, and his attention being thus dis
tracted, what happened next was hardly to be
wondered at. For Miss Sylvia, seeing the
outstretched arm, and being very willing to
rid herself of the great cumbersome umbrella,
which was now only in the way, held it out,
and, as she did so, turned her head aside, in
tent on protecting her muslin skirts from the
wet rails and steps, which would have soiled
them by contact. The next moment the um
brella had struck against and bounded off the
omnibus rail into the muddy road beneath,
right in front of a hansom which was driving
up. Of what followed next Mr. Yedburgh
had never a very clear idea thereafter. He
heard a shout; had a glimpse of a sea of
horror-strickeni faces, and of a cloud of pale
blue on the ground among the horses’ hoofs.
He murmured “Pamela,” and wondered what
Pamela was doing there.
* * * *
It was another June day, the same day of
June a year afterwards. “It was just about
this time, was it not, dear? Shall I go to the
gate and watch for him, or would he rather
find us here in the garden, do you think?”
“Perhaps here, Sylvie; it is so quiet and
peaceful; and I think he would like to find
us together, and to have the little talk he
promised. He is to tell us all about everything
this afternoon. Sylvie, what a wonderful,
wonderful year it has been ! Even now I can
hardly believe it! Sometimes when I wake
at night I think, can it be true? less can it be
real ? Are we the same two girls who were
left without a penny in the world, and who
thought we had obtained such a great thing
when we were put in the way of earning our
own living, and being able to maintain our
selves in our own little humble lodgings?
And we were very happy, dear; were we not?
Only—only—” and she looked around, and
then smiled, and next laughed.
“Only that we’re a great deal happier
now,” said Sylvia, promptly—“now that you
are well and strong again, and that we live
in a beautiful house, and have everything that
money can give,and a dear,kind, kind uncle.”
“There he is,” exclaimed Pamela, starting
forward, and there was Mr. Yedburgh.
It was the same old, and yet not the old,
Mr. Yedburgh, who stepped through the
glass doors which opened out into the garden,
wherein sat the whilom Post-office clerks.
They flew to meet him, to kiss him affection
ately, to take him by the hand, and place him
beween them on the rustic seat. Mr. Yed
burgh looked from one to the other; it seemed
as though Mr. Yedburgh were hardly in
clined to speak.
“Of course, if you would rather not tell
us, uncle—?”
It was Pamela who was thus thoughtful;
it was Pamela who read by instinct the secret
thoughts of most people, and of this one
person in particular.
“You must not feel that Sylvie and I
would ever wish you to tell us anything that
gives you pain,” continued she, only—”
“Only that we have been so looking for
ward to it,” murmured Sylvie, caressing his
hand on the other side, “and if you don’t tell
us to-day we think—we are afraid that per
haps—”
“If not told to-day it may never be told
at all?” Mr. Yedburgh smiled somewhat
sadly, but tenderly withal. “Dear children,
there is really not much to tell ; only I fan
cied—I feared—I had a sort of dread lest,
perhaps, if you knew how very slight—as the
world would take it—your claim is upon me,
you might, until you had grown to know me
better, and love me perhaps a little—”
“We love you with our whole hearts!”
burst forth one beaming girl; while the
other pressed closer to his side and whispered
in his ear, “ ‘Love you a little,’ indeed!”
Mr. Yedburgh took out his handkerchief,
and found hasty use for it.
“We are so happy together,’’murmured he,
“and I was so lonely and dull and aimless
before, I could not bear to think of your
leaving me.”
“Must we leave you ?” With delight he
saw the sudden terror painted on their glow
ing countenances.
“No, no; no indeed.” The hand of each
was clasped afresh, “the danger, if there ever "
was any, is past now. We will never part
now, my dear ones. I have made every in
vestigation, and no one has a prior claim.
You are wiljiing to be my adopted daugh /
ters,* *-’ con titled tho^
phasis, “and to-day I have completed certui ,
legal forms/by which you will inherit—”
“Oh ! dear uncle, never mind that, never
mind inherit,” it was again the eager Sylvra
who interposed. “What we want to now is
why did you do it, and why—why—why—?
Oh, you now all the other whys. ”
“They all resolve into one, my little Syl
via, and my little Pamela. When I was a
boy, fifty years ago, I knew two twin sisters
whose names you bear. Sylvia, just such an
other Sylvia as this,” looking fondly down—
“died.” There was a long, breathless pause.
Mr. Yedburgn put his hand into an inner
pocket and drew forth an old pencil portrait.
“That was Pamela,” he said.
It was the girl’s mother. They both ut
tered an exclamation, and looked into his
face. “There is nothing more to tell,” said
he.
* - * * #
“You are no uncle, no relation?” cried
Pamela, at last.
“None,” answered he.
“And you only learnt who we were from *
our names; and you had Pamela brought
here, after her accident, and gave us this
splendid home, and told us to call you ‘un
cle,’ and—all,” cried Sylvia, fluttering like a
bird (while Pamelia sat still holding her
breath) “because, fifty years ago, you knew
our mother?”
“Not quite that.” A strange, faraway light
dawned in the old man’s eyes, something like
a quiver shook his colorless lips, and a faint
flush rose into his wrinkled cheek. “Not
because I knew, but because I loved her,”
said Mr. Yedburgh.
(THJt END).
In a Bulgarian peasant’s cottage, the floors
are of mud. The kitchen fronting the street
is also the living room. Behind, there is a
sleeping-room, with a bedstead in it for the
head of the house, while the sons and daugh
ters sleep upon mats stretched upon the floor.
The furniture consists of wooden tables,
benches, and chests. The crockery and
household utensils of every sort seem of the
commonest and coarsest kind. I should
doubt if there is a single house in the whole
village in which any American laborer or ar
tisan earning good wages would not deem it
a hardship to be obliged to live. At the
same time, there was no single dwelling
which, given the habits and customs of the
country, could be fairly described as unfit for
human habitation.