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ICOPYRTOHT, 1H5H.1 *^ t '-
“May I help you?” asks he.
Cinderella, standing’ on the top of the
stile, gathering her skirts together in
one hand with a view to jumping down
to Phil, who is waiting for her in the
next field with the impatience that be
longs to men alone, turns abruptly.
The voice has startled her, and the sud
den turn has done the rest —she sways
a little, makes a violent effort to re
cover herself, and then falls right into
the arms of the young man below her.
“Oh! I beg your pardon,” gasps she,
when the first shock is over and she
finds herself sound in wind and limb.
“I really think it is I who ought to
beg yours,” said the man, with a
sort of laugh. He is still holding her,
very lightly by each arm, and is gazing
at her as if a woman is quite anew
creation so far as he is concerned.
What a charming face! Who is she?
"The rose is living in her cheeks.
The lily in her rounded chin.”
“Are you coming, Ella?” cries little
Phil, from the other side. He had seen
her fall, and her deliverance, ami hav
ing heard her speak is beginning to
grow impatient once more. And when
so little time is given them, too.
“Yes, yes,” cries Ella back to him,
and turns once more to the stile. Sir
Charles restrains her, however, until
he has sprung up himself, and then,
holding out his hand to her, brings her
safely to the other side, and Phil.
Phil is a revelation.
“That you. Phil?” says he. “I didn't
know you.” with a glance at Cinderella,
“had another sister.”
“Well, I haven't, either,” says Phil.
“Ella's not my sister. I wish she
were!”
“Ah?”
“He’s a cousin!” says Cinderella, with
a touch of dignity that sits most sweet
ly on her. “Mrs. Langley is my aunt;
my name is Ella Derwent. Thank
you.” holding out her hand, with an
evident view to getting rid of him,
“I don't suppose I shall meet with any
more accidents.”
Her smile is beautiful—if a little sad,
a little restrained. It occurs to llrand,
staring at her in quite an unpardonable
fashion, that there must have been
some earlier day when her smile had
no restraint —when it must have been
as bright as the sunbeams round her.
It occurs to him later on—that is half
an hour later —when she is gone from
him. that she is the first girl he ever
saw that he wanted to see again!
“I am going your way—at all events
as far as the turn to ‘The Towers,’ ”
says he. “May I keep you company?”
“<>h, yes, do,” says Phil, who, like
all boys, likes the grown-up compan
ionship of one of his own sex.
“1 hope your mother is well,” says
Brand, turning to him, and then to
Ella: “I don't think I ever met you at
Langholm.”
“No,” says the girl, curtly.
“You were out, perhaps.”
“I have not been long there.”
“Neither have 1. At least I only
came back from Canada five weeks
ago.” He waits as if expecting an
answer, and then: “You came since
that?”
“No,” reluctantly; “before that.”
Here Phil breaks in:
“They aren’t one bit fond of Ella,”
says he. “They're horrid to her. But
when I grow up I'm going to be nice to
her. and she's coming to live with me,
and I’ll be good to her always!”
“Happy you!” says Brand, laughing.
He does not look at Ella, who is evi
dently very confused and embarrassed;
he turns to Phil:
“Will your people be at home to
morrow?- ’ says he. “I want to come
over and see them; Miss Langley
dropped me a line about this dance of
my mother's—an invitation for some
one. Will you tell her I shall be at
your home at four, and that I'll take
my chance of finding your mother in?
Air! here is my way. Good-by, Miss
Derwent—until—” he tries to catch her
glance, and fails —“to-morrow.”
“Ella! Ella! where is that girl! Oh,
here you are. Ella, Sir Charles Brand
is coming this afternoon; Adeline wrote
to him a most trivial letter about an
invitation for Mr. Spencer for his dance,
and—” with ill-suppressed excitement,
''he evidently intends to answer it in
person. You will see that tea and cake
are sent in at five precisely. The best
silver and china, of course, and some of
those hot cakes that you make. Really
it is a blessing you can do even so little
a thing as that. Do see they aren't
burnt.” Matilda Langley pauses for
a moment. Her mother, Hon. Mrs.
Langley and Cinderella's aunt, though
keeping a very fair appearance before
the world, is in reality as poverty
stricken as the proverbial church
mouse. Few people, however, know
that her niece, poor little Ella, is noth
ing better than a third servant in her
house, doing most of the useful things.
Indeed, how could the public know?
Cinderella in Mrs. Langley’s drawing
room is an unknown quantity.
“When I have sent in tea, can I go
out?” asked Cinderella, nervously.
“Phil wants me to go with him to—”
“By all means! and keep him out as
long as you can, till, well after six.
Now remember.”
As she turns back into the drawing
room Miss Langley says to her sister;
“She has arrange to take Phil out.
and a good thing too. Capital riddance
of both. Killing two birds with one
stone. You remfcnber how trouble
some she was, that one day she was in
the drawing-room by chance, when
Maj. McClaren called. He never spoke
to anyone but her!”
Brand’s visit has come and gone, ne
spent most of it staring at the door,
but it never opened to admit anyone
save the maid with th<? tea. The little
lovely pale face he had hoped to see
did not appear. The Miss Langleys,
however, were delightful. Could any
girls have softer, kinder voices? And
Mrs. Langley—she looked like a mod
ern madonna —so heavenly—so benevo
lent.
As he leaves the house he strikes
across the lawn into the small wood
beyond. In that wood he had met her
yesterday. And here indeed he meets
her again to-day, the devoted Phil lie
side her.
She springs to her feet as she sees
him, a soft flush dyeing her cheeks.
“This is not your way home,” says
she, involuntarily.
“Is that why you choose to sit here?”
asks he, a little anger in his heart
against her. He had as good as told
her he would be at Langholm to-day.
“Oh! no,” says she, as if a little
shocked.
“Yet I have a grievance,” says he.
“I told you I should call upon your
aunt this afternoon.”
“I remember,” calmly.
“You seem to remember everything
except my real meaning. Do you hon
estly believe I went there to see your
aunt?”
“You said so,” said the girl—she has
grown a little paler. The hot, sweet
flush has all died away.
“Oh, I said so. Yes. But—”
“Do you mean to say you came to see
me?” asks she, quickly. She moves
nearer to him and gazes at him with
her soft, steadfast eyes, as though he
is a curiosity.
“Yes,” returns he, gravely.
To his discomfiture she bursts out
laughing. It is rather a sad little
laugh, however.
“Well, you are the first person who
has come to see me for two years,”
says she.
“No wonder, if you treat all your
visitors as you treat me,” stiffly.
“Is that how you look at it?” says
she. She pauses and then goes on
again. “It would have made no dif
ference anyway,” says she, “whether I
knew or not of your coming. They—
I—” confusedly, “I never go into the
drawing-room. ”
“But why?”
She hesitates, and looks uneasily
round her. •“Because —where are you,
Phil? Because I—l don't care for so
ciety,” declares she bravely —if un
truly, as the tears rush to her eyes.
“Don’t mind her,” says Phil, in high
disgust. “She'd give her eyes to go to
balls and things. But they won't take
her.”
“Phil!”
“Yes, you would! I remember the
night they went to that dance at the
Darwins. When they were gone—after
you had dressed them, too —you sat
down on the stool in the schoolroom
and cried like anything.”
“Oh! Phil!” Her agony of shame is so
great that the boy grows silent in a
moment. Then:
“Well, why can’t we tell him!” says
he, looking straight at Sir Charles.
“Y'ou said,” reproachfully, “that you
liked him, yesterday, Ellie! And be
sides I thought—” He goes up to Brand.
His round little face i3 very red. but
taking his courage in his two hands
and with all his boyish heart afire
with the hope of helping her he loves,
he says shyly: “You are going to give
a dance next week, Sir Charles, aren't
you? Won't you ask Ellie?”
Somebody puts Phil aside with a
small, but a determined hand. Ella’s
face is as white as snow as she looks
steadily at Brand.
“Y'ou will not, of course, listen to
Phil,” says she, her tone cold and dig
nified. “It is all nonsense. He is only
a boy. He does not understand. Come
home, Phil. You must prepare your
lessons for to-morrow.” With the faint
est little bow to Brand, she turns
away. She has not even bidden him
good-by.
That night at dinner Sir Charles tells
his mother something of his acquaint
ance with Cinderella.
“What relation can she be to Mrs.
Langley?” says he. “She calls her aunt.
But what aunt could be so inhuman as
to leave that child at home when she
Rnd her daughters are going out to
dances? She says her name is Derwent
—Ella Derwent!” He seems to linger
on the "Ella.'’
His mother flushed delicately through
her pretty clear skin.
“Derwent!" An old memory comes
back to her. “I knew, of course, that
Mrs. Langley was Fred - Col. Derwent's
sister, but I did not know he had left
any children behind him.”
- “One only, it appears. This poor
child lain telling you about.”
“But why have I never seen her?”
“Ah!” says Brand. Then he tells her
all he has been able to gather from
Phil’s affectionate garrulity. When he
has finished lie says:
“You have not sent her an invitation
to our dance?”
“My dear boy, how could I? I never
even knew she was there. Of course
I'll send it now. Poor Fred Derwent’s
girl! I'll write at once; the last post
has not gone yet.”
“Better give it to me. I'll ride over
with it to-morrow.”
The first person he meets in the hall
at Langholm is Cinderella —without her
godmother. Phil, for a wonder.
“I have come with an invitation for
you from my mother," says he, catch
ing her hand. She would have gone
quickly by him.
“I wish you had not done this,” says
she, reproachfully,
“But why —why?” (impetuously).
“Why should you not dance if you want
to? Why (earnestly), not dance
witli me? If (with increasing earnest
ness that amounts to beseeching) you
will only want to, Miss Derwent—”
She starts and looks up at him. It is
so long since anyone has given the girl
her real title. It has been “Ella this”
and “Ella that,” and “Ella, why
didn’t you do as I desired you?” for
such a dreary time that she is quite
stirred out of her calm by his words.
“Miss Derwent, you won't refuse my
mother's invitation?”
“Oh—l think so,” coldly. “You must
know that the very knowledge of its
having been asked for by Phil would—”
“But why should that weigh with
you? The fact is iny mother never
knew you were staying at Langholm,
and when she heard of it—you being
the daughter of a very old friend of
hers—”
“Of hers?”
“Yes. It seemsshe knew your father,
Col. Derwent, very well indeed, in”
(laughing) “the dark ages.”
“She knew my father!” The girl is
looking at him with shining eyes. “She
knew him? He was a friend of hers?”
“Avery great friend, I think.”
“Ah! I shall love her,” says Ella,
tremulously. She is looking very beau-
Y/. * ” %'
tiful, with those bright, soft eyes and
tllfe sudden, warm, happy flush that is
dyeing her cheeks and brow.
Brand laughs. “I wish I had been a
friend of your father's,” says he.
There is a good deal of meaning in
his laugh.
Ella glances at him nervously.
“FerhapS,” says he, softly, “you will
let me be a friend of yours instead.”
He holds out his hand, and the girl,
without a moment’s hesitation, lays her
own within it. Ho grasps it firmly —
such a little hand!
"You will accept?” says he.
“Y T es, but it will be of no use. My
aunt,” she pauses, and her eyes seek
the ground. “My aunt will not wish
me to accept.”
“Oh! if that is all, I’ll manage it,”
says he gayly. There is a sound of com
ing footsteps. Phil's laugh rings some
where round the corner.
“The first waltz,’’ whispers Brand
hurriedly. Ella smiles. He has barely
time to press a light but heartfelt kiss
upon her hand, when the boy comes
rushing into the hall.
Brand is as good as his word. He so
represents his mother’s message that
Mrs. Langley feels that to refuse her
invitation to Ella would probably be
productive of nothing but coldness be
tween tfc 3 families; and, indeed, does
not this unnecessary, this most
unnecessary civility to her money
less niece show a decided desire on
Lady Brand’s part to grow more in
timate with them? And what does that
mean? Oh! there can be no mistake
about it at all! Sir Charles’ two visits
here within the week, and his attentions
to Laura—another of Mrs. Langley’s
daughters—dear Laura—sweet girl!
Why he has even asked her to sing at
the coming concert, to be given at “The
Towers” next month.
She murmurs a few words to Brand.
“So kind of dear Lady Brand! Such a
charming letter! Poor little Ella! I
fear she will hardly appreciate it!
Such a very Shy girl! Much as I and,”
with an overpoweringly affectionate
look at the two gaunt daughters, “and
my girls,je sj>e ci ajlv Laura, have done
to induce her to accompany us into the
little world around us, she has always
refused —-held us at arm’s length, as it
were! The dearest girl, I assure you,
Sir Charles—but so peculiar. Such a
trial!”
Sir Charles has listened to It all with
an impassive countenance. He had
asked each of the M iss Langleys for a
dance, neither of them, however, for
the first waltz. That is sacred!
The lights are burning low in the
conservatory. The soft musical fall of
the waters in the fountain is mingling
harmoniously with the sound of the
“ELI. A, COULD YOU LOVE ME?”
waltz in the ballroom, far away. Upon
a lounge half hidden by flowering
myrtles, Ella and Sir Charles Brand
are sitting. Ella had danced with him
a great deal during t’.e night. It
seemed to the poor little Cinderella
that it was bound to be her first and
last entertainment, and she had given
herself up to it heart and body. That
first sweet waltz had led to many
others; and now, as the lights grow
low, and joy draws to its close, she is
resting here with him, her child’s soul
waking to the greater life beyond.
Her hand is in his. He has asked her a
question, but she has not answered it.
He leans over her.
“Tell me, Ella! I know you do not
love me now, but —could you love me?”
“Oh, how can I know?” says the poor
child, passionately. “Y r ou come to me,
you are kind to me, when no one else is
kind except Phil, dear Phil! All I do
know is,” says she, tremblingly, “that
lam glad when I see you! But lam so
afraid that it may be only—because I
want to escape —from —”
Here the loyalty of her nature checks
her speech. She cannot condemn the
aunt who has at all events kept her
from the horrors of the poorhouse.
“Ella, look at me,” says her lover.
Slowly, very slowly, she lifts her eyes
“WON’T YOU ASK ELLIE?”
to his. There Is something within their
soft, shy depths that gives him all the
courage in the world.
“Ah! you can —you will—you do!”
says he in a low, strong tone. “I be
lieve in you. You will marry me, Ella?
Say that.”
At this moment both hear fhe sound
of footsteps approaching. Ella almost
flings him from her, recognizing the
coming steps.
Mrs. Langley comes round the myr
tle bushes.
“Tell me,” whispers Brand, despair
ingly. But Ella is beyond words now.
Her eyes are fixed upon her aunt —she
is trembling. Her face has changed.
There is a great fear upon it. Brand
sees that she cannot answer.
“Write a word upon your card,” en
treats he, passionately. “One only—l
shall see you in the cab before you go.
Ella, remember!”
Mrs. Langley is with them now.
With a suave smile to Brand she takes
Ella away. Even in the cloak-room,
her aunt keeps her eye upon her. Yet
she gets one moment to herself, when
she scribbles on her card. “Y'es.” Such
a little word! yet* how much it means!
It means love for him —her lover—her
prince! Oh! how she does love him.
The girl slips the card into the open
ing of her glove, and follows her aunt
into the hall. How to give it to him?
When in the hall, no opportunity pre
sents itself. Closely guarded by her
aunt, and flanked on either side by her
cousins, she is unceremoniously but
quite politely pushed into the carriage.
Brand has followed them —his last look
is for Cinderella. It goes to her very
heart! There is reproach, anger, de
spair in it! She leans back in the cor
ner of the carriage and bursts into
silent tears. He will never forgive her.
Never. And if he only had known. If
only she could have slipped that little
card into his hand! She feels for the
card.
Surely she had stuck it there, near
her wrist. The whole world grew
dark to her, as she recognizes the fact
that the card is gone—lost—!
If they should have found it!
l oui uiuuucl was tv. U ins
graceful. It was monstrous! I give
you to understand at once that it will
not be allowed. Y'ou —you —” Mrs.
Langley stops short and draws her
breath sharply.
“Why don't you go on, mamma! Tt
is well that she should hear the truth
for once—that she is here on suffer
ance,” says Laura, who is always called
the “soft-tongued” by those who—do
not know her.
“A mere beggar!” says Matilda, with
a cruel glance. But Ella has heard
one word only.
“Disgraceful!” repeats she faintly.
Oh! had he thought—
“Y'es, disgraceful! Sitting for hours
in that conservatory with Sir Charles,
who, you must know, cares nothing
for you. He simply amuses himself,
lie—”
The door is thrown open at this mo
ment, and Sir Charles Brand, who had
not waited to be announced, comes up
to the drawing-room.
“How d’ye do, Mrs. Langley,” says
he, calmly, if coldly. There is a rather
dangerous light in his eyes. He had
heard raised voices as lie came near
the door, and now on his entrance the
situation becomes quite clear to him.
The three tall, angry women standing
over there, and his poor little love
cowering away from them here, lie
bows somewhat curtly to the two girls
—who are now overcome with horror—
and goes straight to Ella.
“This is yours, 1 think," says he in a
perfectly regulated tone. He has his
back to them, however, and they can
not see the smile and glance he gives
to Cinderella. He takes something out
of his pocket and presses it into her
small, cold, trembling hand. Instantly
her fingers close over it. It is her card
—that she had believed lost. Had he
seen—read it? That one short word!
All doubt on this point is set at rest at
once. Lowering his voice, he goes on
hurriedly:
“Y T ou meant it? 1 found it last night,
lying in the hall. Y'ou did mean it?”
The girl's face is answer enough. It
is transfigured! A great light has
sprung into her tear-stained eyes.
Hope! that splendid thing, has made
its home within them. She looks up at
him.
“Y’es,” she whispers.
He turns at once to Mrs. Langley.
He cannot, indeed, bear to look longer
on the radiance that has lit poor little
Cinderella's face; if he did he might
give way—forget himself—and clasp
her in his arms. There is such undis
guised happiness in it such a belief in
his power to deliver her, as goes to his
very heart.
“I have come over this morning,”
says he, in a clear, distinct voice, “to
tell you that last night I asked Miss
Derwent to marry me. She has done
me the honor to accept me. My
mother,” addressing Ella and taking
one of her hands in both his own, “will
call upon you formally this afternoon.
I,” softly, “ventured to tell her of my
hopes.”
“As Ella’s guardian,” says Mrs. Lang
ley, icily, “I may perhaps be allowed
to say that I think she ought to have
told me of this engagement. But con
sideration for me has never seemed to
her to be necessary. Affection I have
not looked for, but common courtesy I
think might have been granted me."
“There was so little time,” falters
poor Cinderella, “and besides—”
“Pray don’t apologize,” stiffly. “It
is too late for apology. Since the hour
I received you penniless into my house,
you have treated me with nothing but
ingratitude!”
“If you had loved me—” begins Cin
derella, in a choking tone. She can
not go on. Brand, who is inwardly
raging, comes to the rescue.
“I am sure Ella is extremely sorry
she has been such an annoyance to
you,” says he haughtily. “It is provi
dential that the annoyance need not
last forever. In fact, I hope Ella will
let me put an end to it as speedily as
possible. Both my mother and I will
be delighted to welcome her to the
Towers as soon as ever she can come.
It cannot,” turning tenderly to Ella,
“be too soon!”
She makes him no answer. lie can
see that she is terribly agitated.
“Are you too tired to come for a little
walk with me?” asks Brand. “I really
think,” addressing Mrs. Langley with
the utmost nonchalance, “that half an
hour or so in the open air would do her
good. When one has been dancing all
night, especially when not accustomed
to it—and your niece has gone out so
very seldom” —he cannot resist this
thrust —“there is nothing like a good
smart walk. Don’t you think so?”
“Ella is the best judge of her own
actions,” says Mrs. Langley, coldly.
“Come then, Ella,” says Sir Charles,
ne catches her hand and leads her to
the open window. It is very near the
ground; springing down himself first
he holds out his arms to her, and in a
second he has her beside him.
“Now let us run for it,” says he. All
his gayety has returned to him. II is
manner is infectious. Cinderella finds
herself laughing too, as they fly round
the corner hand in hand and into the
sweet recesses of the wood beyond.
Here the}' stop. Brand looks at her.
“Nell,” says he. There is a little sus
picion of fear in his heart. Has he been
too precipitate—carried matters with
too high a hand? W'as it his love she
wanted—or only his help? His face be
trays to her his fears.
In a second she turns to him. She is
lying on his heart.
“Oh, how I love you!” cries she.
“Really—really, Nell?”
“Can’t you see?” says she.
Well, it seems very easy to see! And
after a little while, when probably his
vision is quite clear, she asks him a
question.
“Why do you call me Nell?”
“I don’t know. For one thing—be
cause that hateful woman calls you
Ella. But principally, I suppose, be
cause I have always thought of you as
Nell. My Nell —you are that, aren't
you?”
Th<; answer to this is not in words.
“I hope your mother will like me,”
says she, presently, in a very nervous
way.
"Like you! She will love you. Not
as I love you, however.” He presses
his cheek to hers. “Do you know what
1 call you in my heart?”
“No; how can I see into your heart?”
“Well, if you can t, nobody can. I
call you my white dove!"
“And what do I call you?”
“Charles!'’ suggests he, mischiev
ously.
At this they both laugh.
“Nonsense!” giving him a little push
away from her—a very little push.
“How prosaic you are. No. I call you
my prince, because you have rescued
your Cinderella!”
IN GUILHIJsSKENTOCKY.
They Want No Snobs Around When There is
a Campaign On.
[New York Post.i
John C. Underwood, who wss
elected Lieutenant Governor of
Kentucky on the same ticket with
Luke Blackburn, is an amusing
story-teller, particularly when he is
started on the subject ot political
stumping in Kentucky. “Our peo
ple,” said he to an Evening Post
man not long ago, “don’t like snob
bishness. 1 remember one time
when I was stumping one of the
mountain I bought $25 m
worth of niekies and cairied them
in my saddle bags. At every log
cabin I would ride up and ask for
a drink of water., Out would come
a little boy or girl with a gourd dip
per of wanna, water. 1 would take a
swallow, then drop; a nickle in the
dipper. The little one would run
in and I would go on. The child’s
mother would come out and have
the generous gentleman pointedout
The consequence was that 1 got the
vote of that house. Well, one
morning I rode up to a house and a
Hole girl brought out a dipper of
water. I felt in my pocket and dis
covered that I hadn’t a copper.
“ ‘Little girl,’ said I, ‘I generally
have a nickle somewhere about me,
but I haven’t today, so I’ll give you
what’s the next best thing for a girl,
and that’s a kiss,’and I got down off
my horse and kissed her for my own
utile blue-eyed girl at home. An
other little black-eyed girl here
showed up, and I had to kiss her
for a niece of mine she looked like.
By this time another little girl
showed up, half a head talier than
the rest, and, not to be impartial, I
kissed her; when I found that four
or five other girls had gathered, and
I was in for it. So, beginning with
the smallest, I kissed each one.
The change in stature was so grad
ual that I didn’t notice that the last
one was a full-grown young woman
—and right handsome at that —un
til I had kissed her. Looking up,
1 saw that there were two or there
old Janies laughing at me, and,
thinking that I had made a bad
break, I lifted my hat to the young
lady and begged her pardon and
explained how it was. She didn’t
seem to mind it much, but the old
ladies kept laughing, and one of
them said: ‘Why, durn it, she’s
Bill’s wife.’
“‘Well,’ I thought, ‘l’m in for it.
That knocks out all my votes in
this neighborhood.’ I inquired at
the next house who Bill was, and
was told that it was‘Buck’ Holmes,
the hardest citizen of Carter county.
Next day I had to speak at the
court house, and when I came up
I noticed a gang of about twenty
five rough-looking tellowsoff atone
side and a big six-footer talking to
them and gesticulating with both
hands.
“ • Who’s that?” I inquired.
“ ‘That’s “Buck” Holmes and his
gang,’ was the reply. Cold chills
run down my back and I shifted
my revolver around to where I
could reach it without trouble and
then sauntered up to overhear what
he was saying.
“‘l’m blankety blanked!’ I heard
him say, ‘if lie don’t catch my vote.
No snob thar, gentlemen. Jest as
soon kiss a poor man’s wife as a rich
one’s!’ That settled it, and I got
150 more votes in that county than
any other man on the ticket.”
The Last Straw.
[Harper’s Bazar.]
“Geod morning, Mr. Dolyers.”
'‘Good morning, Mr. Trivvet.
What can I do for you today?”
“Well, the fact is, Mr. Dolyers—l
—l—l er, your daughter referred
me to you, sir.”
“Oh, she did, did she?” snorted
the papa. “Well, all I’ve got to say
is that I’m getting tired of this re
ferring business. You are the fourth
that she has sent to me in the last
ten days. I’ll put a stop to it. I’ll
tell her that if she hasn’t enough
nerve to do her own rejecting, I’ll
accept the very next dude that she
unloads on me in this way, and
make her marry him. When the
fellow comes along that she wants
sl.e’d accept him without taking
the old man into consideration, and
I don’t propose to be made a scape
goat any—Well, I declare, if the
chap didn’t actually walk away be
fore I got done telling him what I
had to say.”
Mr. Dolyers resumes his work of
cutting off coupons.
As for Mr. Trivvet, he never car h
back.