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Southern Cross, Volume 1, Issue 12, 17 June 1893, Page 14

seeing him at six o’clock Monday evening. By tlie time she sat down ttf hex’ noonday dinner' the hoitse was in such spick and span order that the party might have taken place on the spiff;' She looked about her with fati Tied, tired eyes. “There ain’t another thing to be done,’* she said to, herself “e ccept right after dinner to take a look at my weddin’-dress that I ain’t worn in a year.” Right after .dinner, therefore, she trudged up to’the attic and brought down the dress, which she spread upon the bed in her room. In plain sight on the front,breadth was a round burn hole. Maria examined it closely. A candle must have done the mischief on the night of the wedding-, and all this time she had not had sense enough to make sure that the dress was lit.to wear. Snipping off a sample of the silk, she put on her bonnet and cloak. It was, of course, too late for the stage, hut she could send John Ordway’s boy to hire a horse, and he could drive her-over to = Hammerston. With Maria, things!were no sooner said than done. John Ordway’s boy found a horse and buggy and drove around in high spirits. Maria, however, was not going- for pleasure and did not intend to enjoy herself. That front breadth weighted on her mind. So far, everything had gone wrong for her anniversary, and it was not extraordinary that she should snub John Ordway’s boy in his genial attempts at conversation. Before they had goxxe a mile, the boy was sulking in his corner of the buggy and Maria had taken the reins.

“ I’m flunkin' of stoppin’ at the Ordway House on my -way home, so as to tell your pa what a nice, fresh hoy he’s got,” said Maria sarcastically. John Ordway’s hoy granted something unintelligible and curled up in his corner. A iter Maria had matched her silk, she drove down the main street of Hammerston and stopped at a two-storey hotel in front of which swung the sign, “ Ordway House.” “ Jump out lively, now, and run and t 11 your father I’m cornin’,” she said to the boy. “ I’ll tie the horse; I don't want no hntter-fingers hindderin’ me.” John Ordway's boy. tumbled out, as only boys can do, and disappeared. In a few minutes ho returned. ‘‘l guess you’ve got to find pa for yourself,” he said impertinently. “ I ain't g-Qin’ to.” Maria stode past him into the house. She would toll John Ordway th.n and there that his boy was good-for-nothing ami that she had had enough of him. At the end of the hall was a small p.ivate room in which John Ordway usually took refuge v. hen he wanted a little time to himself. Maria knew the room, and being angry, she did n t til © t ic precant ion of knocking, but pushed upon the door. John Ordway was nut there. The shades were drawn, and the room seemed dark to one coming in from the sunlight. The furniture had been -altered since Alaria bad seen it, and in the place of John Ordway’s desk and chair had been substituted a lounge and a common deal table. On the table stood bottles and glasses ; before them, bending over them, gloating o .'or them, was a man, — a man with frowzy hair and flushed checks, with untied cravat and unbuttoned waistcoat. ; a man •who, as he saw Maria, tossed oil a glass of whiskey, and, drunken, r ickless, assured, turned to grin at h r. ” Abraham !” ‘‘Hello, Alaria, old girl! That's right. Come to see me. ain’t yon A Have a glass to my luck. We’ll bo home for the party. It ain’t till M .inlay night, you know, and we’ll he there, Alaria. wo’ll be tbcrc. “ Where's your mother f" The worths came hoarse and gruff from Maria's lips. With a maud-’ Jin s.nilo. Abraham picked up the whiskey-bof t Ic. ‘•Here’s my mother,” be said fondling it. “ Here's all my earthly joy. It ain’t sensible to have a mother 'way I in New York when you can get one j

at Hammerston, old girl: see ?” Maria did see. In spite of .. the choking sensation in her throat - and the mist before her eyes, she could see only, too clearly. Harrison looked up at her and chuckled. “ It was kinder smart in me hoggin’. yon to go to see my mother, w'arn’t it P I was aliniolity .afi-aixl you’d catch on; hut I know’d you wasn’t the woman to go once you’d said up and down you wouldn’t. Don’t you leave me, old giil. Stop and have somethin’. Folks ’ll say your husband don’t treat you light if yon go away -without a drink. Look here, Maria, come back now ! I ain’t goin’ to stand you slanderin’ my character tellin I sent yon off without a drink. Come back !” But Maria had slammed the door. In the hall outside she met John Ordway. “ Ordway,” she said, in a voice hardly recognizable, “ if you know what’s good for yon, and for your hoy, and for your hotel, -you’ll bring Abraham around to mo after dark. I’ll pay what he owes on the room. Ho .won’t need it no more.” She stepped into the buggy and took the reins from John Ordway’s boy. Not'a word did she say during the drive home. When John Ordway and Abraham arrived that night she met them, and Ordway and she carried the insensible hod}' upstairs The next day, at about noon, Abraham stirred, yawned, and opened his eyes. There, at the foot of the bed, stood Maria. His jaw dropped. He became as white as the sheet neatly tucked under his chin> “Abraham,” said Maria, “ I guess your mother ’d better move away from Hew York. We’ll keep her here.” (Concluded.)