FKEELAND TIIIBUNE. 1
VLUI.ISHKD EVKUY
MONDAY ANI) THURSDAY.
TITOS. A. BUCKLEY. '
EDITOR AND PROPRIETOR.
Mats Street above Centre.
BCINSCRIPTION KATES.
Ono Year J1 a;
Sir. Months. 7ft
Four Months.••••••••••••••••.••..• 6c
Two Mentha.. Z
f'uh?erlN>rß are requested to ohservo the date
following the name on tbo labels of their
papers. By referring to tliia they can tell at a
glance hpw they stand on the books in tliir
otHco. For instance:
Orov T Cleveland 2H.Jum*i6
nu'uns that Grovor is paid up to Junnjjfl, ISKj.
thoilguree in advance of the present dato.
Iteport promptly io Miisoillco when your paper
Is not received. All must bo
when paper is discontinued, or collection win
be made In the manner provided by law.
FREEHAND, SEPTEMBER 0, 1894.
A swindler has been arrested in
Philadelphia for attempting to obtain
$450 from a young man by promising
to make a full-lledged editor out of
Lira. Some people have yet to learn
that editors are born, not made.
A patent lias just been taken out
for glasses nud mugs with a quick
silver thermometer, in order to enable
the drinker to determine which tern
peraturc of tho liquid will be the
most agreeable to bis taste and most
beuelicial for his health.
J. M. Barrie, a well-known sciont
ist, says that nothing equals a day in
bed. It is better than a holiday at
the seaside. Spend the whole day in
bed, and then, next morning jump
into a cold bath. This treatment will
make you feel as if you have been a
week at the seaside.
Editor Kosowater, of tho Omaha
lit ;e, lias bolted the Republican party
of Nebraska and denounces the nom
inee for governor, Mr. Majors, as
a scoundrel and forger. The day has
gone by when editors will give their
support to all the queer things which
conventions sometimes name as can
didates
The English papers state that tho
Japanese government has 1,000,0(10
"bouillion capsules," each of which is
said to be equal in solid nutriment to
a pound of beef. It is claimed for
this form of solidified soup that a sol
dier can carry iu his knapsack a suffi
cient number of capsules for several
months' rations.
Tho Reform Club, of New York, has
devoted a number of 7 llcform
to "Sugar, Sugar TV. iff, Sugar
Trust." It is an admirable compila
tion, and anyone who wishes to know
just what the trust is and how much
money Gorman, Brice and Smith
have given ii out of the pockets of the
people can learn it from this pam
phlet. It is to be had for five cents by
addrc ssiug the club, 52 William street,
New York city.
A beggars' strike is perplexing
Bucharest, the principal city of Ro
mania The police have prohibited
mendicants from frequenting certain
quarters, where they cause great an
noyance. All the beggars in tho
town assembled and drew up a notice
that unless tho prohibition was with
drawn they would strike and take by
force tho bread they were not per
mitted to beg. The town authorities
are considering their demand.
Peculiar atmospheric effects always
stir up the nervous people iu tho com
munity. The New York World says
1 lie haze that has recently overhung
that city and vicinity, making the sun
look like an illuminated pumpkin out
of a job and otherwise "queering"
tho celestial mise-en -scene, lias creat
ed a great deal of startling tall..
The end of the world, a cholera epi
demic, a European war, a renewal of
the tariff agitation and other dire
calamities have been predicted on a -
count of the nun's weird appearance.
Miss Lamson and Miss Judson,
two society young women of Cleve
land, who recently astonished their
friends by joining tho Salvation Army,
are going to New York to take an ad
vanced course of training before en
tering regular mission work. They
have been living in barracks in Cleve
land, and will now receive final in
structions from General Booth. Both
of the young women gave up homes
of luxury. Miss Lamson's father is
judge of the court of common pleas,
and Miss Judson's family is quite
wealthy.
An Indiana farmer named Stanley
has a unique grievance on his mind
and has given it to a lawyer to see
what he can do with it. Mr. Stanley
declares that during Congressman
.Bynuni's campaign two years ago ho
was positively promised, along with
tho other farmers, $1.25 a bushel for
his wheat in case Cleveland was elect
ed, and the thing struck liim as such
a fine commercial venture that he
didn't do a thing but raise much
wheat 2,800 bushels all told. The
law of supply and demand, with
strong competition in tho foreign
markets, cut off* Mr. Bynum's prom
ises, however, to a 05 cent value last
year and a 15 cent value this year,
and Mr. Bynum is to be sued for the
difference.- - P/tila. r l r nuea.
"No, ho didn't!" cried tho Widow
Temple, hotly, "Ho didn't mean any
harm. If ho d 'a' boon let alone, he
wonldn't 'a' done any either."
"I hadn't understood, Mrs. Temple,"
began Sheriff Blatoliford, blandly, "that
anybody touched him at Barry's."
"Maybe they didn't touch him, but
they hurt his feelin's an' sometimes
that is worse than bcin' hit some
where. "
"Yes," interpolated a pink-faced,
flaxen-haired girl, who sat close beside
the Widow Temple, as though to give
her both moral and physical support,
"those Barry children have just made
faces at Lonnie, and hooted at him,
and called him 'Fool Lonnie* for a year
or two now, every time ho went by
there—and he spleens against it—and
so would you, Mr. Blatchford—or any
body else." Tho girl was evidently
strongly wrought up. Her sweet lips
trembled like the wild columbine, the
color of which they boro, and the
blush on her rounded cheeks came and
went as she talked.
"But he doesn't control himself when
ho gets angry, Miss Idalia—that's the
trouble. Ho broke up that wheelbar *
row like kindling wood. There's no
knowing what damage he might have
done if Mr. Barry hadn't happened to
come around. They think Lonnie'd
onghter he shut up at the expense of the
town —if you don't feel able to bear it
yourself hut they don't think he
onghter be going round freo so."
"Well, ho had, Mr. Blatchford," re
turned Widow Temple, with spirit.
"He's jest as harmless, when he's used
right, as you or I he. I don't pretend
he's as smart as other folks—l know he
ain't—but there ain't a peaceabler boy
in town—an' Idalye *ll tell you so, too—
than he is when he ain't put upon—an'
ho don't always pay back then—not by
any moans."
"But anybody would get angry with
those Barry children, Mi*. Blatchford,'
put in the girl, eagerly. "They're just
as spoiled as they can be. I've had
them in school when I tanght 011 Tea
street—and I hud more trouble with
them than I did with all the rest pui
together. If anybody's shut up, it had
better be those little scamps. Every
body in the is down 011
them. And Lonnie has almost as much
sense as the rest of us, Mr. Blatchford.
He takes up the paper and reads it oil' a 1
sensibly as I do, somotimos. And he is
as strong as a horse, and works
steady as any man in town, if he's only
looked after a littlo. Ho does all the
farm-work—and ho carries mo to school
every morning when I'm teaching—or
coiues after mo Friday night if I'm
where l can't come home every day
and if you should take him off and shut
him up—why, what would ever become
of mother and me ?" The girl burieu
her face in her hands, and burst into a
flood of tears. Her mothor, too, began
to sob, and wiped her oyos on hor
apron.
The sheriff looked around uncomfort
ably. Ho wished that this job laid
fallen to some one else.
"Aliem I" he began. "Yes—l know
Lonnie isn't—well—ho isn't what you
might call a fool, Mrs. Temple "
"No, 1 ain't," broke in Lonnie him
self. He had been sitting in sullen si
lence during tho whole conversation, on
tho other sido of the room, with
his dull oyos fastened 011 the floor.
N w he was looking up and
the color was mounting to his
face. "I wish you'd stop making
my mothor foel bad, —and making
Idalye cry. Don't cry, Idalye ! There!'
—pulling a chair up beside the two
women, and confusedly trying to stop
theiu, —"I wish you'd go away, Mr.
Blatchford. You make them feel bad."
He was a tall and powerful young
man of, perhaps, twenty-two or three,
with a shock of sandy hair and
whiskers which almost concealed his
sunburned, but well-featured face. His
large, pale-blue eyes, usually almost
expressionless, flashed now as he re-
•'Mfded the sheriff. His mother, under
standing tho need of keeping him es
pec.all calmer at his time, ceased
wee 4 i.ig ai d Logan to pacify him.
"There, there, Lonnie, —no, we won't
cry any more. Go an' sot down where
you was before. Mr. Blatchford ain't
to blame, Lonnie. Mr. Barry made
him come because yon broke that wheel
barrow an' talked so cross to his chil
dren."
Lonnie obediently resumed his former
seat, and the frown 011 his face light
ened.
"1 guess that Barry boy won't make
up any more faces at 1110 for one while!"
he chuckled. "1 broke up his little
wheelbarrow, so you couldn't tell what
it was made for in the first place."
"That s what's the matter, Lonnie, —
don't you understand?" said tho sheriff,
severely. "I'll havo to take you up
and punish you, if you do such things."
"Those Barry children onghter be
whipped," continued Lonnie, sulkily.
••Thoy plague me. They plague me
every time I go by there."
"They will stop if you don't hurt
them."
' I don't hurt them. I never did any
thing to thorn until thoy called mo bad
names. Mothor and Idalye didn't tell
you half the bad names thoy called
1110. And thoy do this."
He pushed his already protruding
lips forward under his soft, thick
beard, and distorted his whole face.
"Well, Mrs. Temple,"—the sheriff
rose as though his decision had been
taken,—"l'm very sorry about this.
With one or two exceptions, I never
knew of Lonnie's doing anything ma
licious before, —not anything of any'ac
count, —and 1 sbonld he sorry to have
to send him off to an asylum. As you
say. Miss Idalia, it would muke it very
hard for both of you. But you must
promise to look after him closer than
you have heretofore, —and I suppose
you'll have to pay for the wheelbarrow."
The widow turned pale, but her
daughter, whose pink cheeks had also
lost their color, did not allow her
mother to speak. ''Very well," she
said, proudly, "and my brother will not
trouble anybody in this way again."
' You must promise to be good to little
children," said Mrs. Temple to Lonnie.
"an not take their things. An', 'specially,
you want to bo sure an' go on the other
road, so as not to go by the Barry
house."
"1 did—ever since yon told me, 1
went ronnd by the other road. 1 like tc
go round by tlio other road. Mr.
Doane's house is on it, and I like to g<
in there and ask Mary Doane to please
get me a glass of water."
"You didn't do that?" gasped hi*
mothor, in dismay.
"Yes, I did, too. I did it yesterday
and day before."
"Why, Lonnie, you mustn't! If yon
want any water you must get it at
homo. Folks'U think you're a regular
nuisance. They don't like to be jump
in' np 'n' gettin' water for folks. Why.
if you get to liangin' round Mary
Doane's that Lem Harris will be after
you."
"I thought Lem Harris used to like
Idalye best," said Lonnio, tentatively.
"Nonsonse !" laughed Idalia, coloring
furiously. "Who would have thought
of your getting that idea ! Anyhow, he
likes Mary Doane now, and tlio minis
ter is going to marry them pretty soon
or that's what everybody says, and
Mary doesn't deny it."
The girl's fair face darkened. She
turned silently to the window and
drummed listlessly upon the small, old
fashioned pane. She was young, but
the mysteries of life were already press
ing hard upon her. Early in the evening
she went to bed. Tho excitement o!
the day had tired hor. She left Mrs.
Temple mending besido the lamp,
while Lonnie whittled aimlessly into tin
woodbox.
They sat quietly enough after tin
girl had kissed them good-night, until
Lonnio said, suddenly, "Doesn't Idalye
want to marry Lem Harris ?"
" What a question !" exclaimed Mrs.
Temple, dropping the stocking whiel
she was darning. "What under tin
sun put that into your head ?"
"Well," said Lonnio, evasively, "she
went to the picnic last summer with
him."
"So she did," admitted Mrs. Temple
"hut that was a year ago. Lots o!
changes tako place in a year, especially
among young folks."
"I don't think he onghter marry
Mary Doane," persisted Lonnio. "1
think he ouglitor marry blalyo. Then
Idalye wouldn't have to teach school."
•/jjjn
'I TIIINK HE OUGIITKU MARRY IDALYE."
"Idulyo likes to teach school a sight
better than Mary Doane does," laugho<
his mother, "and now Mary Doam
won't have to teach school—so it's six
of one and half a dozen of the other."
Tho young man muttered something
under his breath, which his mother
could not hoar, hut at last he ceased
his whittling and stumhlod off to bed,
first kissing her dutifuily. That was
something which he never forgot. He
loved her and his young Hister verj
dearly, and, so far as his poor, dark
ened understanding allowed it, he
served them faithfully.
Two or three days later Idalia went
•>ver to visit Mary Doane, who was n
pretty, pleasant girl, and had
always been her intimate friend since
thoy had learned their letters side by
side in the primer class at the district
school. That night, while Lonnie was
out doing the chores, she ami her
mothor sat in the twilight after tho tea
dishes had boon put away and talked
over the news.
"And she finally owned up she was
going to marry Lem ?" inquired Mrs.
Temple, sharply. "I should think she
might have told you before—intimate
as you always have been."
"Well, it soems thoy thought thoy
might havo a long engagement. That's
why they havo kept it so still. I expect
I should myself. You don't want all
creation talking about it for two or
throe years. Now Lem's got a good,
steady place ovor at the Mills. He
comes to see hor evory Sunday, hut he
generally comes around by tho othor
road. That's why wo haven't seen him
any oftoner. Sho really did think of
teaching ovor at the Plums. It wasn't
all talk. Now sfio says I may have the
Plums, if I want to, and then I can
come homo ovory night. What do you
think ?"
"You don't got any moro pay ?"
"No; just the same."
"I like to havo yon at home as much
as you can be, of course, blalyo. But
how do yon fool, yourself?"
"I'd rather stay over to the Hollow, I
guess." The girl blushed vividly.
"You don't mean " began her
mothor, eagerly.
"Yes, I do, mothor. I might as well
tell you, hut you mustn't breathe a
word. Wo aren't really engaged yet,
and I ain going to treat Mary Doano as
badly as sho treated mo. Yes, it's that
young lawyer that I told you about.
His folks live ovor there, you know--
they own tho biggest farm at the Hol
low -and he's just the very nicest fel
low anywhere around here—a thousand
times nicer than Loin Harris—but ho's
going to settle out west. I knew you'd
think there was something up, when 1
hod all those letters. Don't look so
worried, mother. It won't be
for a year yet I've said that.
I don't want to be married till I'm
twenty, and I shan't be till March,
yon know. Bnt I haven't told
Phil about Lonnie, and his folks don't
seem anything about him. It's
only twenty miles over there, yon
know,—and I thought they would find
out somehow, —but they haven't,—and,
oh, I hate to tell him !"
"'Tain't anybody's fault," began
Mrs. Temple, defensively, after a long
pause.
"I know that," rejoined Idalia.
wearily, "and Lonnie'd be so handsome
and nice, if lie only hadn't met with
that awful accident. As it is, he's thf
kindest, gentlest boy I ever saw,-
ain't he mothor?—and just as innocent
and good as if ho was a church member.
I'm sorry he's been bothering the
Doanes. He's been there twice since
you told him not to. 1 guess I shall
have to talk to him myself. Just tc
think, he never can go to any of OUT
picnics and parties,—and how good he
has always been about it! It just
about breaks my heart. But of course
nobody'd over wants to go with an—
idiot "
"Idalye!" cried her mother, tremu
lously. "Don't call him that!"
"Well, —it's what overyhody does call
him, mother, —and, of course, it's what
ho is. We might as well face it. That's
what I'll havo to tell Phil. Oh, I hope
I'll live as long as he does, so as t<
make a home for him."
The girl shuddered.
"Oh,mother, I hope sol" ahe cried,
sharply. "And don't on any account
let him think I'm engaged. He would
bo sure to lot it out. It's funny how
ho has got a fancy into his head that 1
cared for Lem Harris. I never did, —
not a red cent! —But I am sorry that
people are getting to be afraid of Lou
nie. That's the chief thing which wor
ries the Doanes. 'You don't think he'll
hurt us,' Mrs. Doane said to me, —and
I said, Mercy, 110! He wouldn't hurt
a Hy.' And then she went on about
how terrible ho had looked down there
at the Barrys'. Of course he did. I'm
not so very sorry, for my part."
"Well, you oughter bo," reproved
Mrs. Temple, earnestly. "Don't you lot
Lonnie hear you talk that way, Idalye.
It's been the worst thing for all of us
that over happened. I'd have done
anything to prevent it,—even if those
children did deserve to be scared."
"()h,yos, of course," apologized Idalia.
soberly. "I know all that. But he
won't do anything more."
"I'm not so sure of that," returned
Mrs. Temple, with an anxious look 011
her face. "He don't act real natnra
to me nowadays. He's restless, —an
ho never used to be, —an' he seems to be
thinkin' an' mutterin' to himself moron
I ever heard him before. He acts to
me as if he was tryin' to puzzle some
thin' out."
At this moment thoy hoard Lonnie's
footsteps. He was bringing in tin
milk. They could not talk any more
that night.
The next day was Sunday, and, as is
so often the case after a period of un
common coolnoss in the summer, a hot
wave had settled over the 0 mntry. Tin
Widow Temple and her children usually
attended church with unvarying regu
larity, and to-day was their pastor's
first Sunday after his return from his
summer's vacation; but the heat was
so intense, and they all felt so depressed
after the occurences of the week, that
they decided to stay quietly at home.
Thoy had just finished their late
breakfast, when a carriage stopped
suddenly at a fork of the road a few
rods below the Temples', and a yonng
man alighted from it. Some one in tin
carriage said, "Good-by, Lem. Be here
about half-past five this ovening, and
I'll carry you back." The young man
walked rapidly past the farm house, and
011 in the direction of the Doanes'. lie
was jauntily smoking a cigar, and lifted
his hat gayly to Mrs.temple and Idalia
as he went by. He was slim and good
looking.
"I wonder where Lem Harris is
going." remarked Lonnie, with dull
suspicion.
"Why, he's going to seo Mary Doane,
of course," returned Idalia. "He goes
up there every Sunday, now that lie has
gone t. the Mills t<> work. Yon don't
generally seo him because he goes by
the other road. He had a chance to
ride to-day, I suppose, so he came this
way."
"Don't you know," supplemented
Mrs. Temple, a little impatiently, "1
told you ho was keepin' company with
Mary Doane, an' they're goin* to be
married, come fall?
"I—l don't believe it," be said, stul>-
bornly. I think ho ougliter marry
Idalyo. He used to keep company with
her. She'll feel bad if he don't."
"Oh, yon goose! Yon haven't the
least idea what you're talking about!"
laughed Idalia. good-naturedly. "I'm
delighted to have liim marry Mary
Doane."
Ho glanced at her suspiciously, and
evidently doubted her sincerity, but lie
said nothing further. His face was
(lushed and his eyes looked wandering
and excited.
"Poor boy!" sighed his mother, ten
derly. "You are the dearest and best
boy in the world, an' mother an' Idalye
love you. Ho is all tired an' hot," she
continued, smoothing his tumbled hair.
"He has had a hard week, —come an'
lie down on the lounge in the parlor.
It's nice an' cool in there. Lie down
an' go to sleep,—mother's boy, moth
er's boy!"' The tears fell from her eyes
as she laid his unresisting head upon
the pillow, but be did not see them.
His thoughts seemod to be far away.
He lay there all the morning, and much
of the time he was asleep. Mrs. Tem
ple and Idalia had hard work to rouse
him for dinner.
All of the afternoon Lonnie sat out
side of the house, under a great oak
Jree, watching the lights and shadows
on the wooded hills near by, and now
and then picking up liandfuls of grass
and flowers and examining them idly.
His mother brought him an old relig
ious newspaper,—for it was true, as
Idalia had informed the sheriff, that
Lonnie could read, and that he ap
peared to understand at least a part of
what he mid. But ho did not seem
able to confine his thoughts to the
paper to-day, and after glancing at it a
few minutes, ho threw it aside and re
sumed his aimless meditations.
At last he rose with a serious air,
and began to pace back and forth be
neath the great tree. Ho held his head
up, and thoro was a manliness in his
bearing and a grave reasonableness in
his whole demeanor, which impressed
his mother, as she sat not far away,
yearningly watching him. "Oh, if ho
only hadn't'a'fell on the ice so," she
moaned to Idalia, who was reading be
side her. "what a splendid man he
would 'a' made ! He's better'n half tho
men as it is," she went on, chokingly.
"He's good, an* he's industrious. The
idea of shuttin' him up in an asylum!"
"Oh, mother, don't!" beggod Idalia.
"I can't bear to think about it."
She threw her hook aside, and a mo
ment later her clear young voice rang
out upon the warm summer air, ac
companied by the strains of tho "instru
ment." othorwiso a cheap melodeon,
which was her choicest possession.
The obi-fashioned clock struck five
just as she went in. Shortly afterward,
Lem Harris came around the curve of
the ro id leading from tho Doanes'. As
lie wont by, he hesitated a little. Then
ho paused outright. Mrs. Temple
. bought that he was fascinated by
Idalia'smusic, —but ho turned on his
heel and came through the wooden
gate to the spot where Mrp. Temple
was sitting, She rose uneasily to re
ceive him.
"I wish, Mrs. Temple," he began in
a low voice,—and glancing cautiously
at Lonnie, pacing abstractedly back
and forth beneath the great treo, "1
wish you would contrive to keep Lon
nie away from Mrs. Doapo's. It both
ers them, after his performances at the
Barrys'."
"I know it does, —I know it," ad
mitted the widow, tremulously, "I
didn't know it along at first, —hut I
mean to stop it right off—though they
needn't worry about him, Lorn. He
wouldn't hurt one of 'em any raor'll he
would Idalye 'r 1110."
In spite of Idalia's singing, and softly
as thoy ha;l spoken, the young giant",
pacing back and forth three or four
."oils away, had heard them, with a
dark frown upon his face: but ho sfil :
retained the indefinable air of dignity
which he had worn over since he had
begun to walk up and down the green
sward.
"What's the matter, mother?" he
asked, ignoring almost with hauteur
the presence of the young man. "What
did von say, mother?"
"Never mind, Lonnie," she nrgod.
soothingly. Lem Harris began t<
edge away.
"What did you say to my mother ?"
demanded Lonnie, striding after him.
The young man attempted to smile,
but made a failure of it. "It's of no
consequence, Lonnie. Never mind. I
guess I'll go now. Good-by."
"But yon won't go!" cried Lonnie.
excitodly, and planting himself directly
in front of his visitor. "Yon won't g.
till you tell me what is the matter."
"Nothing's the matter," retorted Loir
Harris, plucking np courage and be
ginning to grow impatient. "Let nit
by there. 1 want to go."
"There is something the matter,
too !" Lonnie's voice trembled, and hif
vast frame was shaking.
"There isn't, either !"
"You lie, Lem Harris, you lio!"
yelled the idiot, and with the words In
raised his powerful hand and felled tin
young man to the earth.
With a shriek the distracted mother
flung herself between them and lifted
the fallen man from tho grass. Idalb
came rushing out, her pretty face as
white as Lem Harris'. Lonnie did not
stir. His eyes were wild and startled.
Ho quivered from head to foot, and
seemed utterly bewildered.
"Why, he don't know* anything!'"
exclaimed tho widow, breathlessly.
"I do' know hut you've killed him.
Here take 'n carry him in 'll lay him or.
the lounge. Oh, me ! What did yon
ever do it for ! Now they'll take yon
away 'll shut you up, sure ! Oh, me !
Oh, me 1" and both she and Idalia
groaned as they hurried about, getting
camphor and other restoratives for the
injured man.
They had scarcely entered the house
when Mr. and Mrs. Doane drove by on
their way to the early evening meeting.
Mrs. Temple saw them, and breathed a
prayer of thankfulness that they had
not happened along in time to see
Lonnie knock down their prospective
son-in-law. By this time she had as
sured herself that it was only a ques
tion of a few moments when tho young
man would revivo. Lonnie had struck
him squarely on the forehead. The
skin was broken there, and a bump
had arisen which was as large as a
bird's egg.
"There goes Mr. Doane. Shall I call
him?" asked Lonnie, with touching
simplicity.
"No—for pity's sake, no, you crazy
boy I Why, they'd have you shut up
right away, Lonnie. Lom'll be all
right pretty soon—he's breathing regu
lar enough now—an" 1 don't want any
body to know about this till they have
to. They'll know soon enough. Oh,
what made yon do it. Lonnie?"
"He lied to me," affirmed Lonnie, de
fensively.
"That don't make any difference.
You hadn't oughter raise your hand
against anybody. He didn't mean any
harm. You can't understand anything
rightly, and you mustn't never get so
mad as that again."
"Will they shut me up, Idalye?" ho
asked, pathetically, turning to her as if
she might contradict his mother, and
give him some hope.
"I'm afraid they will," sho answered,
tearfully.
Lonnie sank into a chair, and a rue
ful look crossed his vacant face. Ilis
mother was chafing Lem flurris' hands,
while Idalia was diligently feeding him
with spirit-and-water from u tnmbler.
11 is forehead was bound up in arnica,
hi i pillow was redolent of camphor,
and tho two women were rejoiced to
feel that his pulse was boating reassur
ingly.
\\ hilo they were thus absorbingly
occupied Lonnie stole off and sped like
a deer along the road to the Doane
farmhouse. The sky was rapidly
clouding over, and the air was sultry
and oppressive. Faint mntterings of
thunder were heard in the distance. It
was plain that there was going to be a
storm.
Tho idiot pressed on wildly, unheed
ing the threatening aspect of tho
heavens, until he had covered the long
half-mile which separated him from the
Doanes'. Mary was standing in the
doorway, looking np at the ragged
clouds. When she saw Lonnie coming
she started a little and made as though
she would go in and shut the door, but
she finally did not. Indeed, there was
an agonized expression on his face,
which movod her tender heart to pity.
"Oh, Mary!" he cried, bursting
through the gateway and rushing
toward her, "you won't let them take
ue and shut me up, will you?"
"No, no, of course I won't, Lonnie,"
die answered, soothingly. "Come in
and sit down till you get your breath,
but you don't want to wait long or else
you will bo caught in the storm. It b
almost time for father and mother t<
come, —for they will see the storm com
ing up, I think, and won't stay to the
meeting. I'm afraid tliey will got wet,
though, tho host they can do."
She sat down and looked at Lonnie.
There was something about him to
night.—an eager, bright look, which
brought back the face of the boy that
be bad been before he was hnrt, —when
he was tho best scholar in his class, and
full of hope and promise. It made her
feel very sad. and a trifle uneasy.
"I don't want to be shut up," he re
peated, piteously, breathing hard still,
but evidently much comforted by her
promises.
"Of course you don't," she said,
cheerfully. "Nobody does, —and there
isn't any need of it."
"If a man tells mo I lie, I oughtor
knock him down," pursued Lonnie, ten
tatively.
"Oh, n-no, I guess not," faltered the
,irl. "I wouldn't knock anybody
down, if I was you. It's wicked."
"No, it isn't," he reiterated, positively.
"Not if he tells me I lie."
lie watched her narrowly. Some
mining instinct forbade him to reveal
the name of tho man whom he had
knocked down.
"Yes," she continued, more emphati
cally. "Some men might knock him
'own, —but not you. It would make
people afraid of you, and then yoi
would surely have to* bo shut up, and
•til that I could say wouldn't help you
my."
Her manner was very serious. Hi
.ooked at her with painful intentness.
"1 don't want to bo shut up," he
went on, "because I want to go to the
minister's."
Tho girl laughed. "Well, why don't
you go, then?" she asked.
I want to go to the minister's and
marry you, Mary," ho said, simply. H<
if ted his head, —that poor, bewilderod
cad, —with again something of the
lignityof a man.
"I want to go now, Mary,"he con
. in ned, rising and straightening his tall
igure, while sho, too, stood, astounded,
ofore him. "And you must go with
me, right down to the minister's, and
bo married, —and then no other man
can marry you,—and then thoy won't
tare to take mo away and shut me up.'
"Oh," laughed the frightened girl,
tremulously, and trying in vain to con
•oal her agitation at this strange pro
posal, "you must wait till the folk?
ome home. There! I think I hoar
rhem coming now !"
She ran to tho window and looked
out, but though sho offered np an
anguished prayer for their return, no
•no appeared down the long, dark road.
The sky was growing blacker con
stantly. Great drops were already fall
ing, and distant thunder was rattling
hoarsely.
"You liad better linrry homo, Lon
nie," she pleaded. "Ilnrry! Yon will
bo wot to the bono if you don't linrry."
"No," lie said, decisively. "I am
going to the minister's with you to get
married,—and then Idalye can marry
Lem Harris. I want her to marry
aim,—and I will marry you. Put your
things on as quick as you can. We
can get there now before it rains
much."
"No, we can't," she repliod, with
spirit. "It is raining now. Don't you
see it is?— And 1 couldn't think of going
without my father. Tho father always
litis to give tho bride away."
Her convincing tone made the poor
follow pause a moment. Then the
sweat broke out in great beads on liis
forehead and ho cried furiously: "No,
lie doesn't! You are making fun of mo!
You are like the Barry children, who
run out and make faces at me!—and
call mo 'Fool Lonnie!'—Yes, you are,
too! —And you must come, Mary,—
right away !—Why, Mary !"—his tone
changed to one of infinite tenderness,
-'T can carry you, Mary,—see how
strong I am! Get your hat, Mary,—
get your hat, quick !"
The girl stood irresolute, and almost
ready to faint with terror.
"Why, I should have to wear my
waterproof," she argued, gaining her
voice by a violent effort, and still affect
ing to speak lightly. "It would never
do to bo married in a waterproof ! Yon
will have to wait until the rain is over.
It will be over pretty soon."
"No, no," he cried, wildly. "1 can't
wait,—for they may come to take me
away and shut mo np. Como now,—
quick!" Ho drew himself up again,
and his face assumed a look of almost
savage earnestness. He ground his
teeth together. "Mary," he said,
atornlv. "von must qome "
(Continued on Puge 3.)
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