OCR Text |
Show p -J L For Her Father s Sake By Alban E. Ragg iCopyrlght by BUorUtory Pub. Co.) Tick! Tick! TIckt Tick! reiterated tho clock with monotonous persistency, persisten-cy, reminding thoso present that tho time for retiring was long slnco past, but tho old farmer and his daughter stayed on, regardless of tho fleeting hours. Neither had spoken for fully 30 minutes. Tho man, reclining In a high-backed chair, was comforting himself him-self with a black clay pipe, and tho woman sat gazing listlessly Into tho fire, tn open letter In her hand. " 'TIs ton years to-night slnco mother moth-er died," sho remarked, sadly. A sudden sud-den strong gust of wind shook tho door of tho outhouse, making It creak mournfully as'lt swayed to and fro on Its rusty hinges. Tho old man stirred Uneasily In his choir, ami glanced nervously ner-vously behind him. "Yes, It's ton years to-night," ha- ro-pllcd, ro-pllcd, with an effort to appear at caso. Doth again lapsed Into sllcnco. Pres-ontly Pres-ontly tho old man glanced across at his daughter and said: "Who did tho lottor como from, Mary?" "From William Dutton, fathor." "William Dutton, oh! Why, It's many a long day slnco you heard from him. What's he been doing with himself him-self slnco ho went away?" "Ho wrote to toll mo that ho's Just been married.' father," tho woman replied, re-plied, and although sho tried to speak calmly and bravely, a sympathetic ear would havo distinguished tho sound of unshed tears In her tremulous volco. "Married, ch," tho old man remarked with a chuckle. "Well, well, tho Uook says It Is not good that a man should be alono. Ho was a nice young fellow, and I trust ho has found a good woman." wom-an." "So do I, father," ropllcd his daughter, daugh-ter, very gently. "Mary." . "Yes, father." "It has often been a puzzlo to mo that you and him never mado It up. I always thought ho was kind o' fond of you, but women's queer creatures; they let a good man go, and plno after a fool who doesn't caro a button top for cra." Tho woman mado no reply, but holding hold-ing up tho letter, read It through carefully care-fully for a second time. My Dcnr Mnry: I've took you at your word; you said It was no use watting, and I began to reckon It wasn't, so I married a little girl I met down hero last year. It was kind of lonesome, coming back night after nlglit to cold, cheerless lodgtngs, with never t, hoii! to smllo at a nun, and I'm fond of company, you know. I tried to bear up and told myself my-self that I had no right to marry another an-other woman; If I felt lonesome, why, you felt lonesoma too, and It wasn't your fault. Then ono night coming home from chapel meeting, all of a sudden I took hold of her hand and asked her to marry me. That's how It all happened, and wo were married two weeks ago today. to-day. Blio's a kind-hearted little thing and can't do enough for mo. ood-bye, my dear friend. Don't think any less of me. My best respects to your father. Your slncero friend, WILLIAM DUTTON. "Mary." "Yes, fathor." "What did you keep him hanging on for all thoso years, If you didn't Intend lo marry him? I didn't llko to say "Yes, Father, He Was a Very Good Man, Out I Couldn't Marry Him." anything about It at tho time, but now It's all past and gone, I must say you treated him shabby. Ho was a good enough man for you, wasn't ho?" Tho woman's faco twitched painfully, pain-fully, and sho answered In an almost Inaudible whisper: "Yes, father; ho was a very good man, but I couldn't marry him, and that's all about it." "You couldn't marry him, and, pray, why not?" "I Just don't want to say any nioro about it, father; ho's married now, and there's tho end of tho wholo business." "All right, Mary; as you plenso, as you please, but tho day will como you won't havo any ono to look after you, and as you'vo been a kind girl to mo, I'd llko to sco you comfortablo with somo good man before before " Tho old man stopped abruptly, and glancod up timidly at his daughter. Dut sho didn't nppoar ti have heard what ho said, for sho sat staring at tho blazing log, thinking, thinking. thinking of the past and of possibilities possibili-ties now lost forovor. Flvo years ago William Dutton had come to make his last appeal to her to marry him. He was employed on the railway and had received n good appointment ap-pointment In Chicago, and he came either to obtain her promise to marry him or to say good-by. Flvo years ago I It seemed llko five hundred How hard he had striven to overcome her conviction that to marry him would bo contrary to what she felt to bo her duty towards her father-"Let father-"Let Mm como with us," be said. '! "No. It would break his heart to leave tho old farm; ho'd novor consent," con-sent," sho replied, sadly. Then William Dutton, driven to desperation, des-peration, cried angrily: "Scorns to mo ho's a solflsh old man. Parents Is everlastingly talking about tho duty of children, but thoy mostly forget tho duty of parents." "Hush, Will; ho never tried to make mo stay. I novor oven spoko to him about It. I couldn't, you know, because be-cause I promised mother when she died that I would never loavo hlra alono." "Then you have qulto mado up your mind, havo you?" ho said In a strained voice. "Yes, Will; but don't speak unkindly unkind-ly to mo. God knows It's hard enough to lot you go without having you angry an-gry with me." And with a sob sho laid her head on his shoulder, and ho stroked her hair nnd spoko a few kind, gentlo words of affection. "Mnry, 1'vo been a good fathor to you, hnven't I?" "Yes, fnthor, you'vo always been good to me," Bho replied, evidently surprised at this unusual remark from her father, who had exacted so much and given so tittles In hUtirn, but then ho wns a lonely old man, nnd never meant to be selfish and mean and unreasonable, un-reasonable, sho thought. "I wonder how you'll get along without with-out me, Mary," ho continued, and his volco Bhook perceptibly. "Hush, father: you must not talk llko that; you'll last for many a long day yet" Tho old mnn chuckled to himself. "I wasn't thinking of dying, Mary," ho replied, significantly. "That's right, father. Why, you'ro a younger man thnn ranny n ono halt your ago," sho remarked, cheerfully. "Do you think so? Do you think , so, daughter?" A look of eager hopo camo Into his eyes. "Of courso I do; any ono with halt an eyo can sco that," sho said, In a tono of mild surprise. "Mnry, I'vo got something I want to tell you. I'vo been trying to tnako up my mind for tho past six weeks, but I never knowed qulto how to do It." "What Is it, father? You aro not 111, aro you?" sho Inquired, anxiously. "No, daughter; never felt, better In my llfo." "Ily tho way, how long Is It slnco Harry Johnston dlod?" ho asked. Mary glanced up In astonishment "About two years ago," sho said. "What mado you think of him, father?" "I I I was going to to toll you that t am going to marry Harry Johnston's John-ston's widow," ho blurted out. "I Jusl wanted to know what you thought ol her." "Fnthor!" sho cried, and her faco lost all Its healthy glow. Sho stood staring at him In a strange, vacant manner ns though unablo to realize what ho meant "Well! Well!" ho remarked testily. "What havo you got to say against It?" "Nothing, fothor. Do whatovor you think Is for tho best." Doth remained silent tor a moment Tho clock struck 11. Tho old man got up out of his chair. "Guess It's tlmo to go to bed," he remarked. re-marked. "Yes, father; I reckon It's about sleeping time," tho woman answered, wearily. |