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Show escape from: bondage. (Anna C. Fortcr. in Our Lady of Good Counsel.) "I wonder what they'd do with me if they caught me? Put me in an institution, in-stitution, I reckon. Well, they'll never shut me up in any place, if 1 kin only git away. I'd rather die out here in the open air than be put in an asylum." She was old and worn and held her toil-hardened hand to her side, panting a little, for it was a long walk across the meadow, and she was 7S on her last birthday. The cows feeding quietly . near by looked home-like and pleasant, and she rested a moment on the stone wall, looking timidly back on the old familiar scene. With a farewell glance she" hurried on again, smoothing, as she walked, the scattered locks of gray hair falling under the large hood, and keeping her scant black dress out of the reach of the briars. Across another field, then through a leafy lane, then out through a gap in the fence to the dusty high J road. ' There was no one in sight in the coming com-ing twilight. Thomas, the children and the scolding wife, who made her so unhappy, would not be home for an hour yet, for it wa-s a long drive from the village where they had gone. So down the steep hill went the brave little figure, followed by an odd shadow of itself In the waning light, and by tiny stones that rolled so swiftly swift-ly they passed her often and made her look behind with a start to see if she n as pursued. "They'd put me in the asylum, sure," ihe muttered, wildly, as she trudged tlong. . .When she reached the foot of the hill she sat down upon an old log and waited for the train. At last she heard the dull rumble sound and shrill whistle, and she limned lim-ned to the track, waving her shawi to signal. The train stopped; the conductor con-ductor helped the passenger aboard. He noticed that she was a bright-eyed old lady, very neat and precise. "How far?" he asked. "Boston." "Get there in the morning," he said, kindly, waiting for the money, as she opened a queer little bag. where, under her knitting, wrapped in a clean cotton handkerchief, was her purse, with her savings of long years the little sums Ben had sent her, when he first began to prosper in the west, and some money she had earned herself by knitting and berry-picking. At a cross-road, as they went swiftly on. she saw the old gray horse, the rattling rat-tling wagon, and Thomas, with his family, fam-ily, driving homeward. She drew back with a little cry, fearing fear-ing he might see her and stop the train, but they went on so fast that it could not be, and the old horse jogged into the woods and Thomas never thought Aunt Sarah, his charge for twenty years, was running away. At Boston a good-natured conductor bought her athrough ticket to Omaha. "It's a long journey for an old lady like you," he said. "But I'm right smart for my age," she said, anxiously. "I've never had a day's sickness since I was a gal." "Going all the way alone?" "With God's help," she answered, brightly, and eager to help herself, but grew silent and thoughtful as the train took her into strange landscapes where the miles went so swiftly it seemed like the past years of her life as she looked back at them. Taking out her knitting, she sometimes worked or sat with folded hands, for few idle days had there been in her world, and life had been hard for old Aunt Sarah. Then as the shades of evening fell she put her work away and taking out her beads forgot all else in her devotions. devo-tions. In the day coach the people were kind and generous, sharing their baskets with her and seeing she changed cars right and her old satchel was safe. S; tended babies for tired women and talked to men of farming: crops, or told the children stories; but never a word she said of herself. On again, guided by kindly hands, through the bewildering city by the lake, and now through a yet stranger land. Tired and worn by nights in the i uncomfortable seats, her brave SDirit began to fail a little. And as the day j wore on and still the long, monotonous land showed no habitation, no oasi of green, her eyes dimmed, something like a sob rose under the black handkerchief handker-chief on the bowed shoulders, and the spectacles were taken off with a trem bling hand and put away in the worn case. "Be ye goin' fur, mother?" said an old farmer. He had brought her a cup of coffee at the last station, and had pointed out on the way things he thought might interest her.- "To Omaha," she quietly answered. Then she grew communicative, for she was always a chatty old lady, and she had possessed her soul in silence so long that it was a relief to tell the story of her many years of waiting to a kindly listener. She told him all the relations she had were two grandnephews and their families. That twenty years ago Ben (for she had brought them both up when their parents died of consumption) consump-tion) went out west. He was always adventurous, and for ten years she did not hear from him; but Thomas was different and steady, and when he came of age she had given him her farm, with the provision she should always have a home, otherwise he would have gone away, too. Well, for five years they were happy, then Thomas married, mar-ried, and his wife had grown to think her a burden as the years went on, and the children, when they grew big, did not care for her, she felt she had lived too long. "I growed so lonesome, she said, pathetically, pa-thetically, "it seems I couldn't take up heart to live day by day, and yet I knowed our folks was long-lived. Ten years back, when Ben wrote me he was doin fair and sent me money; I begun to think of him, fur he was alius generous gen-erous and kind and the gratefulest boy, an' so I begun to save to go to him, for I knowed I could work my board for a good many years to come. For three years he ain't hardly wrote, but I laid that to the wild kentry he lived in." "But what will you do if Ben ain't in Omaha?" asked the farmer. ; "I have put my faith in God," she answered, simply, and the stranger could not mar that trust by any word of warning. He gave her his address as he got off at his stopping place, and told her to send him word if she needed 'help. With a warm hand clasp he parted from her to join the phantoms in her memory of "fo'.ks that had been kind to her, God bless 'em," and then the train went rumbling on. But many of the passengers had listened lis-tened to her story and were interested, and they came to sit with her. One pale little lad in the seat in front turned round to look at her no and then, and to answer her smile. He was going to the new country for health and wealth, poor lad, only to find Vernal Ver-nal rest in the sunny land; but hiti last days were brightened by the reward for his thoughtful kindness. He took out his poor purse there was little money in it, but the consciousness of a good deed was worth something. "I mayn't have a chance to do many more," thought the lad, buttoning his worn overcoat. He slipped out without a word at the next station and sent a telegram to Omaha, "To Benjamin Smith: Your Aunt, Sarah Smith, is on the W. & W. train, going to you." It was only a straw, but a kindly wind might blow it to the right one I after all. When he was sitting tnere alter ms message had gone on its way, she leaned over and handed him a peppermint pepper-mint drop from a package in her pocket. "You don't look strong, dearie," she said. "Hain't ye no folks with ye?" "None on earth." "We're both lone uns," she smiled, "an how sad it be there ain't no one to fuss over ye! But be keerful of the drafts, an' keep flannel on your chest." "You are very kind to take an interest inter-est in me, but I'm afraid it is too late." Another night of weary slumber in the cramped seats and then they reached the outskirts of the city, and soon the train ran shrieking into the labyrinth of its destfnation. The train halted; the door of the car slammed suddenly and a big bearded man, with eager blue eyes came down the aisle, looking sharply from right to left. He had come down on the express to meet this train. His glance fell on the tiny black-robed figure. "Why. Aunt Sarah," he cried, with a break in his voice, and she put out her trembling hands and fell into the big arms, tears streaming down the wrinkled wrin-kled face. "I knowed God would send me to you, j Ben," she said, brokenly, and no one smiled when the big man sat down beside be-side her and with gentle hand wiped her tears away. j "Why, I've sent Thomas 525 a month for five years for you," he said, angrily, when she told him why she ran away, "and he said you could not write, for you had a stroke and was helpless, and I've written to you often and sent you money. "It's hard for a man to call his own brother a villiain." "We won't, Ben," she said, gently, "but just forgit, an' I won't be a burden bur-den to you, for I can work yit, an' fur years to. come." "Work, indeed! Don't I owe you everything?" he cried. "And my wife has longed for you to come. There are so few dear old aunts in this country, they are prized, I tell you." Then he found out who sent the telegram, and paid the lad, who blushed and stammered stam-mered like a girl and did not want to take it. "I suppose you want a job?" said the big man. "Well, I can give you one. I'm in the produce business. Give you something light. Lots of your sort, poor lad, out here. All the reference I want is that little kindness of yours to Aunt Sarah." "Here is the depot. Aunt Sarah, and you won't see the 'bars and Injins' you were talking about, but the prettiest little city you ever set your eyes on." He picked up the shabby old bag, not a bit ashamed of it, though it looked as if Noah might have carried it to the ark. They said good-bye, and the last seen of her was her happy face beaming beam-ing from a carriage window, as she rolled away to what all knew would be a pleasant home for her waning years. |