Page:New Peterson magazine 1859 Vol. XXXV.pdf/158

 the letter by me, as everybody else did? While Isat puzzling over it the post-master stood a looking at me.

"I reckon you can’t make it out more than I ean,’ says he, laughing, and eyeing me sort of curious, as if he thought there was something strange about the letter. This brought me to myself.

“Oh! yes,’ says I, ‘it’s all plain enough; put it into the York mail and it’ll go straight. If you’ve sent any before you ought to know that.’

“It was mean to pry into Sarah’s secrets in that way, but I didn’t think of it then.

“No,’ says he, ‘I never sent any in that handwriting afore, and I shouldn’t a known it if Miss Sarah hadn’t brought the letter her- self.’

‘Well, she’s saved me the trouble,’ says I. ‘Good morning,’ and off I rode.

“Just where the footpath crossed the road below our house, I met Sarah, walking along with her head down, as if she was counting the dandelions in her path.

“Hallo! Sarah,’ says I, a riding up to the fence just as she came up, ‘what on earth brought you out so early in the morning?’

“She looked up with a start, and half a scream; then I saw that she had been crying, for drops hung on her eye-lashes, and though she tried to laugh, it was more like sobbing. “Oh! Dan, is it you?’ she said, turning round so that I needn’t see her brush the tears away. ‘It’s a beautiful morning, isn’t it? Ive found ever so many violets by the brook up yonder, and as for dandelions, the whole meadow lot is golden with them; then the peppermint is just beginning to sprout: capital weather for whiten- ing cloth, isn’t it? has Hannah got her webs on the grass yet?’

“She spoke all ina hurry, huddling her words together, and catching breath at every stop; her eyes kept turning from one thing to another, and the color came and went in her face, as if she was half frightened to death; and so she was, poor thing!” -

“I felt like choking, it seemed so unnatural for Sarah to act in that way, and at last I says, ‘Sarah,’ says I, ‘what have you been writing to Mr. Bentley about? And why didn’t you keep the letter for me to carry?”

“She turned as white as new milk, and her eyes’ glanced on me with a wild look, as I’ve seen rabbits do when the trap was opened; but this look didn’t last long; all at once her eyes brightened up, and she turned on me in her old, saucy way.

“What is it to you how my letters get to the post-office,’ says she, ‘or who I write to either? One woman’s as much as you can manage, and she lives over the hill. Leave me to take care of my own business!’

But what can you have to write about?’ says I, feeling my face grow hot, for it was no joke to wrestle with our Sarah when her grit was up.

‘Well,’ says she, trying to laugh, ‘supposing I wanted him to send me a book of poems that’s just come out; is there any harm in that?’

No, not if you sent the money to pay for it, and father made no objections.’

‘Father?’ says she, and her lips turned cold and white. ‘Father, what is the use in men- tioning a trifle like that to him?’

«It isn’t a trifle if you make a secret of it, Sarah,’ says I, almost sternly.

‘You—you won’t mention it,’ says she, coming close to the fence, and clasping her hands on the upper rail. ‘That’s a dear, good brother now, do mind your own business; scold Hannah, I dare say it will do her good; but don’t concern yourself about what you will never understand, it can only make mischief.’

“This is very strange, Sarah,’ I was going to say, but she stopped me with a wave of her hand.

‘There—there! I tell you, Daniel Hart, I am doing everything for the best. You have no right to think otherwise. Let me alone—oh! let me alone!’

“She held up her clasped hands when she spoke, as a little child prays, and the tears rolled down her cheeks as I’ve seen the dew fall from a rose in the morning. I shook my head; then her face fell forward on her hands, and she began to sob.

Oh! Dan, brother Dan, you are cruel to me, very, very cruel; this comes of getting married, you do not care for us now. It would be a nice thing to get your poor sister into trouble about nothing. You and Hannah would enjoy it, I dare say. She put you up to it, I know that. Well, I have lost my brother, that’s all—my only brother, that’ never refused me anything till now!’

‘Sarah,’ says I, after a swaller or two—for somehow I felt the tears rising—‘Sarah, I dare say it’s all about nothing, only you want to be romantic, and have secrets, like the heroines in books; but somehow these things don’t work themselves out clear in real life You’re young, and so full of wits, that I sometimes feel anxious about you. It would break my heart, dear, if any harm should come to you; so don’t be mad