THE RUNAWAY.

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXXIII, Issue 26, 29 June 1905, Page 23

THE RUNAWAY.

Would they put her in the asylum, she wondered, it they taught her '! Fohvs would surely think s>ho was crazy. She stopped at the stone wail to rest, and look back tunoiou.vly at the old familiar scene. Far behind her stretched the meadows, a symphony of ohvo and gieen iv tiie late fall, lieio ami Uieie the sunken boulder stood, soldiery to the golden rod, or berry bushes clothed now in scarlet and gold. At mtei\als in the long slope stood solitary trees, where liuttering, brittle leaves fell in the gentle chill air. In summer time she remeaufoered well the haymakers rested in the shade, and the jug with ginger water she made for the men was kept there to be cool. She seemed, as she sat, there, to remember everything. The house was all right, she was sure of that ; the Key was under the kitchen door mat, the lire was out in the sto\e, and the cat locked in the barn. She held her work-hardened hand to her side, panting a little,, for it was a good bit of a walk across the meadow, and she was eighty years old on her last birthday. I'he cows feeding looked homelike and pleasant. 4 Good-bye, critters,' she said aloud ; ' meny's the time l'\e druv ye home an' milkoid ye, an' 1 allus let je eat by the way, nor never huriied ye as the boys done.' With farewell glance she went on again, smoothing as she walked the scattered locks of gray hair falling -under the hood, and keeping her scant Mack gown out of the reach of briars. Across another licld, then through a leafy lane where the woods were hauled in winter, then out through a gap in a stump fence, witn its great branching arms like a petriiied octopus, to the, dusty high road. Not a soul in sight in the coming twilight John and the children and the scolding wife, who made her so unhappy, would not be home for an hour jet, foi East Mills was a lo«g drne. Down the steen lull went the bra\ c little figure, followed by an odd shadow of itself m the waning light, and by ti.e tiny stones that rolled so swiftly thoy passed her often and marie her look behind with a statt to see if a pursuer were coming. ' They'd put me in the asylum sure,' she muttered. wildly, as she trudged along." At the foot of the hill she sat down upon an old log and walled for the tram. Across the road, guarded by a big sign, ' Look out for the engine,' ran two parallel iron rails, which weie to be her road when the »big monster should come panting around the cune. At last the dull rum<l?le sounded, a shrill whistle, ami she hurried to the track, wa\ing her shall to signal. This, in the conductor's \ernacular, was a cioss-roai, station, where ho was used to watch for people wa\ ing articles frantically. The train stopped, and the passenger was tal en aboard. He noticed she was a bnghteyed old lady, Aery neat and ore, ise. ' How fur ? ' he asked. ' Bostin ' '(Jit thcie in the morning.' he said kimlh, wailii'g for the money, as she opened a queer little reticle where, under her Quitting, wrapped in a clean cotton handkerchief, was her pur<-e with her sa\ings of long years— the little sums Sam 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 sorrel horse, the rattling wagon, and John with his family, driving homeward. She drew back with a httlo cry, fearing he might see her and stop the train, but they went on so fast that could not be, and the old horse loggled into the woods, and John ne\ er thought hi 9 old Aunt Hannah, his charge for twenty long years, was running away. At Boston a kindly conductor bought her a through ticket for Denver. It's a long journey for an old lady like you.' he said. ' But I'm peart for my age,' she said anxiously ; ' I never had a day's sickness since I was a gal.' ' Going all the way alone *> ' 'With Pro\i>dence,' she answered, brigihilv, alcit and eager to help herself, but silent and thoughtful as the train took her into a s-trange 1 landscape where the miles went so swiftly it seemed like the past years of her life as she looked hack on them.

1 Thy works are marvellous,' she murmured often, sitting with her hands folded, and a few idle days had there been in her world where she had sat and rested so long. In the day coach the people were kind and generous, sharing their baskets with her and seeing she changed dais right and her carpet-bag was safe. 'She was like any of the dear old grandmas in Eastern homes ; or to the grilled men -and women, like the memory of our dead mother, as faint and as far away as the scent of wild roses m a hillside country burying-ground. She tended babies for tired women and talked to the men of farming and crops, or told the children stories ; but i c or a word she said of herself, not one. On again, guided by kindly hands through the great bcwil'deri'ng city by the lake and now through yet a stranger land. Tired and worn by night in the uncomf jrtable seats, her brave spirit began to fail a little. As the wide, level plains, lonely and drear, dawned on her "•l^ht she sighed often. It's a dre'ful big world, 1 she said to a grayr-bearded old fanner near her ; ' so big I feel e'enmost lost in it, bat,' hopefully, ' across them deserts like this long ago Piowdeiue sent a star to guide them wise men of the East, an' I hain't lost my faith.' But as. the day wore on, and still the long, monotonous land showed no human habitation, no oasis of green, her eyes dimmed, something like a sob rose under the Hack kerchief on the bowed shoulders, "and the spectacles were taken off with trembling hand and put away caicully in the worn tin case. 1 Pc \e s mn' fur, mother '' ' said the old farmer. lie had bought her a cup of coflee at the last station and 'had pointed out on the way things he thought might interest her.. ' To Den\ er ' 'Wai, wal, you'ic from New England, I'll be 1 o md.' ' From Maire,' she answered ; and then she grew (o.nmunicati.-'c , for she was always a chatty old lady, and she had possessed her soul in silence so long, and it was a iclief to her to tell the story of her weary >ears of waiting to a kindly listener. She told, him all the relations she had were two graii'l-i.e^neus and their families. 'That twenty years ago Sam (for she had brought them up when their parents died (,f consumption, that takes so many of our fol s) went oit West. He was always adventurous, and for tin years she did not hear from him , but John was different and steady, and when he came of age sne had gi>en him her farm, with the pro\jsi'on that she should always ha\e a home, otherwise he would have gone awa\. too Well, for Jhe years they were happy, thin John matned, ana his wife had grown to think her a bunlen as t ho \eais went on, and the children, when they giew big, did not care for her , she felt that she had lneti too long. ' I giowed s 0 lonesome,' she said, pathetically, 'it seems 1 couldn't take up heai t to live day by day, and \it I lnowod our folks was long-h\ed Ten years back, wlcn Sam wrote he was dom' fair an' sent me money,' I 1.c.,, nto think of him , fur he was allus 'generous an' kind, an' the gratefulest boy, an' so I began to'save to go to him, fur I knowed 1 could work for my board for a good many >eais to come. Fur three years he .uu'l hardly wrote, bhl I laid that to the wild kentry he lned in. I said bears and Iniuns don't skeer me none, f"i when I was a gal u\) in Arostuk kentry there was ilenty of bc-th, a'i' as fur buftalers, them horned cattle don't skeer me none, fur I'\e been usea to a farm allus Hit the lnnesumncss of these meddlers ha\e sorter uptoi ]V S am* made me think c\ery day Sam was further o'T thoii I e\er calculated on.' Hut what will \ou do if Sam ain't in Den\er ? ' asked the fanner 'I hey put mv faith in Pro\idence,' she answered < imj.lv, fird the stranger could not mar that trust by any woid of warning He c,a\e »«r his address as ht> got off at the Nebr?w Imp, and told her to send him word if she needed nrln Wifh a warm hand-clasp he parted from her to •nin tie ihanloms in her memory of 'folks that had been kind to her, God bless them,' and then the train w as rimil ling on B';1. many of the passengers had listened to her strry and were interested, and they came to sit with her One nalo little lad in the seat in front turned to I >ok- at^ her now and then and to answer her smile. Tie was going to the new country for health and wealth poor lad, only to fnvd eternal rest in Ihc sunny land Ant his last days were brightened by the reward for ' Jiis thoughtful act and J lVJne^s. ' She probably brought LhWho lyovs up,' he thouifct ' and denied her life for them. Is she to die unrewar-

<Wl, I wonder. There cannot be any good in the world if that (be so.' He thought of her and took out his purse ; there was so litftle money in it, too, every cent maa© a big hole in his store ;, but the consciousness of a good deed was worth something. ' 1 mayn't have the chance to do many more,' thought the lad, buttoning his worn overcoat. He slipped off without a word at a station ana sent a telegram to Denver. 'lo Samuel Blair '—for he had caught the name from her talk,—' Your Aunt Hannah Blair is on the W, and W. train coming to you. 1 It was only a straw, but a kindly wind might blow it to the right one after all. When he was sitting there after his message had gone on its way,, she leaned over and handed him a peupermint drop from a package in her pocket. 1 You don't look strong, dearie,' she said ; ' ain't ye no folks with ye ? ' ' None on earth.' ' We're both lone ones,* she smiled, ' an' how sad ii, be there ajn't no one to fuss over ye. An' be kerful of the draughts, an' keep flannels allus on your'chist; that is good fur "the lungs.' ' Yqu are very kind to take an interest in me,' he smiled ; '.but I am afraid it is too late.' Another night of weary slumber in the cramped seats and then the plain began to bie dotted with villages, and soon appeared the straggling outskirts of a city, the smoke of mills, the gleam of the Platte River, and a network of iron rails, bright and shining, as the train ran shrinking into the labfyrinth of its destination. ' This is Denver,' said the lad to her, and I'll look after you asft well as I can.' ' I won't be no burden,' she said brightly. ' I've twenty dollars yet, an' that's a sight of money.' The train halted to let the eastward-bound express pass, there was an air of excitement in the car, passengers getting ready to depart, gathering up luggage and wraps, and some watching the new-comers and the rows of strange faces on the outward-bound. The door of the car slammed suddenly, and a big bearded man with eager blue eyes came down the aisle looking sharply to right aad left. He had left Denver on tne exprctes to meet this train. His glance fell on the tiny black figure. 'Why, Aunt Hannah !" he cried, with a break if his voice ; and she— she put out her trembling hands and fell into the big arms, tears streaming down the wrinkled face. ( ' I knowed Providence would let me find ye, Sam,' she sa.id brokenly, and no one smiled when the big man sat down beside her and with gentle hand wiped her tears away. ' Why, I've sent John twenty dollars a month for five years for you,' he said angrily, as she told him why .she ran away, ' and he said you could not write, for you had a stroke and was helpless, and I have written often and sent you money. It's hard for a man to call his own brother a villain.' 'We wun't, Sam,' she said gently, 'but just forgit ; and I wouldn't be a burden for ye, fur I can work yit an' for 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're prized, I tell you. Why, it's as good as a royal coat-of-arms to have a dear, handsome old woman like you for a relative.' TT hsnh 5n5 n ' h<; flound ollt w/ho ?ent tlie telegram, anS paid the lad, who blushed and stammered 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 food commission 'business. 'Give you something ligfht ? Lots of your sort, poor laSs, out here. All the reference I want is that little kindness of yours to Aunt Hannah.' 1 Here's the depot. Aunt Hannah, and you won't see bars and injuns, nor the buffaloes ; sunniest city you e\er set your dear eyes on ' He ricked iup 'the carpet-bac, faded and old-fasihione'd pot a bit ashamed of it, though it looked as though Noah might halve carried it- in the ark. They, said good-bye,, and the last seen of her was her hanpy old fare beaming from a carriage window as she rolled! away to what all knew would be a pleasant home for aTI her waning years —Exchange.