Matrimonial

A forlorn figure she was. She was sitting on her trunk at a landing on the banks of Red rivc r, waiting for the down boat. About her wns a group of auiused but sympathetic bystanders, in 1 she was telling them srory. "I answered ir ingooi faith," shesaid. "Here is his ádvertisement. I ctit it froru a matrimonial agency paper." She took the clipping from her pocket and read it aloud, her black eyes snapping dangerously: I ara a widower, 34 years oíd. I live, with my (wo little girlï, upan my cotton plantation. I have 1,000 acres, more or Ies8, niy own unincumbered property, situaled on the beautiful Bayou Si. Lacas. I have a nice cotiage home embowered In vinos, with gardens, chiokens, cows, harness and saddle horses, llowers, fruit - every comfort exeept a wtfe. With a view t supplying the defloiency, I ask a correspondcnco wlta sorae respectable young lady, hoping to persuade her to "Share iny cottage, gentle maid. It only waits for thee To arld a eweetness to its shado And liappiness to ine." References exchanged. V ALBXANBEn GRAVILLE. "I answered that advertisement," said the black eye'd girl sitting on the zinc covered trunk. "I was a teacher in a small private school in New York. The work was hard; the pay was poor. I had a stepmother at home and a houaeful of small half brothers and sisters. I wanted to get awav. I_l- liad had a- disappointment" -thé black eyes fiiled- "and I was nnhappy. I had read 'Jane Eyre' and I- really thonght that man might beanöther Rochester. We corresponded. He gave the postmaster as reference. I wrote to the postmaster, and he answèrert that Mr. Gvaville's character and standing were all right. He had a good farm, he was honest and paid his debts. 'Mr. Gravüle wanted me to come on and be married at his home. I drew what money I had saved ont of the savings bank, sold my watch and caine on. My stepmother was glad to get rid af me. I got here yesterday. He had said he would meet me at this landing - it Í would be a pleasant ride out to his cot tage. I had written a letter just before I left, saying when I would arrive. I found nobody to meet me. I asked the way to Mr. Alexander Graville's. Nobody could teil until an old darky sung out: I " 'Dat white 'ornan mus' mean ole ; Sandy Gravel. He live back here in the swamp, but he ain't got no ca'age to send for nobody. Got nuthin but er cyart. Hifs here now. His son Ben driv' in to git some pervisions.' " 'Has he a son?' 1 asked. " 'Got a swarna of 'em,' was the an! swer. 'All done married but Ben.' "1ÍT minl misgave me, but I liad no : place "to go to - no money, so I hunted up i Ben and told him I was going to his fa ther's house. Hewasafreckled, patched, I etupid looking young man. He looked at me with eyes and mouth open in amazement and wás sobashful that I refrained from asking questions. I uever hinted to Ben that I had come on to be his stepmother. "On wé drove, over stumps and roots and gullies- through mud and swamps. It seemed to be 20 miles. At last we drew up before a dingy, two roomed house with a shed at the back. A few scruggy peach trees and a neglected grapevine were the only green things in the yard beside the weeds. A woman was milking a scrawny cow in front of the gate. She had her back to us and a sunbonnet on. Two shock headed, barelegged children sat on the fence. They gave the alarm when they saw a stranger in the cart, and a man, who had been squatted in a fence corner holding off the calf goV up and carne toward us. " 'That's pap,' said Ben. "He looked nearer 60 than 35. He was grizzle and snaggle toothed; his neck wasjed and wrinkled. He came up to the cart. He was agitated and chewed his tobáceo wonderfully fast. I got up from the flour sack. " 'I am Amelia Jones.' "He turned very red and told his son to carry the sack of flour iuto the house. " 'I wasu't espectin you,' he said. 'It's so long since you wrote.' " 'You have deceived me,' I burst out. 'You said you had a nice home, embowered in Tines and fruit trees. You said yoú were 35. You said you had only two little girls. You said you were rich' " 'No, I didn't,' he interrupted. 'I said I had 1,000 acres of land - so I hare - though a big part of it is swamp. Acres don't make folks rich in these parts. j This ain't New York. I said I was 35. I didn't say 1 was a few years over, for I'm spry and young enough for any woman. I said I had two little girls livin wiih ine - said nuthin about the boys. They're all big fellows and married and gone, 'cept Ben. As for the house, ain't that a good house?- doublé pen and a shed to boot! Don't leak unless it rains ad got a first rate chimney. And ain'" tuero a vine? And what's the mattt.-: before he had completed the requisite search. The kitchen was einpty when he returned. "Where arg the children?" wás hisfirst , alavmed thought, expressing itself j consciously in words. "I saw 'ein go out of the door, please, I sir," said the washerwoman's little girl. The July sun was beginning to glow intensely in the heavens. The pavements ; reflected the ardent shine with tenfold heat, and poor Peter Carver was nearly melted ere he espied his hopeful son and heir, with Pet foilowing. Neither of them would walk - in faot, the little wanderers were fíir too weary - so Mr. Carver rnounted one on each arm pnd carried them, limp and unresisting, through the streets. 'Til have a nurse for you, my yonng friends, before the world is a day older," he said, grinding his teeth with impotent wrath as he deposited Pet and Tommy on the floor and went wearily to his household duties. "How are you now, Carry'i" he said about.au hour afterward, throwing him self in'to a chair by her bedside and fanning hiinself with the newspaper he had laid there that morning. "About tbe same, dear. How does the housekeeping get along?" "It don't get along at all." "Is dinner ready?" "Dinuer?" echoed Peter in a sort of dismayed tone. "Why, I haven't got thi-ough witli breakfast yet!" "But it is 12 o'clock." "I don't care if it's 25 o'clock- a man can't do 40 things at ouce." "Where are the children?'' asked his wife. "In bed. Xhey were too muchfor me, so I undressed 'ein and put 'em to bed to get them out of the way." "Poor things," said Carry. "Poor me, I should think," said Carver irately. I had quite enough to do without 'em. I've broken the plates, and melted off the nose of the teapot, and lost my diamond ring in the ash barrel, and cut my fingers with the carving knife." "Have you looked af ter the pickles and baked fresh pies?" "No!" "Nor blackened the range, nor cleaned the knives, nor scrubbed the kitchen fioor?" "No." "Nor made the beds, nor swept the chamber, nor dusted the parlors, nor polished the windows, nor heard the children's lessons, nor taken care of the canary birds, nor" "Stop - stop!" ejaculated Mr. Peter Carver, tearing wildly at his hair. "You don't mean to say that you do all these things every day?'' "I do. most certaiuly - and long before 13 o'clock. And yet you wonder that I am not dressed andcullivating my mind before 11 o'clock." 'My dear Carry." said Peter penitently, "I have been a brute. I'll have a cook and a rturse and a chambermaid here just as soon as I can possibly obtain them. Yon shall be a drudge no Jonger." Afew minutes afterward theunskilled cook was scorching bis whiskers over a gridiron coverèd with hissing mutton chops, which wouïd alarm him by suddenly blazing up into his face without the least premonitory symptoin, when a light step crossed the kitchen floor and a little hand took the handle of the gridiron from his grasp. "Carry!" "I release you from duty," smiled the wife. "My ankle is better now." "I say. Carry!" "WellV" "Teil the trnth, now. Wasn't that ankle business a little exaggerated?"-