Miss Fitch

I "I tbink." said Miss Fitch, setting on tbe table a dainty littlepair of socks, and conteniplating thpm in rather an absent manner, "I thiiik I sball go to town toluorrow." Miss Fitch livedin Bridgeton, and when sbe tulked of going to town sha ineant goiug to Phüudelphia, as a matter of course. " It is likely to be a fine day, I think," oontinued Miss Fitch, leaiiiug out of the window far enough to catch a gliiupse of the western sky. "Huw lovelyifris after tbe rain !" Aa Miss Fitch leaned from the window an old colored man passing in the street took off his hat to her. "Good evening, Únele Jacob," eaid Miss Fitch. " Wait a moment; I want to spaak to you." Miss Fitch put on her hat, and went on the steps to question the old man about sorae one of his nutnerous grandchildren - Melinda or Sally or Huldy - who wantcd a place. " What beautiful flowers," said she, looking at the bunch of laurel which the old man carriod. "I had not realized that the laurels were already in blossom.' " I brung 'em along a-puppus tor Miss Fitch," said Únele Jacob. ' I remember Ijow you and your ma used to like 'em. 'Memberjust like 'twas yesterday seein' your ma a-settin' in the wagon, and Matt Garr8on a-bendin' down tbe bushes tor to break off the poeies. Matt was a nice boy ; you don't know what's become of him, I s'pose ''" " I believe he lives in South America," 3aid Miss Fitch, accepting the flowers with thanks. " Good evening, Uncle JaBob. Send Sally up in the moruing.'" Miss Fitch retreated to tbe parlor and sat down behind the half-closed shutters. She looked at the flowers, but she did not see them. Auother picture was before her eyes. She saw her niother, even then an in valid, sitting, smil ngand pleased iu tbe little carriage - the half-cleared spot in the opening - the pond, with a bank of bright orange-colored sand rising behind it - the varnished leaves of the holly and cak Bcrub rrflecting the sun - the velvet shadowR and the warm, solid lights of the lateafternoon ; and aniidstall her self, a girl of eigbteen, reaching up to gather the exquisite pink and white and crinion buds and flowers which Matthew Garrison bent down to her twenty years ago. In another moment the pioture was tjono, shaken, as its reflection in the pond uiight have been, by a sudden gust ot sobs - blotted cut by a rain of tearR. - There was no rebellion, and hardly any bitterne88, in her grief. Even in the midst of it her heart was saying again and again, "it is all well ; it was best so. ' Not my will but thino be done.'" She was quite couiposed again in five minutes, and rose to put her flowers in water. Ha ving ananged them to her satisfaction, she went out to the kitchen, where an ancipnt black woman presiHed. " I think I shal! go to town to-uiorrow, Aunt Katy'said Miss Fitch " Do teil !" retui ned Auut Katy. "Comin' home at night K' " 1 think not. I believe I símil stay all night, and come houie in the boat next day." "Do teil!" said Aunt Katy, again. It was a reinark whicb she considered pertinent to any subject ot event. " Well, 111 have your breaktast bright and early, and I guess I'd btstter speak to the omnibus to night." Miss Fitch had always been called " Miss Fitch." Even in her youth she had never been called Mary Anne by any one but her mother. She might fairly be called an old maid, seeing that she was nearer forty than thirty. Her soft brown hair shows no traces of gray, and was equally guiltless of cushions or frizzes. Her dre88 looked like adresa, and not like a rag-bag, though it was sum'cien'ly in the prevailing fashion uot to be Bingular, and it was absolutely neat and delicate even in its blackness. Miss Fitcb was an orphan, her mother having passed away some six months before. Edward Garret, who ought to know better, eays somewhere that orphanage is not touching at forty. I believe it is even far more bitterly feit at forty than at fourteen. I read in the paper the other day of a lady who died at tbe age of one hundred and ten, leaving a single daughter of eighty. I do not believe the world held a more desolate orphan than that maiden lady of four-score. Miss Fitch did not recollect her father. She and her mother had li ved on quietly together ever since she could remember, neither rich noryet poor, having enough to keep themselves and Aunt Katy, and somethiug besides, to give awny Sh lived quietly and cheerfully on in the little house in Linn street, reading her books, studying her Bible, teaching her regular eveuings in the 6chool whicb a few charitable ladies had set up for the factury girls, making baby things for a triend in town who dealt in such mysteries, and waitiug on Providence. " I aui well and strong," she reasoned within herself ; " I am as likely to live au ever I was; and I have money enough to support myBelf and Katy. It stands to reuson that I must have Bomething to do in tbe world yet, and I have faith to believe that my work will be shown to me when the time comes. So ehe sat still, watching and waiting for an opening, and doing meanwhile such thiugs as carne to her hand. According to her third cousin, Ira Horton, there was no needof all this watching and waiting. " It stood to reason," according to that very well-to-do and prudent farmer, " that there was no sense m Mary Anne's occupying a house which she could rent for two hundred a year, and keeping that old black woman, not woi th her salt. There was enough else she might do." So argued Ira, whom Miss Fitch disliked, and carne as near hating as her gentle nature would allow : and that for sevoral reasons. He was 1ways assuming the right to meddla in her affaire, he annoyedher by calliug her Mary Anne, and he wanted to uiarry her. Ira had lost three wives in tweutyyears, and on the tirst two bereavements, after an interval of some moiiths he had oft'ered himself to his cousin. He had not yet repeated the offer s-ince the deinist) of No. three, but Miss Fitch kuew the event was impending, and she kept out of kis way. II Miss Fitch had fiuished her business in Philadelphia. She was now sittiug iu tha upper cabin of the ueat and pretty littl Bridgeton tteamer, quiotly aoiused with the bustlo of the wliarf, and waiting to open hr novel till tbey should begin to thread the tortuoua wiudings of Cohausuy Creek. A little before the boat pushed off the attentiuu of Miss Fitch was attracted to wouian who wulked hastily down to the wuarf, and after asking a qtiestion or two, eame on board and up luto the cabin. The woinan was poorly dressed in shabby sük which had ouoe been rich and hitmlsume, and she held by the hand a ohild of souie tix years old, attired in the same mantier - a thin, wizened soared httle ureature, with great black eyes and a stoop which al most amounted to a deformity. The appearance of the pair was forlorn in the extreme, and the woman in particular had a wild haggaid look of otter misery. Miss Fitch hjd a heart whioh alwaya went out toward anything like a forloin child. She watched the little girl with interest, and presently offered her a cake which she took froin her bag. The ohild went tiiuidly toward her, and then, attracted by something in her faoe, sat down on. a stool at her ieet. ' Yes, yes," said her couipanion in broken Euglish, " you stay by the pretty la dy ; she be good to you." " Is she sick 't" asked Miss Fitch. The woruan shook her head as if not understanding the words, acd theu leaving the cabin she went out on the little upper deck to which it opened, and stood looking at tbe sbore and the sbips. Tha little girl showed signs of drowsmess, and Miss Fitch lifted her to the cushions by her side, where she wassoon asleep. Miss Fitch became engaged in her uovel, glaucing no w and then at the child's guardián, who still atood gazing at the shore. The boat was now passing the fort, and it was ïrowing too dark to read, when Miss Fitoh, looking up, saw the stranger woman suddenly spring over the railing of the deck and disappear under the wheel. Others beside herself had seen the eap. The boat was iustantly stopped, and every effort made to save her, but in vaiu. She was probably struck by the wbeel, for she never rose. " Well, I've done all I could," said Captain McGregor, coming into the cabiu where Miss Fitcb was still holding ou her lap the still sleeping child. " Poor tbing, she's gone to her account sudden enough. I mistrusted something wrong about her trom the flrst, and I rather guess ahe uieant to do it when she came aboard. It's a wonder she didn't take the child too." " She'll have to be taken care of somehow for the night, and to morrow 1 11 carry her back and hand her over to the authorities." " And what will becoroe of her after thati'" asked Miss Fiteh, Jooking down at the little dark thin face, so unlike any tbing sbe had ever seen, and yet whiuh seeuied souie way not utteily uukauvvu to her. " Oh, she'll have to go to the alms-house and take her chance among the rest. It seeins a poor luokout for a girl, dun't it r" - worse tban for a boy." "1 will take her home,"said Miss Fitch, decidedly. The next day Captain McGregor catne up to see Miss Fitoh. Welt, whatabout the little girl," he asked. " Am I to take lier back '(" " Not to-day, certiiinly," answered Miss Fitch. " Thu chiLl is very sicK, and Dr. Elsuiore thinks her recovery very doubtful. It wouid never do to move her." "And hardly worth wnile it she isn't likely to live," said the captain. "Itis uiakiug you a good deal of trouble, though." "That does not matter," answered Mis--; Fiteh. " My hands are rather empty ot work just at present. I am only glad sbe was guided to uie as sho seeuied to be." " Well, she's in good hands, whethershe lives or dies," reinarked the captain, nsnig. " If I find out anything about the luother - supposing she was the niother - l'll Int you know." Captain Mcljnegor had made all due inquines, but he had learned very little. The wouian had comb fruui New Yoik with the child a few days before, aud had taken lcdgings at a decent little tavein uear the water-side. She had no baggage. She had paid her way, but seeiuod very silent and reserved. This was all the captain couldfind out, and this he imparted to Miss Fitch. He also contided to her some wouderf ui readyinade garments which he had purchased in towu, saying he feit as it he had a kind of right to do someriring for the child. Miss Fitch thanked hiui, and he said the things were very nice. "What do you oall hert1" asked the Captain. ' Katy found a washed out mark on some of her clotbes, of which I can makn out ouly Car - ,' so we cali her Carry, and she seeuis to like the name very wefi." Carry, then, if that was her name, sat in her corner tranquilly contemplatin Miss Fitch, and Miss Fitch as tranquilly pursued her occupatiou, when both were disturbed by the entrance of Ira Horton. Ira had heard of the child thiough üucle Jacob, who had imparted the additional information that "f'olks said Miss Fitch wasa-going' to adopt her." "Not if I kuow it," said Ira to himself, "I ain't going to have 110 such child aicong my youug ones. Mary Acne will have enough to do with thein, and she has just got to hear reason." Accordingly, the nest morning Mr. Horton "caught a ride" with a noighbor and oaine up to Bridgeton, for the doublé purpose of making bis cousin hear reason aud taking the atternoon boat to Philadelphia. Miss Fitch received him as usual with due politeness and some stiffness. " 80 that'8 the child, is it f said Ira regarding the little Carry. " A uice time you've had of it ! You shouldn't have let yourself be taken in so, Mary Anne. 1 shallgive McCiregor a pieceof my mind." Miss Fitch did not seem to thiuk this remark called for an answer. She measured one slip of cambric by anotber, aud rewained silent. " However, there's no great harru done yet," oontiuued Ira. " lm going to town this afternoou, and l'll take her along and hand her over to the proper officer. Thtre is no reason in her being a burden on you, or on this town." " Not in the least," answered Miss Fitch placidly ; " aud I don't muan she shall be, either." " Well, then -I knaw you'd hear reason," said Ira, relieved to ttnd his task easier than he expected - " l'll cali for her this atternoon at two o'clook." " It's not worth while for you to take that trouble," 6aid Miss Fitch, " I can take the child to Puiladelphia, myself, when I am ready to have her go." "Now, 1 know what that means, Mary Aune," 6aid Ira, impressively, and rising at tbe same time. "You are thinking of üxiug the youug one up with clotbes or some such nonsense. There's no use in that; it's only wasting tiine and inoney. You have her ready, aud l'll take her off your hands at two precisely." At two, precisely, In. Horton drove up to the door in a carriage, and jumping out, entered the house without ceremony. Miss Fitch was workitig at the window, as bfifcre, and looked up with an expression, if one may use the term, of couiposed surprise. "Well, where's the child 't" Ira asked impatiently. " I thought you'd have her all ready." "Carryi'" asked Miss Fitch, innooently. " She ia up stuirs taking a nap : she is hardly strong enough to sit up all day." Ira stared : " Why, Mary Aune, what do you maan ! Didn't I teil you I'd cali tor her at tvro o'olock, precisely and take her to town '" " And I told you, if I remember, thal I gbuuid take hur back myself when I wish her to go. At present, I have no such wishes." "You don't uien to keep her f" said Ira Horton. "Such ia iny present intentioa, Mr. Horton." " Now, Mary Anne, you won 't go and be such a fooi '(" said lia, forgetting his prudence in his vexation. " Adopting children is flying iu the face of Providence anyhow, and, if you must have one, there is thein thnt has got sonie claim on you." " Indeed ! I know of no children who have any claim on ine," said Miss Fitch, her delicate color rising a litte. " Now, really, Mary Ann, how it looks!" continued Mr. Horton, growine; desperate as the time grew short. ' You don't know howfolks willtalk-goingnpto town this way, and coming back with a child tliat nobody knows. It ain't half way decent. I did think you had some seuse, Mary Anne." " 1 think, Mr. Horton, that I have sense enough to manage my own nffairs," said Miss Fitch, rising and speaking with souie emphasis. " Allow me to say that your constant intfrferenoe in them seems to me to be unauthorized and impertinent. I beg there uiay be no more of it. Good afternoon." And Miss Fitch left the room leaving Mr. Horton more amazod tbau if a hen partridge had flown in his face. "Hallo, Horton! time's most up," shouted the diiver from the gate. " And there's a dollar for the carriage, wben I might just as well have walked ! ' exclaimed Ira. " I declare, it does beat all! Very well, Miss Fitch! you've Jost your chance this titnb, niy girl! You may live an old maid till you die, for all of me ." If Miss Fitoh heard this threat, she did not wither under it. She pursued her tranquil way, making pretty frocks and aprons for the littlo Oarry, who was a;rowing stronger every day, and seeming to find great comfort in the child's vehement affaction for herself. Carry could remember very little of her former life. She told iu her imperfect English of papa and Madrina and the big ship, aiid poor Madrina in the water, and then invariably carne such a rush ot soar and horror, so rauoh passionate weeping and elinging to her protector, that Miss Fuch ceased to question her. As Carry's health iinproved the stoop in her shoulders disappeared, and her faue rounded out and lost the ternbly old, suffuring expression wbich had made ït so painful to look upon. She beoatne a very lively, attractive child, and people who had begun by wonderihg at Miss Fitoh tor takinjs auch a burden on herself, begun to think shu had not been so f j jlish after all. The laurels were iu bloom a seoond time wheu Miss Fitch and her nursling went to tnake a visit of sotne day's dumtion to a friend iu Green wich. Eltzabeth Howell was a maiden lady like herself, but of twice her age. she was a "Friend," and lived in the old houe which had belonged to her family for generations, waiting till the chance would come which was to restore her to all she loved best. Miss Fitch had ruany friends in the beautiful old towu and on tbis particular day she had gone to visit a far-away cousin, takiug Carry with her. Elizabeth Howell was sitting in her rockiug chair, uiedi(ating and perhaps Ureaming a little, when shu was roused by a manly footstep and a greeting froni a stout, bronzed and bearded man, whoui nobody could have taken for anything but a suilur. "Well, Aunt Elizabeth, here you are just where I ltft you ! " "Why, Matthew Garrison ! it is never thyseltr'" exclaiined Aunt Elizabeth, returuing the greeting with eqiial waruith. " Even so, Aunt. But I didn't believe you would kiiow me." "Idon't see very much change ; only thee has growu old like tbe vest of us, said Elizabeth surveying hiin. " Where has thee been all this tiuie ? " " In a great many places - niostly in South America." "Well! well! Sit down and let me cali Haunah and get thee some supper. I tui so glad to see thee agaiu, Matthew." " Aud so I am glad to see you auruy - if I may cali you so, as I used to." "Surely; why not ? Thee was brought up to it, tbough thy mother and I were not real sisters. Just let me cali Hannah and set her abouc supper, aud then I want lo hear all thy adveutures." There were not many adventures to teil, alter all. Captain Garrison had cominanded various vessels, and lately a fine steanier trading betweeu Kio and Loudon. He had been married, but bis wiie was dttad. " Did she leave tbee any children ? " " Ouly oue, and 1 lost her," said Captain Gairison, sadly. "Poor thii g! shs was very delicate, and after her mother's death she was taken by a lady, a friend of Carmen's. They went on board a vessel bouud to Para fot the sake of the sea-voyage, but the yellow tever broke out on board and they both died. The uurse"s name did not appear on the doctor's list, and 1 rather suspect that wheu the vessel reached Para she made off with her mistresse's vaiuables. At any rute, I uever could hear froiu her agaiu." ' How very sad ! " said Elizabeth. " Thee was quite sure of the child's death, I suppose ? " " Oü, yes ; there can be no doubt. The captain aud surgeon both died, but on the surgeou's record were the naines of Maria Hernández and child, Maria Hernández was her godmother, and Carmen was taught to cali her ■ Madrina,' as the i'ashiiiu is there." " Madrina!" repeated Elizabetb, "That is what Mary Anne Fitch's little girl calis her. Tüee remembers Mary Anne, Matthew?" " A little," answered the oaptain dryly. " So she is married ' To Ira Horton, I suppose '( " "Oh dearno! Bhe has never married any one, above ali, Ira," auswered Elizabetb, more emphatically than logically ' I was epeaking of a little girl she had adopted, and who carne to her iu an odd wty. See, here she comes now. I wonder if she will know thee ? Mary Anue, here is an old acquaintance." Miss Fitch was perhaps just a little pale as she met Captain Garrison, but tier greeting was just what it should have been- cordial aud friendly, but uoi fluttered in the least. "And where is the little one?" asked Elizabeth. 'Oh, Eunice Fithian has taken her in to show her some new kitten. Hure she comes now. Come here, Carry, and shake hands with this gentleman." But Cariy, for once, did not obey. She stood near the doorgaziug on the captain with wide, frightened eyes, and, glancing at Matthew Garrison, both women were ainuzed to see him pale as ashes, looking as if he had seen a ghost in the shape of a pretty little girl. " Carmen ! " said he ut last, in a husky voioe - " my little Carmen ! " The child made no answer but sti sprang forward. The captain caugbt he in his arma, and in a moment her arm were around his neck and her head buriec in his breast, while he olasped her clos and murmured endeartnentg in some sol foreiarn tongue. "Wbatdoes this mean?" said Eliza beth at last. "Is this the child the thought dead, Mtttthew ?" " This is my child, however sha cam here," answered the captain ; " there i no doubt of that." " And the wretched woman who de stroyed herself was doubtless the nurse Bat how could sha have come to Phila delphia I wonder '( " Nobody ever disoovered the jnystery Probably, as Mutthew Garrison surmiaec she had run away froni Para with he mistresse's jewels and other valuables and come to New York and drifted across to Philadelphia. But the whole matte was shrouded ia s inystery which wa never cleared up. rv. " Thee seetns in trouble Mathew." Captain Garrison did indeed look puz zied and disturbed. As Elizabetl Howell spobe he left the window where he had been standing and sat down op posite his aunt. " Well aunt I ara in a good deal o trouble, and I don't see any way out a all." " Perhaps thee is looking too far away," said Blizabeth, who wus given to mornlizing in a gentle sententious way. " The first step out usually lies close ut hand, if we have but the gift to see it." " I wish you would show it to me then," said the captain sighing. " What is thy troubles 't" asked Elizabeth. " If 1 knew it perhaps I may helu thee." " It is about Carmen," said Captain Garrison. "You see, I must go back to Bio ; my business and my property are but there, and I have engagement I must keep, because other people depend on thpm." " Well," said Elizabeth. " Well, I oan't leave Carmen behind me. Sho is all I have, anyway, and it seems as if she had been raised from the dead. But there is no ona to take proper care of her; and how oan I separate her from Mary Aune Fitch 't It would break both their hearts." "It would be a pity,1' rernarked Elizabeth. " Mary Aune does remarkably well by the child in all ways ; I never saw any child improve so tast. I have no doubt that Mary Anne's care saved her life." " Just so. Sho has a kind of right to Carmen ; and yet you 8e there's trouble, tix it huw you will." Eüzabetk seemed to medítate while abe [jiuked up an obstínate stitüh and knitted round her seam. Then she laid down her work and spoke : " If thee could take Mary Anne along with the ohild now '" " Yes, if I could, but that don't seem possible. I don't suppose sha would go is a governess or anythiug like that." " I was not thinking of governess exaotly," said Elizabeth. " Men Botnetimes marry a second wife, thee knows." Tne captain swore; lam sorry to reoord it, but he did. Ho looked at Elizabeth, and said sottly, " By Golly !" "Matthew!" said Elizabeth reproving'y- " Well, aunt, I beg your pardon, but, by Jingo I" said the captain repeatiug the ofíduse with a differbuce. " I used to think thee liked Mary Anne pretty well," said Bhzabeth, iguoting the decond transgression. " Like her ! I never saw the woman to hold a caudle to her - uot a young woman," said the captain, with a general idea of excepting present company. " If I hadu't believetl she liked Ira Horton better than she did me I never should iiave left these parts as I did." " Thee was in rather too great ahurry," said Elizabeth; "Mary Aune has refused ira more than once to iny certain knowledge." 'But, then, there's sucha difference," said Matthew ; " why, she's read more books than 1 ver ütsard of. Then she's so ladylike and refiued and delicate ; she's just like one of the tall tree ferns we uave down in our parts, and I'in like nothiug but a great - walrus," conoluded Captain Matthew, despairingly. Elizabeth smiled: "I never saw a walrus, but thee doesn't resemble my notions of the creaturo." " But, really, now, do you think there woutd be any ohance V "lam not given to quoting poetry," said Elizabeth, " but, Mattbew, I'll repeac thee a verse that I read in one of Mary Aune's books : He either fears his fate too muoh, Or his deserts are small, That dares uot put it to the touch, To gain or loaa it all." Matthew rose and went to the window. As he did so, he heard the whistle of the City of Bridgeton, on her way up the river. He turued and seized his hat. "Is thee going to Bridgetown on the boatK' asked Elizabeth. The captain was guilty of another slip. He turued at the door and answered with emphasis : " You bet !" " I think," said Elizabeth to herself, presently, as she exainiued her work, " I think that I have taken up that stitch pretty well, considering how long it had run." Ira Horton was harnessing up big old horse to go to Bridgetown. Matters had come to that pass with the house, the cbildren and the mi Ik, that he feit he could do without a wife no longer. " Mary Anne was kind of put out about the girl," (thus he communed with himst-lf) " but she'll got over it by this tiuie. It stands to reason that Garrison will take the young one away, or allow something haudsome tor her board and education. The board wou't count niucb, and Mary Anne can teach her and the others too, or she can go to the district school. I wou't tako less than tbree hundred a year, anyhow." Ira fascened his horse beforB the house in Lime street and knocked at the door, which was opened by AuntKitty in high holiday attire. " Mary Anne's at home, I suppose f" said Ira, in an off-hand way. " Who'r" asked Katy, afflicted with deafness. "Miss Fitch - is she at home?" asked Ira, thinking at the same moment, ■■ I shall soon send you adrift, old lady I" " There ain't no euch persou as Miss Pitoh no more," answered Katy. " What do you nieau t She ain't dead, surely Y' " Oh dear, no !" cackled Katy - " quite the contrary, I do assure you. bhe's been and got married this morning to Captain Matt Garrison, as was her beau years and years ago." "Married I" Ira drew back as if iome one had boxed his ears. " Married this very morning, in the old church up on the hill, and went away in the two o'elock cars. They didn't have no wedding - only a few particular friends - or I dare say they'd have asked you," chuckled Katy. " They are going to journey about for a couple of weeks, and me and C.irinen's going to keep house with Elizabeth Howell till she comes back. Then Miss Fitch Mrs. Garrison, I mean - is agoing to rent her houae to the new minister; and they're agoing South till the captain can settle bis business, and then they're coming back again. And Elizabetb Howell, she's asked uie to go aud stay with her down to Greenwich, 'cause hor Hannah's agoing to get married too. So it all works in just right, you see." It was eveu so. The captain had solved his problum, and Miss Fitca wa3 Miss Fitch no longsr.-