unhappy old man half arose, pallid with a sudden scare, and looked as if he meditated going through the window again; but before he could do so, Sam returned, ushering in a stout elderly woman. At sight of her, Plowden sank back in his seat, and his face gave evidence of lively emotion, but the feeling it expressed was astonishment rather than consternation.
"Are you Mrs. Robert Plowden?" demanded Mr. Rutherford.
"Yes, sir; that's my name," the new-comer replied.
Young Honey, who had been sitting with his back to her, and indeed had not even noticed her coming in, jumped up at sound of her voice, turned and confronted her, with a cry of —
"Mother!"
The woman seemed to shrink and cower, as if overcome, not by fear, but by shame at sight of him, and whined: "Oh, Billy! Hi didn't know you was 'ere hagain."
"Why are you 'ere, mother?"
She hesitated, stammered, seemed as if she would have turned and fled, had not the stern demand in his glance detained her.
"I didn't think it was hany 'arm," she whimpered; "I 'ated so to be dependent hon you an' 'Arriet – an' 'e's so rich."
The honest fellow's face flushed crimson, tears dimmed his eyes, and his voice trembled, as he said, in tones not of anger, but of deep sorrow: "Oh, mother! 'ow could you? Poor an' hignorant we hallways was – which hit was hower condition – 'ard, but not dishonest – and nothink hever for to be hashamed of huntil now. Oh, mother, you've broke my 'art!"
"No, no, my boy," impulsively exclaimed the good-hearted Plowden, hurriedly rising, coming to him and laying a hand on his shoulder, "don't feel so. I can understand better than you how desperately one may feel who is poor as well as old. Sister-in-law Sally, I forgive you; for if you have raised a ghost – that has put some gray hairs in my head in the last twenty-four hours, I think – you have also laid it, and forever. Yes, Sally, I forgive you with all my heart; and if you want to be independent and go back to England, I'll give you enough to enable you to do so."
She was sobbing, too much overcome to reply in words, and could only bow over and kiss the kind hand that he extended to her. Then she turned toward the door, and her son led her out. Rutherford called to him as he went, "You must return, Honey," and he nodded assent. Mrs. Honey, pale and silent, followed them to the vestibule. After a short absence she returned with her husband. Tinkling sharp and clear in the crisp wintry air, they heard the bells on the horses that carried the old woman away. Fainter and fainter became the sound until it died away in the distance, and then the cloud lifted, as if by magic, from over the house-party, and at last "Merry Christmas" came for them.
A CHRYSTMESSE WYSHE
There be
A wyshe I have for Thee
Thys Chrystmesse-tyde:
Maye Joye, and alle Gladde thynges
The seasonne brynges,
Gette to Thee
And Abyde.
"DEAD-SHOT DAN." 1
"Come, Dan, old man, it's your turn now."
This remark was made by one of a group of miners seated in front of a camp-fire in San Mateo canyon on the Colorado.
The person addressed as Dan was a splendid specimen of a "frontiersman," having all the characteristics of a frank, free American, with the physical advantages of a stalwart "Englisher." Among the miners he was variously known as "English Dan" and "Dead-Shot Dan." How he got the latter nickname always seemed a puzzle to his comrades, for he was one of the best, gentlest, and kindest fellows on "the lode." His manners and appearance indicated anything but a wicked nature, and he was always ready to do a comrade a good turn, or act as peacemaker in the ever-recurring rows of the miners.
It was Christmas Eve, and the boys were gathered around the fire, smoking their pipes, and telling stories of their past lives. Some told of homes and loved ones in the far-distant States; some of the late Civil War and its scenes of strife and sorrow; and some of escapades with the Mexican "greasers" and cattle-thieves of the Rio Grande.
Now the crowd turned to Dan, whom they regarded as a sort of superior creature. He was a general favorite. He knew something of medicine, and had nursed and cured many a comrade of camp-fever. He had, on more than one occasion, even set a limb and extracted a bullet from a wound – attentions which undoubtedly had the effect of increasing the freedom of the miners in the use of the "seven-shooter."
"Come, Dan, it's your turn now."
"Yes, yes," shouted a dozen voices. "Give us a story, English."
"I'm not much of a story-teller, boys," said Dan; "can anybody suggest a subject?"
"Yes," exclaimed old Peleg Carter, the Nestor of the crowd, "I can suggest a subject."
Peleg was a Missouri man. He was over six feet high, and had gray hair, while his large and flabby ears stood out from his head like the side lamps of a hansom cab. He had only one eye, and he boasted that he had lost the other in driving Joe Smith and the Mormons from "Nauvoo." His word was law in the economy of the camp, so that when he said he could suggest a subject to Dan, all the lads waited with awe and attention to hear what the subject would be.
"Well, old man," observed Dan, "start the subject, and I'll do my best."
"Tell us, then," said Peleg, "how you got the name of 'Dead-Shot Dan.' You never wear a weaping, unless you keep one underneath your jumper."
"No," replied Dan, "I don't carry a weapon. I carried a pistol once, but swore I'd never 'bear arms,' again. Well, lads," he continued, as he filled his pipe, "you want to know how I got the name of 'Dead-Shot Dan'?"
"Yes, yes," was the unanimous response.
"I must tell you, then, that I came to Colorado, not exactly a fugitive from justice, but the victim of what is called in civilized countries the 'code of honor.' I was an assistant-surgeon on board one of the 'Quintard Line' of steamers, sailing from Liverpool to the Mediterranean. On my first voyage we put in for passengers and coal at Marseilles. We had forty-eight hours to remain in port, and as I was anxious to see all I could of foreign parts, I went ashore early in the morning. My companion was the senior surgeon of the ship, a strange, hot-headed old fellow. He had formerly been a surgeon in the Royal Navy, but had been cashiered while on the West Indian station for challenging the admiral on account of some supposed affront. His name was Dr. Caldwell, and he was sometimes known as the 'Fire-eating Surgeon.' Both of us, being very hungry when we got on shore, thought we would have a jolly good breakfast before visiting the objects of interest in the place.
"'Come with me, Dan,' said the Doctor, 'and I will take you to a famous restaurant frequented by all the savants of the city. Astronomers and political economists go there, and Italian refugees and communists too. Frenchmen rarely have more than a crust of bread and a cup of coffee before noon; but if the frog-eaters have such a thing in their larder, we'll have a beefsteak or a brace of chops.'
"With that he led me into a quiet side street, and we soon reached the restaurant. Early as it was, the principal dining-room was filled with customers sipping their coffee, and I could see at a glance that they were of no common order. They appeared to form a kind of literary class.
"We took our seats at a table which was already occupied by an old French gentleman,
From "Florence Fables," by William J. Florence (Comedian), just published by Belford, Clarke & Co. Copyrighted, 1888.
