146 



THE AMERICAN BEE KEEPER. 



May 



curtains; a watcn cnam picKed out m 

 gilt encircled her neck, and her lips and 

 cheeks were touched by carmine, giving 

 the face a ghastly pretense of life. 



Mr. Janev\ay stared at it meditative- 

 ly. "I hadn't noticed it for a long 

 time," he said. 



"Who is that lady, papa?" Florry 

 asked, looking at the picture as if she 

 saw it for the first time. 



"Why, Florry, that was my first 

 wife," he answered, surprised that she 

 had not known it before. 



"Was she my mamma too?" 



"No, no," he replied hastily. "She 

 was Sarah Deering. ' ' 



"Wasn't she any relation to me?" the 

 child persisted. She was but 8 years 

 old, and the ramifications of kinship 

 were yet a mystery to her. 



"Of course not," her mother said 

 rather sharply. ' ' Your papa was married 

 to her when he was very young — long 

 before he lived here or knew me. I 

 thought you had heard this before." 

 She turned to her husband. "Madison, 

 shall I lay this picture away?" 



Mr. Janeway looked at her attentive- 

 ly. Was it zeal or an artistic ensemble, 

 or was there a lurking jealousy of the 

 woman who had come before? "Pack it 

 away if ybu like," he said turning 

 away. "It is shabby. " 



Long after his children and wife 

 were sleeping Mr. Janeway sat smoking 

 and thinking complacently of his suc- 

 cess. He, Madison Janeway, had begun 

 with nothing, and at 50 he had won the 

 things he had longed for at 20. The 

 ojjening and closing of the door attract- 

 ed his attention. He looked up. 



A woman walked across the room — a 

 plain woman with an honest, TSgly face 

 and a short, thick figure. 



"Who are you?" Mr. Janeway ashed, 

 frowning at her intrusion. 



"Don't you know me, Maddy?" she 

 returned. 



He was startled when she called him 

 Maddy— it was more than 20 years sirce 

 he had been called that. "Are — yoa — 

 are — you — but you can't be Sr.rah," ho 

 stammered. "She has been dead tLc:;e 

 many years. " 



"I am Sarah," she answered, "\ou 

 have changed, Madc.y." 



' ' Yes — yc^. We are apt to, ' ' he re- 

 plied uneasily. "But you look jusf r.'C 

 same." He said this to see if she vvouid 



account for her presence. 



"The living can only see the dead as 

 they were in life," she returned. "Yon 

 sold the farm., didn't you?" 



Mr. Janeway felt as if a reproach lay 

 in the observation. "Yes, I sold the 

 farm," he said. "I needed the money 

 to put in other investments. ' ' 



"I worked hard on that place," she 

 said, crossing her hands — very rough, 

 worn hands. ' 'I worked hard there those 

 years. I tried to save all I could, Maddy. ' ' 



"You were a good wife, Sarah," he 

 replied, "and both of us had our bur' 

 dens, I guess." 



"And it was my money that bought 

 the farm. You had nothing when you 

 came courting me, did you, Maddy? 

 And you said that my being 30 years 

 old and you being just of age made no 

 difference." 



' 'Yes, I suppose I said that, and I'm 

 sure I always tried to be good to you," 

 he said in answer to that unspoken re- 

 proach that seemed to lie behind her 

 unspoken words. "I tried to treat yoa 

 well." 



' ' The money that came to me just be- 

 fore I died from Uncle John must have 

 been a help. I left it and the farm to 

 you, Maddy." Her dull eyes seemed to 

 force him to acknowledge his debt. 



' 'Yes — yes, Sarah. I know that I owe 

 much to you. Without your help and 

 money I should have had a much harder 

 time getting on my feet. Yet I think I 

 should have succeeded in any case." 

 Mr. Janeway could not forbear offering 

 this tribute to his self esteem. "How- 

 ever, I gratefully acknowledge your 

 aid, Sarah." 



"You have another wife now, Maci 

 dy, and children," she said, "but I was 

 first. I believed in you, and I worked for 

 you, oh, so willingly. I knew that you 

 were diffeient from me. I knew that 

 you had hopes that stupid Sarah could 

 never understand. I knew that I was 

 your compraiion in your work, but not 

 in your hopes. I knew that we were 

 growing farther apart every year that 

 we lived together. I knew that while I 

 was getting 'to be worked out and mid- 

 dle aged you were only coming to 

 your prime. I knew that it was best 

 that I died when I did — before I came 

 to be a drag on you. Yet, Maddy, be- 

 fore her and your children I think you 

 ought not to shame me, for I was your 



