A LITTLE PEACE-MAKER 



85 



over and see yoii every day, if you want 

 me to/' 



"I wish you would/^ answered the 

 deacon. ^'That is/' he added, "if your 

 uncle^s willin'/^ 



"Oh, he don-'t care/' said the child. "He 

 said I might come today, you know. I 

 wanted him to come with me, but he said 

 you wouldn't want him to. Don't you 

 like him ?'' 



"I guess I like him as well's he likes 

 me," answered the deacon. 



The child looked at him soberly. "He'd 

 like to have you like him," she said, pres- 

 ently. "I know he would." 



"'What makes you think so?" asked the 

 deacon, as he lifted her to his knee. 



"Because, when I wanted him to come 

 down here with me, and he said you 

 wouldn't want him to, he looked so sorry, 

 and he said, ^We used to be good friends, 

 and I wish we could again, but I don't 

 suppose we ever will.' I asked him why 

 not, and he said he didn't know. And 

 I know he felt bad about it. I wish you 

 would like Uncle John." 



"Did he say he wished we could be 

 frien's ag'in?" asked the deacon. "Be 

 you sure, real sure 'bout that ?" 



"'Yes, he said it," was the reply, very 

 positively given. "Can't you be ?" 



"1 s'pose we might, if — " The deacon 

 hesitated. 



"Speak the truth right out, an' say you 

 s'pose you could if both of you'd give in 

 a little," said Mrs. Moore. "You know 

 how't is, Silas — I've tol' you so more'n 

 once — you're both so set that neither of 

 you feel like ownin' up to bein' to blame, 

 but the fact is, one was jest as much to 

 blame as the other, an' both of you know 

 it, too. You can see from what this little 

 girl says that John G-raham's willin' to 

 let the ol' grudge go, an' if he. is, why 

 shouldn't you be? It don't look right to 

 see two neighbors — an' both members of 

 the same church, too — so out with each 

 other that they never speak. An' it ain't 

 ricrht, an' you know, it, Silas. It's be'n a 

 long time sence I said as much's I'm sa3dn' 



now, but I've thought it, an' sence the 

 child's broke the ice I'm goin' to speak 

 my mind, an' I can't help it, if you don't 

 like it." 



"How'd ye know I hain't be'n willin' 

 to be frien's with him ?" asked the deacon, 

 gruffly. 



"You never said so to him, or anyone 

 else," responded his wife. "S'pose you 

 be willin', what good does it do if 3"0U 

 never do anything?" 



The deacon made no reply. 



"Uncle John said you had a little girl 

 that died," the child said, putting her 

 arms about the deacon's neck. "Did you 

 love her?" 



"Yes, I loved her," the deacon answered, 

 brokenly, as he drew the questioner to his 

 breast in a caress that was given as much 

 to the dead as to the living. 



"Don't you think she'd be glad if you 

 and Uncle John were friends again ?'^ 



"Mebby," answered the deacon. 



"But don't you know she'd be glad?" 

 persisted the child. 



"Bless her heart ! She's a little angel," 

 said Mrs. Moore, wiping her eyes. "Say 

 ^Yes, you do know it,' Silas." 



"I want you and Uncle John to be 

 friends, for I like both of you. I'm going 

 to come over and see you 'most every day, 

 and if you liked Uncle John he could 

 come with me. AYouldn't that be nice? 

 I know he's lonesome today, because he 

 hasn't anywhere to go to. The girl's gone 

 home to spend Christmas, and we're all 

 alone. So I'll have to go, but I'll come 

 again." She gave each of them a hug 

 and a kiss, and started for the door. 



"Wait a minnit," said the deacon, as 

 if he had just that instant made up his 

 mind to something. "I'll go with you." 



"To Uncle John's ?" asked the child. 



The deacon nodded. Mrs. Moore gave 

 a little gasp for breath. "Oh, Silas !" she 

 began, then broke down and cried. But 

 the deacon Imew it wasn't because she 

 was sorry. 



"Oh, I'm so glad !" cried the child, run- 

 ning to take hold of his hand. "And I 



