1899 
9o7 
A Belated Avowal. 
“You know I like you, Barbara! I’ve 
always liked you,” stammered John 
Leighton awkwardly, leaning against the 
kitchen window-sill, and looking in with 
a shy, embarrassed smile. ‘‘I’ve never 
seen my way clear to telling you so be¬ 
fore—but—but—I’ve made the last pay¬ 
ment on that old account this morning, 
Barbara! I can start fair after this.” 
The woman to whom he spoke stepped 
back, and returned a cooling flat-iron 
to the stove before she answered. Seen 
under favorable circumstances her face 
must have been an attractive one. To¬ 
day, however, her hair was twisted into 
a solid knot above the collar of an unbe¬ 
coming brown calico; her eyes showed 
traces of tears, and the drooping cor¬ 
ners of her mouth rendered her expres¬ 
sion both stern and sorrowful. 
‘‘Yes, John, I know you’ve always 
liked me,” she spoke in a hard, resolute 
tone, “just as I know that you like old 
Towser, and the horses and cows at 
home; and pleasant weather in haying 
time, and a good price for your apples in 
the Fall. You’re used to me, and you 
have a fashion of liking what you see 
around every day.” 
Her listener flushed hotly, opened his 
lips, then closed them again, as if he 
found it difficult to utter what was in 
his mind. 
“I feel like telling you just once, 
John,” went on the voice at the ironing- 
table, “how much you’ve cared for me in 
reality. It began when I was 18, you 
remember—with plenty of others to 
choose from. I was a pretty girl in those 
days, too, as there’s no narm in saying 
now, when all the prettiness nas faded.” 
John Leighton’s honest eyes rested upon 
her in astonishment, but hers were bent 
upon her work. “You paid me lots of at¬ 
tention at first, but you never really said 
—anything. I kept expecting that you 
would, through week after week, and 
month after month; and I set my whole 
heart upon you, John, 15 years ago! It’s 
a long time to be kept waiting upon un¬ 
certainties, isn’t it? No; don’t inter¬ 
rupt me! For at least half of those 
years I’ve wanted to have my say once. 
Now I’m going to. 
“You needn’t look at me so reproach¬ 
fully, either. I understood all along that 
your mother had queer turns, and wasn't 
exactly right in her mind; and every¬ 
body said she was scared almost to 
death for fear you’d bring a wife home. 
But didn’t you know you could trust me 
to wait, John—and to hold to you steady 
through it all? 
“What did you say? That was just it 
—you didn’t want to stand between me 
and anything better? I showed so many 
signs of wanting anything better, didn’t 
I?” She smothered a sudden sob—“and 
a girl has no pride to be hurt, of course, 
when folks keep asking her when it’s to 
be, and she knows in her own heart that 
there is no ‘it,’ let alone the ‘when.’ ” 
She flung a handiul of drops at ran¬ 
dom across the sleeves of a garment that 
she had been drying while she talked. 
Her cheeks were scarlet now, her eyes 
shining. “You needn’t look so ashamed 
of me,” she flashed out excitedly. “I 
know you’re thinking I’m too bold to 
live, but I shouldn’t be saying all this 
to you, John Leighton, if the house 
wasn’t let and my trunks all packed 
ready to go out of it to-morrow. When 
this ironing’s finished—and I’ve taken 
up a little root of myrtle from the bury- 
ing-ground—I’m through here. Don’t 
upset that flower-pot, John; there’s no 
need of jumping ’round as if something 
had stung you, if I am.” 
“Barbara—aren’t you forgetting about 
my brother, and the shame-?” 
“What did that amount to, anyway? 
It wasn’t you that forged the check—be¬ 
sides, I never can see that it’s any man’s 
duty to put on every yoke that a whole 
family see fit to whittle out for him. 
You were foolish to let it go that ’twas 
your signature; $600 is a pretty big sum 
THE RURAL NEW-YORKERi 
for a farmer to save up and pay out for 
somebody else, as you have. But I never 
cared so much for you in my life as I did 
the night you told me about it—and 
when you got through the telling you 
took up your hat and went home, with¬ 
out so much as a good-by.” 
The man who stood outside the win¬ 
dow had Dowed his head. More than 
one thread of silver gleamed in his hair 
as the sunlight fell upon it; his face 
was grave and pale. “Barbara,” he be¬ 
gan, with a curious choking in his voice, 
“I’ve always-” 
She did not seem to hear him. “I did 
expect you’d speak, John, when Father 
died and I was left all alone here. I can 
own it now as honestly as if I’d died too, 
you see. Something has died in me late¬ 
ly; my heart perhaps, or the old happy 
feeling—and there’s nothing left but the 
lonesomeness and the ache.” 
A sigh that was almost a groan came 
from her listener, but he made no at¬ 
tempt to speak. 
“I used to think there never were two 
people any better suited to live together 
than we were”—for the first time her 
voice trembled. “We’re both plucky and 
fond of work; a good laugh now and 
then suits one of us just as well as it 
does the other; we like books, too, and 
we’re about the only ones in the neigh¬ 
borhood who realize that there can be 
a little strip of the world outside of 
what’s in sight from Montrose Hill. As 
to dispositions, I’m quick, I know, but I 
don’t hold my temper; and you—why, 
you haven’t any temper to hold.” 
“I don’t know about that.” John 
twirled his straw hat upon his fingers, 
and made the admission with slow sin¬ 
cerity. “I can be pretty spunky when I 
get started, but I’ve always liked you too 
much for-” 
“Oh, well, it does not make any differ¬ 
ence now! The end has come at last— 
both to the wishing and the worrying.” 
She had dried her wet fingers upon her 
apron, and stood erect with tightly- 
folded arms. “You’ve let duty, and what 
you were foolish enough to call uisgrace, 
stand between us like a great iron fence. 
You’ve played at being dumb so long 
that you are almost dumb in reality at 
last; and I’m nothing but a homely, dis¬ 
agreeable, old cross-patch in these days, 
whatever I may have been once. I’m 
going to live in Springfield after this, out 
of sight of the old home where I used to 
be so happy. When you go by here on 
your way to the post office perhaps you’ll 
remember the times we’ve talked to¬ 
gether down by the cinnamon rose-bush 
in the garden, and forgive me for being 
so hateful to you this last morning. It’s 
almost killed me to blame you, John; 
but—somehow—I can’t help it.” Her 
voice yielded upon the words to a sudden 
storm of sobs that shook her from head 
to foot. 
The straw hat fell unheeded to the 
ground. Its owner made two steps to 
the open door, two more to the kiteheu, 
and clasped her, heedless of resistance, 
in his arms. His eyes, misty with sym¬ 
pathy and love, sought hers eagerly; his 
heart beat with strong throbs of tender¬ 
ness—but his lips shaped only the fa¬ 
miliar words. “You know I like you, 
Barbara! I’ve always liked you.” 
—Mary C. Hews, in the Criterion. 
Pickles in Salt. 
A reader in Pennsylvania asks how to 
prepare pickles in salt. Select small and 
perfect cucumbers. Put a layer of cu¬ 
cumbers in the bottom of a small cask, 
then a layer of coarse salt, about one- 
quarter of an inch thick. Continue 
using the salt and pickles alternately, 
until the supply is exhausted. Place a 
board on top of the pickles, on which put 
a heavy stone, to keep the pickles down. 
After the stone is placed on the board, 
pour around about a quart of water, to 
MOTHERS.—Be sure to use “Mrs. Wins¬ 
low’s Soothling Syrup” for your children 
while Teething. It is the Best.— Adv. 
moisten the salt. This, with the exuding 
juice, should make enough brine to 
cover. New supplies of cucumbers may 
be added as desired. A few cabbage 
leaves or horseradish tops should be 
placed under the board, to prevent mold¬ 
ing. When the cask is full, put a cloth 
over the top, well tucked in at the 
edges, and put a iid on. When any of the 
cucumbers are taken out for pickling, 
the heavy scum should be wiped off the 
top, and the cucumbers soaked for three 
days in clear cold water, which should 
be changed daily, then drained, and 
wiped carefully. To pickle them, put in 
a porcelain-lined kettle, cover with vine¬ 
gar, add a piece of alum the size of a 
hazelnut and put on the stove to boil. 
As soon as brought to a boil, and thor¬ 
oughly heated, remove from the stove, 
drain off the vinegar, and throw it away. 
Put the cucumbers in a jar, cover with 
fresh cold vinegar and spice, if desired. 
A little chopped horseradish will keep 
the pickle from molding. The pickles 
will be ready for use in about a week. 
Packed in the salt, cucumbers will keep 
for two years. String beans and green 
tomatoes may be kept in the same way. 
....Bishop Ckeigiiton, of London, has 
characterized the present English idea 
of education as embodying the supposi¬ 
tion that “all the child had to do was to 
sit still like a pitcher under a pump 
while an expert hand poured in the pro¬ 
per amount of material for it to hold.” 
His own view was that the only educa¬ 
tion anybody really obtained was that 
which he gave himself. “The idea pre¬ 
vailing at the beginning of the century 
was that men should read a good book, 
master its contents, and pursue for 
themselves the lines of thought it sug¬ 
gested, and talk it over and make its 
ideas the subject of discussion among 
themselves. No system could surely be 
better.” 
tfour 
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Department G, 
ALLEGHENY. PA. 
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