102 
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DOMESTIC DIPLOMACY. 
“ I think yorr are very hasty, Mr. Parsons; very 
hasty, indeed.” 
And the little woman became erect at once in her 
chair, her hands snapped together like a pair of scis¬ 
sors, and her lips shut down firmly over her teeth. 
Mr. Amos Parsons elevated his eyebrows, assumed 
a gruff look of superiority, and cleared his throat with 
a senatorial air. 
“Miranda, be kind enough to remember that that 
girl is my daughter—” 
“ I suppose ma has some claim to me, hasn’t she ?” 
interposed May. 
“ Be silent, Miss. I want no more of your imper¬ 
tinence,” retorted Amos, throwing back his head and 
drawing down his brows. “As I was about to say— 
her welfare is my first consideration, and as she shows 
such .a lamentable lack of foresight and common sense 
in choosing a husband, I must choose one for her.” 
“You may choose a hundred if you want to; I’ll 
never look at one of them!” cried May, bursting into 
tears. 
“Heyday, young woman, so you’re getting above 
your father, are you? Ahem ! Mrs. Parsons be kind 
enough to take that rebellious girl out of my sight. 
Then return to me and we will continue our conversa¬ 
tion.” And locking his hands under his coat-tails, he 
strutted to the other end of the room and gazed out 
upon the garden. 
“I’ll run away with Fred—that’s what I’ll do!” 
exclaimed May, stamping her foot. 
“I would, my dear,” said her mother, with a dole¬ 
ful shake of her head. “ Make me all the misery you 
can.” 
The husband aud father, lord ami master of this 
happy family, now retraced his steps, and, pausing- 
before his wife, folded his arms very deliberately and 
twisted his face into .one grand scowl. 
“ I thought I asked you to remove our daughter, 
Mrs. Parsons. Are my wishes to be disregarded in 
everything? If so, the sooner I know it the better. 
Am I the head of this family, or am I a useless mem¬ 
ber ?” 
“Such conundrums are very stupid,” said May, 
wiping a tear out of one eye and smiling out of the other. 
The wife and mother could not restrain a laugh. 
Instantly Amos’ cheeks flushed red, his eyes gleamed, 
his forehead looked like a map of the Rocky Moun¬ 
tains. 
“ So I am to be ridiculed, jeered at, scoffed at, am 
I ?” he roared, thrashing his hands together. “ I am 
to be treated first as a child and coaxed with sweet 
words, then as a tyrant, and reproached most bitterly, 
and then as a clown aud haw-liawed at ! Fire and 
blazes, do you suppose I’ll stand all this quietly ? 
Five minutes ago I would have given you a hearing ; 
I would have tried to see something decent in this 
noodle of a Morton— 
“ He isn’t a noodle!” broke in May, spiritedly. 
“ Shut up, I tell you ! ” howled Amos, jumping at 
least ten inches from the floor, and swinging his .arms 
violently. “I won’t hear a word ; I’ve heard enough. 
He is a noodle—ay, he’s more, he’s an ass—he’s any¬ 
thing I may please to call him. As I said, five min¬ 
utes ago, I would have tried to see something sensible 
in the fool—” 
“ He’s not a fool, Amos !” interrupted Mrs. Parsons. 
“Sulphur and lightning, madam, will you be quiet; 
will you give me a chance to speak ? I say he is a 
fool, and always was, and always will be ! I won’t 
be contradicted; I wont be argued with ! Once for 
all, I tell you, girl, that you shall never marry him ; 
and I tell you, madam, that if you ever speak his 
name again, or give that daughter of mine one ounce 
of sympathy, I’ll leave you both ! I’ll go to the ends 
of the earth! I’ll—I’ll—hang it, madam, if you look 
at me so, I shall lose my patience—I know I shall.” 
And, with a succession of grimaces aud contortions, 
he flung himself into a chair, and began mopping his 
brow with his handkerchief. 
Mrs. Miranda Parsons at once twisted her chair 
round, facing her lord, lover and protector. There 
was more fire than water in her eyes now, and though 
pale, she was by no means faint. 
“ M-i-s-t-e-r Parsons, you have chosen to get angry 
with me, your wedded wife.” 
A solemn, impressive pause now ensued, and the 
lady looked volumes of reproach upon poor Amos. To 
add to the effectiveness of the scene, May began to 
cry and sob hysterically. 
“ But, sir,” again the matron’s voice broke forth and 
clear, “you cannot trample on my feelings with im¬ 
punity. I may be a woman—” 
“Now, Miranda, be reasonable.” 
“ Be reasonable! He asks me to be reasonable, as 
if I had not put the case altogether too mildly ! Oh, 
man—man, how little you know of woman’s charity ! 
Why, I have not shown up your severity, your vio¬ 
lence, in one-fourth of its real strength.” 
“That’s true, mother,” sobbed May. 
Amos groaned and locked his hands over his head. 
“ No, indeed; and yet you accuse me of being 
unreasonable, as if I bad hurled reproaches and epi¬ 
thets upon you!” continued Mrs. Parsons, beginning 
to weep. “But I am used to unjust accusations, and 
I can bear them; yes, I can bear them, until the final 
day comes that shall remove me from all my troubles! 
Then, Amos Parsons, you will think of my love and 
my kindness, and the bitter things you have said to me 
to-night will all come back to you—yes, all of them— 
aud you will wish your lips had withered before you 
ever uttered them ! And you will call my name, but 
I shan’t answer—my voice will be still—” 
“ I wish ’twas still now,” thought Amos, growing 
very restless under this steady fire. 
“ And you will look back to the days when we were 
happy together, and—and—oh, my heart will break ! 
How can you sit there unmoved, you callous man ? 
How cau you think of this and not tremble ? But 
why do I ask ? Why am I fool enough to wonder at 
your indifference, when you have threatened to leave 
me and go to the ends of the earth ? When with up¬ 
lifted fist, you have sworn horrible oaths—” 
“ I didn’t SM r ear—I never do—it’s a mistake.” 
“Oh, yes, you did, pa. You said sulphur and 
lightning,” interposed May. 
“Yes, sworn horrible oaths, and forbade me to 
speak to my own child, or to give her consolation in 
her grief! Oh, I never dreamed I should see such 
misery as this !” 
“ Nor I either,” mumbled Amos, wiping the per¬ 
spiration from his brow. 
“What do you mean by that, sir?” 
“ The same as you did, my dear ; exactly the same 
as you did,” he hastened to reply. 
“You don’t,—you mean that I make you miserable ! 
“I don’t! I don’t! ” 
“Yes, yon do; words can deceive me no longer !” 
sbe ejaculated, wringing her hands and sobbing hys¬ 
terically. “ Oh, no, I see their hollowness—I feel the 
falseness of everything ! Oh, that I could have died 
before this canker entered my soul!” 
“ Oh, father, she’s going to fall !” cried May, spring¬ 
ing up and running toward her mother. 
“ Grape-shot aud canuister, she’s fainted sure,” said 
Amos, as he caught his wife in his arms. “Run, 
May, get. camphor—water—brandy—ammonia—wine 
—anything. Oh, gracious goodness, why didn’t I 
hold my tongue? Now she’ll have a sick spell. Min¬ 
nie, Minnie, dear, how do you feel ? Can’t you speak 
to Amos, your own Amos $” 
She could, but she wouldn’t. It was rather inter¬ 
esting to hear his fond, anxious words, and to open 
one eye just a little, when he wasn’t looking, and see 
Ids expression of mingled solicitude and perplexity. 
Presently May returned with a bottle of Madeira in 
one hand, a basin of water in the other, and a phial 
of camphor under her arm. Amos bathed his wife’s 
face and hands, and forced a little of the wine between 
her lips. At length he had the gratification of' seeing 
her revive. 
“ I feel very ill, Amos,” she whispered. “ I must 
retire at once, and you must send for the doctor.” 
Amos clutched his hat and made one gigantic leap 
for the door. As he r eached it it flew open suddenly, 
and the lord and master of the Parsons household 
staggered backward, holding his nose with both hands. 
At the same instant there entered a handsome fellow, 
with bright, blue eyes and light, curly hair. 
“ My dear Mr. Parsons, I beg your pardon.” 
“Don’t dear me, sir; don’t attempt your arts on 
me, sir. I’m not a fool if the rest of my—” 
“ Amos ! Amos ! the camphor, quick, I’m in such 
pain ! Oh, how can you neglect me so ?” cried the 
invalid, with a succession of moans. 
“Yes, my dear, yes,” stammered Amos, turning 
from Morton and bending over his wife. “Don’t say 
neglect, don’t; who ever loved you as I do? It makes 
me miserable to think of your being sick. Oh, dear 
Minnie, I can’t stand it, nohow ! But what is this 
Morton here for ?” 
“ Don’t speak of him, it excites me so, I’m feverish. 
Let him stay ; if you have trouble with him I shall 
die—1 know I shall.” 
In the meantime Fred, and May were holding a lit¬ 
tle conference at the other end of the room. 
“ Is ho still against us, darling ?” queried the lover, 
stealing his arm around her waist. 
At that moment Amos looked around and the young 
people separated. The old gentleman was about to 
vent his wrath upon Fred, when Mrs. Miranda was 
suddenly afflicted with a terrible pain in her head, aud 
demanded cold cloths immediately. 
Three days passed. Amos sat alone in his back 
parlor, looking pale and troubled. 
“ I am the remnant of Amos Parsons,” he exclaimed, 
lugubriously. “ Look at me—behold me, an animated 
domestic ruin—a creature forlorn and desolate. For 
three days I’ve lived on beans and muddy coffee; for 
three days I’ve wandered around this house lonely and 
wretched. My wife mustn’t see me ; the doctor says 
her trouble is mental—caused by excitement. Oh, 
gracious, how terrible is the responsibility of a hus¬ 
band ! And yet that fool of a Morton wants to put 
himself in the yoke ! I have a mind to let him.” 
“ Oh, do, papa,” said a sweet, pleading voice. 
“ Eh, you rogue, you’re willing enough ? Well, he 
may have you, for all I care.” 
“ Oh, thank you, my dear Amos,” and Mrs. Miranda 
appeared. 
“Receive my gratitude, my dear sir,” 
Morton came in at the other door. 
Amos stared, and began to suspect that his wife 
had a purpose in her illness. 
and Fred. 
