Between Two Loves. Amelia E. Barr

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      "He is with me in the tumult

       Of the city harsh and dim;

       And at evening by the fountain.

       Where I sit and sing to Him.

       Now He wears a veil of shadows

       On the face divine and fair,

       But His angels whisper to me,

       'There will be no shadows there."

      "Sarah!"

      She turned and stood still until Jonathan reached her.

      "I thought it was thy voice I heard in Barton Woods. Eh, lass! I am glad to see thee. Is all well wi' thee?"

      "I try to think so, master. One mustn't expect too much o' this life."

      "Steve's loom has stood still varry often lately. It's enough to try anybody's patience. It is that"

      ​"I know it master. But thou wilt bear a bit longer wi' him?"

      "Is that what thou thinks?"

      "Ay, it is."

      "I'll do anything thou asks me to do. Sarah, can thou give me one kind thought? I would be glad to bear a' thy crosses for thee. If thou would marry me I would put up wi' all that thou loves for thy dear sake. Can ta see thy way clear to wed me, Sarah?"

      As they stood together he lifted her hand and clasped it between his own. The moon-light fell all over Sarah's slight figure in its black cloak, and gave a touching beauty to her face, perfectly outlined by the little woollen kerchief pinned tightly over the head and under the chin.

      "Can ta see thy way clear to wed me, Sarah?"

      "Nay, I can't. I am in a deal o' trouble about Steve."

      "I'll do owt thou wishes for Steve. He is thy brother, and I can do a deal for thy sake."

      "He's a varry proud lad, sir. He'll not take a halfpenny from anybody."

      "Not he. He takes thy money, and thy time, and all thou hes."

      ​"Ay, he does that, but he has a right to 'em. Five minutes before mother died she asked me niver to give Steve up, niver to leave him as long as he needed me. She entered heaven wi' my promise in her hands. Dost ta think I can break it? Would ta want me to break it? I can't give my life to him and to thee, too. Thou wouldn't want me with a broken vow and a half heart, Jonathan Burley?"

      "God bless thee, Sarah. Do thy duty, my lass, I can go on loving and waiting."

      "Then good-night, master. I'll go home without thee. We might happen meet folk nearer t' village, and there's them that would see wrong if their eyes were out."

      Jonathan waited at the stile and watched her down the hill. She sung no more. She felt that he had come very close to her heart, and the longing for the rest and for the higher things which would be a part of the love offered her, was so strong for a moment or two that it cost her a few heavy tears to put all hope of them away. Her eyes were still misty when she reached the cottage. The key had been left at a neighbor's, and she hoped Steve was at home. But all was dark and lonely.

      ​If for a little while she had fainted in spirit the weakness was over. She put the fire together, and the cheery blaze was soon making pictures among the pewter and crockery on the cottage walls. Then she brought the table before it and laid it for supper. "He'll varry like be hungry when he comes in," she whispered to herself; and she cut a slice of cold mutton and shred an onion with it, and set the pan to simmer on the hob. She hurried for fear all would not be ready when he arrived, but ten o'clock struck, and the savory dish began to waste away, and she was so hungry that she was compelled to eat her haver-cake and cheese alone.

      It was eleven o'clock when Steve came, and there was a look on his face she had never seen there before, a look of exultation and pleasure, uncertain in character, and attended with an unusual silence.

      "My lad, what's the matter wi' thee? Thou doesn't eat thy victuals, either; there's summat up."

      "Ay, there is ; but I'm feared to tell thee."

      "Nay, but thou needn't be. Is ta in any trouble?"

      ​"Not I, lass. I'm varry happy. Nobbut I'm going to be wed."

      "Thou—art—what?"

      "Going to be wed."

      She stood up and looked at him, turning white as she did so, even to her lips. A sense of wrong and a great anger welled up in her heart; and she lifted the loaf and went with it into the pantry to hide the tears she could not suppress.

      Steve kept his eyes on his plate. He was eating with a keen relish, now that his confession was made, but there was a bitter moment or two in Sarah's heart, ere she could command herself sufficiently to ask, "Who is ta going to wed?"

      "Joyce Barnes."

      "Niver!"

      "Ay, it's a wonder such a bonny lass should hev me. But Joyce hes promised, and I'm that set up to-night, I can scarce tell what I'm doing or saying."

      "How is ta going to keep her?"

      "I'll work steady now. I've been so bothered about Joyce lately that I couldn't work; but I'll miss no days now."

      ​"Then thou wilt do more for Joyce Barnes than iver thou did either for thy mother or me."

      "It need make no difference between us, Sarah."

      "Ay, but it will."

      "And thou needn't make any change for my wedding. There is room enough for three, I'se warrant."

      Sarah looked quickly into the handsome, wavering countenance. It was evident to her, from Steve's remark, that he considered the furniture of the cottage his own. Yet it had been slowly gathered by Sarah's mother and by Sarah herself. He had never taken a thought about it, or given a shilling towards it But still, he had a comfortable conviction that whatever a parent left belonged of right to the son, in preference to the daughter. And Sarah felt that if Steve chose to take all on this ground, he must do so. She would scorn to claim even the additions made with her own earnings since her mother's death, unless Steve should recognize her right and insist upon her taking them.

      When she talked the matter over with him in the morning he made no allusion to these articles. Perhaps his facile mind had forgotten ​them; at any rate, his one anxiety was to make the cottage as pretty as possible for his bride. "And I'll trust it all to thee, Sarah," he said, with a calm, unconscious selfishness that roused in his sister's heart almost as much pity as anger. For she considered that he had been accustomed all his life to look upon her self-denial as his peculiar right, and, after all, it was like expecting consideration from a child to expect it from Steve.

      "I'll hev everything as sweet and clean as hands can make 'em," she answered; "but, Steve, Joyce can do what she likes with t' room that will be empty up-stairs."

      "What does ta mean, Sarah? Isn't ta going to keep thy own room? There's no fear but what Joyce will be varry pleasant wi' thee, and we'll get along varry contented together."

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