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you-you loved me-ever so long? Well, I don't think I've any very loud call to be a farmer's wife. (Take up portrait; keep the back to audience.) No, I will not show it to you. (Turn to back.) Oh! very well, Mr. Slowbody. Call again when you can't stay so long. (Turn to front; put portrait in chair.) Jediah couldn't deceive me. Nobody could. I'm too smart to be taken in by-Move up quickly to back ; call off.) Return! Oh! Return, I'll show it to you. (Come down.) He's gone. Now who will bring my letters and carry my hymn-book Sundays and praise my tea-cakes ? Jediah will never like my cooking in this world. (Take up portrait.) I must hang Jediahin my room.
I wonder if he will love me as much as Return. (Look at portrait.) Oh! Jediah. It was a mercy you sent me your picture. I might have-Oh! Return. Oh! Jediah.
[Exit with portrait, back.
Slow Curtain. SCENE III. Sarah's kitchen. A table at right with board, flour dredge, rolling pin, knife, plates, etc., and some dough for pie crust. Other simple furniture. The portrait hanging on wall at back. Entrances, right and left, and at back. Summer house-dress with apron. Time, afternoon, a week later.
(Enter at right; roll up sleeves to elbow; take up flour dredge; sprinkle flour on board and roll out dough into thin sheet; put some of the sheet of dough on plate and trim it off as for a pie; roll dough out again. Do this while talking.) I do hope Jediah will like my pies. I've writ to Jediah that I couldn't come to see him now, as I have a house full of boarders and I told him to make me a little visit. And yesterday he writ he couldn't afford it. He gives all he has to the poor. (Look at portrait.) Oh! Jediah. I aint fit'to be a helpmeet to such a saint. (Look to left. Wipe hands on apron.) Gracious! Who's that? (Cross to left.) One of the boarders. (Open door as if to admit some one.) Oh! That you, Miss Breezie? Come right in, if you don't mind my cooking. (Offer chair at
left.) I'm making a mess of pies. Sit down and be sosherble. (Resume work on pies, adding a second and third layer over the first on the plate and trim them off with the knife; do not notice mistake.) Are you acquainted any in Boston, Miss Breezie ? Didn't know but you miglit be, seeing you've lived there so long. Don't suppose you know the Reverend Jedinh Hopkins. Yes, Hopkinsthat's the name. Am I sure? Why, certainly. 01 course, I know him very well. He's a missionary to the poor. If it was not for speaking of myself, I'd tell you I've often sent him money-for the-- Excuse me, there's Return. (Run up, wiping hands on apron; call off back.) Yes--I'm coming.
[Exit, back. (Re-enter with a letter.) Another letter fruin Jcdiah. (Speak to left.) Sit still. It aiut a mite of matter. I can read it by and by. Return brought it over, but he wouldn't come in. (Resume work at table.) Why-yesJediah does write pretty often. He's a perfect saint (Point to picture.) That's his portrait. (Suddenly drop plate on table.) What! No such person ? (Point to portrait.) That is—oh, Miss Breezie, you don't mean it! Deceived me? Oh, no, no! I don't believe--You are suresure? (Run to back; call of) Return-Oh! Return.
[Erit, back. (After pause re-enter slowly and in changed manner; look about ; speak off back.) No. She's gone. There's nobody here. (Suddenly turn the portrait with its foce to the wall.) What a mercy she told me. Oh, what a pile of money I have sent—to the poor. And he kept it all. (Speak off back.) Come in, Return! I'm at home--mak. ing a pie for you. (Point to seat at left.) Sit down and make yourself at home. (Look at portrait.) That? Oh, Return, don't ask me. I've been-Oh! Return, you knew it all the time. (Take up pie plate.) Look at that. I've put on three bottom crusts and left out the filling. Oh! Return, I aint fit to go alone another day. Me! me, Return! Love you ? Oh, Keturn, you knew it all along
CAUGHT.-K. E. BARRY.
On a very frosty night,
Or, perhaps—the “Injun" fight.
Near and nearer yet he drew
Of the-sorrows of the Sioux.
In the dimly lighted room,
Stealing softly through the gloom,
And a shrill voice cried with glee:
- Photographis Times
HOW I WON MY WIFE.-W. A. EATON.
I was standing alone on a rocky height,
How I wished I were he in that tiny boat,
The despairing eyes that gazed at me
HE HAD FAITH.
A young man, about twenty-one years old, was sitting in the waiting room of a depot with a year-old baby on his knee, and his alarm and helplessness when the child