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��A ROMANCE IN A RAG-BAG.
��A BOMANCE IN A BAG-BAG.
��BY ANABEL C. ANDREWS.
��A strange place in which to find ro- mance, you say? Yes; so the story will possess the charm of novelty at least.
Do you wish me to " begin at the be- ginning," as the children say? The be- ginning was in the form of a young gen- tleman (you say, " Oh, yes, that's the way they always commence!" I beg you will keep quiet and hear my story) who boarded at Rosedale that summer. He was a young man who possessed more money than was good for him, in that he was living a life of idle ease and doing no good in his day and generation. Sauntering idly by the barn one day, he stopped to watch old Turner sort his rags. Was he the owner of Rosedale farm? No, he wasn't. He was a poor old rag-man, who owned a hut close by, and stored his rags in one of the barns at Rosedale. Now don't interrupt me again !
" What do you find new to-day, Tur- ner?"
11 Oh, not much of anything — leastways no money, ye may depend on that! However, many's the cur'us thing I've found in the rags in my day ! Jewelry, laces, spoons, letters— everything, most."
" And do you always know where your rags come from ? "
" E'na'most alius — sometimes I can't tell."
"It depends on the value of the article you find, I suppose, Turner?" this with a laugh.
There was no laugh on Turner's hon- est old face as he turned it toward the young man, saying solemnly :
" I'm poor, and old, and humble, but, thank God! I'm honest."
" No one doubts it, Turner. What have you found now?"
" A last year's diary — p'r'aps you'd like to look at it. My day of readin' the things I finds in the rags is past. Here,
��Mr. Somers, I'll make you a present of it," chuckled the old man, as he handed him a dainty diary, covered with red vel- vet, and gold-clasped.
Somers took it with a laughing " thank you," and stretched his lazy length on a pile of hay at the further end of the barn, where a big stream of golden sunshine poured in at the door. He opened the book and found it written full.
" Some silly school-girl's nonsense, I suppose. No doubt she mourns it's loss daily ! "
He read the first page carelessly, the second earnestly, the third he called out:
" Do you know where you got this?"
" No sir — leastways, not the house; it came in the bag I picked up on the road
to P . Anyhow, it wouldn't make
no difference if I did — you never see a gal that would own one of them books, even if her name was in't ! "
" That so?" questioned Somers, very much interested in the " silly school- girl's nonsense."
Old Turner sorted his rags, packed them away, and left the barn ; still young Somers sat there, absorbed in the little diary. At length, closing the book, he exclaimed :
" I could love that girl, if only her life fulltils her writings here ! I'll see her to-morrow, if I live. If she is the pure- souled, generous girl this book indicates, I'll marry her if I can. Clarice Esta- brooke ! she has a dainty name."
Next day a hump-backed pedler, with a skin almost black, and large green gog- gles, stopped at every house on the
P road, trying to sell the ladies a
wonderful " lotion," and always enquir- ing the name of the family next on the road. Arrived at the Estabrooke place, he rapped feebly at the kitchen door, and sat down on the door-step to rest until his rap had been answered. In answe
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