radiant with sunshine. She prattled to him as he worked at the bench; had her own hammer and her own piece of wood to knock imaginary tacks in; and began to be ambitious of the use of chisel and saw—an ambition which Sim would artfully counteract by the opportune provision of putty and like harmless material.
Sim and Mary.
Then there came the schooldays, in which it was Sim's delight to watch the progression from pot-hooks and hangers to the proud moment when she could write her name. The afternoon which witnessed this evidence of her caligraphic skill was a memorable event. The child came skipping into the workshop with great glee, took possession of a large carpenter's pencil, and, bending down her pretty head over a smooth deal board, which she had frequently extemporised for a slate, triumphantly traced thereon, in large, capital letters, "MARY." The reward was a doll's house, fit for a princess, every piece of furniture in which was Sim's own handiwork.
There were days and nights of anxiety, too, when the child had her first serious illness. Sim had a nurse to attend on her, but he, after all, was the chief attendant at the sick-bed. The doctor laughingly told him that he would grant him his certificate for that profession at any time. Sim laughed, too, but it was after Mary had recovered. He could not afford to indulge in the luxury before, he said, even supposing that his muscles had been equal to the relaxation.
Thus the years sped on, until Sim really became old. The child, too, expanded into a young woman, and had grown in comeliness as well as stature. Sim saw this with joy, tempered with fear. At such times the thought would cross his mind. "She cannot always be my lass! Someone else will step in, and claim the prize." As this thought came, and he pictured his desolate hearth-home without Mary—he would cry out in agony: "My God, let it not be! I have suffered; am content to suffer still more but spare me that agony!"
Is there not some occult power of divination between hearts attuned to the same sympathies? How else can you explain it that when thoughts like these bowed the head and saddened the heart of Sim, a loving pair of arms would be found around his neck, a warm, soft cheek against his furrowed one?
Another autumn evening. Sim somehow always remembered that time of the year. The chill breath of the coming winter could be felt in the air. You looked outside and then inside, and inside carried it by a large majority. Have you ever noticed on certain evenings about this time that orchestral symphony the part of Nature; how her flutes, and violins, and 'cellos, and bass viols go to work in prelude to the last act of the seasons? No? Well, I don't think Sim's observation ever went so far as that either. Whatever had been the lot which life had brought him, he was quite content with it now. Only the least sensitive flesh has its creepy moments, and
What was that? Mary was sitting by the fireside knitting; Sim had just loaded his pipe. They heard footsteps outside. They looked at each other; for they were not in the habit of having late visitors.
