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Page 38
Then she drew forth the papers of her mother's that she had brought from
home, and for the first time read them over.
The first was the marriage certificate. That she had seen before, and had
studied with awe; but the others had been kept in a box that was never
opened by the children. The mother kept them sacredly, always with the
certificate on the top.
The largest paper she could not understand. It was something about a
mine. There were a great many "herebys" and "whereases" and "agreements"
in it. She put it back into the wrapper as of little account, probably
something belonging to her father, which her mother had treasured for old
time's sake.
Then came a paper which related to the claim where their little log home
had stood, and upon the extreme edge of which the graves were. That, too,
she laid reverently within its wrapper.
Next came a bit of pasteboard whereon was inscribed, "Mrs. Merrill Wilton
Bailey, Rittenhouse Square, Tuesdays." That she knew was her grandmother's
name, though she had never seen the card before--her father's mother. She
looked at the card in wonder. It was almost like a distant view of the
lady in question. What kind of a place might Rittenhouse Square be, and
where was it? There was no telling. It might be near that wonderful Desert
of Sahara that the man had talked about. She laid it down with a sigh.
There was only one paper left, and that was a letter written in pale
pencil lines. It said:
"_My dear Bessie:_ Your pa died last week. He was killed falling
from a scaffold. He was buried on Monday with five carriages and
everything nice. We all got new black dresses, and have enough
for a stone. If it don't cost too much, we'll have an angle on
the top. I always thought an angle pointing to heaven was nice.
We wish you was here. We miss you very much. I hope your husband
is good to you. Why don't you write to us? You haven't wrote
since your little girl was born. I s'pose you call her Bessie
like you. If anything ever happens to you, you can send her to
me. I'd kind of like her to fill your place. Your sister has
got a baby girl too. She calls her Lizzie. We couldn't somehow
have it natural to call her 'Lizabeth, and Nan wanted her called
for me. I was always Lizzie, you know. Now you must write soon.
"Your loving mother,
ELIZABETH BRADY."
There was no date nor address to the letter, but an address had been
pencilled on the outside in her mother's cramped school-girl hand. It was
dim but still readable, "Mrs. Elizabeth Brady, 18---- Flora Street,
Philadelphia."
Elizabeth studied the last word, then drew out the envelope again, and
looked at that. Yes, the two names were the same. How wonderful! Perhaps
she would sometime, sometime, see him again, though of course he belonged
to the lady. But perhaps, if she went to school and learned very fast, she
might sometime meet him at church--he went to church, she was sure--and
then he might smile, and not be ashamed of his friend who had saved his
life. Saved his life! Nonsense! She had not done much. He would not feel
any such ridiculous indebtedness to her when he got back to home and
friends and safety. He had saved her much more than she had saved him.
She put the papers all back in safety, and after having prepared her few
belongings for taking up the journey, she knelt down. She would say the
prayer before she went on. It might be that would keep the terrible
pursuers away.
She said it once, and then with eyes still closed she waited a moment.
Might she say it for him, who was gone away from her? Perhaps it would
help him, and keep him from falling from that terrible machine he was
riding on. Hitherto in her mind prayers had been only for the dead, but
now they seemed also to belong to all who were in danger or trouble. She
said the prayer over once more, slowly, then paused a moment, and added:
"Our Father, hide him from trouble. Hide George Trescott Benedict. And
hide me, please, too."
Then she mounted her horse, and went on her way.
It was a long and weary way. It reached over mountains and through
valleys, across winding, turbulent streams and broad rivers that had few
bridges. The rivers twice led her further south than she meant to go, in
her ignorance. She had always felt that Philadelphia was straight ahead
east, as straight as one could go to the heart of the sun.
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