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"I told him the girl would have to have a trained nurse, and would be sick probably six weeks, and then they couldn't get the poor girl off their hands quick enough. 'I don't want that girl dyin' round here, Sam said." "Is Mrs. Motherwell as close as he is?" the minister asked after a pause. "Some say worse," the doctor replied, "but I don't believe it. She can't be."
"It is, indeed," the young doctor answered, "but perhaps it is heroic treatment your man needed, for I would infer that you have been reading the law to someone. Who was it?" "Sam Motherwell," the minister answered. "Well, you had a good subject," the doctor said gravely. "For aggravated greed, and fatty degeneration of the conscience, Mr. Motherwell is certainly a wonder.
Sam Motherwell took the letter from his wife's hand and excitedly read it over to himself, going over each word with his blunt forefinger. He turned it over and examined the seal, he looked at the stamp and inside of the envelope, and failing to find any clue to the mystery he ejaculated again: "By Jinks! What the deuce is this about poppies. Is that them things she sowed out there?"
Motherwell's memory went back with cruel distinctness she had said things to Polly then that stung her now with a remorse that was new and terrible, and Polly had looked at her dazed and wondering, her big eyes flushed and pleading. Mrs. Motherwell remembered now that she had seen that look once before.
"That's for Thursa," she said, gravely. Tom was awakened by some one shaking him gently. "Tom, Tom Motherwell, what are you doing here?" A woman knelt beside him; her eyes were sweet and kind and sad beyond expression. "Tom, how did you come here?" she asked, gently, as Tom struggled to rise. He sat up, staring stupidly around him. "Wha' 's a matter? Where's this?" he asked thickly.
Ginger tea and mustard plasters ain't a flea-bite on a pain like what he has." "Let's give him a dose of aconite," Tom said with conviction; "that'll fix him." Mrs. Motherwell and Pearl went over to the granary. "Don't knock at the door," Pearl whispered to her as they went. "Ye can't tell a thing about him if ye do. Arthur'd straighten up and be polite at his own funeral.
Wouldn't that make a woman feel like thirty cents if anything would. Here Pearl's gloomy reflections overcame her and she sobbed aloud. Mrs. Motherwell looked up apprehensively "What are you crying for, Pearl?" she asked not unkindly. Then, oh, how Pearl wanted to point her finger at Mrs.
In Passow's collection of Romaic Folk Songs there is one entitled Maurianos and the King, which is in substance our story; and it is probably the existence of this folk-song which causes M. Gaston Paris to place our tale among the romances derived from Byzantium. Yet Motherwell in his Minstrelsy has a ballad entitled Reedisdale and Wise William, which has the bet as its motive.
John was the fireman and when the boiler blew up and John was carried home insensible the "boys" felt that they should do something for the widow and orphans. They raised one hundred and sixty dollars forthwith, every man contributing his wages for the last four days. The owner of the outfit, Sam Motherwell, in a strange fit of generosity, donated the caboose.
She died very peacefully and happily at daybreak this morning. She was a sweet and lovable girl and we had all grown very fond of her, as I am sure you did, too. May God abundantly bless you, dear Mr. and Mrs. Motherwell, for your kind thoughtfulness to this poor lonely girl. "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these, ye have done it unto Me." Yours cordially, "By Jinks."
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