Slowly the crowd re-entered the store, and mechanically picked up the yet untasted glasses. Sim Ripson filled a glass for himself, looked a second at the crowd, and dropping his eyes, raised them again, looked as if he had something to say, looked intently into his glass, as if espying some irregularity, looked up again, and exclaimed:
"Boys, it's no use—mebbe ther's no hell—mebbe the Bible contradicts itself, but—but ther is a heaven, or such folks would never git their just dues. Here's to Blizzer's wife, the best man in camp, an' may the Lord send us somebody like her!"
In silence, and with uncovered heads, was the toast drank; and for many days did the boys mourn for her whose advent brought them such disappointment.
A BOARDING HOUSE ROMANCE.
I keep a boarding-house.
If any fair proportion of my readers were likely to be members of my own profession, I should expect the above announcement to call forth more sympathetic handkerchiefs than have waved in unison for many a day. But I don't expect anything of the sort; I know my business too well to suppose for a moment that any boarding-house proprietor, no matter how full her rooms, or how good pay her boarders are, ever finds time to read a story. Even if they did, they'd be so lost in wonder at one of themselves finding time to write a story, that they'd forget the whole plot and point of the thing.
I can't help it, though—I must tell about poor dear Mrs. Perry, even if I run the risk of cook's overdoing the beef, so that Mr. Bluff, who is English, and the best of pay, can't get the rare cut he loves so well. Mrs. Perry's story has run in my head so long, that it has made me forget to take change from the grocer at least once to my knowledge, and even made me lose a good boarder, by showing a room before the bed was made up. They say that poets get things out of their heads by writing them down, and I don't know why boarding-house keepers can't do the same thing.
It's about three months since Mrs. Perry came here to board. I'm very sure about the time, and it was the day I was to pay my quarter's rent, and to-morrow will be quarter-day again; thank the Lord I've got the money ready.
I didn't have the money ready then, though, and the landlord left his temper behind him, instead of a receipt, and I was just having a little cry in my apron, and asking the Lord why it was that a poor lone woman who was working her finger-ends off should have such a hard time, when the door-bell rang.