A GIFT FROM THE DEAD.
The village post office was located in a drug store, and the druggist
had plenty of time to attend to the duties of the office, as well as the
calls of his regular customers.
Hamilton was so healthy a village that it hardly furnished a sufficient
demand for drugs and medicines to support a man of the most moderate
tastes. But, with the addition of his salary as postmaster, Mr. Bolus
was able to maintain a small family in comfort.
“I suppose you want some pills, Andy?” said Mr. Bolus, as our hero
entered the office.
“No, sir,” answered Andy. “I hope I shan’t want any of them for a long
time to come. Louis Schick told me there was something in the office for
mother.”
“So there is--and a large parcel, too.”
He went into the post-office corner and produced a large, thick parcel,
wrapped in a long, yellow envelope.
“Here it is, Andy,” said Mr. Bolus. “I hope it’s something valuable.”
Andy took the package and looked eagerly at the address.
His mother’s name and address were on the envelope, and it seemed to be
postmarked at some town in Pennsylvania.
“Do you know anybody in the place where the package comes from?” asked
the postmaster.
“No,” answered Andy. “That is, I don’t--perhaps mother may. It feels
like a wallet,” added Andy, thoughtfully.
“So it does. I hope, for your mother’s sake, the wallet is full of
money.”
“I am afraid there isn’t much chance of that,” replied Andy. “Well, I’ll
go home and carry it to mother.”
Andy put the parcel in his inside coat pocket and took the nearest way
home.
As he entered the house he did not immediately speak of the parcel, his
thoughts being diverted by his mother’s question:
“Well, Andy, did you see Mr. Starr?”
“Yes, mother, I saw him,” answered Andy, soberly.
“Well, what does he say?” Mrs. Gordon inquired, anxiously.
“Nothing that’s encouraging. Mother, I believe he is one of the meanest
men I ever knew.”
“He must know that your father paid that note.”
“Of course he knows it. A man doesn’t often forget such a thing as that.
At any rate, Mr. Starr isn’t that kind of man.”
“What did he say when you told him the note had been paid?”
“That, of course, we could show the receipt.”
“It was a cunningly laid plot,” said Mrs. Gordon, indignantly. “He kept
back the note, in the hope that your father would mislay the receipt.
Perhaps he was even wicked enough to hope that he would be killed, and
so clear the way for carrying out his fraudulent scheme.”
“I shouldn’t wonder if it were so, mother. I believe the old man would
sell himself for money.”
Then, chancing to think of Mr. Starr’s involuntary ride on one of his
own cows, Andy began to laugh heartily, considerably to the surprise of
his mother.
“I can’t see anything to laugh at, Andy,” she said, wonderingly.
“You would have laughed if you had seen what happened while I was
talking to Mr. Starr.”
And Andy proceeded to give an account of the scene.
Mrs. Gordon smiled, but she was too much impressed by the serious
position in which they were placed to feel as much amusement as Andy.
“I am afraid, Andy,” she said, “that Mr. Starr will deprive us of our
furniture, unless something unexpected turns up in our favor.”
This recalled to Andy’s mind the packet which he had just brought from
the post office.
“That reminds me, mother,” he said, quickly. “I got a letter, or
package, from the post office just now, for you. Perhaps there is
something in it that may help us.”
He drew from his pocket the package and handed it to his mother.
Mrs. Gordon received it with undisguised amazement.
“Erie, Pennsylvania,” she read, looking at the postmark. “I don’t know
anybody there.”
“Open it, mother. Here are the scissors.”
Mrs. Gordon cut the string which helped confine the parcel, and then cut
open the envelope.
“It is your father’s wallet, Andy,” she said, in a voice of strong
emotion, removing the contents.
“Father’s wallet? How can it be sent you from Erie at this late day?”
asked Andy, in surprise equal to his mother’s.
“Here is a note. Perhaps that will tell,” said his mother, drawing from
the envelope a folded sheet of note paper. “I will read it.”
The note was as follows:
“DEAR MADAM: I have to apologize to you for retaining so long in my
possession an article which properly belongs to you, and ought long
ago to have been sent to you. Before explaining the delay, let me
tell you how this wallet came into my possession.
“Like your lamented husband, I was a soldier in the late war. We
belonged to different regiments and different States, but accident
made us acquainted. Toward the close of a great battle I found him
lying upon the ground, bleeding freely from a terrible wound in the
breast. Though nearly gone, he recognized me, and he said, as his
face brightened:
“‘Ramsay, I believe I am dying. Will you do me a favor?’
“‘You have only to ask,’ I said, saddened by the thought that my
friend was about to leave me.
“‘You’ll find a wallet in my pocket. Its contents are important to
my family. Will you take it and send it to my wife?’
“Of course I agreed to do it, and your husband, I have reason to
know, died with a burden lifted from his mind in that conviction.
But before the action was over I, too, was stricken by one of the
enemy’s bullets. My wound was not a dangerous one, but it rendered
me incapable of thought or action. I was sent to the hospital, and
my personal effects were forwarded to my family.
“Well, in course of time I recovered, and, remembering your
husband’s commission, I searched for the wallet--but searched in
vain. I feared it had been taken by some dishonest person. The war
closed and I returned home. I ought to have written to you about
the matter, but I feared to excite vain regrets. Perhaps I decided
wrongly, but I resolved to say nothing about the wallet, since it
seemed to be irretrievably lost.
“Yesterday, however, in examining an old trunk, I, to my great joy,
discovered the long-missing wallet. I have taken the liberty to
look into it, but cannot judge whether the contents, apart from the
money, are of importance. My duty, however, is plain--to forward
you the article at once. I do so, therefore, and beg you to relieve
my anxiety by apprising me as soon as you receive it.
“Once more let me express my regret that there has been so great a
delay, and permit me to subscribe myself your husband’s friend,
“BENJAMIN RAMSAY.”
It is needless to say that both Andy and his mother were deeply
interested in a letter which threw light upon the closing scene in the
life of one so dear to them.
“Andy,” said his mother, “open the wallet. I cannot.”
The sight of it naturally aroused painful recollections in the heart of
the bereaved wife. Andy was not slow in obeying his mother’s
directions.
The first, and most prominent in the list of contents, was a roll of
greenbacks. The bills were of various denominations, and they aggregated
the sum of forty-five dollars.
“Money saved by your poor father from his salary,” said Mrs. Gordon.
“He will be glad that it has come into our hands, mother.”
“Yes; he was always thinking of those he left behind.”
“Here are some papers, too, mother,” said Andy. “They seem to be
receipted bills.”
“I wish,” sighed the widow, “that the receipt from Mr. Starr might be
found among them.”
One by one Andy opened the papers, hoping, but not much expecting, that
the missing receipt might be found.
“Here it is, mother!” he exclaimed at last, triumphantly, flourishing a
slip of paper.
“Let me see it, Andy,” said his mother, hurriedly.
“Don’t you see, mother? Here is his signature--Joshua Starr. I wonder
what the old rascal will say to that?”
“The Lord has listened to my prayer, Andy. He has brought us out of our
trouble.”
“Don’t say anything about it, mother,” said Andy. “I want to see how far
the old swindler will go. I wonder what he will say when we show him the
receipt?”