The Japanned Box

-Or-

Old Abraham’s Bequest

by Mary C. Vaughan

An early summer twilight, with the dew-fall and the shadows of that delicious hour, for time. For place, a broad Western prairie partly broken by cultivate fields, with a yellow road wandering tortuously across the expanse, and passing near a low one-story cottage which stood also near the wood which bordered the prairie, and indicated the vicinity of a water-course.

Along this dusty road a pedestrian moved slowly. His form was bent, and there was weariness in his air. He carried a heavy pack of such wares as tempt the tastes of farmer’s wives and daughters.

The woman who inhabited the house answered the peddler’s salutation civilly, and assented to his question if she could give him supper and a night’s lodging.

Then he laid his pack aside and seated himself upon a bench in the porch while she continued her task of preparing her children for their nightly rest.

Suddenly the sharp, impatient voice of the mother smote his ear:

“Lucinda Carter! If you don’t behave yourself I’ll give you a good whipping.”

The old man started up, sat erect, and turned an intent, listening face toward the noisy group. But he did not speak till all had trouped off.

“I heard you call that child Lucindy Carter,” the old man said. “Carter, that there’s my name, and my wife, that’s dead and gone this many a year, her name was Lucindy. See! Twas ’35 she died and I ain’t heard the name of Lucindy Carter since, till this night.”

“That’s our name—Carter,” the woman replied. “Husband’s name, you know—I was a Wiggins myself. He’s away from home; he’s a preacher, and has gone on his circuit.”

As she prepared the meal for her guest, she told him all she knew of her husband’s parentage and… Read More