The Kentucky Gazette

A STORY FOR MARRIED PEOPLE.

Mattie had a fiery temper, but that was her worst fault. When she married Marsh Hunter, people said:
"She'll make his life a warm business for him."
But Mattie thought differently.
"I'll show them what a triumph love will work. I'll teach them I'm not the vixen I seem."
And so she married him. The wedding was a very pleasant affair—something to look back to as long as they lived. Mattie looked very sweet in her new white Swiss. Her long, jetty curls trembled and shone in the brilliant light; her eyes sparkled like twin stars, and her soft cheeks were mantled in softer blushes as she leaned trustingly on the strong arm of the stalwart man who was to be her guard and guide through life.
The honeymoon was rich with the pleasures of new married life to the humble pair. But the time soon came when the bride must leave the old roof-tree for the untried realities of a home of her own. This was the first sorrow—the trial of leaving home and mother—but it was fleeting, for in the excitement of "setting-up" housekeeping in the white cottage on Squire Blackburn's farm, the little sorrow was drowned.
It was very funny, and Marsh laughed and Mattie laughed, when just they two sat down the little new table and ate the viands prepared by Mattie's own hands.
Everything was new and strangely sweet. Everything went on nicely and Mattie was triumphant. But all things earthly must change. The weather grew warm and the kitchen hot, and one of the hottest days of the season Mattie had the headache and the supper must be ready at five o'clock. Mattie tried to get it ready, but burned her wrist; then she burned the bread. Then she looked at the clock, and saw that it had stopped and looking out at the door she saw Marsh.
"Is supper ready," he asked, and she blurted out something, and they had their first quarrel.
Oh, dear me, the first quarrel! How sorry it made the poor little woman.
But Marsh looked sullen, and went off without kissing her. They never talked that quarrel over, simply because they were both too proud to broach the subject. After that, quarrels came oftener and easier. They did not mean to quarrel, but somehow angry words would come up.
After awhile a little boy came to their household, and it seemed for a month or two a good deal like the well-remembered honeymoon; but Mattie's wretched temper would fly to pieces again, and the happiness was spoiled.
"It's curious we can't get along without so much quarrelling," said Marsh one winter day.
Mattie felt the tears in her eyes in a moment, and her heart softened toward Marsh, and she was about to confess her failings and ask forgiveness, when he continued—
"It's all your hateful temper, Mattie—you know it is."
That was enough, and what was meant to be a reconciliation was simply another quarrel.
"Oh, dear me, it is my wretched temper—I know it is," sobbed Mattie, after Marsh went out, "but he needn't have said so."
"If I only wasn't so blunt," said Marsh to himself with a sigh.
So things went on from bad to worse. Little mistakes were imagined into terrible wrongs.
The neighbors had their fill of gossip about the matter, and finally one day when Marsh was away Mattie thought the thing over.
"I am a wretched little nuisance," she said mentally. "I don't know why I am so, either, but I cannot help it," she said, despairingly, her eyes filling with tears. "I've a great mind to take Neddie and go home, and stay there. My shame couldn't be any greater than it is."
She clasped the baby close in her arms; and the tears fell fast on his curly head.
Her heart seemed bursting within her. But she wrapped the child in her shawl, and with a quickened step she fled the place and hurried across the snow-covered fields to her mother's.
"What's the matter child?" asked her mother, as Mattie, pale and shivering, appeared at the door.
"Don't ask me mother," sobbed the wretched little woman.
"You ain't left home?"
"Yes, mother, forever."
"Don't say that to me. You shall go back this instant," said her mother, thinking of the scandal that was sure to follow such a proceeding by her miserable daughter.
"Oh, don't mother," and Mattie looked the picture of despair.
"Tell me about it, my child," said the mother, melted into tenderness by her look.
Then Mattie, through her tears, told her mother all, and ended with these pitiful words: —
"But, oh, mother, I do love him, the father of my child—I love him, but he doesn't understand me. If he could but understand me!" and she fell sobbing beside her mother's knee.
"Let me advise you, my child," said the mother, softly stroking her daughter's glossy hair. "I've passed through it all, and I'll tell you a secret. There is almost certain to be mistakes come up between husband and wife, and often words are spoken that are regretted a moment afterwards. But, my child, such a word can do no harm, if repented of and a confession made. If you have said anything to wound your husband's feelings, no matter what he may have said to you, go and tell him you are sorry, and I know that he will not only forgive you, but will beg you to forgive him. The hour that follows will be more delightful than the hour of your wedding. Let me tell you of a little instance in my own life."
And her mother told of one of those little family differences that come up between so many worthy couples.
The story ended so pleasantly that it soothed the tempest in the breast of the heart sick daughter.
After the story was done, Mattie still kneeled resting her tired head on her mother's knee. Her mother stroked her glossy hair in silence for a quarter of an hour, but Mattie's thoughts were busy. Suddenly she arose, took her child into her arms and wrapped it close in her shawl, and prepared to go.
"To make my confession," answered Mattie, through her tears.
"Heaven bless you!" said her mother.
When Marsh Hunter came home that night a pretty scene met his view. The fire was burning brightly on the hearth, and before it stood Mattie, dressed in a neat calico wrapper with snowy collars and cuffs, and a scarlet bow of ribbon at her throat. Baby sat on his pallet before the fire, crowing lustily, and beating the floor with a tin rattle.
Supper was on the table, and the tea was steaming on the hearth. Marsh was cold, but such a scene warmed him.
He went straight to the pallet and commenced a romp with the baby. Mattie went and knelt there, too, determined to make her confession, but she did not know how to commence. It was very easy to think of beforehand, but when the time came she was lost. There was an awkward pause; then both spoke at once:
"Mattie, I've been—"
"Marsh, I'm sorry—"
Their eyes met, and each saw the tenderness in those of the other: and all was now told in an instant. Both made their confession.
Marsh opened his arms and Mattie fell sobbing on his breast, while baby looked on in amazement. From that they were the happiest of couples.