Beadle's Dime Novels, No. 11 — page 71: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

THE LIGHT JERSEY WAGON. 69 and comforted by the nourishment, she still farther supplicated that the Almighty would deliver her from the power of her oppressors, and arose, feeling a certainty that in some way help was soon to come. That afternoon she overlooked her slender wardrobe. Noticing that there was some rattling substance in the pocket of an apron, she drew out an old let- ter, one she recognized immediately as having been written by Herman while he was at his home. “Saratoga *—the name she had tried so often and so vainly to remember. An im- pulse seized her, of which she determined to take instant ad- vantage. She would write a letter to his home—to his mother, and throw herself upon their protection. The idea was as suddenly acted upon, the letter written, and sent as cautiously as she could manage it, and now she gave herself time to think, What the result would be, she did not dare imagine. Sometimes she was bewildered with hope; again, fearing that she might be deemed an impostor, her heart sank; but be as it might, she believed that in some way deliverance would come. ° . The third day, early in the morning, she dressed herself in her wonted habit, and, taking a few articles with her, set out on her promised errand. The man at whose shop she rested offered her a chair, remarking that she looked weary. He had seen her before, and doubtless thought her appearance as remarkable as it was unique, so singular was the blending of youth and age in her countenance—the gray hair, the large spectacles, the mimic furrows, and the bright young eyes and lips, full, though not blooming. Trembling, even shivering as one in an ague, she sat near the warm sunlight of an August day, waiting, dreading, hoping—above all, hoping! At the sound of wheels, how wistfully she looked forth! Now it was the baker's cart, now & market-wagon—oh ! after all her longing desires, was she to be doomed to disappointment? Presently a light Jersey wagon, covered, drawu by a handsome gray horse, came by—drove more slowly—backed a little,and stopped. Poor Minerva! her eyes grew dim—she clutched at the counter con- vulsively. That face—the handsome, brown, kindly face, so like the son’s. Oh! she could have shrieked for very joy. It must be for her. “Is there a lady waiting here to go out of town ?” comniclooiolks.comn