A Bright Tomorrow by Gilbert Morris Page B

hire a hand to help you.”
    Will Stuart nodded thoughtfully. “Guess you’re right, Marian. He ain’t thinking of this farm.”
    Pete Stuart had listened carefully to the letter. Now he spoke up. “It sounds like Amos has another girl, don’t it?”
    Marian studied the letter and replied slowly, “Amos always did have a soft heart. I reckon he’s just trying to look out for this Rose girl.”
    Owen rose abruptly, and climbed the ladder into the sleeping loft. Seeing him go, Will was thoughtful. “Marian, it was worse than we knew—Lylah running off the way she did.” It was bad enough for her to go, but now we’ve lost Amos for good.” He motioned toward the loft. “Owen—he’ll be the next to leave. We’ll be lucky to keep him until he’s eighteen.”
    â€œI know, Will.” Marian looked out the window, and it seemed she was trying to see through the mountains that separated her from Amos and Lylah. She sighed heavily, then turned away, her face sad. “It’s all in God’s hands.”
    â€œOh, Amos, I’m too tired to go out tonight!”
    Rose had come home, exhaustion evident in every line of her slender figure. She had just managed to wash up when Amos came to remind her that they were going out to eat and then to see a play.
    Amos insisted. “I know you’re tired, Rose, but you don’t have to work tomorrow. And you need to have a little fun.” He finally persuaded her, and knowing that she had no energy left for walking, Amos splurged recklessly on a cab.
    He took her to an inexpensive café, where Rose brightened up, warmed by the good food and pleased by Amos’s constant stream of talk—mostly about his job. As she sipped her tea, he told her with great animation of the Spanish crisis.
    â€œYou see, Rose, the Spaniards have been persecuting the Cuban people. They’ve sent a general named Weyler—‘Butcher Weyler’ he’s called—and he’s slaughtered the poor Cubans by the thousands! Well, my boss, Mr. William Randolph Hearst, has stirred up the American people. He sent the best artist in America to sketch the horrible atrocities, so that Americans can see what’s going on down there.” He fumbled in his pocket, came out with a portion of a newspaper, and showed it to her. “Look at this!”
    Rose stared at the picture of a beautiful, demure, young girl, standing naked and helpless as a rugged Spanish soldier pawed through her clothing. “Why…this is awful!” she cried.
    â€œTerrible! And that’s not the worst of it!” Amos’s eyes glowed with righteous indignation as he recounted the murders of “Butcher Weyler.” “Well…anyway,” he said, “I’m hoping Mr. Hearst will send me to Cuba.”
    Rose was instantly alert. “I’d hate to see you go, Amos. I–I don’t know what I would have done without you.”
    She looked so innocent and vulnerable sitting there that Amos reached over and took her hand. “Oh, Rose, it was nothing. What I really want to do is find you a better job.” He studied her face, seeing her fatigue. “I know what that place is like. You’ve got to get out of there.”
    â€œIt’s hard.” Rose sighed. “Much harder than any work I’ve ever done. All I do is work all day, come home and fall asleep, then get up and start all over again.”
    â€œWell, I want you to forget that blasted factory for tonight.” Amos got to his feet and pulled her up with him. “We’re going to see a show and have a great time. Come on!”
    They left the café and, thirty minutes later, were seated in the Stellar Theater, waiting for the curtain to go up. Rose, who had never seen a play, was as dazzled as Amos had been a few weeks earlier. The play, The Devil’s Disciple, was by an Irishman named Shaw. It was a rousing