Newspaper Page Text
Yvl
M
W- i l|
T. L. MITCHELL, Publisher.
Vol. s.— No. 9.]
Wgir-Tt j^Hr~-"*"‘""r a -*» - 1 ■ '■. ■ ‘‘You snnt for me,
papa,” she says in a
2?,. <?>' , A .. low, rich voice, full of
/z A love and happiness.
■ “1 see you have a let-
j ter f rom **° me — an y
" bad news?” she asks,
ijh a little anxiously.
j rg There is no linger-
1 y - ' ' ■-'’ Aq > > n g fondness in her
•sjx -^J^ : ■'■' '■"' . 'S< -/ k ' ,„.. tones as she pro-
'■'• ' x nounces the word
— - ’’’ “home,” for home in New York
PvK/" J means very little to her; her heart
' «k- - <-A is fllted with thoughts of her be-
loved father and Italy!
For Woman’s Work.
A THOUGHT,
As the years have come so the years will go,
Till green mounds cover the friends we know,
And the cheeks that blush and the bright eyes
true.
Lie white and still ’neath the sod and dew.
From the joysand cares of life, set free
By the touch of Death’s strange mystery.
And we all shall solve the problem deep
as we close our eyes in that final sleep.
Clifton S. Wady.
Somerville. Mass.
For Woman’s Work.
HERITAGE.
BY
CLARA SYDNEY WILLIAMSON.
To My Beloved Aunt.
Why do they prate of the blessings of Peace f
—Tbnnyson.
CHAPTER I.
HAVE often wondered, in my
own small way, what train of
thought is in the minds of
those great men—what gives
' rise to those thoughts—when
they write or utter a series of words form
ing only a short sentence, perhaps, which
renders them famous forever.
Wordsworth said: “The child is father
to the man.” Now, while my illustration
which follows may not be strictly and
aptly elegant, still I take advantage of the
privileges we story-writers enjoy, and pro
ceed to my task. Have you not noticed
the child, when he has done something he
knows he ought not to have done, how he
lingers and hesitates to go to his parent
for chastisement? He is afraid; the con
sequences, he thinks, may be uncomforta
ble, to say the least, and so he pauses at
the door, loath to open it; finally he tosses
his head aside and boldly enters though
secretly in fear and trembling.
Here is my friend, the Honorable
Herbert Ray, the great banker of New
York, holding an open letter in his hand,
the contents of which bid him return home
at once, and he is afraid—yes positively
afraid—to send for his daughter, (a “mere
chit of a girl,” you may say, when I tell
you she is only eighteen) and tell her they
must leave Rome at once.
“I must leave immediately, this letter
says; what will Heritage say? Ah, my
little daughter; this is the first time she
has ever been called upon to make any
sacrifices—how will she bear it? She has
been a loving, dutiful daughter, always. It
Is seldom that a father is so blest in a child
as I. But this procrastination will not do;
I must tell her—my peerless onel”
He pauses a moment only, then walks
quickly over to a table and rings a tiny
silver bell. “Tell my daughter to come to
me,” he says to the servant who answers
his summons.
For five years he has been abroad with
his daughter; they traveled constantly for
a year, and at the end of that time they
settled down in Rome, where Heritage
q| l i Vv d
Bl 1 -— \ g|
WOM ANS WORK
. ,
nj
THE PATHWAY OF A GOOD WOMAN CAN BE TRACED BY DEEDS OF KINDNESS.
ATHENS, GEORGIA, SEPTEMBER, 1892.
wished to study. She
was the idolized
jX' '** child of an idola-
trous father—h e r
V ? every wish was to
him a written law
It w a 8 remark
’■* able, the great affec-
tion he bore her; strange, because she had
cost the life of her mother, whom he adored
The voung mother had died, leaving this
beautiful daughter; and how faithfully
Herbert Ray had watched and tended her.
She was now eighteen, and she had two
loves—her father and her art. She had
great genius; she longed to be an artist—
longed with that eagerness which knows
no quelling. To ask was to receive, with
her, and when she begged to be allowed
to study in Rome, her father consented
most willingly.
‘ Os what consequence is my wealth—my
love—if Ido out lavish all upon my
daughter, Heritage?” he would say.
Heritage was his all; the one being on
earth whom he adored, and for whom he
lived and breathed.
His line of ancestry was a long and
noble one, and now this Heritage was the
last of her race. Upon her much depended,
and she realized this fact in its fullest
meaning; she did not sleep upon her op
portunities.
She had a brilliant future before her;
she was destined to become a famous
woman ; all Rome knew her, even now,
and she was but eighteen.
Only a few months previous to the open
ing of our story she had painted a picture
which had received the very highest en
comiums of praise from leading and re
nowned critics.
“The American girl painted this pic
ture,” they said; “she has great genius.”
“Certainly she has genius, and why not?”
said the visiting Americans. They were
proud that she, one of their own country
women, should achieve such triumph.
And her father wept in his pride of her.
“My own little Heritage,” he said; “my
little daughter, I had not thought to see
this day—l had not thought to see my
child possessed of so much talent; I wish
your mother could see you now 1 Ah,
how fervently I wish she had been spared
as lam to enjoy your success; you are
like her, my little one; you are as she was
when we were married.”
“Ah, my father; you are pleased to
flatter me. I can never lock like my
mother; my mirror tells the tiuth, dear
papa!” She laughed a low, rippling,
musical laugh that sounded like liquid dia
monds rushing over seas of pearl.
Then a few months passed away, and Mr.
Ray received this letter, calling him home.
He dreaded telling Heritage, and yet he
must. He heard her footsteps coming
nearer, nearer—she was even now in the
room.
Lo! behold her; she is not what your
fancy painted, is she? She is like the
first breath of the soft caressing spring,
full of hope; her every motion betokens
her eager, glad young life. “She is no
longer a child,” you say. No, but do not
breathe your knowledge, for neither father
nor daughter have realized that yet; do
not inveil the truth to their eyes.
“Not exactly bad news, Heritage; still,
not pleasant by any means, especially to
you, I fear, my darling.” And he glanced
at his daughter furtively. But no slightest
suspicion of the truth came over her; she
merely looked at her father in a question
ing way.
“Well, papa, tell me, at any rate; pleas
ant or unpleasant, as long as I have you
with me I am content; anything else
makes but small difference to me.” and she
kissed her father fondly.
“Ah, my child, what a peerless treasure
you are 1 But come, I must tell you the
news: I have just received this letter
from my lawyer, telling me of important
business affairs that demand my immedi
ate personal attention. I must go to New
York, but, Heritage, I cannot go without
you, what am I to do?”
For a full minute she stood looking out
into the garden beyond; then slowly turn
ing her gaze toward her father, she said :
“You say, papa, that this letter bids you
come home as soon as possible, immedi
ately; in turn you ask what must you do?
My beloved papa, full well 1 know that if
I said, ‘let the business go,’ you would do
as I said, but I know that you must go,
and it would indeed be cruel of me to force
you to gratify my childish whims. I
love Rome, love every spot in it, love my
teachers; lam so happy here, I am loath
to leave. I should be content to spend
the remainder of my life here, singing to
jou, and painting pictures; but oh, papa,
I owe you more than I can ever pay, and
it would ill-behoove me to say nay to any
thing that you might suggest. I shall not
attempt to conceal the fact that this is a
sacrifice, but I do it cheerfully, willingly,
for your sake.”
She kissed him as she spoke. Mr. Ray
looked at his daughter with a great, rever
ent affection in his eyes. Lo, all suddenly
Heritage had grown older; it seemed as
though she had reached out her hand and
plucked the ripe golden years.
He took her in his arms and kUsed her.
“God bless you, my child, and keep you.
You say, Heritage, that you would be con
tent to stay here forever, with ,me; you
cannot mean it—you are too ymiag and
fair to have such selfish fancies regarding
yourself.”
He glanced at her as he spoke, but no
flush rose to the white brow; she looked
calmly down into his eyes—she had not
divined his meaning.
“She has not thought of love or lovers,”
he said to himself; “but it will all come by
and by.” Then, suddenly remembering
himself, he said: “Heritage, I expect we
had better begin to make arrangements for
our departure at once, as time grows
short.”
He loved his daughter so dearly that he
hated to see her make ready for the sacri
fice, and abruptly turned and left the
house.
chapter ii.
It takes much time and
care and thought to arrange
the necessaries of our lives,
and to render our homes and
our loved ones happy and
comfortable; a little touch
here, another there, a bit of
choice bric-a-brac, or a cup
and saucer purchased from some little
out-of-the-way place—all these go to
make up pleasant surroundings; and, as I
said before, it takes time to put all these
; things in order. Yet, on the other hand,
very little time is necessary to disarrange
all this. So Heritage Ray found when she
went to prepare for her homeward journey,
and with the aid of her servants, she was
soon ready.
They intended leaving the next day.
Heritage donned her hat, and went to say
farewell to her beloved teacher and friend,
Signor Lydon.
“You are going, Heritage,” he said, as
he held her hand at parting. “Ah child,
you must come back to me some day;
write to me; I must hear from you when
you are far away in yourold home. Heri
tage, the world must hear from you—your
genius must not die I
“Listen, Heritage, listen dear; there is
but one way to keep your lamp burning,
and that is to work, work, work! Keep
your lamp well trimmed and burnihed,
and study unceasingly. You have only
two loves—your father and your art.
Heritage, let none other fid your thoughts.
The human heart has only room tor one
passion at a time, and, my dnar, you could
notcoi quer love—love would conquer you.
“Bear in mind, Heritage, what 1 say—you
must not love. You have a great future
before you; your name will be banded
down to future generations, as a great
light. Heritage, my dear, your face is
bright and beautiful; all before you now is
sweet as a summer’s day. 1 prav fervei t
ly that it may ever be so. 1 trust that
your bright, glad, eager young heart will
never know bitterness. You must come
back to me again; it is as though a vital
part of my lite were being torn from me,
you leaving me. Farewell, Heritage.
And she went from his presence like one
in a dream. He had said: “You must
not love ;” she pondered over his words;
what did he mean ? She asked herself
over and over again. She had read
romance after romance, her soul was
steeped in poetry, yet she had never given
one thought to love or lovers. No lover
had come to her as yet; no man had
breathed into her ears words of love and
devotion.
Was Lydon wise to glance at the match
with which to kindle the fires of Heritage
Ray’s soul? But the girl walked on,
thinking and wondering about—she hardly
knew what. She was wavering between
her old world and another which she was
soon to enter—but about which, as yet, she
knew nothing.
CHAPTER in.
It was lats When heritage reached the
villa. She shuddered when she realized
that she was coming to that little garden
for the last tinie. “For the last time!”
What a world of sadness in those words,
and how much they can imply I
Mr. Ray was waiting for her‘; he kissed
her lovingly, tenderly. “My sweet chila/*'
he murmured softly. They went in and
partook of the simple tea that had been
prepared for them. When they had fin
ished they went into the music room.
“Sing for me, Heritage, my song-bird,”
he said gently. He was so sorry for her,
he almost hated himself for being the cause
of any unhappiness to her.
She laid her glad young arms about his
neck and put her head on his shoulder.
“Papa, darling, you do love me—do you
not ?”
[continued on fourth page ]
F'"'?" r ll,nwy l
gl|ss=E||ig =
I
|g) ||s=si|[ lei =
KATE GARLAND. Editress
[SO Crs. per Year.