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Castle and Cabin;
-OR-
Lord Edwin’s Vow.
A TALE OF ENGLAND AND THE GREAT WEST
BY C. H. WEBSTER.
CHAPTER X.
TH* PAWNEE TILLAGE.
Two weeks later, the young Lord Edwtn Stan
hope awoke to consciousness from the fever
which had followed his injuries; and was sur
prised to find himself lying, weak and emaciat
ed, upon a bed of skins in a wigwam built of
forest sapplings; while a young girl, of appar
ently not more than fifteen summers, and well-
dressed in Indian costume was sitting near him,
weaving some curious wampum embroidery.
For a few moments—too faint yet to even
think contentedly—he lay, and surveyed the
beautiful picture through his half-shut eyelids
the dark girlish face, the rich crimson of the
rounded cheek, the dusky eyes, the jetty braids,
ornamented with a cluster of vivid scarlet blos
soms, the bright boddice 'brdidered with gay
wampum, and the broad bracelets that spanned
her slender, graceful wrists. Then, in almost
childlike wonder, he turned his eyes to the
riohly wrought skins that hung upon the walls
of the wigwam, and to his own bed of the soft
est otter fur, and the small cloth pillow beneath
his head. , , ,, ,
And then he looked up to behold his own
hunting coat hung from a pair of deer-antlers;
while he perceived, for the first time, that he
had on a loose blouse of Indian manufacture.
As he turned upon his couch, his movements
startled the young girl; and, rising, and fling
ing down her embroidery, she darted from the
lodge.
In a few minutes, his cousin Sir Hugh lifted
the skin from the entrance, and came and took
his hand, saying :
•Well, my boy, I’m glad to see a glimpse of re
turning consciousness in your eyes once more.
It looks as though we should get out of these
wilds again. You’ve had a hard siege of it, my
poor fellow!’
‘Where am I ?—and what vision of beauty just
left me?’ asked the youth, faintly, gazingaround
in wonder. ‘I don’t understand this, Hugh.’
‘You are in a Pawnee Indian’s wigwam; and
it was Wind-Flower— the old chief's daughter,
and the young chief Eagle Plume’s sister who
just went out,’ said Sir Hugh; and he went on
to relate to Lord Edwin the accident which had
laid him upon this bed of pain and illness.
Slowly—for his brain was yet weak—the youth
began to remember the events of that morning
wnen the buffalo herd had swept down upon
them like a mountain avalanche; and then he
lifted his arm, from whose shoulder the banda
ges were not yet removed, and recalled the
thought of that moment’s sharp agony when the
cruel horns had pierced him through and pin
ioned him to the earth, ere the mad beast had
bounded away, with a fierce bellow, on his flight
over the prairie.
Then his mind camo back to the present, and
he fell to wishing that his lovely young nurse
would again enter the wigwam.
Perhaps Sir Hugh divined his thoughts; for
he smiled archly, and said :
‘I scarcely know to which we most owe your
life—the kind, protecting hospitality of young
Eagle Plume, and his aged father, or to the care
of the pretty little maid, they so poetically called
‘Wind-Flower’—the sweetest little blossom that
ever bloomed in these far, western wild3. We
must recompense them most handsomely for
their kindness, before we leave, provided we
can overcome their strange Indian pride and
independence. Their conduct has proved, to
my mind, the truth of what the poets have sung,
but too few to believe—that these Western abo
rigines do possess most noble traits of charac
ter. But I must not forget that you are too
weak to talk now, or even to listen—bo I will
leave you to rest, and summon your kind little
nr’-se again to watch over you.’
‘Stay ! One question, cousin Hugh,’ said the
youth, feebly, passing his thin white hand over
his forehead like one striving to recall a memory.
‘I seem to have a dim remembrance of some
dark cloud hanging over me, and of its sudden
scattering. Was it all a dream—that some wo
man tcld me they died, and I am rightful Lord
of Stanhope? My head is weak, and I cannot
remember.’
‘ It is as you have dreamed —or rather it is no
dream, but actual fact, dear Edwin. The dark
cloud has passed; and none may stand between
you and your own honored title and inheritance.
But that occurred full three months ago, Edwin;
and when you are stronger,it will all come back—
I mean the remembrance of our pleasant summer
wanderings through the great West of the New
World. And I hope that you will soon be able to
resume them again with returning strength and
vigor, my dear cousin,’ said Sir Hugh.’
•Oiie question more! Have you heard from
home since I have been lying here ?’ whispered
Edwin
‘Yes, a letter from the Lady Amelia reached
me only a few days since; and they are all in good
health,’ was the reply.
‘And impatient for your return?’ asked the
youth
‘She did not say so, because she knew that 'tis
my pleasure to obey her slightest wish,’ replied
Sir Huqh’ fondly smiling at the vision of his
highbred, beautiful affianced, ‘but I will flat
ter myBelf that we shall be very welcome when
we do set foot in old England again. But this
will never do! I positively forbid another word;
and will send in that young Indian maid who
knows how to be taciturn as the oldest brave of
her tribe to enforce my orders!’ and, turning
from the couch, Sir Hugh left the wigwam.
The youth lay quiet after his cousin left him;
his eyes were fixed upon the door of the lodge,
awaiting the appearance of the lovely vision who
had vanished so hastily.
‘Wild-Flower,’ he murmured, with a smile.
'What a sweet name! The children.of the forest
are poetioal in the appellations they assume.
But there she comes ! -no, that is no light, girl
ish figure,’ and he lay very still, gazing at the
tall form that appeared in the entrance.
It was Eagle Flume, the young Indian ohief,
whom Sir Hugh had met as he emerged from
the lodge; and he now apprpached the couoh
where lay the youth whom he had reoeived as
his guest, and for whose wounds he had mixed
the healing balsams and medioaments of the
forest— for Eagle Plume was humane and skillful
as he was brave.
‘Ah, white brother better—will soon be well
again,’ he said, in a gratified voice. ‘Buffalo
hurt bad to heal; but Wind-Flower good medi
cine squaw, and make you well. Muoh fever—
head like hot fire, and talk wild; but all cool and
right now. Pawnee lodge not bad place to stay
in when sick. But hark! no talk now. Muoh
talk bring fever back. Drink cool draught,
Wine-Flower brings—then sleep.’ and the young
chief stepped aside from the couch to make room
for the girl, who had just entered.
Kneeling beside the patient, Wind-Flower
held to his lips a small cup fashioned from the
shell of a gourd; and he drained the draught
fftqf seemed more delicious than nectar to his
fevered .taste. Lord Edwin, gazing upon her
not express the thoughts that came trooping
his mind; I doubt muoh if that lovely maid
en would have understood them if he had; for
she was but an untaught child of the wilderness,
and had never read or heard the mythical leg
ends of a beautiful Ganymede, who. of old, pre
sented nectared draughts to the Grecian gods.
Yet they two—the youth lyiDg there, and the
maiden coring for him so tenderly, though sep
arated wide as the antipodes in station, were
both possessors of youth and all the graces that
follow in her train; and mayhap, the thread is
even now weaving, over which shall, some day
slip their hearts into one.
When Wind-Flower had administered the cool
ing drink, she made an impressive gesture, as if
to command him to seek sleep, and then turned
away and glided from the tent, followed by the
tall young chief, leaving the youth to silence
and repose.
Outside the wigwam, the pair were joined by
Sir Hugh Raleigh, who was waiting there to gain
Eagle Plume’s opinion fo his patient; and, inter
preting the inquiry on the Englishman’s fea
tures, the Pawnee said:
‘Y'oung white brother soon get strong—and
able to go on big journey again. Fever gOBe —
head cool—wound healing fast. Only little
weak; but that all go soon too.’
‘Thanks, Eagle Plume, I thought this would
be your decision, he seemed so like himself just
now when I saw him. I am still impatient to be
going; for we had planned a trip down to Texas,
when the accident laid us up here. But you
have proved such skillful a doctor and nurse-
both you and your sister—ah ! where has Wind-
Flower vanished ? she would not stay to receive
my thanks,’ for the maiden had darted away
just before the Englishman pronounced her
name.
And Sir Hugh and the tall, handsome brave,
who wore so gracefully his suit of fawn skin with
scarlet leggins, his belt of richly wrought wam
pum, and the tuft of dyed feathers on his scalp-
lock, token of his rank—they two, walking slow
ly together across the circular inclosure that lay
in the center of the Pawnee village, had no
knowledge of the young girl, who with paling
face, disappointed mien, and rapidly beating
heart, had darted away from them in terror of
the Englishman's disclosure—and now lay, pant
ing and tearful, prone upon a bed of moss in the
forest, sobbing out passionately:
‘My medioine.drinks have made him well,and
my fiDgers have bound up his wounds and cool
ed the fever-fire when it burned his white brow
—and now he will go away to his own pale-face
friends and Wind-Flower will be forgotten.’
CHAPTER XI.
A CONVERSATION.
The chill November, with its mourning skies
and leafless trees, had come again; and the
young English nobleman, though fully restored
to health, still lingered at the Pawnee village.
His oousin, Sir Hugh, was constantly urging
their departure;but Lord Edwin seemed strange
ly loth to leave their rude wilderness-home which
seemed to hold him there like enchanted ground.
And, sooth to say, it was indeed enchanted
ground for him; the gray skies of the chill au
tumn were as blue summer ones bending above;
the leafless oaks and poplars were like pnradi-
sal shades; and his whole being was transfigur
ed by the golden sheen of that warm summer
of the heart which engirth him in its glowing
embrace. It was the old drama—old, yet ever
new— whose first scene was being enacted there,
in the Pawnee village of the western wilderness.
One day, Sir Hugh resolved to speak to his
young cousin; for the aspect affairs had assum
ed was beginning to create muoh anxiety in his
heart, and he decided that it was quite time they
had left that locality. And when, that after
noon, he beheld Lord E lwin returning from a
walk in the forest with Wind-Flower, whose eyes
burned with a starry glow and whose cheeks
held a mor6 vivid rtjd than the heart of the most
brilliant piairie rose,' he watched his opportu
nity after they had separated and sought the
desired conversation. Linking his arm in his
cousin's, he drew him away to a secluded nook
among the trees and opened the subjeot.
‘My dear Edwin, lhave long desired to say
to you what has been in my thoughts. We are
lingering too long in these frontier wilds, and
it is high time that we continue our travels. In
the spring, you know, we propose returning
home to England; and we had planned to visit
the more tropical south-west before leaving
America. Shall we not set out immediately ?’
The youth did not hail this proposition with
pleasure, but a look of annoyance crossed his
faoe.
‘I am sure, Sir Hugh, we are enjoying our
selves very well here, then why hurry away ?'
he said, with a boyish petulance, quite unusual
to his customary high-bred courtesy and defer
ence to the desires of others.
‘That is why I have spoken,’ replied his com
panion. ‘I am afraid you are enjoying your
self too tcell, Edwin.’
‘Why, Sir Hugh! explain your somewhat enig
matical words, if you please!' was Edwin’s ex
clamation, a touch of surprise in his tones,
though he flushed a little under his compan
ion's gaze.
‘My dear cousin, you must know that I, as
your nearest relative, have only your best in
terest at heart; therefore listen and do not be
lieve that I mean to be harsh with you,’ said Sir
Hugh, gravely, yet kindly. ‘Edwin, I have be
held with pain your growing attachment for
this young Indian girl, Wind-Flower. To what
will it lead ? is the question I would fain have
you ask yourself, as I have asked myself many
times.’
‘Why should I not like Wind-Flower ?’ broke
forth the youth, impetuously. ‘She saved my
life—she is beautiful—and I—I love her!’
‘My question is only partially answered. You
love her; I have seen that for some time. I can
appreciate your gratitude, but am sorry that
your feelings have assumed a stronger regard.
You confess that you love her, and I know that
you are honorable, as a true English gentleman
always is; but did it never strike you, that this
girl, beautiful and graoeful though she is, is not
the one you ought to ohoose as your future wife.
The lady of Stanhope, both by birth and educa
tion, should be widely different from an Indian
maiden taken from the western wilds of America.
You are young and under the influence of a
spell, whioh travel, experience, and years will
conquer. And you will now see my motive in
desiring to remove you from these influences.
Shall we not set out to-morrow, Oousin Edwin ?’
The youth was silent for a moment, then he
said passionately:
•I cannot leave Wind-Flower, with the thought
of never seeing her again. I know I am young,
but I am old enough to know that I love her
truly and I have sworn that no other shall ever
supplant her in the future. What care I for the
rank and wealth that would operate to part me
from her ? I almost wish I had found new heirs
to Stanhope castle, so I could remain and pass
my life at the side of the beautiful Wind-Flower!’
‘Edwin, I did not think it had gone so far.
You have not spoken to this maiden ?’ asked his
companion, in alarm.
No—if you mean by words: but yes, if looks
and heart language signify anything !’ replied
the youth frankly. . .
Sir Hugh could not help smiling at his im
petuous avowal, or saying, ‘Upon my word.
Lady Amelia and myself will have to come and
take lessons of you in the art of wooing ! Then
he continued more gravely, ‘I am glad you have
not expressed your feelings to Wind-Flower. If
you do love her thus truly and entirely, and
feel confident that you will never change, you
are both young, and there is time enough yet to
wait.’
‘What 1 wait and have some Pawnee brave car
ry her off before me !’ exclaimed Lord Edwin
hotly.
‘Ha ! then the young girl has other lovers ?’
and this thought brought relief to the anxious
Englishman. How do you know ? Some one
must have imparted this information.’
‘There are enough old squaws here who like
to gossip; and I have heard it hinted that the
old chief loves her too well to part with her.
Perhaps they saw that I liked her, and meant to
frighten me away. But I have made up my
mind to confess my love to her old father; and
I hope that he will be sensible of the advantages
it offers, for you know these Indians are giving
up their old prejudices, and in many cases, are
proud of alliances with the pale faces. Didn’t
Pocahontas marry an Englishman, Cousin
Hugh ? and wasn’t she received at our royal
court? And I don’t believe she was half she
as lovely as Wind-Flower; for all the pictures of
her represent her as a dark princess, while
Wind-Flower is no more brunette than many
ladies whom we have seen in society at home.’
‘It is not the question of Wind-Flower’s beau
ty, for I confess myself, that she’s no darker
than many a French or Spanish girl I have met
in Europe; but I am thinking of the suitability
ot the match replied Sir Hugh. ‘My dear cousin,
you are so young yet.’
‘Seventeen last summer, Cousia Hugh, was
the interruption.
‘I know, seventeen; and not to arrive at man’s
estate—in the e^e of the world, I mean begging
your pardon, Edwin—for four years more! ’
went on Sir Hugh, bluntly, yet with that kind
ness of manner which his relative could not take
offence at. ‘And perhaps by that time you will
see things differently; not that I would accuse
you of fickleness, Edwin, but this comes natur
ally to impulsive youth, shedding the experi
ences of the past as the crysalis its covering.’
‘But I know that I shall not change. I tell
you this is no common love 1 bear for Wind
flower. It is not for her beauty, but for her own
self,’ said the youth, proudly. ‘I shall
not forget her! ’ and truly, looking on him then,
his clear blue eye so full of the frank truthful
ness of a noble nature all unsoiled by the influ
ence of the heartless world—his elder compan
ion was forced to admit this conviction to his
own heart.
For some moments Lord Hugh was silent. He
knew not what course to pursue. His young
cousin was chivalrously honorable, and possess
ed not a particle of that worldly pride which
would have so appealed to the prudence of many
no younger in years than he.
Suddenly an idea presented itself. He would
compromise the matter by requesting his cousin
not to bind himself until the lapse of a given
period had tested the strength of his attachment;
and in his dilemma this desired means present
ed itself.
‘Edwin,’ he said, ‘I know I have no absolute
right to extort any promise from you; but
the fact that I have your welfare at my heart
prompts me to ask you to make one. Time and
absence are said to be the best rivals of love
therefore I am going to beg you to put yourself
to a test—no lengthy one, I assure you, for I am
disposed to be very reasonable. Let us now
take up our journey again; and if, by next spring,
) you have not overcome your feelings for Wind
flower but then cherish as strong an attachment
as now, we will return hither, and I will no
longer oppose your speaking to her and asking
the old chief’s consent. There is a young fur-
dealer here, from a settlement a hundred miles
below on tho Platte river, a fine, intelligent
young fellow, who has invited me to visit him;
and I propose accompanying him home, if you
will bear me company. How do you decide,
Edwin ? ’
‘I will go with you—I think I should enjoy the
trip; but mind you Cousin Hugh.jl shall bring
yen-back her?-in the spring, 1 ’
said the youth, with a smiling firmness of tone
in his reply.
(TO BE CONTINUED.')
OUT OF THE SHADOW.
A SKETCH FROM LIFE.
BY NETTIE LOVELESS KIERULFF.
The sunlight fell in golden glory around me,
as I started for a walk in the fresh morning air
through the grounds of my childhood’s home to
contemplate, and probably for the last time, its
dear and almost sacred beauties. My heart was
heavy with loneliness and distress, and passing
under a favorite oak that had sheltered my head
from the midday sun, I gazed around at many
beloved objects that were now the property of
another.
There was the tall, old house where I was born,
with its long verandas and snowy columns;
there, the clinging ivy planted by the fair hands
of my beautiful sister who sleeps so quietly in
the shadow of the lilacs while their blossoms
fall softly on her nnkept grave. There were
the waving poplars, the odor-breathing rose tree,
the winding path, the crystal spring, all so dear
to my heart, but from which I muBt part forever!
I was now very poor. The beloved old home
stead had passed into other hands, and I a girl
of eighteen, must go out into the world orphan
ed, houseless, alone and almost penniless.
I had always loved art, and in palmier days
had studied it assiduously, and now thrown on
my own resources .„r my daily sustenance, I re
solved to win a name and fortune by the gift
God had given me.
I bade a tearful farewell to the loved spot
where I had passed my happy youth, and sum
moning up all my ambitious hopes for the fu
ture, took the noonday train that bore me and
my precious portfolio to the city of A—
My slender purse warned me to select simple
and unpretentious lodgings, where I spent the
night thinking of the brilliant life I would event
ually lead in the great city. I had never known
poverty, was young, ambitious and imaginative,
and believed fimly that the most complete suc
cess would crown my efforts in the artistio world.
Morning however found me somewhat confused
and uncertain how to begin my business.
Glanoing over the paper I noticed the striking
advertisment of a portrait painter, and feeling
that no acquaintance would be so valuable to
me as one of my own profession, I made careful
selections from my portfolio, and with high
hopes started for the studio of the popular artist.
I entered the elegantly furnished apartment
timidly, and although the gentleman met me
with much courtesy, I felt completely crushed
by the impressiveness of my surroundings.
Portraits in massive gilt frames stood on all
sides of the room, reaching almost to the oeiling.
They represented noble looking men, and ele
gantly dressed though rather insipid looking
ladies.
I was only a simple-hearted country girl, and
so ashamed did I feel of the little 18 X 20 studies
I had taken from my collections, that I could at
tnat moment have dropped them into oblivion.
But this emotion, passed. I had studied
art because it was a passion of my soul, and I
felt that an excellent course of instruction had
imparted to my taste just powers of discrimina
tion. Controlling my feeling of reverence for
the looks of the studio, I examined the portraits
carefully, and saw at once that as paintings they
were far from perfect I felt that I could take
the brush and with my own hand add exactness,
truth, delioacy and beauty to the faces that
gazed at me from every side*
The artist gave me all the information I could
desire about his paintings, his evident wish being
to impress me with the idea that they were the
most wonderful productions of the age.
With some degree of pride I at length present
ed my little studies for his inspection and crit
icism, asking at the same time if he thought I
could make it profitable by establishing a stu
dio in the city.
He looked up in astonishment from the pic
tures he was turning carelessly about, transfix
ed me with his keen, little eyes, and then run
ning his -white fingers through his dark hair,
informed me coolly that he thought it utter fol
ly for me to think of such a thing. That artists
of the highest ability could scarcely keep from
starving, and that while my specimens evinced
some little degree of talent, I had been educat
ed in a false school of art—my coloring was all
wrong. He would be glad to have me as a pu
pil, but as to making a living by my art, I had
best take his advice and give up the idea at
once.
‘I cannot take your advice,’ I answered a lit
tle curtly, ‘I shall establish my studio at once,’
and taking my bits of oanvass from the man who
seemed determined to obliterate me from the
art-world, I bowed him good-morning, and went
out into the bright sunlit streets ready to cry
with indignation and disappointment. I had
been told by connoisseurs that my pictures were
creditable studies in art, and now the popular
artist, the man whom it was the fashion to pat
ronize and applaud, had failed to see anything
in them save some very slight indications of tal
ent. I felt his criticism was not just, and re
solved at least to make an effort to share his very
gratifying popularity.
It was quite puzzling to know how to begin,
but at last I settled upon the plan of painting
the portrait of some distinguished man of the
city, intending to put it on exhibition, and in
this way attract the attention of the publio, feel
ing assured if the capricious spirit of favor
should smile upon me, I might secure as much
work as I could wish. So absorbed was I by
this idea that I aid not discover until I reached
my lodgings that I had lost my most valuable
painting. I retraced my steps at once, search
ing and enquiring for it, but to no purpose. It
was only marked in one corner by my simple
name, Genevra. So distressed did I feel for its
loss that I forthwith proceeded to advertise it,
describing my Madonna head, and offering a
reasonable reward for its recovery. This some
what reassured me, and ordering a piece of can
vass, I commenced work on the picture that was
to bring me fame and fortune.
I worked carefully and patiently, copying and
enlarging with scrupulous exactness the photo
graph of Gen. H— conscious that the realiza
tion of my bright hopes depended on the suc
cess of my work. My means grew very small,
forcing me to economize in every expenditure.
But I determined to succeed. One fear assailed
me, and though I often put it aside, it came to
me sometimes, bringing a quick pang. It was
the fear lest my eyes should fail. Often while
I worked, a sudden momentary mist came be
tween me and my canvass, and a lance-like pain
darted through the delicate centres of sight.
But I disregarded the warning. I could not af
ford to be thus admonished to lay aside my
precious project and rest my over taxed visual
organs, still I worked on, correcting, elabora
ting, and retouching. A month passed, and I
still had not added the finishing touches. I la
bored under one disadvantge, I had never seen
Gen. H— and had to depend entirely on the
correctness of the photograph I had purchased,
and the newspaper description of him that I
kept constantly by me.
There was a very exciting political meeting
going on in the City Hall, I learned one morn
ing about eleven o'clock, and that the original
of my picture was one of the principal orators.
We were in the midst of one of our almost trop
ical summers, and at that time of day the sun
was blazing down unmercifully, but I determ
ined that I would 3P6 Gen. H— and judge my
self of the correctness of my work before offer
ing it for public criticism.
I walked hurriedly along the hot and dusty
streets until I reached the Hall which I entered
in a tremor of anxiety. I refrained from look
ing at the speaker's stand for a time, and as I
raised my eyes, the orator poised himself in his
favorite position, and as it was the exact one I
had copied, I was overwhelmed with joy at the
triumph I had achieved. I gazed with delight
upon the animated counterpart of the image I
had worked out so patiently. My happy tears
could hardly be restrained, and I hastened out
into the open air. Then a fervent ‘thank Heav
en !' fell from my lips. With elated steps, I
hurried along I knew not whither, until all of a
sudden it Beemed to grow strangely dark. I
gazed up at the sky, the sunlight fell warmly on
my face, but still I could see but a faint gleam
of light. I gazed down at the pavement, but my
world was enveloped in utter darkness and I
could not distinguish my way. Suddenly the
truth pierced my brain like lightning. The ca
lamity I had refused to be warned of had over
taken me. My over-taxed sight had given way.
I was blind ! Blind and helpless! Great God
eould this be true? Overwhelmed by the enor
mity of my misfortune, I stood there in the al
most deserted streets and prayed, oh ! so earn
estly that if God had taken my sight from me to
let me die. Realizing at length that I must get
home, I asked a passerby to call a hack, and was
soon in my own room. I hoped that the cool
shade of my lodgings, quiet and rest, would re
store my sight, but hour after hour I waited to
no purpose. Evening came on, the lamps were
brought in, but still all was darkness with me.
The maid informed me that a gentleman had
called while I was out, and said he would come
again in the evening as he wished to see me on
particular business. He came. Dismissing my
guide at the parlor door, I entered the room
alone, but realizing how helpless I had become,
I stretched out my hand, whioh was clasped be
tween two cool palms, and a manly, though ten
der voice said sympathetically, ‘Let me lead
you to the sofa. The landlady has j ust told me
of the great misfortune that befell you this morn
ing. I earnestly regret it and hope your sight
may be restored.’
There was something in the touoh of his soft
hand, and the pleasant, sympathetic ring of his
voice that made me trust him, and before I
knew it I was talking quite freely to this stran
ger, whom I might never see, and talking of my
self, of the hopes I had entertained and of my
present helpless condition.
‘I found your picture—the lovely little Ma
donna head,’ he said when I had finished, ‘and
came around mainly to see if I could purchase
it from you. I love art, I have studied for years
in Paris, and paint still occasionally for my own
pleasure and gratification. I consider that lit
tle picture a true gem. I will pay you a hun
dred dollars for it. Will you part with it ?’
A hundred dollars! If I was blind, I would
be independent still with that for a time. I
told him how I felt, accepted his offer and
thanked him earnestly for the purchase. When
leaving, lie asked me if he could come next
morning and examine my portrait of Gen. H—.
Of course I consented-gladly. He oame and he
extolled my pioture until 1 felt almost repaid for
the loss of my eyes. The picture was put on
exhibition and attracted universal admiration.
News reporters, appreciating this, besieged my
humble lodgings and ere long had worked up a
very touching little romance of my youth, pov
erty and misfortune. Kindness and oompli-
ments were bestowed on me by many distin
guished persons, but Prof. Woodville, the pur
chaser of my lost study, became my one dearly
loved and devoted friend. He visited me often
and somehow I always forgot my misfortune in
his presence. He described soenes, faces, and
circumstances so truly to me that I almost be
m
3
lieved I saw the animated pictures his sweet
voice presented to my mind's eye.
He came one morning to read for me as usual,
and when about leaving, mentioned that he
would start for Paris next day. Business called
him there; so he must part from his sweet little
friend. I felt as if some one had asked me to
give up my life, and 1 clasped my trembling
hands over my poor blind eyes !
He sat down by me; he took my hands in his;
he asked me to go to Paris with him; to be his
wife! He loved me and me only.
I was alone; I was helpless; I was blind; I
loved him as my life; I married him; I was hap
py. On reaching Paris a celebrated oculist at
tended me; I began to improve rapidly and one
day my sight was suddenly restored.
It was my expressed wish that my husband’s
face should be the first my sight rested upon,
and the physician, telling me to remove the
screen after he had gone out, went and sent
up my husband.
The room was darkened, I saw dimly at first,
then clearly. The door opened and I stood face
to lace with a middle aged, though well-pre
served gentleman. I was irresolute for a mo
ment, but as I gazed up into the brilliant,
though tender dark eyes, I felt that 1 at last
looked upon the loved face and form of my idol
ized husband!
Tilings We Cannot Do Without.
BY AUNT MARJORY.
Everybody knows that there come certain pe
riods in the year when we begin to reckon up
the things we must have, and the things we can
not do without. It depends a good deal on the
way we look at life what these things are. If we
are in the habit of setting moral responsibilities
of mental culture in the foreground, then the
things which we must have will be those which
will help us toward our aims. If we care most
for outward show, our necessities will be grati
fied in that direction.
I often think, when I look at the young ladies
of a house, that I can tell pretty nearly what
has been the central idea of their home, from
their manner of meeting the world. Amy’s
mother and aunts were notable housekeepers.
Their pantries were always full. Their canned
fruits and pickles and blanc-mange were famous,
and nobody gave such dinner-parties. Amy
will not allow that there is anything more im
portant than the making of good pies and cake.
The husband who gets her will always be sure
of a well-set dinner table when he brings home
a friend.
Lilian was brought up to think dress the main
object of existence. Her father was a hard
working doctor, who generally had a host of
poor patients who never paid their bills; but
her mother was a good manager, and she and the
girls always contrived to be seen at church in
the latest style, with gowns fully trimmed, and
plumes waving grandly from their stately heads.
The doctor grew old fast, was early bald and
grizzled, and his boys went all astray; but tLe
table was a miracle of frugality. Visitors were
seldom asked to the house. There was no mar
gin for the easy grace of hospitality in the
scheme of life which Lilian’s mother had made
her own, no space for reading, for comfort, or
for anything but a desire to make a good ap
pearance in public. So Lilian wears fine clothes,
and will continue to do so while she can com
pass the use of a dollar, and get near a sewing-
machine.
Everything in Clara's house was subordinate
to music and the arts. The mother played, ^nd
the children were taught to look upon singing,
drawing, and musical training as the supreme-
ly-4Riiportant ot#|4a of existeuce. Now, wherever
Clara goes, herunusic goes too, and her friends
are charmed with her sweet playing and her
amiable willingness to oblige them with it.
Unfortunately she has nothing to say, and is
very dull company away from the piano. Her
education has been one-sided.
Not to prolong illustrations, you can easily
see that the home in which, from the first, piety
and charity are held to be most excellent will
produce young people who will know that the
life is more than meat, and the body than rai
ment. We get the things, sooner or later, which
we cannot do without. If friendship, if litera
ture, if society, if Christian influence, seem to
us respectively the greatest attainable good, we
will strain every point and incur severe self-de
nial, but we will have the things we find that
our natures, more than all else, solioit. Boast
as we may of our consistency, our economy, or
our faculty for superintendence, most of us so
arrange our days that the things we care for su
premely come into them, and give what satisfac
tion they can. Let us care for the best things.
Power of a Sweet Voice.
There is no power of love so hard to get and
keep as a kind voice. A kind hand is deaf and
dumb. It may be rough in flesh and blood, yet
do the work of a soft heart, and do it with a
soft touch. But there is no one thing that love
so much needs as a sweet voice to tell what it
means and feels ; and it is hard to get and keep
it in the right tone. One must start in youth,
and be on the watch night and day, at work
and at play, to get and keep a voice that shall
speak at all times the thoughts of a kind heart
But this is the time when a sharp voice is most
apt to be got. You often hear boys and girls
say words at play with a quick, sharp tone, as
if it were the snap of a whip. When one of
them gets vexed you will hear a voice that
sounds as if it were made up of a snarl, a whine,
and a bark. Such a voice often speaks worse
than the heart feels. It shows more ill-will in
the tone than in the words. It is often in mirth
that one gets a voice or a tone that is sharp, and
sticks to him through life, and stirs up ill-will
and grief, and falls like a drop of gall on the
sweet joys at home. Such as these get a sharp
home voice, for use, and keep their best voioe
for those they meet elsewhere, just as they
would save their best cakes and pies for guests,
and all their sour food for their own board. I
would say to all boys and girls, ‘Use your guest
voioe at home. Watch it day by day, as a pearl
of great price, for it will be worth more to yon
in days to oome than the best pearl hid in the
sea. A kind voice is a joy like a lark’s song to
a hearth and home. It is to the heart what
light is to the eye. It is a light that sings as
well as shines. Train it to sweet tones now,
and it will keep in tune through life.’
The Hill of hlfe.
The roads leading over the hill of life are
numerous; some people take the road whioh is
bright and gay—on which flowers of the richest
hue are blooming—but they find, that before
they are half way, the flowers are faded, all is
bleak, they are wearied, and are glad to lie
down and die; others strive to go over the steep
banks whioh lead to fortune and to fame, but
the paths on whioh they walk are bleak and rug
ged; some stop at a deep preoipioe over which
they are nnable to pass; the foothold of others
gives away, and they are hurled to the bottom,
while only a few reaoh the coveted goal; but
the wise man chooses the road whioh goes over
the hill with a gradual slope, on which here and
there are sweet flowers which cheer him on his
way nntil he arrives at his jonrney’s end, where
dwell Peace, Happiness and Contentment,
The bright black-eye, the melting blue ; I
oannot ohoose between the two. '