Newspaper Page Text
Castle and Cabin;
—OR,—
Lord Edwin’s Vow.
A TALE OF ENGLAND AND THE GREAT WEST
girl at his pillow. 'Go away, I don’t want yon
here. Yon have bound me to my bed, and I
will get up, for I have got to ride over the prai
ries to day to buy a herd of cattle at Esquilo’s
ranclie. Let me go !’
After the united strength of the Englishmen
BX C. H. WEBSTEB.
CHAPTER XIV.
A death-bed confession.
Slowly the hours passed by to the watchers
around the bed of the Spaniard; and still he
lay in that death-like stupor, with a face ghast
ly pale, as though the stern signet of the Con
queror was already set upon it.
It was a solemn watch they kept in the lonely
wayside ranche, with the rain tapping at the
window pane, the voice of the wind sobbing all
around, and the giant old cottonwood near by
groaning and creaking against the roof. The
faithful old watch-dog had crept into the cham
ber, begging with a piteous whine to share their
vigil; Maraquita sat near the bed, now and then
bending forward to moisten her master’s pale
lips with a wet cloth; the two Englishmen sat
in the corners of the room, half dczing in their
fatginge, yet near enough to waken in a moment
if occasion called; and the solitary lamp oast a
faint, weird light over all.
Suddenly, as the midnight deepened, the man
upon the pillows started up from his lethargy,
tossed his arms aloft, and began to babble wildly.
Maraquita sprang to her feet, and our travelers
were roused in an instant, and approached the
bed.
A wild glare was in the Spaniard s eye, and he
waved his hand outward with violence, as though
warding off the approach of some unwelcome,
or dreaded visitant.
‘Jtsu he comes ! I will not have him here.
The dead has risen to haunt me. He has come
to drag my soul down to perdition ! But he shall
not have it. I will not go with him—go back-
go back !’ he screamed hoarsly, beating the air
with frantic terror. ‘Go back to your spirit
world again —you have no business here’! What
if I did murder you, and take your gold?
Another man bore the blame, and I mean to live
to spend my gains. Nobody saw, nobody knows
—and dead men ought to tell no tales. Go back!
I mean to cheat the devil; so he needn’t send
you here fur me Ha, ha, you’ll have a bootless
errand, for I’m not going to bear you company !’
and laughing loud and long, he fell back ex
hausted on his pillow.
‘Holy Mary ! how the master raves. The saints
preserve his soul! exclaimed the trembling
Mexic girl, crossing herself in affright, and
looking appealingly toward her companions.
‘What is this he talks about? Some crime he
has committed, or but the babbling of a confused
brain?' asked Sir Hugh, looking upon the ghastly
face before him.
‘Ah, I know not ? replied Maraquita. ‘The
master was a bad man enough, the \ irgin knows;
and he loved gold, but I didn’t think he had
stained his hands in blood. ’Tis but the ravings
of bis delirious brain, senors,’ lor the good girl
would have put as charitable a construction as
possible on the words he uttered, little cause as
she had to cherish kindly feeling towards him.
‘Most probably. We often read of cases where
the mind, disturbed by delirum, conjures up
visions that had no actual counterpart in past
experiences.’
I ——uUt tne youldr^ji^A tq, IjjnfbJldwin at
*’ v YUflr^ is’the most charitable view, cousin;
but we know, too, that sometimes, in the dying
hour, the secrets of the past life are yielded up,
and the heart is bared to our gaze,’ and he cast
a meaning look upon Sir Hugh, who understood
at once the sad allusion to the dying hours of
Lord Edwin’s own father.
‘True, my dear cousin; but let us hope, for
sweet charity's sake, that this man hath commit
ted no such deed whereof he raves; though, in
truth he has a cruel lip and eye, which do not
impress me any too favorably with his goodness.
Hark ! he is about to speak again;' for the Span
iard had started up anew, and sat pointing his
long, white finger into the air while a demoniac
smile curled the ghastly lips under the jetty,
curling moustache.
‘Ha, ha ! you are coming back to your own
place again, and you may tell the fiend who sent
you that I am not ready to come to him—for
young Tarbell bears the suspicion of the crime,
and I am to live these many years yet, to spend
the gold I took from the murdered man’s belt.
‘Murder !' did I say that ? It is an ugly word;
and I mnst keep my lips shut, or they will drag
me to the gibbet,’ and he placed his long, shape
ly fingers over his mouth, and looked around
fearfully, as though some one had overheard
him.
Again Sir Hugh spoke in a low voice to his
cousin, and this time with conviction in his
ones.
•Edwin, God guided us here to-night, to shape
from the man’s raving, the knowledge of Vance
Tarbell’s innocence of a stain npon his good
name, which drove him, a few years ago, an
exile from his former home. You look surprised;
but when we were in the settlement on the’
Platte River, the noble fellow quite won my
friendship; and one day, in a confidential mood
he told the story of his former life. It seems
that a traveling cattle drover was murdered and
robbed in his neighborhood; and as Vance had
been seen conversing with him late that even
ing, and knew of his having a large sum of gold
in his belt, he became the object of suspicion.
But this man probably upon the trail of the
unsuspicious drover, by his own confession
now, is the true criminal; and God has brought
justice to the innocent at last. And I shall feel
it my duty to return to the settlement, and ac
quaint Tarbell with the facts, which are suffi-
cently strong in my mind, and should be in the
eyes of the world, to establish his own inno
cence. How strange that we should be the
mediums of rendering our friend this service!’
‘Yes; and strange that Tarbell should have
spoken at all to you of what most men would
have concealed—the fact that he was under sus
picion.. This, to my mind, is strongest proof
of his innocence,’ replied Lord Edwin.
A half hour went by in silence, for the Span
iard lay quiet, with closed eyes; and since the
midnight had began to slope toward the morn
ing, the storm seemed to abate. Then he grew
restless again, and commenced tossing his arms
and moving uneasy on his bed.
Opening his eyes, he started wildly at the
Mexic girl at his pillow, and cried out sharply:
‘I know you, Hortense ! You too, have come
to mock me now, and ask me what I did with
your baby ! Ha ! she was a sweet young thing
—and she had your eyes; and she smiled in mv
face when I took her from her cradle. Oh it
was a glorious revenge! for I had sworn that
Jerome De Tremain’s child should never sleep
long on your breast; and Roderique De Avila
never forgets a vow of vengence. Go find your
child if you can ! The northern forests are
deep—and the red man loved gold nhaina an ^
h%by trinkets too well to refuse to do my bid
ding. Ha, ha! you will never see De Tremain’s
child again my proud, cold lady 1’
*4oad heavens! what a wholesale villain this
man hts been,’ whispered Sir HBgh, listening
to this 4ew revelation.
girl sobbed forth:
‘Ah, don’t you know me, my master ? I am
Maraquita, your bond-slave, and I have always
been faithful to you and poor mistress. But I
have been so sad since my lady left; and you
have been unkind, and yet I will do all I can
for you now, my poor master, if you will not
drive me away. Ah, my poor Don Roderique!’
and she stroked his silky black locks caressing
ly with her labor-hardened hand.
The action and her words seemed to recall
De Avila's wandering brain for a moment, and
his eye softened.
‘Yes, it is Maraquita—my good girl—my good
girl!’ and he nodded feebly. ‘But you said your
mistress was gone. I don’t remember,’ putting
his hand to his head—‘where is she—Carina ?’
‘Roderique, mio amigo, I am here !
The words came in a low, sweet, but sadly
solemn voice from the doorway; and, turning
around, the group at the bed saw upon the thres
hold a pallid-faced woman, with long masses of
wet, dishevelled black hair streaming from be
neath a gray hood, and down over a cloak of
the order of the Holy Sisters of Charity.
‘Roderique mio amigo, I am here!’ and the
woman who had been wronged, insulted, and
driven with oruel scorn from the man for whom
she had resigned her hope of heaven, was there,
to forgive and pray for him beside his death
bed.
And kneeling there, his hand in hers, and
holding the crucifix to his lips—receiving his
repentant vows in the same Hour in which he
besought the forgiving mercy of Mary the moth
er of God—that woman once maddened at the
failure of mortal love, but with her heart now
filled with the love of the Infinite and ‘the peace
that passeth understanding,’ blessed the guid
ing voice which had whispered, ’Thou art need
ed at Roderiq le De Avila’s side!' and knelt all
the long night through, his hand in hers, and
holding the crucifix to his lips.
And when the fair spring morning dawned,
and the sky shone clear as the eye of Faith, and
the storm had passed, Carma Valladillo, ‘Sister
Agnes' he rceforth, still knelt beside her dead.
CHAPTER.
A STRANGE DISCOVERY.
A month after tin occurrence at the wayside
Texan ranche, the two English travellers again
stood in the settlement upon the banks of the
Platte River; and with a joyful heart, Sir Hugh
Raleigh unfolded to Yance Tarbell the proof of
his clearance from the terrible crime, which,
three years before, had been laid to his charge
‘And now, you may rest secure in the estab
lishment of your innocence, my friend; for af
ter the Spaniard died, I had an interview with
the woman who had loved him so faithfully, and
shared his rude, lawless life, ere he drove her
to seek peace within the convent walls—and she
confessed that she had more than suspected
his connection with the crime at the time of its
occurrence. But her attachment led her to re
fuse betraying him; although she told me that
if he had not confessed it in his last moments,
she should never have rested until she had
sought you out and restored your good name to
you. Thus, you see Tarbell, that Providence
does not allow the guilty to triumph, and the
innocent to always suffer.’
‘God bless you, Sir Hugh ! you have been the
instrument of relieving my mind from the
cence, I could not establish it in the eyes of
the world, and no man can ever conceive what
I endured. But God is good at last; and he has
suffered all to come about in this way, because
he foresaw that it would be a pleasure for me to
hear this story from friendly lips. Now, will
you do one more favor for me, my kind friend—
will you go and tell Lucy and her family ? for
I am weak now, when I should be strong, and
I cannot!’ and the tears rained down Yance Tar-
bell’s bronzed cheek, and his voice trembled
with emotion as he spoke.
‘With all my heart, Yance ! replied Sir Hugh.
‘Edwin and I are going to call in at Mr. Braodt’s
house this evening, and I will then relate the
stcry. And you will allow me now to forestall
events, and cffer you my congratulations on tho
happy future I see before you.’
‘Thanks, Sir Hugh,’ said Tarbell, frankly.
‘Lucy’s uncle said once, that, when I could
prove my innocence, he would give her to me;
and yon may be sure that I shall not be back
ward in claiming the fulfilment of his prom
ise. ’
‘Neither should I be, were I in your stead,’
said the nobleman, smiling; ‘and pray, let the
wedding be celebrated while we are here, that
I may have the privilege of standing grooms
man,’ and he shook the young man’s hand hear
tily
When the evening stars had mounted into the
steel blue sky, and the sweet scent of the soft
early winds of May were on the moist air, the
two noblemen made their appearance at Jacob
Brandt’s cabin, and were warmly welcomed by
Lucy and her aunt, although the old settler was
less cordial in his greeting. The truth was,
that everything had been working against Jacob
Brandt’s plans; his son David and Johanna Tar
bell had openly confessed their attachment, and
his good wife had dared to favor it; while Yance
and Lucy had not thought it their duty to deny
themselves each other's society. So the old man
had grown cross and petulant, and met the vis
itors with a morose air and a few gruff’ words of
greeting.
Sir Hugh, at once saw how matters stood; and
he resolved to open the subject without delay.
Therefore,after the customary salutations and in
quiries had been spoken, he turned to the old
settler, and commenced :
‘I have come hither again, partly to strengthen
old acquaintance, but more to be a service for
my friend Tarbell—a young man you ought to
be proud to call neighbor, let alone the prospect
of a nearer connection, Mr. Brandt,’ and there
was considerable suavity in the speaker’s tone
and manner.
But the old settler was on the alert, and his
quick temper took fire at the first shot.
‘I understand your game, sir,’ he blurted out-
his keen eye measuring Sir Hugh. ‘You’re hand-
in-glove with the man who sent you here, I
know but Yance Tarbell may go to the devil
before he should have my niece, Lucy, and you
may bear him company, ef you’re mindter, for
I hate furriners like pizen : and I hate English
men most of all, ever since Lucy’s father come
deceivin’ my poor, dead sister Annie.’
•Oh uncle Jacob!’
‘Why, Mr. Brandt!’
These exclamations were from the lips of the
girl who was shocked by her uncle’s want of
common courtesy—for all the old man’s good
feelings were blotted out in his heat of passion—
and from Mrs. Brandt, whose kind motherly
face crjmsoned with embarrassment.
But Sir Hugh was too thoroughly a master of
the knowledge of human nature to take offence
at the rudeness of his host; therefore he contin
ued, pleasantly:
‘Well, no matter how much you dislike me,
Mr. Brandt, I only ask that you will not contin
ue to cherish an unfounded prejudice against
the. man I am proud to declare my friend.
you this news, which I c-mot but believe you
will rejoice to hear.’
There was a little silence in that cabin, broken
only by Lucy’s low, but heartfelt ejaculation
joy, and then the girl sat quiet, half faint with
happiness; while her aunt looked glad, and
had held De Avila down upon his bed, the poor turned her beaming face from one to another
and even Jacob Brandt’s faoe wore a surprised,
xpression. At length, he spoke, half sullenly;
half apologetically: . .
‘Ef you’re sure this story is true, sir, and am t
trumped up to help him get Lucy—but you
said you could prove it ?’ .
‘And so I can, Mr. Brandt. A Spaniard, on
his death-bed, confessed the orime, and to fas
tening the suspicion on Vance.’ Ajid then Sir
Hugh rapidly detailed the entire narration.
‘Thank God! I always felt that the poor boy
was innocent And to think what he must have
suffered, with everybody down there in the old
home, believing him guilty!’ said Mrs. Brandt,
with kind motherly tears in her eyes.
Even the old settler was affected, and the
rigid muscles about his mouth quivered, as he
said, huskily:
•Wall, the Lord forgive me! I know I ve been
a stubborn old critter, and was bound to have
my own way, ef *twas a possible thing; but I
can’t be so hard hearted as not to be glad that
this thing's cleared up. But ef I am as set as a
mule, I ain’t the man that’ll back out of his given
word; and I did tell Luov that, when Yance
Tarbell was proved an innocent man, she might
have him, and my agreement to it inter the bar
gain. So, niece Lucy, you needn’t be down
hearted any more; and David, too, ef ye want to
marry Johanna, I’ll not say another word agin
The tall, stalwart young man, who comprised
one of the group in the cabin keeping-room,
was rejoiced as much as his cousin Lucy at the
turn affairs had taken; and Lord Hugh had the
satisfaction of knowing that he had made more
than two hearts happy with his tidings.
I dunuo but I ought to ask yer pardon,
Mister Raleigh,’ said the old man, who, with
his blunt republican tongue, had never given
Sir Hugh his title: ‘for I was purty sassy, I
know,in what I said about furriners. But ye
See I’ve been kept kinder riled up lately; and
been, twenty years ago an’ upward, jest afore
my niece Lucy was born, I swore a solemn vow
that I should allers hate an Englishman, for
one o’them broke the heart of my poor dead-
and-gone sister. She was younger than I by
twelve years or more, and only my half-sister,
bein’ as we had two fathers and but one mother
-for the old lady had married agin; but I loved
little Annie Reese as ef she’d—’
‘Annie Reese! Good God ! what strange dis
covery is this?' and Lord Edwin started from
his seat, pale as death with his emotions; and
then, approaching the old settler, asked exci
tedly, ‘Is your niece Lucy, Annie Reese’s and
Arthur Randolph's child? Did her father leave
this country for England a short time before
her birth, and then, about a year later, did An
nie die of cholera in Louisiana and her child
also ? Tell me quick, for the love ofheaven,
Mr. Brandt!’
‘It’s jest as you’ve said, young man,’ replied
the old settler, in wonder. ‘The plague took
poor Annie off, but the baby lived—though
we thought she’d go too. But who are you—
any relation to him ? for I thought many a time
you was the picter of him; and what have you
come to tell Lucy about her father, after these
twenty years ?’ and his manner was as full of
excitement as the yopng man at his elbow.
•I have come to d«l Lucy that her father did
not forget her or her sweet mother, though he
did a grievous wroDg in wedding, two years
after his return to England, to please his father.
(lCtHU a Dt9U —gbutlb iliuuuol. * Aua
would that my pool father could have lived to
know what now appears—that he was not really
guilty of the sin he believed himself to be—for,
poor Annie Reese, his first lawful wife, must
have passed away before he married the Lady
Amy Herbert. It was that belief which embit-
ered his life, and which drove him to confess
ion upon his death-bed, and led me on this
fong western journey, to fulfil the sacred vow I
made him then—to find Annie and the child he
believed she bore him, if this western country
held them anywhere in its embraces. And now
when I had long given up the search, believing
they both perished nearly twenty years ago of
the pestilence, I find my sister thus ! For, dear
Lucy, you are Lady of Stanhope Castle now;
and I am your brother—and free from the dis
grace which I had believed would be my only
heritage if ever you were found,’ and Lord Ed
win’s arms were clasped about the girl who fell
fainting upon his bosom.
[to be continued.]
turn, the line of travel changed and the high-Btep-
ping grays, wearied with the road, plunged down
the green aisle with a grateful sense of duty ac
complished ana in an instant more they were at
Aunt Jane’s. And there her father left her.
Taking Aunt Jane aside and telling her to be
careful of his darling, and kissing Annie he told
her to forget that scamp; and went back to Wash
ington with a mind at rest. And there we find
her sitting in the poroh with her thoughts far
away.
Aunt Jane had been unusually annoying and
very talkative, constantly alluding to ‘that
scamp Paul.’
‘I can’t see why you can’t go out when you
like,’ said Aunt Jane, wiping her spectacles vig
orously. a few days after the arrival of her pretty
niece, 'You must be lonesome, so I will send
for Grace, she is real sensible, none of your
flirts and she is good company and will keep
your thoughts from that Paul.’ So Grace came,
a pretty lovable girl, step-daughter of Aunt Jane
and a school teacher in the neighboring vil
lage.
Grace Armor and Annie were friends upon
first acquaintance, and very soon deep in each
other’s confidence. The morning my story
opens they had been out upon a long ramble
about the farm, and Annie had returned, heart
sick and homesick, and sat looking citywards,
wishing she could see her own beautiful home
and her city friends. It was beautiful here.
The quaint old-fashioned farm house, crouching
under the drooping magnolia leaves with a
bird-like trust. Against the porch the pink
cheeks of the roses nestled, and every passing
breeze tossed the white lilies, bearing their rich
perfume to her, and whenever the eye turned
from thence it drank in the same swelling,
gleaming landscape of woodland, hill and orch
ard which was brightened by the steel-like flash
of the river, singing seaward; while circling
and limiting the horizon was the distant range
of mountains purpling the horizon dark and
moveless, like the eternal shadows of fate, over
all lay a warm, amber light, in which ‘insects
whirled in play.’
Annie roused herself from her day dream just
as her aunt entered the house and called her
cousin Grace. That young lady was nowhere
visible, so she seated herself and began arrang
ing the ferns and arbutus into dainty wreaths.
‘Arrah, good mornin’ to yees, Miss. Is it a
bite of bread or worruk you’ll give me?’ And
the voice startled Annie, and she sprang to her
feet with a cry.
‘Never moind, Miss; I’ll not be hurtin’ yees,
but will just stand outside the door-step and
take the bite. My feet are sore and my lips are
dhry, and not a friend to say God save ye.’
She saw a man apparently thirty-five years of
age, with bent form and tattered c'othes, with
yellow hair, and a green shade over his eyes,
with unshaved chin; and to wind up his tout
ensemble he carried a stout walking stick and
suspicious looking bundle.
•Come into the kitchen, and I will give you
something,’ said Annie, hesitatingly; for she
knew Aunt Jane was afraid of tramps generally,
and hated Irishmen.
But the kitchen was empty. Grace was sing
ing like a bird in the upper room, and the tramp
did a very strange thing. After peeping through
the vine-mantled window, and ascertaining that
the dreaded aunt was talking at the dairy door
with Phillis, he turned quickly. ‘Annie ?’ How
the tone thrilled her ! and she sprang toward
him with eager grace, her color changing swift
ly with joy, and almost rushed into his arms.
Paulj is it you ? How dare you ? Oh, Paul,
darling, I am so happy !’
And he caught her in his arms, crushing her
in one long embrace, raining kisses upon cheek
— A j..
to find you; so you may thank her, darling.
And she advised me to come disguised. Is it
complete? I think so. Give me a kiss, dear.’
And suddenly changing his tone he seated him
self and continued, just as Aunt Jane entered:
‘Yes, Miss, I’m worn to a nothing wid hunger
and hardship, wid strolling about for a crater
like me, mum, in want of a mouthful of praties;
me that had plenty of work wonst, and a face
as rid on me as turf fire.’ And he pulled out
We will uot attempt to describe the effect of
this letter. The same day Col. Hamilton ar
rived and on learning the state of affairs, was
deeply incensed and much angered with his
sister, and after speaking hiB mind to her he
hurried back to the city, to find his daughter
married and happy. He finally pardoned them
and brought them home. And now any pleas
ant afternoon the Hamilton coach, with its slen
der grays, and it. coachman .in livery, rolls
down the Avenue, containing containing two
lovely, women, Annie and her faithful friend,
Grace, now Mrs. Dr. Gardener.
Aunt Jane has not forgiven or blessed them;
but still sulks, more because she*allowed her
self to be deceived by an ‘Irishman,’ she was
sure he was Irish or he never could have per
sonated one so well and she has not forgiven
Grace for the parts he took in the fraud.
The Baby in the Bas
ket.
I was Mrs. Budget, a poor, lone widow who
kept a boarding-house to make a living.
Poor Isaac, my husband, died soon after we
were married, and I had to pull and work for
myself.
It is no easy job either, for boarders are aw
fully troublesome; there is no pleasing them.
But I am not going to tell you about my board
ers; I want you to know about the baby.
One day, I was reading in a paper about a lady
finding a little baby on the door steps. She took
the little one in and when she looked into the
basket, in which it was brought, she found fif
ty dollas and a piece of paper, on which was
written: ‘Keep baby, and the same amount will
be paid every three months.’
I studied and wondered over this and some
times wished I could find a baby on my door
steps. It would be so nice to have the fifty dol
lars, or even less, every three months; and of
course when it got to be older much more would
be paid.
Then I heard of children being found in the
street, and thinks I to myself: ‘If ever I find a
baby in the street, I am going to carry it home
with me.’
A few days after this, I went to spend the day
with a friend of mine and, as I staid longer than
I intended, I had to hurry home, for it was get
ting dark.
When I got about half way home, I came to
the house where the Van Buren family lived.
The large house was richly furnished, for they
were wealthy people; and I looked inside at the
family sitting in the bright drawing room. It
was dark and all the lamps were lighted, which
made every thing look very bright and pleasant.
I was thinking how happy they were; they
had everything they wanted without keeping a
boarding-house to get it, and then have nothing,
when I stumbled across something. I looked
down and could have screamed with delight,for
right before me on the sidewalk, lay a basket
with a baby in it.
My! I did not wait a minute, but first picked
up the basket and walked away. When I got
out of sight, I looked at the baby. It lay there
with its eyes closed, sleeping peacefully and a
smile was on its face. Then I looked at its dress
which was made beautifully; ail tucked, rutiled
and embroidered, while its little head was cov
ered with a lace cap.
O! how proud I felt I hoped there would be
some money in the basket; but the little one was
so beautiful that I determined to keep it even if
I did not find money with it.
Then I thought about a name for it.
‘I think I will name it Angelina,’ says I, ‘and
"•hon-she crrnwts Ji n , r><?rh«.t>s we will find out
who sfie is; ancf if she is rich she will share her
wealth with me. And then I will take a good
rest, and I will buy a nice black cashmere dress
and a nice little home, and will give nice pres
ents to all poor widows and struggling boarding
house keepers.’ 8
At last I reached home, ran up the steps into
my- room, so I could take a good look at the
baby. I took the little one out and held it up to
the light. My heart sunk, all my bright hopes
Paul Addison’s Masquerade.
BY ROSE GIFFORD.
'Hun, fcttrting up, and grasping the wriat of the
•Hal ST reTe ““®“‘ Vance Tarbell has been cleared of the suspicion
vare you ? again shrieked the dying -that has tarnished his good name for the past
three years; and I came here, to-night, to tell
‘It is really wonderful,’ thought Annt Jane
Ellwood, as she carefully shook the clothes that
were ready for bleaching out upon the shining
grass—smothering without a pang the ruby
clover blossoms that were nodding in the breeze;
‘wonderful why girl3 will love and marry an’
empty-headed fop and pass by such really good
boys as John Drew. But Annie is awful set
and needs watching; but she is as pretty as a
picture,’ and she looked admiringly at a young
girl seated upon the porch seemingly in a deep
reverie.
Hers was a lovely faoe just about to slip into
its twenties, with its fine bloom of youth, its
hint of some perfected charm of refinement,
and pretty tintings of pink and white; eyes of
heaven's own azure and some of its starlight;
golden hair that hung in heavy braids and curled’
tenderly about the blue-veined brow.
She was evidently a lover of nature, for at her
feet was a basket overflowing with wood blos
soms; clusters of fragrant, pink-tinted arbutus,
and soft, green, trailing mosses; while the jaunty
hat was wreathed with ferns and sprays of ar
butus trailed to her dainty feet.
Annie Hamilton’s father was Col. Hamilton,
who had lived for years in Washington City.
He was a very proud man, rejoicing in a family,
he said, that could be traced back to the Nor
man Conquest, and even hinted, in a pompous
way, that there was a stray coronet somewhere
that might at some future time grace Annie’s
fair brow.
But, like all the rest of the sex, Annie went
directly opposite her father’s will and fell in
love with a treasury clerk, ‘Handsome Paul Ad
dison ;’ he was called the ‘Handsome Paul. ’ He
was neither tall nor short, with supple, compact
limbs and rapid, graceful movements; his fea
tures were bold and thin, suiting his figure;
oomplexion colorless, yet clear, healthful, olive;
with hair of brown with lights of gold, and
deep brown eyes. He was sensitive and suscep
tible, impulsively generous—in short he was a
splendid fellow—a favorite with all classes of
men and women, a capital amateur actor and
mimic. What wonder then that Annie loved and
resolved to brave all and marry him. But some
disinterested friends informed the Col. and he
straightway resolved to end it all, Remembering
his sister Jane, who owned a beautiful farm in
Virginia, far from railroad or steamer he wrote
her telling her the oircumstances. He soon re
ceived an answer, and was soon on his way with
Annie weeping by his side.
All through the long June day they travelled
along in silence. It was dreadful for Annie,
for she was ‘tired to death,’ when with a sudden
his handkerchief and wept ‘aisy loike’ till he vani8 ] lei J' £p r » *t was not a real baby, but a large
quite touched Aunt Jane’s heart, and after a wax d® 11 ’ the size ol a baby,
hearty meal, she told him to go to the field. rr *t uj , ow w b a ‘ to think or what to say.
Then Grace sailed in and demanded to know • iiere * “.ad brought home a doll, thinking it
what was the matter, for Annie in vain tried to ? baby left out in the street. To whom did
stifle a laugh and had turned to leave the room. ' 1 |? on ?’ and what was it doing out on theside-
After explanations from her mother, Grace set- wa !“ 7 i , * ou , 1‘. It belonged to some
tied the question by hiring him then and there; X1 °h^child I knew, becar
‘for you know, mother, the hay must be in be
fore rain, and we are short of hands,
, • because the clothes were of
the finest kind.
. . .. 1 Wft3 in P'?“y why I could hardly believe
S‘But he is one of them miserable Irish said her 1 11 was m ®» A" 3, Budget, who had always borne
mother.
‘Whist!'said the tramp; let the young lady
make the ’greement. ‘Aisy, my lady,’he added,
taking out an outlandish pipe and filling it.
‘Don't be afther breaking me heart entirely; for
I’ve seen as foin Irishmen as ever peeled a
peraty, God save ye.’
So it was settled. Pat Dasey became an in
mate of the house. Indeed, he made himself
indispensible to all and to Aunt Jane especially,
who finally promoted him to coachman, and he
was trusted to take the girls to church, and on
pleasure excursions. There was a marked
change in Annie. She was no longer unhappy.
Her laugh was the merriest of all.
‘Girls, you must not be too friendly with Pat,’
a good character and tried to live h6nest if I
| was poor. Why; I had been stealing; you could
not call it anything else; but now it was done I
1 must make the best of it, ’
I put the doll and her basket away until the
next morning,- then I started for the Van Buren
mansion, for I knew the doll belonged in there
I rang the door-bell and a servant came to the
door. Just then a little girl caught sight of
what I carried, and came running to the door
crying: *Oh ! here is my dolly ! my beautiful
dolly:
‘Where did, you find her missus?’ said the
servant. uo
I told the girl that I was passing by, and the
dol] was on the sidewalk; and. as it was late, I
wuio, JWU Uiuot uut uo two mouuiv wiiu idl. a__i_ y».. / . . . — 1
she admonished one day, as they were teaching [ mL 0 - . thinking it was a baby.
Pat croquet. ‘He is a great ignorant Irish
man.’ And she sailed grandly into the house,
heedless of the burst of merriment that floated
after her. And often, if poor auntie could have
seen into a quaint little retreat beyond the or
chard, where a mossy cushion mitigates the
asperity of the rock, beneath the stately forest
trees, she would have seen Dr. Willis Gardener,
her particular aversion, with his arm around the
waist of her daughter Grace, and Tat Dasey,
minus his wig and patches, teaching Annie to fish
from the quiet little brook at their feet. But
Aunt Jane was napping peacefully in her room,
happy in the thought that she had cured Annie
of her love for Paul Addison.
One afternoon Annie came in with a radiant
face, for Paul had told her that to-night must
be the last of his masquerade, for fear of detec
tion; for, like all guilty people, he was ill at
ease, and so she had consented to go that
night.
‘Your father writes me that your old lover
has left Washington, and he is coming for you
next week. Here, you may read the letter. ’ And
Annie read the letter and knew there was no
time to be lost.
Next morning Aunt Jane was informed that
Pat Dasey was missing. This alarmed her, and
he hastily looked to see if her silver was safe.
Then she rushed to the girls’ room. Grace lay
sleeping as sweetly as a child. Where was An
nie? She aroused her daughter, telling her
that‘Pat Dasey has run off; where is Annie?’
Upon the bureau lay a letter, addressed to her
self.
The girl thanked me and said: ‘Flora was
playing with her doll on the sidewalk, when her
uncle, whom she had not seen for sometime ar
rived. She was so delighted to meet him that
she left her doll outside when she went in ! ’
I went home, and how glad I felt, I could not
easily 00 ’ t0 tMnk that 1 had got out of it so
I never built any more air castles about find
ing babies in baskets with a roll of bank notes
for a pillow. But alter all mv
My Dear Aunt:—
You will doubtless be surprised to learn that
your niece has fled. I entered your house dis
guised as ‘Pat Dasey,’ a person you very well
know. The plan was ooncieved by your daughter
and immediately oarriedout by your humble ser
vant. By means unnecessary to mention I so
disguised myself, that I suooeeded in deceiving
you and Annie.(my wife at present.) We shall
remain in this city to receive your blessing and
forgiveness, which 'yon will doubtless grant
us. °
Your affectionate Nephew,
Paul.
daughter’s birthday and the party was for*her
and she had insisted on inviting me because I
had found her pretty Flora and brought ner
back. It was a nice little party. I went earlv
enough to dress the table with flowers I had
carried over a fine stalk of white lillies; thinking
to give them to the little girl. I have alwavf
been fond of children and I love them more
since I buried my own one little daughter—
lovely golden-haired darling that she wai.
1 fo ° nd ^ough very good people—Folks
called Mrs. Van Buren proud and stuck up- but
she was very kind and good to me. And at the
party I met the uncle little Mattie had spoken
ot-buch a nice, pleasant spoken gentleman
about my age We had quite a talk in the
nursery where Mattie took us to see Flora isleeo
in her cnb-and-well I am not the widow
Budget any more, nor do I keep a chean Wrd
ing house and get snubbed and run over byYm-
of niy'dreamland 1 1*Tf * the li.ttto Stage
own? 7 “ and 1 have a sweet baby of my
^ irginia Rosalie.
big holt WhTl’ir. bless you, that was her
—' Here fh« in/® 611 tkat “ r « irl eat a whole
understood the qu^tSa."*®* ““ Witne88 “ he