Newspaper Page Text
V
DOSIA
— OR —
THE TAMING OF A GIRL
BT HENRY GBkVILLS.
Translated from the French, 'or the
“Sunny South,"
BT FROF. OHAS. F. GAILMARD.
VII.
Count Plato Sourof had a sister, the Princess
Sophie Koutsky, as wise, as sensible as himself.
In .11 her life she never had made but one folly,
one imprudence, that of marrying—while seven
teen years old—a sickly husband whom she loved
tenderly, but who died eighteen months after the
wedding.
Before Sophie’s marriage, her god-mother, the
Grand-Duchess N , had told her :
"You have never done any folly yet, dear, but
it seems to me that you want to make up at once
for all your past.”
Sophie only smiled and respectfully kissed the
august lady’s hand. Eight days later, Prince
Koutsky, his fever-worn face shining with a ray
ofhappiness, was leading to church her who was
willing to share his sad life for the short time it
would probably last.
"I could understand such a union,” remarked
an obese artillery general—about as intelligent as
his bombshells—“if Koutsky had any fortune;
but he is pennyless. What can she love in that
sickly man ?”
"She loves sacrifice,” answered him a twenty-
year old enthusiastic young lady.
The General bowed respectfully, but he did not
understand, and he was not the only one.
Sophie took care of her husband to the last,
wrapped him herself in his shroud, wore the
mourning dress of a widow and continued to live
as unostentatiously as before.
What she had sought in marriage was this thirst
of suffering which torments great souls. She had
loved Koutsky because he was ill and doomed
to die soon; she had seen there a good work to do,
by enlivening the last moments of that dying man
with the joys of a peaceable home, of devoted,
indefatigable tenderness. Had her husband lost
his health on any other occasion than when serving
his country she might have been less generous ;
but in this instance it seemed to her that she was
discharging a duty towards her country, as well as
one towards humanity. When she laid aside her
black garments f or some of a lighter shade, she
was asked what she intended to do.
" Live for myself now,’’ she answered.
Consequently, for the last three or four years,
she had been seen in all the places where a lady
can go alone. Thanks to an artless dignity and
good behavior that shielded her, her youth did not
become an impediment to her liberty. In her
family some one had suggested that a chaperon
should be necessary, but the Princess had rejected
the proposition.
“My chaperon should be an old lady whose age
would forcibly command respect—and then I
would have to take care of her, which would be an
impediment to my freedom—or she should be a
young one whom I could induce to go with me
anywhere—and then her protection couldn’t be a
serious one. Then it is useless. Let me be my
rwn guide, and if I ever do anything wrong we
will then speak on that subject.”
This summary way of ««ui»»g majtera
was not approved by all at the beginning, but
Sophie was so prudent that they did not pay any
attention to her innocent fantasies.
Prince Koutsky had left very little to his widow,
but Sophie was wealthy before her marriage, and
she could lead an opulent life. During the sum
mer she used to go often to spend a day at some
of her friends’ in the neighborhood, and occasion
ally she visited her brother at the camp, for she
loved him dearly and he appreciated her better
better than any. Two or three days after Mourief s
indiscretion about his cousin, the beautiful Prin
cess Sophie came to see Count Sourof. She spent
the day with her brother, witnessed the drilling,
ate her dinner with him in his isba, and towards
evening the carriage she used on those occasions
was standing in front of the little cabin when
Mourief happened to pass.
His service had kept him all day in some other
part of the camp, and being not acquainted with
the Princess, he did not know whose carriage was
this. Attracted—maybe less by the fine appear
ance of the splendid horses than by the desire of
knowing their owner—he stopped looking at the
team. At that moment Sourof was coming out
from the isba, leading his sister to the carriage.
The remarkable beauty and charming expression
of the Princess’ face, her noble attitude and ex
quisite distinction struck the young Lieutenant.
Sophie seated herself, and her brother was about
to bid her good-bye, when he perceived Mourief
and signed him to come nearer. Then addressing
his sister :
" Dear Sophie,” said he, “as you are the most
wise of all women you might like to be acquainted
with the most thoughtless of our young braves.—
My friend Lieutenant Pierre Mourief; my sister
Princess Koutsky."
Mourief bowed gracefully. The Princess glanced
at both young men and said :
"Take a ride of a couple of miles with me, gent
lemen; you are not afraid of walking back that
distance.”
The young men accepted and the horses started
at a trot.
he was so—merry—as he terms it, that he told us
all about the pranks of a young lady, badly raised,
whom I think myself to be a charming girl, al
though I dont know her.”
Mourief pouted significantly.
“ Say the truth, now. Is she or is she not
charming ?”
“ Charming in theory, but ’
“Very badly raised ? ’ asked the Princess.
" Horribly
“ Pretty and of a good family?”
“ Undoubtedly ?”
“ It is Dosia Zip tine 1” said the Princess, after
thinking a moment.
The two young men laughed, Pierre bowed in
assent.
“ Madame,” said he, “I acknowlege that your
penetration is truly remarkable. Compared to
you. Zadig was but a school boy.”
“ How could you guess so well?” asked Plato,
“1 did not know that such a girl existed under
the sun.”
“There is but one Dosia in this world,” ans
wered the Princess sentenitously. “Now, gent
lemen, if you wish to be at your camp before the
tattoo, it is time for you to leave me, for you can
not get over ground like these fast trotters of mine.’
Two minutes more and the carriage disappeared
in a cloud of dust, while the young men were
coming back to camp.
“How in the world could Sophie recognize that
young lady as Miss Zaptine ? and how did she know
her ?” said Plato.
“ Oh ! when one has seen her once he never
forgets her. Say, Plato, why did yon never
mention your sister to me ?”
“Doesany one ever speak of what is perfect?”
answered Sourof in that half serious, half sarcast
ic tone which was natural to him. “ She ap
pears, and you are dazzled !”
“ It is true,” answered Pierre, gravely.
After those few words, the young men talked
about horses until they arrived at the camp.
IX.
VIII.
“May I ask you, sir,” said the Princess after a
few complimentary words, “why my brother
assigns you such a—superiority—above your
companions in arms ?”
Pierre smiled.
“Please ask himself, madame,” he answered;
“ if he is willing to tell you, I ratify his judg
ment.”
“ My sister can hear anything,” said Plato, half
proudly, half sarcastically. “ She has been justly
named Sophie. She could have been named Mute
just as well, for she never repeats what she
hears.”
Pierre, still smiling, bowed respectfully.
‘iDoasyou please,” said he to his friend, "for
yon are so wise yourself, that indeed, madame,”
turning to the Princess, “I do not deserve to be
in the company of so much perfection 1 ”
"Tell me what he has done, Plato,” said the
Princess to her brother, “these evasive answers
are made, I suppose, to avoid some terrible con
fession. You are, wrong, sir,” speaking lo Mour
ief “confession purifies, and it also sometimes
sometimes suggests a way to redress a wrong.”
"Ah ! madame, I will never dare to ”
“I will speak for him,’’interrupted Sourof, who
had his own idea. “Think of it, sister, the other
day, in order to enjoy the twenty-third anniver
sary of his birth, Lieutenant Mourief now before
you, got——tipsy ■
“Oh I tipsy,” objected Mourief, “merry, at the
most.” . , _ , _
«* in our company," continued Sourof; "You
well suppose, sister, that since I was there,
was not much of evil in the whole thing. But
Although seemingly almost indifferent, Count
Sourof had an ardent desire to know more about
Dosia Zaptine, and this desire became so intense
that he took advantago ef the first opportunity he
had to absent from the camp, and he went to pay
back to his sister her friendly visit. He found
the Princess sitting in a common wooden chair,
reading attentively a large book, the pages of
which she cut as she went. Although early in
the morning, she was already in full dress.
‘Welcome, brother,’ she said when she saw him.
‘I was thinking of you.’
Plato exchanged a hearty kiss'with his sister—
she didn’t use any rice powder, and her brother
could kiss her without danger of his mustache
turning gray—then he took a seat by her side.
The u holstery of the small parlor was of a pale
green. Few chairs around the walls, an old style
mahogany table in the center of the room, two
arm chairs, a sofa and a greenish looking-glass
as is customary in country-seats around Tsar-
koe-Selo, such was the furniture of this simple res
idence. Still everything there looked serene and
calm. Maybe the Princess was the cause of it.
‘Why dont you take an arm-chair?’ she asked
her brother.
‘And you ?’
* I? You know that I dislike arm-chairs. They
are good for lazy people, or for travelers coming
way from the camp to visit their dear sister. As
for me I am not luxurious.
Mourief took an arm-chair and easily stretching
himself into it he said :
“ I tell you arm-chairs are good, especially after
a ride of fifteen miles. What are you reading
here ?’
• me intelligence, ot Taine.
“In two large 8o volumes ! Oh ! Sophie, you
are a wonder to me. W’hen you will be through,
will you let me have them ?’
‘Here 1’ she said, pushing the first volume across
the table, after which she eontinued to cut the
pages of the one she was reading.
‘Why do you hurry so much in that tedious
work? Nothing is more provoking than this
see-saw of tearing off paper.’
‘It is in order to be through sooner, my big
brother,’ answered Sophie, laughing.
She cut rapidly the remaining pages and put the
book on the table.
‘At last!’ said. ‘Have you breakfasted ?’
‘No. ’
‘Would you have anything ?’ she said.
When you eat your breakfast I will bravely help
you, but I can very well wait.’
The Princess rang a bell, gave some orders,
took a piece of work and came back near Sourof,
whose eyes had followed her all the while.
‘I know you from infancy,’ he said, ‘and still
you are always an enigma for me. Is there ever
any moment that you are idle ?’
‘Yes, she answered, when I am sleeping, and
yet sometimes I dream. But tell me what made
you pay me back my visit so soon ?’
‘Because I like to see you,’ said Plato, playing
with the tassels of kis arm-chair.’
‘And else ?’
The young man looked at her and saw the
shadow of sarcasm in her eyes.
‘You are a sorcerer, Sophie.’
‘W’hat have I guessed, this time ?’
‘Say it yourself. Suppose you make a mistake,
wouldn't it be funny ? I wouldn’t lose that op.
portunity for anything.’
‘You came here to get informations about Dosia
Zaptine.’ I expected that, and have been inquiring.
You can ask_me what you please, my answers are
ready.’
Plato, who was walking up and down the room,
stopped in front of her sister, and looking at her .
‘Do you know that you aro dangerous with your
penetration ?’
I ‘Dangerous? not to you, my wise brother.’
I ‘Well! what will you tell me?’he said, resum-
| ing his seat and his good humor.
‘Ask your questions, I will answer.’
‘Very well. First, who is Dosia Zaptine ?’
‘Fedocia Savitehna Zaptine is the daughter of a
Major General who died five years ago. She has
a large number of sisters ; I could not tell how
many.’
‘Pierre Mourief could.’
‘ Indeed ! I give him credit for that. I did not
expect to find in him the stuff of a mathemat
ician.’
‘Oh!’ said Plato jokingly, ‘he can count as
much as six, when units are petticoats.’
coats.’
‘Let us say then that Dosia has five or six sis
ters. Her mother was born Miss Morloff—a good
old name. The family has wealth, and there is no
male heir. Is that all you wish to know ?’
‘Not quite. Now, second question. Is the
picture that Mourief has made of her exact ?’
‘Please, remember that I dont know what Mr.
Mourief has said, but the portrait must be correct,
since I recognized her by the few words you told
me.’
Sourof bowed approvingly.
‘So she is badly raised,' he said after a short
silence.
‘Very badly. But she is a fine-shot. Her
father taught her how to handle a pistol by shoot
ing at an old cap, during a summer that they
spent together. She was then ten or twelve years
old. The professor is dead, but the old cap rem
ained as well as her fondness for the target. I rem
ember that I have seen her once watering flowers
with that cap, so much perforated that she could
use it as a watering pot.’
Here Plato could not keep grave, and the Prin
cess and her both had a good laugh.
4 What about her instruction ?’ asked Mourief,
when through laughing.
‘Partly good, partly bad. I dont believe her to be
well posted on geography;'she asked me questions
about Baden-Baden that make me think she
located that city in the neighborhood of Niagara
Falls. But I am not certain that she placed Nia
gara in America. Blondin has made her almost
crazy with his feats on the rope. He was her
hero at the time she used a cap for a watering pot.
She dreamed of riding her horse on a rope stretch
ed across the Ladoga lake ; she even asked my
opinion about it. I told her that the main difficulty
would be to induce the horse to do it.’
‘The kicking horse ?’
‘Ah ! you know him I Well, yes, the kicking
horse, or even any other one.’
‘It would be a hard job indeed. Then she gave
it up.’
‘After several unsuccessful trials upon a chalk
line, she regretfully abandoned her dream. In
History she is all right. She has read an im
mense quantity of large books from her father’s
library, but that reading did not modify her ideas
on geography. She writes correctly in four lang
uages, Russian, German, French and English.
She masters the piano very well when she is well
disposed, but she is not always so. She has a
great talent for drawing and is completely ignor
ant of the first elements of arithmetic.’
‘That’s complete,’ said the yeung man, sighing.
But what sort of a woman is her mother, then V
‘The most calm, methodic, serious lady you can
imagine; lean, sickly, melancholic, ignorant as a
fish, and a blind believer in the perfection of for
eign governesses. This explains to a certain ex
tent the defects of Dosia’s education.’
‘What about the other sisters ?’
‘They are all good girls, behave well and some
are even a little prudish. I cannot explain these
anomalies. An elf must have slipped himself in
Dosia’s cradle on the day of her birth. It might
be found yet among her curls or in the folds of her
dress.’
‘And her morals ?’
‘Excellent! They make up for all the rest.’
‘Sourof s eyes were so full of interrogation that
her sister said, smiling :
‘I believe that Mr. Mourief has not told the
exact truth about his cousin. If they quarrelled
together she had certainly the best of him, for she
has a good tongue. Butl say it again, her morals
are excellent. The girl has a generous heart; not
that she would give indiscriminately all that she
possesses, but she has a great heart and would
expose herself if necessary. 1 have seen her, dur
ing an epidemic fever, nurse the sick peasants.
One day, shejumped into the river to save a little
boy from drowning. She swims like a fish, but it
is not a pleasant task to swim in full dress. She
is good, very good, as good as she is sometimes in
tolerable,’ added the Princess, laughing.
‘I believe you. Those natures made out of con
trasts, are equally apt to do right or wrong. But
morally speaking, what else ?’
‘Dosia is honor itself and deserving of her
father.’
Plato had resumed his walking up and down
the room. His features luoked sad and he kept
silent.
‘You know something about her which I do not
know,’ said his sister, looking at him.
‘Yes, and that is what troubles me, for this
child, in spite of her defects, seems to me very
interesting.’ >
Plato then related to his sister the confidences
of Pierre Mourief.
‘I regret that,’ said Sophie, ‘but after all I see
bnt a childish freak in it.’
Y»s but tt»
‘But then,’ said poor Mourief, ‘the Princess will
find me perfectly stupid
The little village was in a great state of excite
ment. First, over the. ruptured engagement,
‘No, my friend; one is not stupid because he and next, over Mr. Crowe’s departure to Europe,
does not understand at a first reading books that j lastly over Winnie’s marriage to faithful Harry
require preparatory studies to be appreciated. Clifford.
1 am confident you will understand each other very
well’
(to be continued.)
First and Last.
at that <&8erently.’
v- —*
Sophie did not answer. Looked on that side
the question was a serious one. Fortunately the
breakfast bell was heard, and they talked of
other things.
When in the evening Plato was ready to leave,
his sister asked him :
‘Would you like to see Dosia ?*
Plato reflected a moment ami answered :
‘Yes. She seems to me like a charming wild
squirrel.’
‘Yery well.’ The regatta will take place in six
weeks; I will invite her—without her mother—
and you will see her in all her candor.’
Plato bade his sister good bye and galloped
towards the camp.
‘What a pity !’ said he to himself, shaking his
head.
‘What a pity!’ he repeated a second time, after
a few minutes.
Astonished himself at the persistency of the same
idea he found out that he was thinking of Dosia
Zaptine.
A few days after this visit, Pierre Mourief
asked his friend:
‘Have you seen your sister lately ?’
‘Yes. Why ?’
Pierre hesitated a moment.
‘She must have a very poor idea of mo. If
she judges by what you told her about Dosia, she
cannot hold my intellect in very high esteem.’
Plato laughed.
‘ It is a mistake,’ he said, ‘sister does not con
demn any one for so little a thing. I dont think
she has a bad opinion of you. Any how, it is
easy for you to ascertain that.’
‘How?’asked Mourief, blushing.
‘By coming with me next Sunday. I promised
to breakfast with her. We will start early in the
morning, so that you will have plenty time to
explain yourself.’
Pierre, delighted, thanked his friend, asked if
the Princess would excuse the dust of the road,
if it would not be impolite, and he was easily sat
isfied, for the replies all agreed with his wishes.
Count Sourof was very particular aud very
prudent about introducing any one to his sister.
Thus far, very few of his comrades had the honor
cf apprroaching Princess Koutsky. In that he was
right; it is not proper that a widow’s house should
be full of young men. When he invited Mourief
to breakfast with his sister, Count Sourof departed
from his usual rigorous practice. Had any one
asked him any explanation it might have em
barrassed him. In fact, Count Sourof expected
his sister’s penetration would get from the young
officer all possible explanation about his elopement
with Dosia.
Dosia had become the theme of all his dreams.
Sunday came, and the young men took a car
riage to go to Tsarkoe-Selo. Sourof was silent.
Mourief had a great desire to speak, but contained
himself the best he could. At last he risked a
question.
‘Is your sister very learned ?’ he said, ‘I am so
ignorant.’
‘If you are ignorant, my dear friend,’ coolly re
plied the young officer, ‘you may depend on my
sister to help you out. She will lend you books,
will never ask you a question, and send you home
with an ardent desire of learning—with a big,
heavy volume under your arm. It is the rule of
the house; I have to submit to it like others.’
Opening one side of his cloak, Sourof uncovered
the first volnme of the Intelligence, wrapped up in
an old French paper.
‘Did she lend you that V asked Mourief eagerly,
•Let me see it.’
‘Certainly. You may even peruse it if you like,
but you would’nt understand a word of it.’
Pierre opened the hook in two or three different
places and gave it back to Sourof with sueh a
piteous expression on kis face that the latter
couldn’t help laughing.
BY DAMON KERB.
The gray sea splashed at their feet Snowy
gulls darted here and there, hovering a moment
over a foam-capped wave as it surged toward the
gray rocks, then starting up to the highest cliff,
in graceful, fantastic evolutions. The sullen
waves seemed to echo, dismally, as if in concert
with Hager's heart:
‘Break, dreak, break!
At the foot of thy crags, O sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is gone
May never come back to me.’
The elder of the two girls paced up and down
the white beach with impatient Bteps. A tall
girl clad in dark gray, as if in unison with the
leaden November day and drab sea lyiDg before
her, with an expressive white face, irregular fea
tures, cold gray eyes, and an abnndanoe of black
hair. A face with power and determination
written in every line and curve. Never beauti
ful, even in the dawn of womanhood, but a
pleasant face to look upon at twenty-five, when
the beautiful faces of eighteen are like faded
rose leaves.
‘Perhaps so Winnie; but I cannot believe that
people keep their happiness when they ruth
lessly trample apon hearts to gain it. Go your
way; if you thing you have gained life-long hap
piness with Earle Crowe’s love. I trust you may
Four years fly swiftly by. Winnie is the hap
py wife of Harry Clifford and fond mother of
two babes. Hagar is still Hagar Dobee, and has
been successful in her school. Earle Crowe is
yet abroad.
The little chnrch in the village presents a fes
tive air to-day. They are decorating it for the
Christmas services. ( AU day long tireless hands
have been making wreaths; it is late now and
the girls have put on their wraps and linger
around the organ listening to Hagar as she
plays.
‘Will you not go with ns, Hagar?’ asks Win
nie, leaning over the organ. ‘It is so lonely for
yon to go home to-night Do come with us,
dear.’
‘ Not to-night, dear; I must be at home to
night,’ Hagar replies, rising and closing the or
gan.
Christmas eve. It is an anniversary to Hagar.
Five years ago she gave her love into the keep
ing of a man who cherished it only six months.
Hagar smiles bitterly as she walks across the
beach toward her home. Five years ago since
he had asked her to be his wife. Where was he
to-night? Was he thinking of that time ? There
is a softer, tenderer feeling in her heart toward
him than there has ever been since that July
day when he stood before her telling of his love
for Winnie. There comes to her mind the
words he had read to her five years ago:
‘Dear as remember'd kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned
On lips that are for others; deep as love.
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
O Death in life, the days that are no more.’
Her mind dwells a moment upon the past with
a bitterness like unto death. It is but a mo-
not be mistaken. You will find that a man who 1 men t, then like the ‘Princess’ she says to herself
can be won from his allegiance on<m, can and j and the gulls:
will be won again. Go, and when Earle Crowe
sees that your pink and white prettiness is evan
escent he will care for you as much as you do
for that wax doll I gave you when you were a
child, Don’t think that I regret it! I would
not marry a man so weak that ’
She paused abruptly put away the outstretch
ed hands of her sister, then went swiftly down
the beach,
‘How cruel and cold she was !’ sobbed Winnie
Dobree, crouching upon the wet sand and look
ing after her sister. ‘I did not believe that Ha
gar would speak so to me.’
The two sisters, Hagar and Winnie Dobree,
were left orphans at an early age, Hagar sixteen,
Winnie ten, and their sole inheritance the cot
tage higher on the beach,half a mile from the lit
tle fishing town. Mr Dobree was an accemplished
scholar, and had instructed Hagar thoroughly in
studies far beyond her years. Since his death
she had taught the village school, hoarding her
hard-earned dollars to send her sister to school.
While Winnie was yet at school, Hagar had met
Mr. Crowe at a Sunday-school picnic, and at his
request he was introduced to her. They were
congenial, and their acquaintance ripened into
friendship, friendship into love. Mr. Crowe was
wealthy, owning the handsomest house in the
village and large landed estates. He had urged
an early marriage bnt Hagar would not consent
until Winnie had left school.
In Hagar Mr. Crowe found everything he had
always desired in a woman, except beauty. He
was a passionate worshipper of beauty, and when
Hagar proudly presented lovely, violet-eved,
golden-haired, apple-blossom-faced Winnie he
felt more acutely than he would have acknowl
edged, Hagar’s want of beauty, Hagaj:_hft<|askr
when others warned him, and it was for Hagar’s
sake that he paid so much attention to Winnie.
He awoke from his delusion at last. He found
that he loved Hagar’s sister infinitely more than
he did Hagar. He could have borne it in silence
if Winnie had not shown her love for him so
plainly. One day he chanced to meet Winnie
on the beach, and before he knew it passionate
words leaped to his lips and he told her of his
love.
Winnie shrank from him—implored him brok
enly to remember Hagar, dear, good Hagar, who
had been so kind to her. He went to Hagar,
told her gently and candidly of his love for Win
nie.
‘I have seen it, Mr. Crowe,’ she had said,
kindly, wondering in her heart if she could
give him up. ‘I know that I cannot make you
happy because—you worship beauty above any
thing else. You are free—free to marry Winnie
or any one else. I trust, however, that you will
prolong the engagement so that you may see if
you love her better than Laura Adair, the latest
comer.’
It was cruel in Hagar to give him that thrust,
but she could not forbear.
This had all been months ago, and Hagar had
gone back to her old life of toil in the school
room, besides the additional burden of seeing
to Winnie’s trousseau. She had said, once
when a dear friend questioned her about it:
‘Faith and unfaith can ne’er be equal powers,
Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all.’
‘It is the little rirt within the lute,
That by and by will make the music mute,
And ever widening, slowly silence all.’ ’
‘The little rift came long ago, dear friend; I
felt it before I knew what it was. There was an
undefinable change—and it has silenced the
music. The lute is worthless now. Poor, dis
carded lute !’ in a tone of self pity. ‘Pray do
not think that I regret it. Perhaps I could have
held him to his allegiance, but as he came un
bidden so he must go. This world is wide and
it will bring me more happiness—more true
happiness than I could have possibly found in
his love.’
The night that happy Winnie knelt before
her, telling her that grand, handsome, faithless
Earl Crowe loved her, and begging her blessing,
she said:
‘Go away, Winnie! people seldom bless peo
ple outside the cloth bindings of modern novels.’
Only to-day she had upbraided Winnie for tak
ing her lover from her. Hagar had not in
tended doing so, but Winnie had thrust her
happiness so obtrusively upon her that she conld
hold her peace no longer. Winnie slowly fol
lowed her sister, wondering if it was a sin for
her to love Earle Crowe, and if Hagar loved him
why did she give him up without a word ?
Above the surging sea and moaning wind there
arose a voice full of touching tenderness. A
passionate, exquisitely sweet voice in that sad
song, ’0, ye tears.’ Great tears rushed to Win
nie’s eyes and she almost hated Mr. Crowe for
having pained Hagar so deeply. Her lover
joined her, and together they listened to Hagar’s
song. It was a revelation to Mr. Crowe. He
felt at once how much he was beloved. Winnie
said, in a slow, deliberate manner:
•I cannot marry yon, Earle; if I did, that song
wonld be forever ringing in my ears like a knell
to all my hopes. I am weak, selfish and silly,
bnt I cannot put myself between Hagar and her
happiness. I like Harry Clifford as well as I do
you,—but-but—he was poor and you are rioh
and’I— Go to Hagar and make your peace. I
cannot have her christen me ‘ Persia m her
heart.’
In vain Mr. Crowe pleaded, Winnie was firm.
At last he went away with a face as dreary as
the November day, leaving Winnie frightened
at what she had done, and wondering what she
should do. Hagar listened in silenoe while
Winnie explained the turn of affairs. It brought
her no happiness, for she knew that Mr. Crowe
loved her sister too well to think of any .one else.
‘Xoris it
Wiser to weep a true occasion lost,
But trim our sails, and let old bygones be.'
A figure looms up in the distance. Hagar does
not see it until it is within a few feet of her.
She stops suddenly and gives a little gasp. It
is Earle Crowe.
‘Have yon no word of welcome for me when I
have come so far to get it?’ he asks, taking her
hands, and looking through the crepuscular
light at her wistfully.
She is mute. Where now is the welcome she
has always pictured herself giving him.
‘You are silent! I deserve it. It is just; but,
oh, Hagar, my first, last and only love, if you
knew how I have suffered, how dearly I have
paid for my folly, yeu would forgive me !’
‘You do not deserve it, Earle,’ she says, with
infinite tenderness in her voice, ‘but I do for
give you, freely, l’ou and I will always be
friends—’
•Friends ! Do yon think that I came over the
sea—to get here upon this night—to ask yc$a to
be my friend ?’ he asks, bitterly.
‘What sent you over the sea ?’ she says, coldly.
‘My self-contempt—the desire to save myself
from your eyes. Hagar, my Hagar, do not send
me back !’ he pleads.
In the dim light of the day he sees her face
and is emboldened to take her in his arms.
‘And so this twain, upon the skirts of Time,
Sit side by side, lull-summ’d in all their powers,
Dispensing harvest, sowing the To-be,
Sell-reverent each aud reverencing each,
Distinct in Individualities,
But like each other ev'n as those who love.’
•v -- — Tnmbstone
General Albert Sidney John
ston in the Cemetery at
New Orleans.
WIIO WROTE IT t
OI
This tribute to the memory of Sidney John
ston has been attributed to Prof. Alexander
Dimetry of New Orleans. If any of our readers
know the autber we wonld be pleased to learn
his name.
‘Behind this mortar is laid for a season Albert
Sidney Johnston, a Ganeral in the army of the
Confederate States who fell at Shiloh, Tenn.,
on the 6 of April 1802.
A man tried in many high offices and critical
enterprises, and found faithful in all. His life
was one long sacrifice of interest to conscience,
and even that life, on a woful Sabbath, did he
yield up as a holocaust at his country’s need.
Not wholly understood was he whilst he lived,
in his death, his greatness stands confessed in a
country’s tears. Iiesolute, moderate, clear of
envy, yet not wanting in that higher ambition
which makes men great and pure. In his honor
impregnable, in his simplicity sublime; no
oountry e’er had a truer son, no cause a nobler
champion, no people a bolder defender, no
principle a purer victim than the dead soldier
who sleeps here. The cause for which he per
ished is lost, the people for whom he fought are
crushed, the hopes in which he trusted are
shattered, the flag he loved guides no more
the charging lines; but his fame consigned to
the keeping of that time, which happily is in
so much the tomb of virtue as its shrine, shall
in years to come fire modest worth to noble ends.
In honor now, our great captain rests. A bereav
ed people mourn him, three commonwealths
proudly claim him, and history shall oherish-
him among those choice spirits, who holding
their conscience nnmixed with blame, have
been in all conjunctures, true to themselves,
their country and their God.
The
Children—Let
Them.
us Cherish
Children grow up—nothing on earth grows
so fast as childen. It was but yesterday, and
that lad was playing with tops, a buoyant boy.
He is a man, and gone now. There is no more
childhood for him or for us. Life has claimed
him. When a beginning is made it is like rav
eling a stocking; stitch by stitch gives way till
all is gone. The house has not a child in it—
there is no more noise in the hall—boys rush
ing pellmell; it very orderly now. There are no
more skates, sleds, balls or strings left scattered
about. Things are neat enough now. There
is no delay for sleepy folks; there is no longer
any task, before you lie down, of looking after
anybody and tucking up the bed clothes.
There are no disputes to settle, nobody to get
off to school, no complaints, importunities for
impossible things, no rips to mend, no finger
o tie up, no faces to be washed, or collars to be
arranged. There was never such peace in the
house! It would sound like mnsic to have some
feet to clatter dowbtke front stairs! Oh for some
childen’s noise! What used to ail us, that we
were hushing their lotAl laugh, checking their
noisy frolic, and reproving their Blamming and
banging the doors?
We wish onr neighbors wonld only lend ns
an nrchin or two to make a little noise in these
premises. A home without children! It is like
a lantern and no candle; a garden and no flow
ers ; a brook and no water gurgling aud gashing
through its channel.
Angelica Kouffman, about the first woman
painter in the world, was one of the original
thirty-six members of the London Boyal Acade
my, whioh was started in 1768.