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Sundown.
BT SHALER G. HILLYER, Jb.
Author of foe Prize Story Mardble Family in foe
Savannah Xewt.
(Copy right reserved.)
CHAPTER VII.
LEVI FLAP?.
I was near Wratbway Bridge. Again, as I
passed through the deep runlet which flowed
not far from the foot of the bridge, and observed
its gloomy surroundings, the black, sluggish
Stream, and the dense biake on either hand, the
same thought that occurred to me when passing
it the first time, came to me again, and made
me shudder,
Juet as I left the bridge, a sound, which had
become quite familiar in the last twenty-four
hours, greeted my ears; it was the wheezing
cough of the white dog I had seen in iront of
the store the evening before. Not yet a day had
elapsed since my passing through Sundown,
but it seemed a week had gone by, so full were
the hours of events, and of new thoughts born
of a new work. And it seemed, too, that I had
heard at intervals, through all these eighteen
hours, the wheezing bark of the croupy dog,
the sound that had come low and regular, and
as if from a great distance. It was a trick of the
imagination, I have no doubt,for I continued to
hear it, at times, for some days after I left the
neighborhood.
When I drove up to the store, there was the
dog in about the same place, and the same po
sition, as when I saw him for the first time.
And there was the humpback, standing in the
same place in the doorway, and looking as if he
had never moved from it since the time I had
first seen him there the day before.
‘Ho ! that’s right, stop and get out,’ he cried
aloud, when he saw that that was my intention.
H^s tones, I noticed, wereshrill and harsh. ‘Yes,
yes,’ he went on, in a friendly way, ‘comein and
be scoiable. A little grog, now, this oool morn
ing, will not be amiss? Hoo ! what, not take
any ? Come, now, just one glass. It shan’t cost
you anything ?’
‘No, sir, I answered bluntly, ‘I did not stop
to get a glass of grog. I have some business
with you.’
‘Business, hi ? But a glass before business
always. I’m too dry to talk business. Come
in,’ he said, leading the way within; ‘if you
won’t drink with me, I'll drink by myself—my
self, oh ! hoo-oo!'
^ Drawing forth a jug from some secret plicebe-
ind the oo.unter as he spoke, he filled to the
rim a medium sized tumbler with its contenls,
which he immediately drank off.
•That's pretty fair rye whiskey,’ he said, wip
ing, with his coat sleeve, his grey mustache,
which, coming forth in bunches, bore a strange
resemblance to tufts of feathers, and but half
concealed his ill-shaped mouth. ‘I keep that
for myser, and a few friends, but they are a few
I tell you —a very few. That,’ pointing to som6
half dozen straggling decanters on a shelf—‘I
keep them for regular customers. Ho, hoo-oo!'
He had a way of ending almost every sen
tence with a succession of exclamations, the last
one being quite a good imitation of the hoot of
an owl; which hooting, aided by his general ap
pearance, kept me constantly reminded of that
ill-omened bird.
‘And who are your regular customers?' I
asked.
‘Hi, hi! but they are not a few, I tell yon ! Hi,
man, everybody likes a glass o’grog, and nearly
all drink it; as for the blacks, ho, hi! all the men
and women will spend their last nickel for it.’
‘But these poor people, half the year, you may
say, have no nickels to spend, how then do they
pay you?'
‘Pay me ?’he shouted, and then a sudden
change came over his evil facs; a look of suspic
ion crept into his black eyes, as they glanoed at
me furtively, and his voice fell to a low tone,
that had in it both distrust and threatening.
‘Pay me?’ he repeated, ‘what is that to you? is
that your butiuess with me?’
‘Well, sir,’ I answered, putting on a bold face,
‘I suppose it is my business, to find out, in a le-
f itimate way, all I can about yours. I suppose,
Ir. Flapp, with the extensive business you are
doing here, it will not trouble you to take up
the note you made to Mr. Greenleaf about three
years ago, and whioh I now have with me. The
principal, I believe, is two hundred and fifty
dollars.'
‘Two hundred and fifty dollars!’ he almost
soreamed, and bending over the oounter, be
opened his ugly jaws with such a grimaoe, as to
make me think he must have been suddenly
seized with an attack of the oolio. ‘Two hun
dred and fifty dollars,’ he repeated; ‘is the man
orazy ? What does he want?-—Money ?—Who
said I have money ? I have no money—to come
to me for money ! oh, hi, ho-oo, ho-oo !’
‘But you have some merchandise here, and
you own this house, I daresay,’ I said oalmly,
failing to be impressed by his little play of fren
zy. ‘My iLstructions are to sue the note at
once, if you do not pay it’
•Yes, yes, he will sue it ! he continued in an
excited manner; ‘he will sell my whiskies, sell
my bouse, sell the shirt from off my back, to get
his two hundred and fifty dollars ! Oh, my!
Yes, sue it; go along quick, and sue it Oh,
hoo-hoo-ooo !’
Having thus delivered himself, he again filled
the glass from the jug, and drank it off. After
this second potation, he grew calmer.
‘You will make nothing by sueingLevi Flapp,’
he said, speaking in a quiet tone, but with a
malicious twinkle in his small eyes. ‘I have
nothing, not a dollar, not a foot of land, nothing
but this liquor I am drinking. The little stock
of goods you see, and the house belong to an
other. O’* ! they are safe ! They are in hands
that will hold ’em. Whose hands, do you say?’
Just then I thought I heard a sound in the
small back room of the store, very similar to that
a man makes when clearing his throat.
•Yes, yes,’ continued the humpback, ‘you
want to know whose whiskey this is, whose
house this is, and who my silent partner in
this little business is ? And why shouldn’t you
know it?’
Again oame the same sound from the back
room, a little louder than before. It had no vis
ible effect, however, on old L9vi.
‘Oh ! / e's a smart one,’ hb went on, stepping
from side to side, as he spoke, with a quick mo
tion. ‘Oh, he.s a sharp one ! he can make mon
ey where nobody else can. But he doesn t
want it; he throws it away; he’s such a good
man, such a tender-hearted man he gives it all
away. He builds churches with it, gives it to
the preacher, feeds and clothes the widow and
the orphan with it.’
‘And the name of this benevolent individual
is ?' I asked, as the man paused for breath.
Before he could answer, the figure of a stout
man nearly filled the small door-way between
the two apartments. He came on into the room
with a quick, energetic step, and with a confi
dent air. His face was red, but whether this
was natural, or was caused by the circumstances
of his appearing, suggesting, as they did, that
he had been a hidden listener to a conversation
not intended for his ears, I could not at first
know. But on his coming near, I observed that
his face was mottled with large, greenish spots,
which called to mind Georgia's description of
Stephen Swetwell. I then knew who it was stood
me, and also that the redness of his coun
tenance was due to the peculiar circumstances
of his appearing.
‘Stephen Swetwell is my name,’ he said, in
troducing himself, ‘and you are Mr. Lockwood,
from Cuthbert, I presume ?’
Upon my answering in the affirmative, he
went on:
‘I have just come from Mrs. Goldie’s where I
learned that yon were in the neigborhood, and
also the particulars of your loss last night. I
was surprised, yes shocked, sir, when informed i
of this daring robbery. Our neighborhood has ^
hitherto borne an excellent character, sir; noth- j
ing of this kind has happened in the Sundown
district since I have known it. I thought I must
as a good citizen, make some effort to apprehend ;
this bold ro 6 ue. With this qbject in view, I
rode over to make inquiries • f Mr. Flapp there.
A stranger could hardly come into the neighbor
hood and he not knew it.’
Then turning towards the old man, he ac
quainted him with the main facts of the robbery
and concluded by asking if he had seen, within
the last day or two. such a person as the one I
had discovered peering at me through the win
dow.
The owlish figure of the hump-back was stand
ing with one side towards us, while Swetwell
was speaking, but on his concluding, hehoppjd
around and fixed his round eyes on mine.
‘Robber was he ? hoo! hoo !’ he exclaimed,
with somi thing of exu.tition, I thought in his
hoot.’ ‘Does he sleep hard now? and does he
carry a pistol ? Oh, my eyes ! to let a man walk
into his room, and carry off his money and his
watch ! oh, hoo, hoo, hoc-oo !’ and the old re
probate evidentiy chuckled as well as hooted
over it.
‘But what does old Levi know about it? he
continued. ‘D'ye think he knows everything?
D'ye think he goes prowling about o’ nights,
seeing what he can see?’
I certainly thought that he might be thus en
gaged at night, as well as othet owls, but I kept
silent, waiting to hear what he would say far
ther.
‘Yes, yes,’ he went on, lowering his voice, and
speaking as if he were communicating some
thing of importance, ‘I saw him-a short man
with a big beard—saw him on the morning .of
yesterday, about sunr.se.’
‘Where wa3 he going ?' asked Swetwell, as if
he were on hot trail of the rogue.
‘I don’t know, as I knew.’
‘Of course not. Did you speak to him ?’
‘No, I never.’
‘Have you heard anything of him since ?’
‘Not a word; no, no, not a word. But he did
it—the man with the shaggy beard. He’s got
your watch and your money. Oh, hoo ! It’s too
bad, now, isn’t it, too bad ?’
It seemed to me, while listening to him, that
the villian, in contideration of my presence,
substituted ‘bad’ for ‘good,’ and that heseoretly
thought I had been lightly served. Was it pos
sible that these two innocents were making fun
of me, I asked myself.
‘Where were you, Mr. Flapp, last night, at
one o’clock?’I asked, turning upon him sud
denly, and looking straight into his black orbs,
which, however, did not quail before my gaze.
‘Where was I ?’ he repeated in his shrillest
tone; ‘where was old Levi at one o’clock last
night? Where should he be but in his bed,
taking his rest after an honest day’s work ? But
where were you, Levi, say Flapp, where? Oh,
my eyes ! Oh, my hoo-hoo ! that’s another good
one! where was I?’
Just then Swetwell walked towards the front
door, and beckoned me to follow him, which 1
did, not that I expected any revelation or sug
gestion from him which would be of service to
me, but because I had lingered there long
enough. We walked on out of the house to my
buggy.
‘Do you suspect old Flapp ?’ he asked in a
whisper, when outside of the door. ‘Your ques
tion to him just now implies that you do.’
•Yes, I do suspect him,’ I answered bluntly.
‘Ah ! I am surprised to hear you say so. Old
Flapp is an odd character, very odd, but I have
always regarded him as perfectly honest. In
fact, he has always been above suspicion in the
neighborhood. It was because I know him to
be both an honest and a shrewd man, that I
came to oonsult with him this morning about
this thing. Oh no ! his oddity has made you
misjudge him, Mr. Lockwood. Flapp is as in-
nooent in this matter as I am myself.’
I thought that very likely, for I felt sure, from
what had occurred in the store, that he was the
old man's silent partner. But I kept silent,
knowing that the facts upon which my suspic
ion were based, were insufficient to veiify
them.
‘I intend to follow up this business,’ contin
ued Swetwell, in a friendly way. ‘Yes, if the
rogue oan be tracked and found, I intend to find
him. For the honor of our neighborhood, I in
tend to do it. It was a great outrage, sir, a great
outrage. But I shall ferret it out. I shall rest
neither day nor night until this unknown
sooundrel has been brought to justice, and your
property restored to you.’
I bad taken my S9at in the buggy, and had
gathered up the reins while he was yet talking.
As a further exhibition of his friendliness, he
held out his hand at parting. I took it because
I could not well do otherwise. It was, as I ex
pected, cold and clammy. As I dropped his
hand I was startled at hearing a whirring rattle,
the frightful warning of the rattle-snake. My
hoisa heard it, and backing his ears—for the
sound was behind us—started off. I looked baok
and there in the doorway, was the owlish figure
of the hump-back, with his pipe in his moath,
and standing in the same position as when I first
saw him—but the mysterious rattle had ceased.
Arriving at the creek a few minutes lat9r, I
got down and washed the hand that Swetwell's
had touched.
This was the Pataula, through which Kate
Goldie had guided me the evening before. It
had fallen several feet, and, though, still with
out its bank, I had no difficulty in passing
through it.
My business carried me far from Sundown,
but, during the remainder of that trip, the last
of my collecting tours for Mr. Greenleaf, my
mind was constantly recurring to the personages
I had met there, and to the strange events of the
night I had passed at Mrs. Goldie’s. And there
was one who came to me at all hours, and in all
circumstances. She had come into my life, and
must henceforth remain in it. Before I knew
Kate Goldie my life had been single, it was now
emphatically dual. All the operations of my
mind, all the impulses of my heart, had come
to be, in some incomprehensible way, closely
connected with the lark-eyed girl at Sundown.
CHAPTER VIII.
AFTER MANY SUNSETS.
Nearly two years have passed, and I am trav
eling, for the second time, towards Sundown.
These years have been very long to me, because
of my looking forward to this same visit. In a
few days after my return to Cuthbert from the
collecting jaunt described in the last chapter, I
received a letter which compelled me to go to a
distant state. The letter was from a sister re
cently widowed. Her husband had left quite a
large estate, but it was found to be somewhat
encumbered. I consented, at my sister’s earn
est solicitation, to administer the estate. Ow
ing to the unmethodical manner in which my
deceased brother-in-law had kept his papers,
and t-o some litigation which arose in the settle
ment of his affairs, I was detained fully a year
longer than I expected to be when I first enter
ed upon these duties.
Through all these weary months my thoughts
were constantly reourring to Sundown—to her
who h».d brought a new hope into my life, and
had given it a lresh impulse, and a new direc
tion. In my dreams, and in my horns of reverie
I again looked upon her fair faoe, and listened
again to the sweet tones of her voice as she talk
ed to me, or sang for me some old seng that car
ried me back to childdood's days. And then I
would look into the depths of her dark eyes, to
see again the earnest expression I had marked
in them, as if she were puzzled with some in
tricate problem.
I would think of her next as engaged in her
new work. Does she keep to it bravely ? or have
the difficulties proved too much for her? And
what of Stephen Swetwell, whose friendly atten
tions and advice, together with his affectation of
piety, had gained the heart of her mother ? Has
he continued his friendly offioes, especially that
one of advancing their money, until they are so
deeply in debt to him that there is no hope of re
lief except by uniting the fortunes of the two
houses ? This was his scheme two years ago, I
well believed; what progress has he made in ac
complishing it ? he may have increased their
indebtedness to him, I thought, but that he
could make any progress in winning the aff-c-
tions of the young lady I could not believe. Yet
wonderful changes sometimes, and sad as they
are wonderful, I reflected, can be wrought in the
space of two years. Wbat these changes were,
whether sad or pleasant, whether they were
to fill me with sorrow and disappointment, or
would lead me to still cherish the fond hope
which had blessed me through so many other
wise dreary months, would presently be reveal
ed, for I was now nearing the Pataula.
On reaching the creek, my eyes turned to
wards the spot where I first beheld Katie Goldie.
Ju‘t then the rumbling of thunder overhead
made me look upward, when I discovered that a
heavy cloud had gathered, and was threatening
an immediate shower. Ha! I could not but
ask myself, is this ominous of evil? But I in
stantly banished the suggestion as an unworthy
yielding to superstition. Another peal of thun
der, nearer than before, and a few drops of rain,
warned me to quicken my pace, if I would reach
a place of shelter before the shower came on.
Patting my horse into a canter—I had come
out on horse-back—I soon came in sight of the
old mill house, j ust beyond which was Sundown.
As the rain was begianing to come down in
earnest, I turned aside to the deserted mill
where I found shelter for my horse as well as
for myself, in an open shed built against that
side of the building next to the creek.
I had dismounted, and was holding my horse
by the bridle, when I heard through the clatter
of the rain on the roof, a familiar sound; it was
the croupy bark of a dog. The croup is not
fatal to dogs I thought, reflecting on the time
tnat had elapsed since hearing that wheezy bark
for the first time. As I listened the sound seem
ed to draw nearer, then I heard a sharp voice
speak to the dog, after which the barking seemed
to recede.
From where I stood I had a view of a part of
the main apartment of the ruin through a small
rent in the wall directly in front of me. While
looking through this opening I saw a well re
membered figure enter the house from the op
posite side; it was the owl-like form of Levi
Flapp. After closing the door behind him, he
came hopping iD, peering around the room as
he did so, and even glancing up at the rafters to
see that no one vai there to observe him. Sat
isfied that he was alone he began to jabber to
himself, at the same time gesticulating violently.
His jabbering, all of which was unintelligible,
was interspersed with his peouliar hoot, and
this was always accompanied by a clashing of
his hands together and then tearing them apart.
While engaged in these antics I saw-omething
fall from him to the ground. It came, appar
ently, from beneath his long, shabby ooat— the
same, I had no doubt, lie had on when I first
saw him. The object appeared to be a leath
ern bag, and well filled; and it fell upoD the
ground with a metallic clink. It had no sconer
struck the ground, however, than the owl, catch
ing it up in his talons, hurried with it into
another apartment, the entrance to which was
close by the spot where he had been performing.
Some minutes elapsed before I saw or heard any
thing more of him; when he re-appeared, he
came with a bound, and almost immediately
disappeared by the same door through which he
had entered.
I took a keen interest in what I had just wit
nessed, for I believed I now knew the secret
place where the old villain stored his ill-gjtten
gains, and in this knowledge, I thought, I saw a
chance, a meagre one it must be conf ssed, of
some day recovering my long lost watch.
[to be continued ]
BABY MARI©*-
Clustering rings of golden hair,
Shading temples purely fair,
Eyes of liquid, dancing blue.
Stars in brightness, heaven in hue
Sweet and lovely Marion.
Cheeks like morning's freshest rose
Lips twin cherries that disclose
When they're parted, pearls within
Dimples denting cheek and chin,
Pure and dainty Marion.
Tin,ypinkish, sea-shell ear,
Listening mamma’s voice to hear.
Taper fingers, dimpled am,
Swanlike t&rote, and graceful form,
Petite, fairy Marion.
Swiftly pattering little feet,
Hastening papa's step to greet.
Upraised arms, and happy face,
Springing to his close embrace,
Tripping, flitting Marion.
Father kindest, keep from stain
This pure lilly; when life's vain
Dream is over,on heaven’s plain
Let this hud bloom evermore.
On the eternal river's shore
Let us dwell with Marion.
Sojourner Truth.
A Woman More than a Hundred Years Old
Addressing a New York Audience.
Sojourner Truth lectured last evening in the
Cooper Institute. Legal records show that she
is at least 100 years old and it is said that she
is much older. She was dressed in a plain al
paca dress, white cape and a white lace cap and
old-fashioned bonnet covering her head, from
beneath which her gray locks shown. She sat
a few minutes on the platform, slowly untying
her bonnet strings, inaudibly mumbling to her
self. When she began to speak every one was
astonished to hear a strong voioe, as loud as
that of a man. She said: ‘I used to open my
meetings with prayer, and when I couldn't get
anybody to do that for me, I did it myself.’
An aged lady stepped in front of the platform
and prayed.
‘Now,’ continued Sojourner, ‘did you all hear
that God blesses the women ? They are first in
everything. Why, was not the mother of Je
sus? and that being so, isn’t he going to shower
down blessing on their hiais ? I do not mean
by that that you men are to be left out in the
cold. Oh, no! for what is good for the women
is good for the men. Now look at me. Accord
ing to all reports, I must be over 100 years old.
The fact is, I don’t know when I was born; some
times I don’t think I ever was born. But this I
do know, that I was born a slave in the State of
New York, and at the age of TO I was set free.
It’s singular how the Lord takes care of me. I
never had any learning. At the age of TO I didn’t
know who God wts. White people told me he
sat in the sky, and I kept looking up there to
see him. But I never found him until he come
right into my heait.
‘Now, what I want to tell you to-night is this:
There are awful times cornin’. God has given
me the foresight to see it. These advent people
say that when Jesus comis again, he will be fly
ing in the air. The Bible sajs that he is cornin’
like a thief in the night, an’ you all know that
thieves don't fly in the air. I warn you all to
be prepared, for he is cornin’ jist as the Bible
says, and, honies, what I want to say to you, is
have your lamps trimmed an’ burnin’ bright.
The awful time is near at han’. ’
Graveyard Poetry.
[From the Note Book of a Boston Gravestone
Gutter. ]
A father:
Weep, stranger, for a father spilled
From a stage ccach, and thereby killed.
His name waa John Sites a maker of sacangers,
Slain with three other outside passengers.
Our Willie:
Our dear little Willie,
As fair as a lily;
God for him sent,
And so we let him went.
Jean’s Winter
in the City.
BY STEPHEN BRENT.
CHAPTER VI.
Miss Delare’s drawing master was an old
Frenchman, with grey hair, sharp, kindly little
black eyes, and the politeness that is the birth
right of his countrymen. Monsieur Ferrial was
not a genius nor even very highly talented; but
he was devoted to his art, and by painting and
teaching, managed to make enough to live on,
and have some to spare. He was delighted with
his new pupil, and before she had taken a half
dozen lessons, Jaan was his favorite.
•You have a fine artistic talent Mademoiselle
Jean,’ be sa ; d one afternoon, noting and admir
ing her skill, and swiftness in drawing.
•Jean looked up, an eager light in her eyes.
‘Do you really think so Monsieur i ’
‘I really do Mademoiselle. See how delicately
you have caught the right expression.’
It was only a baby head in colored crayons;
but the innocence, and parity, of the little face,
with its laughing eyes, and softly curved mouth,
was true to nature. Jean looked thoughtfully
at her work.
T never would make an artist would I ? ’ ques-
tioningly.
‘By close application, yes, you would make a
good artist. Mind not a great one. That is re
served for genius.’
‘I suppose you mean, that I would make a
good imitator, but not a creator. Is it not so? ’
‘Yes that is what I mean, but it is something
to be that, Mademoiselle Jean, and then you
have a vein of originality that would distinguish
your work, and make it more thoroughly your
own.’
Monsieur Feriial’s studio was in the third
story of a large building, on one of the public
thoroughfares. Generally Jean came in the car
riage which was sent back after her when
her lesson was over. In the weeks that
had passed since she came to New York, society
hadmaie her oaeof its pets. She enjoyed herself
thoroughly; but was not spoiled by adulation.
She gained a clear insight into human nature,
and made a few friends. Chief among them was
Mr. and Mrs. Carrol, Lennox Holmes, and Mr.
Palmer. Despite his cynical bitterness, and dis
trust of women, Palmer was her best friend.
Neither of them could hardly tell how it came
about. Mr. Palmer seemed to oonsider it his
duty to act ihs part of a guardian toward Jean,
and she very naturally acoepted him as pro-
teotor and friend. They had long, delightful
conversations about books and pictures, and
Jean told him of her own early life, spent alto
gether with artists, wandering from place to
place, in Gypsy fashion.
It wts a bitter, cold afternoon, gray and sun
less; with a few snowflakes floating in the air.
Monsieur had but three pupils, a boy, a sour
looking woman and Jean. She never failed, but
came through storm and sunshine, prevoking
Della’s ridicule, by her devotion to study.
For awhile Monsieur Ferrial gave undivided
attention to his other pupi's, then placed his
easel, where he could overlook Jean's work, and
commenced talking.
‘A very disagreeable afternoon Mademoiselle.
I hardly thought you would come.’
‘I • ft : e never missed yet, have I Monsieur?’
‘No, you have always been punctual, and in
that you are unlike other young ladies. They
forget engagements, such weatheres this, unless
it is to a ball, or the theatre, ,and by the by, I saw
you at the theatre last evening Mademoiselle
Jean.’
‘Did you?’
‘Yes, and tell me now, how did you like
Madame L’s — acting?’
‘I liked it very much.’
‘And yet, she was once a poor little match-
seller in Paris.’
Jean dropped her brush in surprise,
‘Were you ever acquainted with her, Monsieur
Ferrial?'
‘Yes, would you like to hear her history ?’
•If you do not mind telliDg it.’
•It will be a pleasure to me,’ with a bow.
‘Put in a dark green shade there, where your
brush is, and a lighter one lower down.’
Monsieur mixed some cohrs, cleared a slight
hoarseness out of his throat and said:
‘Now for the story. One evening, many years
ago, as I was walking in the Champe Elysees, a
little, ragged girl asked me to buy her matches.
She looked so pinched with hunger that my fool
ish heart was touched with pity and I bought up
her stock and taking her into a cafe gave her
sapper. She was grateful and by way of reward,
told me h6r brief history. Her father ana
mother were peasants and had lived far away
from Paris, in a small valley, where the people
had flocks and vineyards and sold wool and
male wine. The father and mother died and
she ran away and came to the great city. The
saints alone can tell how the child ever got
there, for she had no money. Gold was not ly
ing over the streets, as she expected and many
times she lay down on her pallet of straw, weep
ing for bread. That was all she could tell me,
but it was enough to make me record a vow
never to lose sight of her again. She was a
pretty, soft-eyed little creature, and I painted a
picture of the ‘Beggar Girl, ’ and she was my
model. I have a copy of it yet.’
Monsieur put down his palate and brushes,
and crcssing the room, took down a picture,
turned to the wall, and brought it to Jean,
•This is it, Mademoiselle.’
Jean looked at it loDg and earnestly. She
could trace a resemblance between the pictured
child face and that of the lovely actress she bad
seen the night before. The soft, large eyes,
straight brows, and delicate lips were the same,
and the expression of sadness in Madame L—'s
face, was in the child's also.
‘Does it favor her as she is now ?' asked Mon
sieur Ferral, softly.
‘Yes, she has changed only to grow more
lovely.*
He sighed, laid the picture on the table and
began to paint very absently, putting in a green
sky and blue olouds.
‘You are spoiling your picture, Monsieur,’
said Ji an, breaking the silence.
‘So I am. Thank you for telling me and now
I will finish my story. I carried my little pro
tege to the theatre one evening, and then she was
half wild to go on the stage. I was too poor to
keep her from work and so did not object when
she obtained a situation on the boards. It was
a hard life and one fnll of temptations, but the
child was brave and the saints guarded her from
evil. She worked steadily on, lising gradually
until now she holds an enviable position in the
dramatic world. We do not meet often. I left
Paris after I saw my little friend safely lodged
with a kind family who were all strict Chris
tians. I traveled over the world and she devot
ed herself to her art, and she was a woman when
we met agaiD. I shall ever remember Madame
L—, the brilliant actress, with pleasure.’
Monsieur oeased speaKing and Jean discov
ered that she had been listening instead of work
ing, so for a few minutes, she devoted herself to
painting foliage with great energy. She saw in
tuitively that the old Frenchman had said all he
wanted to, so asked no questions, but simply
said:
‘Thank you for telling me the story. I shall
always look at Madame L— with new interest.’
The boy put up his pencils and left, and the
afternoon waned and darkened. Monsieur
roused himself from a brown study and glanced
out at the window.
‘It is bad on the poor, very bad.’
‘Do they suffer much ?’ asked Jean, a touch
of pity in her clear, sweet voice.
‘Suffer! Mademoiselle, you sheltered from
even a touch of the winter winds, can form no
idea how cruelly they suffer. They starve—they
freeze—and out of his abundance the rich man
gives them nothing. ’
Jean was horrified.
•Is it possible, that while I have money to
spend for trifles, there are people around me,
suffering from cold and hunger?’
‘It is possible. Many children will lio down
to-night shivering with cold and crying fer
bread. There are a great many lessons to be
learned in this world of ours, Mademoiselle
Jean, and not the least among them, are faith,
patience, charity and resignation. All these
may be learned by going among the poor. I
know a family of three children, who have a
drunken father and no mother. The oldest girl
is fourteen, abiave, cheerlul, little woman, who
is always at work to keep the wolf from the door.
It is not alwajs done. He comes in guant and
ugly sometimes, but they do not murmur. Ce-
oile is a cripple, a saintly-faced child, with a
meek sweetness and patience that would shame
worldly pride, and the little brother is nine. I
always feel nearer heaven in the bare, back at
tic among these Christian children. Their faith
in God, their patience under the heavy cross
laid on their young shoulders shame my luke
warm devotion to the Almighty Creator and
strengthen my little faith.’
Jean’s brown eyes were full of tears. Mon
sieur Feriial spoke low, but with intense feel
ing, dashing paint on his canvas, with reckless
indifference as to quantity and color. He seem
ed perfectly satisfied with the impression made
on Jean and continued:
‘They tell jne of their mother, of her wise and
gentle teachings and of the time when she fell
asleep never to wake to the light of this world,
and Cecile points to the one large star visible
from their narrow window and says that is their
mother’s spirit that makes it shine so bright and
she is looking down on them every night. They
have a pitying tenderness for their father, who
is really kind to them, and—’ glancing around
- ‘Mademoiselle, pardon me, I am detaining
you. Mrs. Mao has left and it is growing late.’
Jean silently put her work aside and buttoned
her warm fur cloak and put on her gloves. When
ready to go she turned to the artist and said:
‘I am anxious to see your little friends. Mon
sieur, will you go with me to where they live
this evening?’
‘But, Mademoiselle, see, it is late, and very
cold. You should not be exposed.’
‘I am not afraid of the cold. The carriage
waits at the door. Wont you please come ? ’
‘Certainly, Mademoiselle, if your heart is set
on it.’
The astonished coachman sniffed his aristo
cratic nose disdainfully when told where to
drive.
‘But, Miss Jean, the horses ought not to be
kept in the cald so long.’
‘It will not injure them, we will be out suoh a
short time,’ said Jean steadily.
The snow was falling thicker and faster, pow
dering the streets and houses with soft, feathery
flakes. The carriage turned from the public
thoroughfares and entering an alley, drew up
before a tall, dark, tenement house. Up, up,
long flights of broken, rickety stairs, until Jean
wondered if they were not among the clouds.
Monsieur Ferrial seemed familiar with the place,
and stopping on the last landing opened a door
and invited Jean to enter. She stepped softly
over the threshold and looked curiously around.
Rei 1 poverty she knew nothing about, and the
pitiful sight of the bare, cold room, with the
small figure wrapped in a faded shawl and seat
ed in an armchair made her yomng heart ache.
Monsieur Ferrial went up to the chair and bend
ing down, said:
‘How is my little Cecile to-day?, She lifted
her head with a glad_bright, smile.
I am better tc-day Monsieur, the pain is not
so bad.’
It was such a wan, white face, with large, lu
minous eyes, and soft,fair hair clustering round
the brow. The patohs of patient waitin g was
written on the child brow. She had passed
through the refining fire of intense suffering,
and the young soul was purified from all the
dross of earth. The memory of a picture, seen
an old Florentine gallery, flashed over
Jean.
I have brought a young lady to see you Cecile,
Mademoiselle Jean Delare,’ said the artist.
The child’s large eyes searched the young
girl's face, reading the emotion expressed
there.
•You are sorry for me,’ she said at last.
Jean’s hand touched the fair hair caress
ingly.
•Yes, more sorry than words can express.’
‘Please dont be troubled about me. I dont
mind being a cripple much. Tnen the pain will
soon be over.’ Yes, the frail casket would soon
be broken, and the freed spirit would rise above
the light of earth, and sing a song of joy and-
thanksgiving, in Heaven’s fair, peaceful gar
dens.
‘How is it you are alone my child,?’ inquired
the old Frenchman.
‘Meg has gone to carry sone work home, and
Harry is out selling papers.’
‘And dont you get very tired and lonely,
iDg here by yourself?’asked Jean.
•Oh no, I need nothing, and there is no one
to harm me.’
Jean soon res9 to go. She took one fragile,
childish hand between her own warm, white
palms. ‘I am coming again to see you Cecile,
and bring you some books and pictures. Do
you like to read?’
•Yes ma’am I read every thing that I can get
See I have part of the Pilgrim’s Progress.’
She showed part of a book, with a smile of
proud ownership. She understood Banyan's
dream perfectly, possibly because she was so