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BARBARA;
— OB,—
The Painter’s Study.
BX MABX PATTON HUDSON.
•throwing over* her honest nephew, Stephen for
handsome aood-for-naught of a painter.
She went slowly down the garden walk be
tween the cinnamon rose-vines, her band dai
tilv bolding her gingbam robe from oflthedew-
laden grass. The dyirg son i« Paying h»J®-
and-seek through gorgeous clouds; the catalpa
is making ghostly shadows across the lawn
leads to the country-house. A field lark is tu
ning his last song, rtffling bis brown and yel
low feathers in final triumph over a sparrow s
less musical cry. But Barbara noted none of
these things. She had seen the sun set behind
the far-off forest top full many a time before,
to her it was a disgustingly old and P 108 ^ 1 ®
sun, so satisfied with its monotonous ups
downs. The noble old catalpa had CMt its
shadow’s length a hundred times before, the
iour-o'clc';k8 P bad conducted themselves m the
self-same way since sSe was a lntle chiid and
delighied in their prophecies of the day. The
cinnamon roses were always sweetie now.
but she cared nothing lor the subtility of Then:
incense. She was tired. Tired of everything—
“A vague unrest
And a nameless longing filled her breast.'*
There was a pale tea-rose in her hair^a-fact
which led brave Stephen Dare to think 6he yet
cared something for his gilts and that her
•queerness’ was going away and her old sell
coming back. But Stephen was mistaken. She
bad picked the rose herself, a counterpart of
the one be had placed on her dressing table.
She mechanically fastened it in her sun-bright
braids; she cared nothing for it and forgot it
instantly. It was a custom of hers to wear flow
ers and that was all. The tall and graceful fig
ure of the young man was leaning full against
the old apple tree, while he watched Barbara,
thinking how ineffably sweet she was and
‘weaving fancies of the good time coming,’
when she would he his wife and the queen of
that little cot that he was meaning to build un
der the hill, where she used to love to sit in
summer days and dream the hours away. See
ing the rose in her hair had made the wistful
ness leave for a little while his open brow and
summoned back the old sweet hope for which
he had lived and worked so long. He watched
her stop in the pathway and pettishly tear a
rose-brier from her dress. He watched her turn
a pair of troubled eyes toward the sunset sky
and compress a pair of rosy lips.
•I hate him ! I hate his fine wayB that have
caused all this change in my darling !’ He set
the white teeth together in sudden wrath.
Springing over the fence he started across the
garden to the rose path and, then, as quickly
sprang back again and went over the meadow
way to the little grove to bring the horses home.
‘Bonnie Doon’ no longer startled the leaf shel
tered birds, for the minstrel had a shadow on
his heart that he could not drive away. Bar
bara bad fled from the house in a fit of morbid
dissatisfaction. She had grown to hate the
smart red ingrain carpet in the best room; the
dimity curtains and painted deal ohairs. She
despised the hideous blue vases, that held the
gaudy flowers overtop. She hated the picture
of long, lank Washington, with his unending
'weskit, ’ that hung above the mantel-tree.
Aunt Mima was so tall and straight-backed too,
so methodical, so given to proverbs and the
making of golden bntter. The honse was so
desperately clean and orderly ! Sne grew up
among all these things and she erstwhile loved
them well, and life seemed like the opaline skj
the distant hills.
She had not much opinion of -picture people, *
but the fact was simply this: she made beatfti-
ful bntter, got a fancy once for it, and, having
never been a wife and mother, had wed herself
to the domestic ‘profession,* allowing nothing
to come in its way. She took the orphaned
Barbara to save her from the poor-house, wh6n
her young mother died of grief for the loss of
her husband, who was killed in a quarry ex
plosion a few weeks before. They were proud
and ‘set up* in their ways, said the simple-
mannered neighbors, none knowing whither
they came and almost afraid to ask. The name
•Barbara* was bestowed on the baby because it
was found written on some linen that belonged
to the mother, and B. Brown in a plain gold
ring, that they kept for the child when her
mother was laid away. Aunt ‘Mima supposed
that SteDhen and her foster-child would some
time become joint owners of all she had to leave,
but butter makiDg was such fascinating work
she really had no time to trouble her brain
about dying or the possible heirship.
The ‘Prince 4 had not been to the tarm for sev-
eral days, and Stephen the faithful was begin
ning to hope that there had been some provi
dential taking eff, he cared not much of what
character, when he saw Barbara in the rose
walk with the tender trouble in her sweet eyes
and the little flower in her shining hair.
But the wizard, Saxe, had not taken himself
and enchantments away from the vicinage of
Stephen Dare‘s sweetheart, for there he came,
in that graceful way of bis, twisting a little cane
about his head and caroling a , b,t .
sen. ‘I suppose,’thought Stephen bitterly, t a
Barbara will blush and tremble and let the vil
lain clasp her hand and stare In her innocent
face.’ He ground his heel in the sand to the
great astonishment of old Dobbin who looked
satisfied enough with the state of things over
there in the rose-walk, where the ‘pioture man
was greeting the gentle maiden in whose be
half the late beloved was so distraught Ste
phen wished that a wind, equally as destructive
as that which came
“out of the sea,
Chilling and killing Annabel Lee,”
might overtake the interloper, but thro gs pros
pered with him, nevertheless, as they often do
with the wicked. The worst thing about the
‘picture man’ was, perhaps, his contemptuous
oversight of Stephen’s claim on the maiden, all
the circumstances having been made known to
him by Cecily Armstrong. 'He can have her
again when I am gone,’ he coolly thought and
dismissed all further cogitation on the subject.
The field lark grew tired of waiting on the el
der bough, and never saw the gold-brown eyes,
when they flashed a welcome on the ‘conquer
ing hero’ when he came.
‘I have been sick, Mignonette, I could not
come before. Am I welcome now, tell me truly,
queen of the rosebuds? May I have this token
of yonr pleasure that I am here?
She held her bright head for him to detach
the little rose, and white lids drooped over mar
velous eyes, while the red lips quivered a little
monrnfully. „ ,
•Gods! could I paint this tenderness, said the
cruel-hearted man of the world, ‘that Zona
might see it too.’ ...
But this W8S all inward, yon know, and the
foolish, trusting Barbara could not see within;
had no eyes for aught save the witchery of his
O, innocent maidenhood ! May the angels
keep better watch, draw stronger bars twixt thee
and all heartless beguilement.
When the stars came out Barbara led the way
to the house, for Aunt Mima was jealous of im
proprieties, and had given strict commands to
Baibara to sit always in the little poroh with the
that the sun had l®ft above the distant emit , j tnr _ X an • L
and *>ie du-kv-eyed'^msel bad-be^q^s, ^Sod-iTiglif.'and' goo*-bye
& t o butteVflies tbad toyed with the ciunamoiur| aw 2 y B to . morrow . ^ wi ,
roses. The countrywide folks seemed so proud
of her too, and said there was none to compare
with Barbara Groves, with her wonderful eyes
and ripe red cheeks and sunny hair; an opin
ion fully concurred in by Stephen Dare, to
whom she had pledged her troth and whose lit
tle gold ring she wore. Bat the 'Prince came
out of the west’ into her little world and by his
•fine ways,’ as Stephen called them, had pnt all
sorts of foolishness into her head; aye, had
stolen the heart out of her bosom and bewitched
her with his misty adulation. She was ner
vous, impulsive and imaginative and he had so
wrought upon her senses by his silly idyls, that
she believed in nothing but his prating, and
was blindly willing to do and to be all that he
said. He was an ideal Launcelot and hardly a
mortal at all, so enthralled was she by his poet
ical wooing. Stephen Dare was a plain, honest
hearted fellow, worth a ten acre lot of such film
brained fellows as Saxe Savoye and when he
said, ‘Barbara, my darling, I love you and
when I have built the nest under the little hill
will vou come ?’ she blushed rosily and without
coquetry said enough to confirm the blissful
hope on whioh he had wrought bis future plans.
It had ail satisfied her then, and the starlings
were not happier than she, when he came to sit
with her in the moonlit porch when the eve
ning work was done. Saxe Savoye, like Mephis-
topbiles in the play, came like a shadow across
her sunshine one day, tired he said, and would
be glad to have some water. Had been sketch
ing on the hillside and would rest a little while.
Hie artistic eye was caught by the girl’s rare
beauty and graoetul mein and he forthwith
made her a ‘studv. ’ That was all; but what
discriminating powers had this simple girl
wherewith to protect herself from this well-as
sumed sinoerity. The world he lived in was
not hers and the tales he unfolded were fairy
dreams. He praised her beauty and she was
intoxicated with his warmth; be loved to watoh
the blushes rise and fall in the perfect face; he
said he saw in sleep the rare-brown eyes with
their smouldering fire and would have given all
he possessed to be able to transfer their glory
to oanvasB. He flattered her poetic taste and
said that the world would be proud of her tal
ents. while he fixed his eyes upon her, as a bas
ilisk might have dono, when he talked to her
and poor, foolish Barham, not knowing in the
least what he meant, believed that he was good
and truo and it changed the singing current of
her pleasant life and made all former jo s seem
but coarse and mean deli .his.
He talked ceramics and raved of beautiful dis
orders in household things until sae was well-
nigh driven mad with Aunt Jemima’s primness
and systematic ways. ‘Lawkey me ! what ails
the child?’that lady would cry, when she saw
the ohairs set awry in the best room, and forth
with Diace trem in straight rows along the wall.
Then’Barbara would sigh and go awav to the
reading of Lookaley Hall, or Aurora Leigh, or
to watching for the ‘Prince’ when the sun was
low. By and bye Stephen Dare forsook the
frout porch and left bis pure-hearted daisy there
in the glamour of the painter's enchantment.
He spoke to her once about this stranger, but
the girl's lip enrled as she turned disdainfully
away and he never repeated the offence. Bat
the great heart was no less weary with its grief,
and he fain would have gathered the erring
child to his bosom and shielded her from all
the machinations that lay before her.
Aunt ‘Mima noticed nothing. She thought it
very well for Barbara to have the society of the
gay young stranger, and he was nothing more,
though the Armstrong's said he was a gentle
man and they were excellent people, He oould
teach her many things she did not know. And
ha did. and likewise things she bad no need to
knew Aunt ‘Mima would have bean shocked
and troubled had she known how Barbara
Mignonette. ’Tam
going away to-morrow. 1 will send you those
books and pictures from the city, and you will
hear from me, little one. I can hardly goaway ,
the summer has been like a pleasant dream.
He pressed her hand and was gone. But for
the hope of his speedy return,as he had promised
poor Barbara would have sickened and died, but
young life is bouyant, and hopes multiplied as
hours went by, and the tender heart was full of
birds, and flowers, and flashing brooks of love’s
own making. Stephen Dare was always the
same to his late betrothed; he never spoke to
her except in the gentle way, but his heart was
sore with its grief. She had drifted away from
his common-place life, and into a land of mist,
but she seemed well content with it yet, for
hope is not aweary. She laid the little gold riDg
in his hand one day, and he, without a word,
dropped it into his pocket and walked away.
They were polite to each other; he was as
mindful as ever of her comfort, forgot nothing
that she used to like, though the smiles for his
pains were lacking. Day after day when he
eame home from the village office, he saw the
eager flush in her eyes, that died away when
there was no message for her from the ‘Prince,’
who had seemed so full of pain at. the parting,
but now had clearlj forgotten her. Days glided
into weeks, weeks into months. The ‘prince
came not, neither did he send her token of his
remembrance. Wan and sad she grew. Every
change well noted by the faithful lover, who
would have let the life-blood out of his brawny
arm to make her happy. ,
She faded day by day and still the ‘prince
oame not, nor sent her assurance of his stead
fastness. To be sure he had not asked Barbara
to be his wife, and he, worldly wise, though dis
honorable that he was—laid this fact to his heart
—if he had one—though he knew full well that
it was the same to her as a betrothal, for he per
sistently made love to her—to his profession, he
told himself—and she had the right to look up
on all he said as evidence of his intention to in
stall her as princess in that wonderland, where
he, to her thinking reigned supreme.
Compensation was at work, bat simple-mind'
ed Barbara knew nothing about it, she cared for
nothing, thonght of nothing but the ‘prince,
who had her heart in his keeping. Stephen
Dare saw it all, saw all the straggles in her
heart and mind, just as well as if he had been a
gnest in the inner sanctuary of her dreamland;
but he said not a word, only suffered, and hoped
and wai ed,
•A wedding in high life.’ Stephen Dare knew
nothing about ‘high life’ and oared less, but
when politics and agriculture were read, he cas
ually turned over to the looal news. Yes, Saxe
Savoye ! that was the name of Barbara's
‘prince.’ He was married to one of his kind and
never thought twice, perhaps, since he had left
her, of the trusting little maiden that he wooed,
and whose heart he won, in that sketching jaunt
he made in the Armstrong neighborhood.
Stephen Dare set bis teeth hard together while
he wrapped the paper about with a strip and
wrote Barbara’s name thereon. He dropped it
in the office for her to get, she meant to ride that
very evening to the village for annt Jemima.
He felt guilty and cold about the heart, when he
saw her walk listlessly into the honse, and go
straight to her little room.
•Where's the Times this week, Stephen? said
Annt M im «h and hypooritical Stephen answered:
‘I have missed it once or twice lately, ‘I’ll see
that it does not ooour again.’
There were no more songs in the country
house, no merry laughing voice; all was changed
and Stephen was changing too. He looked
sometimes in the little miiror to see if his hair
was not whitening with his grief, but white
do not always follow sorrow, or are its in-
sionia whan they oome. But he still waited; he
was used U waiting, and the angel of patience
was his safeguard against the final sickness that
deferred hope may sometimes give.
Was he not father, mother, all to the little
Barbara, for, what, with butter-making, and the
many things that went to make the grand total
of annt Jemima’s life, she had no time for spec
ulation as to the child’s spiritual needs, but
Stephen knew it all, and yearned over her with
exceeding oare. The holy Christmas eame and
brought Barbara a delicate chain of gold and a
locket from Stephen. She received them and
flashed hotly, though why, Stephen could not
just divine.
Bat conscience is an accusing spirit, and told
the girl of her great nnworthiness of this, and
all the kindness he heaped upon her.
Down eame the snow on the New Year. Jin
gle, jiDgle, the songs of the hells, as lads and
iasses harried b}\
•Barbara, will you ride with me? Craven and
Tally-ho are all impatience.’
She blushed again, when be tucked the robe
about her just as he used to do in the old days,
when she was his promised bride. He talked of
everything, just.as he used to do, except the one
thing that lay nearest that strong brave heart of
his. ,
The color rose and fell in Barbaras face, and
her eyes flashed -rs-bit, as their sleigh passed all
the others in the race.
•Thank yon, Stephen, I have had a pleasant
time,' with more spirit than she had shown since
the ‘Prince had ppne away.
Like one just rVtising from a long and well
nigh fatal iilnessijbfaith eame slowly back to
Barbara's life^^ftphen’s tastes were consulted
onoe again, and by degrees the song of the old
days were heard as she went about her work,
•Barbara, your old friend, Mr. Savoye, is at
the Armstrong’s. Will you go to see his bride?’
Stephen said this firmly, looking squarely in
the somewhat startled face.
‘Yes, Stephen, if yon please. And Stephen,
I can say now when that toolish passion is over,
that 1 am ashamed of it all, and I wish that re
pentance could wash it out from my life, and
yours. I owe it to you to say this, even be it
late, and when,'A sob, ‘yon find some one’ sob
No. 2, ‘to love yon more faithfully than I did,’
sob No. 3 ‘I’—but Stephen hushed the words
with tears in his-loving eyes,
‘I care for nothing bnt you, Barbara, will you
wear it again?* handing her the little ring.
‘I am not worthy in the least,’she murmured,
albeit she hid a blushing and happy face in his
bosom. _ . ,
‘We will never mention it again, Barbara, and
they never did. * "
Stephen Dare, with a dignity that proved him
the peer of any man, greeted Mr. Savage, and
congratulated him on his marriage.
Barbara was wonderfully self-possessed, far
more than the recreant artist lover, who well
nigh forgot bis ‘Zona’ for her sweet face.
The visit was pleasant enough, yet Barbara
was glad to get awjay.
‘The wood-nymph is more than my fancy
painted her, Saxe, and I fancy you were oheck-
mated in that quarter, my good fellow. The
‘Artist's Dream’ ’ (the name he gave his pietnre
of the rosepath with Barbara walking through)
‘is a brave reality. Aye, you lords of creation,
never know till you’ve tried them what coquet
ry there is in woman,' and the city belle unloosed
her golden hair, till it rippled down, a shining
m a8s to where a bit ot sunshine lay, and lent an
“tra touch of brightness, that delighted the ar-
ti s t’s eye, and made him say:
•If I could bnt paint the color, Zona, bnt I’ll
f ai l, as I did to catoh the gbry of Barbara’s
eye 8, ,, t ,,
DESDICHADO,
omancj
CHAPTER VI.
Sir Blondel was surprised at the new lodging
into whioh he was conducted. A large gather
ing hall it appeared which, though strongly re
sembling a prison on account of its bolts and
bars, yet wore an air of comfort with its easy
furniture and large open windows, through
whioh the pleasant breeze and sunshine were
admitted. The poor knight in his delirium of
happiness, turned and thaDked his captors, as
though they had done him some service, and
when they had departed he sat down to deliber
ate and prepare for the conflict, until attracted
by the waning light, he strayed to the window
and gazed on the distant lanscape, for the great
width of the window walls prevented his look
ing below. i
While he stood thus, wrapt in thought, a voice
soft, but clear, rose in the fall melody of song,
and pierced at once the dungeon and heart of
the captive.
‘Blondel,’ he murmured to himself, ‘Blondel,
my brother of song, there is but one voioe in
England that can produce such strains,’ and
then as the minstrel’s song fell more clearly on
the oaptive’s ear. it awakened a flood of memory
when the smile of beauty and the laugh of wit
had hushed, spell bound by the fascination of
that singer.
As soon as the minstrel Blondel paused, the
captive Blondel took up the song and flinging
his foil rich n >tes from out the prison walls,
sent a thrill of joy into the heart of the minstrel
who thus at last learned the long sought abode
of his patron, and who struck up an anthem of
trinmph in which the captive caught the sounds
of his deliverance.
The minstrel's notes grew fainter and fainter
until they died in the distanoe, bnt they left
within the oaptive’s breast an echo of hope, and
with the piety of a Christian knight he knelt
down, and having thanked God for blessing him
with the favor of Beringeria, he pleaded with
heaven to bless his fond anticipations, crown
his efforts with success, and effect their deliver
ance. Then rising again he reflected:
‘I mast collect strength to s' rike for heaven
and my lady,’ and, With this resolution, he drop
ped upon his ooncn.und into the land of mem
ory. —I
•Blessed,’ he reflected in himself, ‘with the
love of this fairest, gentlest creature of earth and
all through my own merits. She does not sus
pect my position, she loves me for myself and I
will live and die for her.’
And with this resolve he fell asleep, and did
not awake an til the snn had risen high in the
heavens and sent a flood of light into the room.
He ate his morning meal, after whioh an offioer
entered and informed him that he would be
privileged to take air and exercise, provided he
wonld pledge himself to refrain from any effort
to escape, until after his combat with Videmar.
Having agreed to this condition, the offioer un
locked a heavy outer door, and showed Sir Blon
del into a garden, where he found pleasant walks
and bowers, and from whence as soon as he was
alone, he soanned each orevioe of the castle hop
ing to oatch a glimpse of his lady’s face, bnt his
scrutiny was in vain, for save the frowning ram
parts and mossy stones, he saw nothing except
the eyes of two sentinels who glared at him from
their stations, and who, notwithstanding his
pledge,had been placed there to watoh bis every
action.
Each day the physioian oame to treat his
wound, whioh healed rapidly, and a few days of
aotive exercise restored the strength to bis limbs
and the rnddy glow upon his cheek. Mean
while as the knight, was. scanning each aper
ture of the oastle to see the princess, Berenge-
ria was Holding her leal reoeption with the griz
zly tyrant of the prorinoe.
The prinoess had just lured him into a smile
when she nttered something in a low, serious
tone, whose import we lost, but which caused
Videmar’s expression to instantly change.
‘It can never be, jour highness,’ he affirmed
sullenly, "and you lower yonr cause in asking
‘Baron,’ she replied with her ineffable grace,
but accompanied by withering disdain, ‘I
thought my cause oould go no lower after de
scending on you as its adversary.’
‘And your highness,' he glutted between his
teeth, ‘I warn you to beware, or your haughty
head will fcow so low by having me for Its ad
versary, that it will not rise again.’
He accompanied his threat with a gesture,
which If ft no doubt, as to his signifying, her
head being lowered on the block. For an in
stant her heart was bowed,not from fear, for her
breast bad become callous to all emotions of
terror, but because she had determined to cast
behind her the spirit of defiance and embrace
the spirit of policy, and here in the first test
her temper had overborne her tact. But quick
ly regaining her equanimity, she extenuated
in her sweetest accents:
‘Alas my Lord! Iam a weak woman, unable
to cope with a warrior of your skill, who should
prove my protector instead of oppressor.
This appeal conquered the baroa. Just as any
one who neverjloved but once, will soften by his
idol entwining the thoughts of their hearts as
beating only for each other and shutting the
cold world outside.
'Aye sweet lady’be answered as he bent over her
with the old hungry look in his eyes, ‘but your
gentle weakness has all my strength to rest upon
You are lonely. A hundred bold hearts beat
loyally to your charms and the bravest of them
all break without you.
‘Oh my Lord,’ pleaded Berengeria,’ where
heaven has strewn some of its attributes in
snch profusion, let it not prove that others are
withheld. Where its benificence has given such
power and splendor let not there be poverty of
justice and mercy. Or if the feelings of good
will which were instilled at your mother’s knee
into your innocent boyhood, Lave been sup
planted by pride and passion, iet me restore
the germ of humanity in your breast, and
though this moment were my last on earth, I
should feel that my mission had not altogether
been in vain.’
For once the soul of the fierce tyrant was
moved.
Lady!’ ‘he answered,’ by the memory of my
mother, I aver that yonr gentle hand clasped in
mine could bring me back from the realms of
darkness. Oh! let it be that the evil days of my
life have ended, and here raise me to some pur
pose and sanctify that purpose by one kiss from
yonr pretty lips.’
‘Baron Videmar,’ answered Berengeria shrink
ing back, hut as mnoh as possible, concealing
her aversion, ‘we are standing on a precipice,
and yon the stronger are nrging me to leap
which wonld destroy us both. The vestal vir
gin who scattered the sacred fire, were not crim
inal as the maiden who bound by no ties.dispen
ses her charms for mere vanity or passion. My
person is the point of contest between two cla-
mants. Respect the right of your rival as you
wonld have that rival respeot the right of Baron
Virdemar.’
‘Then,’ responded Veidemar, ‘there is but
one way for me to march into yonr favor, and
that is over the dead body of this Blondel. ’
‘Do not, remonstrated Berengeria ‘charge the
powers of life and death upon a woman’s favor.
For shkme my lord! Say instead there is but
one way for yoa to regain your honor, your
peace of mind, and that is by redeeming yonr
pledge, in as far as you can by doing honorable
battle with your captive.’
‘And when this Blondel is gone’ uroed Vide
mar, ‘th“>e is nothing between you/and my-
rroW’ *- —~4r - •' *■
■Baron Videmar,’ replied Berengeria?’ you are
like the mariner who in his hour of peril, turns
and asks assurance about the winds and waves
from the poor bird who is their sport and buffet.
You have pledged to BereBgeria, honorable
combat and award, Berengeria has pledged her
form to your success, and God will award the
issue. And now my lord without a claim on
yonr consideration, but that interest which our
ties entitle me to express, I urge, 1 implore,
that as the warrior gets his body in fittest con
dition for the fray, so you as a trae knight shall
purify yonr soul, to fit it for shriving, should
yon full. Let me exert one ennobling influence
over your soul, by restoring it to a brief com
munion with that God to whom it has so long
been a stranger. This potion ot Berengeria which
was fnll of sincerity and emotion was accompa
nied by that inclination of the head which roy
alty adopts to manifest its pleasure that an in
terview shall end. Videmar accordingly rose
and with a solemnity which became his grim
visage, stood for a spell silently and inflexibly
as a statute, and in this position let us throw
the mantle of charity over a nature which all
the viclet’unrestrained passions of a lifetime had
corrupted, but whose noble chords responded
to those traits of boyish innocence which the
princess had reoalled. Then after an instant.
Videmar with bowed head and subdued manner
went out from the presence of the princess for
ever, and ordered that the arrangements for the
combat be completed.
’ FORTY YEARS AGO.’’
Drifting Sands from the Mountains
and Foot-hills of Northeast Georgia.
A Brilliant Romance Based Upon Facts.
By G. J. N. WILSON.
CHAPTER XI.
•My young friend,’ said Mr. Montgomery, re
suming his story, ‘I perceive that you are anx
ious tor me to oontinue my recital. As directed
by the unknown writer of the letter in French,
I looked under the door-steps, and there, in a
tin box similar to the one that contained the
gold, I found the five thousand dollars mention
ed, making, in all, six thousand dollars that I
have thns received. I have every dollar of the
money yet; bnt as soon as the proper time ar
rives, I intend to give the entire amonnt to Nel
ly to nse as she pleases. Besides this, I have
already made a will dividing my estate equally
between her and Willie. The thought that she
will ever do anything to forfeit my love for her,
cannot for one moment, find a resting place in
my mind.
From the time of the reoeption of the last mys
terious letter, two more years passed, and the
unknown child had grown to be a beautiful girl
of twelve summers. Daring all this time she
bad never caused any one to suffer by miscon
duct on her part, nor do I remember that I ever
saw her In an ill humor. The soul of honor,
obedience, affection and all those other endear
ing qualities, she was the idol of all who knew
her, and the pride of onr family. We loved her
as we loved onrselves, no difference was ever felt
in our affections for onr own son and that we
bestowea upon Nelly. Though a great trial for
ns, we sent her abroad for several years. She
attended the best schools and was a welcome
gnest in the highest circles of American life;but
her absenoe made our home so desolate, that we
oould not bear it; and she returned to us.
This is the only selfishness ever Bhown in our
oonduet towards her, and though it may have
deprived her of some advantages, I rejoice to
know that she was otherwise the recipient of ev
erything that love or money could bestow. Hav
ing a clear head and a guileless heart, the rare
being upon which we had bestowed so mnoh
pains was in the possession of more loveli
ness of mind and person than usually falls to
to the lot of mortals.
Tn the meantime the strange lady of whom I
have so frequently spoken, had become a regu
lar visitor at my house, frequently staying sev
eral days at a time, and sometimes even weeks.
She never failed to make herself agreeable, and
was always welcome. Her attentions to Neily
increased, if possible, with each recurring visit,
and her love was sincerely returned. She was
was known throughout the surrounding coun
try as the ‘ladv Pedler;’ as she spent much of
her time in trafficking with the people. Though
trading on such small articles as were conven
ient for her to carry, she seemed to be doing a
good business; for she always had ample means
to procure comforts and luxuries, notwith
standing she always sought to appear poor, and,
on some occasions, even needy. She, however
sustained a good character, and was received
with welcome by all her acquaintances. I likel
her very much myself, ana vet there was a mys
tery about her devotion to Nelly, her more than
probable connection with the letter, her
ready command of money and many other in
stances, that I conld not understand.
‘During this interval. Prince Reville had, in
fulfillment of his promise to me, been at my
house several times. He proved himself as
much of a gentleman abroad, as at home, and
no friend ever met with a more cordial welcome
at my house thao thi3 man for whom nature has
done more than the world in all probability,
will ever know.
‘At the time of his first visit Witlie was at
home, and they at once became as much attach
ed to each other as if they had been long sepa
rated brothers. Together they reamed the woods
with their dogs and rifles like school-boys on a
holiday excursion, and when they returned
from their rambles, even Mrs. Montgomery
greeted the stranger with a welcome that I nev
er before saw her extend to any one except her
most intimate acquaintances. And more sur
prising still, he was the only stranger with
whom I had ever seen Nelly familiar and unre
served, and that too, almost at first sight. In
deed, he seemed to possess the power of charm
ing others; but from all that I have seen, he sel
dom used it, generally preferring to seem an in
different spectator of the scenes around him.
Why be was so I do not know; for his intol-
lectnal powers were of a high order, and his
passions, though under good control, were
strong and vehement. His judgment was deep,
his culture broad, extensive, general—his con
versational powers pleasing and persuasive, his
manners polishod and easy—his honor without
blemish. He was modest, unassuming—a true
friend—perhaps an uncompromising enemy,
who if wantonly insulted, would strike to Hurt.
In addition to this he was handsome in person
and commanding in appearance; but there was
something about him deeply mysterious, even
to me.
‘In part, vou have already learned why tcis
was so. His surprise at first learinng my name
and place of residence—his friendship for a
stranger who was quietly traveling the common
highway—his evasion of everything about whicti
I was most concerned—the concealment of the
papers under the pillow npon which he slum
bered—the yellow ribbon with which they were
bound, all serve to explain, in part, the reason
why I thonght him mysterious; but when I tell
you that although he'and the strange woman
were evidently well acquainted, and tor a long
time at my house together, I, never was able to
bring them face to face—that he sought a pri
vate opportunity to ask Nelly if she had ever
seen any one closely resembling'herself, that he
-feiwjAnL.yjainlace ’
the interest of an artist who was about to finish
the most delicate touchings of her portrait, that
notwithstanding the evident respect he had for
the wishes of myself and family, we were never
able to induce him to go with Willie to see you
and your wonderful cottage—that I have good,
reasons for believing that he not only knew of
your own existence, but was acquainted with
much of your history, you will fully understand
the reason why I thought Prince Reville myste
rious! I do not understand him yet, nor do I
suppose that I ever will. And thoi gh I have
offered him strong inducements to visitmy fim-
ily since my residence here, he has never done
so. This of itself is somewhat curious; for I am
satisfied that he always felt himself a welcome
guest when at my house.
‘I have now told you all I know of Prince Re
ville,* but not all I know of that other mysteri-
rious character, the strange woman who so in
gratiated herelf into the affection of myself aud
family, as to almost seem one of us With me,
you no doubt think Prince Reville strange;
with me,you no doubt think the woman strange;
but what will you think when I tell you 'hat
she is now in the house—that her name is Pen
ny Lemon—‘aunt Penny Lemon’—the same lady
who. I am told, has been as devotedly attached
to you as to my own Nelly!
‘I see, my dear boy, that you are astonished,
but listen. I have not told yon all. I have only
given you an account of Nelly Stanbndge up to
the time when she was twelve years old. With
her history since then, you are well acquainted;
for Nelly as yon have already guessed I well
—know Nelly Stanbridge is Nelly Montgomery!
Nelly now knows that she is not my dangh-
er—thstsheisnot Willie’s stster—that she has
no mother! To learn this was more than the
tender flower conid bear without drooping. It
was this revelation that threw her into the
brain fever, with which she now struggles, I
pray God not mortally.
‘Her parentage is still as profound a secret to
me as it was on the night when she was found
at my door. I had constantly cherished Pee
thonght thatshe would never learn her true his
tory, that all my=life I should hear her sweet voice
call me father—that she would grow with the
buds of spring, bloom with the roses of summer,
and be bappy as the birds. I have alway.? bcea
very carefal to conceal my journal in such a
way that there wonld be no oaaoce for it to fall
into her bands neither by accident or otherwise.
By some means unknown to me she found it
yesterday, morning, and while hastily looking
over its pages the description there giveu of
the hump-backed mau arrested her attention.
She continued to read until she came to the
place where a little infaDt was found one dark
and dreary night, when she became so deeply
interested that she resolved to see what
became of it. Coming to' tho mysterious letter
in which occurred a part of her own name, as
known to her, she read on and only wondered;
bnt when she came to the account of the adop
tion of Nelly Stanbridge as my own daughter,
and as Willie’s sister, her wonder and astonish
ment gave away to fear and trembling—her
quick mind conceived the idea that she was
herself Nelly Stanbridge! With a faint hope
that Bhe was mistaken, she continued to road,
bnt long before she oame to the end of her his
tory, as there narrated, she became so th 'rough
ly convinced that she was an unknown stranger
in my family, that she ran iDto this room while
I was writing a letter on some particular busi
ness, and (joining np me deathly pale, holding
the ill-fated journal in her hands, she, cried in
tones that trembled with anguish.
‘Here, father, iB a journal of yonr life in which
my name is called Nelly Stanbridge ! I: all
that is here recorded be true, I am not N.ily
Montgomery, but a poor, unknown orphan—
Can 1 this be so ? Are you not my well-loved
(.Continuedon 7th page.)
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