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J. C. HEARTStfK. Ed. and Pub.
VOL XIII.
The Peace of Home.
It comes to me often in silence,
When the firelight spotters low.
When the black, uncertain shallow*
Seem wraiths of the long ago.
It comes with a throb of heart-aeka,
That thrills each pulsing vein,
The old, unquiet longing
Tor the peace ol home again.
I am sick of the roar of cities,
And of faces cold and strange,
I know where there’s warmth of welcome,
And my sweeping fancies range
Hack to the dear old homestead
With a yearning sense of pain;
But tears will give place to singing,
When the peace of home comes again.
“When the peace of homo comes” there’s
music.
That never may die away,
And it seems that the hands of angels
ttn a mystic harp at play,
Have touched with a yearning gladness
On a beautiful, broken strain,
And my heart beats time to the measure
When the peace of home comes again.
Outside of my darkening window
Is the great world’s crash and din,
And slowly the autumn’s shadows
Come drifting, drifting in.
Sobbing, the night wind murmurs,
To tlw splash of the autumn rain,
While I dreanFof gladsome greetings,
When the peace of home comes again.
—Olive V. Berkley.
THE ARTIST’S MODEL.
“Now,” said Richard Lacy, with a
sigh which denoted intense joy, “my
chance has comeat lust!”
He throw down the letter aud re
lighted his pipe, smiling quietly to
himself. Au old friend of his, who
had made great fame and some money
a* a novelist, Edmund Shelton to wit,
had selected him to illustrate an edition
de luxe of his famous uovel, “Clair
Ingelow,” which you have no doubt
read, and had offered very liberal
terms. Here was the opportunity for
which Richard Lacy had been waiting
ever since he came to London, a youth
of seventeen, more than ten years
ago.
He was a struggling artist, who
painted pictures (which never sold) in
tho daytime, and earned his bread and
cheese at night by designing for the
stationary trade, and such black-and
white as ho could get hold of. He
managed to make about $750. a year,
one-third of which went for the rent of
the gaunt, bare studio in which ho
worked, and the little bed-room at¬
tached in which he slept. The pur¬
chase of materials exhausted another
third, arid on the remaining $250. ho
lived, but did not grow fat.
Unless he could in some way arrest
the attention of the public ho would
probably remain all his life an ill-paid
designer. True, by some freak of
fortune, one of his pictures had once
been exhibited at the Royal Academy.
But it was “skied,” not a single critic
noticed it, audit was produced in none
of the illustrated catalogues. Evenuow
he was in debt for its very gorgeous
frame.
But surely fate smiled at last. An
illustrator of a celebrated novel he
could not fail to be talked about. He
.must at once consider what models he
would require for the work. If he
could only——
A timid rat-tat at the door interrupted
his soliloquy. “ Come in.”
A tall young girl stood before him.
Sho was not exactly beautiful, but with
an artist’s instinct, he at once noticed
the fine poise of her head and her
shapely hand. Sho was meanly dressed
and she hesitated.
“ Good morning,” he said, at length.
“Model?”
She nodded gravely and handed him
a card. “ Mary Blackwood ” was tho
name it bore. Evidently she was a
beginner at the business. The old
hands never called on him, for they
knew his means would not allow him
to engage a model, except very occas¬
ionally. Besides, her manner seemed
to indicate that she had never been in¬
side a studio before. He was
rather attracted by her erect bearing
and simple air. Models are usually in¬
clined to be stagey.
“Well, I may be wanting a model
shortly,” Lacy said; “may I ask what
your terms are!”
She stated them. They were ridicu¬
lously low.
“Perhaps you could call to-morrow,
and I could then say whether y*ou would
bo likely to suit me.”
“Very good, sir. I will call at two
o’clock. Thank you.” And with a
qtyet “ Good morning ” and another
grave little nod she was gone.
SPRING PLACE, MURRAY COUNTY, GA. SATURDAY,SEPTEMBER 16, 1893.
Soon afterwards lie caught himself
trying to imitate her deliciously low
voice. She ought, he said to himself,
to make an admirable model for Clair
Ingelow.
When Richard Lacy had had three
sittings from Mary Blackwood, he be¬
gan to wonder how in the world he
would have got on without her. N*t.
only had she read “ Clair Ingelow,”
but she seemed thoroughly to under¬
stand the somewhat difficult character
of Clair. She was ever ready with use¬
ful suggestions. He admitted to him¬
self that she really inspired his pencil.
He looked forward with eagerness to
her visits. Not that they were part¬
icularly lively affairs. Miss Blackwood
spoke only as oocasion demanded, and
Lacy was not one of those artists who
cun talk and work simultaneously.
From chance remarks he gathered
that she had no relations, and that she
lived with a friend older than herself,
who was also a model, and who had
persuaded her to follow the same call¬
ing. Ho also learnt that his was the
first studio in which she had sat.
One day when she came he was al¬
most prostrated by a more than un¬
usually severe headache, a complaint
from which he frequently suffered. In
the middle of the morning’s work she
suddenly jumped up.
“ Why, Mr. Lacy you arc ill!,” she
cried.
“ Only one of my headaches,” ho
said, faintly and wearily. “ You know
I often have them. But I think I will
sit down a bit—”
Then he fainted.
When he recovered consciousness he
found himself lying on the only couch
which the studio boasted, while Mary
Blackwood stood over him with a bot¬
tle of smelling salts.
“ Where do you keep the tea?” she
asked, with a smile. “ I must make
you a cup at once.”
He pointed to a cupboard.
Years afterwards he remembered
the quiet joy with which he watched
her quick, graceful movements as she
set about preparing that tea. To a
man accustomed to living alone and
“doing for himself ” nothing is more
delicious than the sight of a charming
and sympathetic woman performing
those simple domestic offices which an
unkind fate lias compelled him to do
(how clumsily) for himself.
“By the way,” Lacy said as he con¬
tentedly sipped the tea, “ how came I
on this couch?”
“ I carried you there,” said Mary,
with a suspicion of red in her cheeks.
“ Oh — er — I see!”
I nursed my mother for three years
before she died, aud I know what to
do; and — you aren’t very heavy.”
“Far too heavy for your strength.”
he said. And then he thanked her
quite prettily, and she said that really
it was nothing.
Really it was a very great deal.
From that day they were no longer
artist and model, but close friends.
Richard suddenly discovered that it
was necessary for Mary to sit four times
a week instead of three. He explained
that if she did not he would have a
difficulty in finishing the drawings by
the appointed time. Then he said he
wenld like to paint her portrait as
“ Clair Iugelow ” for the Academy,
which would open in a couple of
months.
“But how about finishing the draw¬
ings for the book?” she questioned,
with a laughing glance from beneath
her long eye-lashes.
“Well, I think that painting a por¬
trait of you would help me considerably
with the black-and-white work. It’s
rather difficult to explain, ” he added,
after a pause, “but I’m sure it would
help.”
“ Quite so. I think I understand,”
she replied, sweetly.
No doubt she did.
It was about this time that Richard
found he could talk and work as well.
They discussed everything; and the
man discovered to his surprise that in
all domains of knowledge outside art,
the woman was his equal. It was re¬
markable that their discussions never
ended with the sittings. Richard said
that perhaps if he took more exercise
ho might have less headaches, and so
he fell into the habit of escorting her
to her rooms, and even at her door he
remembered many things that he want¬
ed to say. During one of these walks
Mary remarked that the portrait was
nearly completed.
“TELL THE TRUTH.”
“ Of course you will call it " Clair
Ingelow?” she said.
» “ Yes; I suppose I must,” was the
reply, “but I could suggest at least
two better titles.”
“Indeed! And may I ask what
they are?”
“Well, one is ‘The Dearest Girl in
the World,’ and the other: * Portrait
of the Artist’s Wife. t 7>
She was silent. It was dark, and
the road was deserted. His arm crept
round her waist. She looked up, and
her lips met his, descending to meet
them.
And so it was arranged.
The picture, being at last finished,
was dispatched with much trembling.
Richard said it ought to be accepted,
the subject was so fine. Mary said it
ought to be accepted, the handling wa„
bo masterly. They wore both right.
The eagerly-expected and much
prised varnishing ticket duly arrived,
but Lacy was unable to make use of it,
in'spite of Mary’s nursing. His at¬
tacks of headache had lately become
more frequent and more severe, and
on the eventful day he was incapable
of movement. It occurred to Mary
that he ought to see a doctor. The
doctor cross-examined him closely, and
then said, “I think your best course
is to consult au ooulist. ”
“I can see perfectly well,” Lacy
said, with some astonishment.
“ I know you can now,” the doctor
answered; “ but I feel convinced that
your headaches proceed from weakness
of the eyes.”
Richard’s brow became clammy.
He said nothing about it to Mary, aud
went privily to a great specialist in
Harley Street.
“You must have absolute rest for
two or three years,” suid the great
man.
“ But I can’t — I must live!”
“ If you don’t rest, you will be blind
before you are thirty-five.”
Every word knocked heavily at his
heart, and he left the consulting-room
in a maze. With great difficulty he
gathered sufficient courage to tell Mary.
She remained silent a little.
“ Then, of course, you must give
your poor eyes a rest, dear,” she
suid.
“But how?”
“Well, you will have tho money for
the * Clair Ingelow ’ drawings, perhaps
the picture will sell. Someone is sure
to buy it.”
“ The money for the drawings won’t
lust six months, and pictures by un¬
known artists never sell. ”
“ Then how do unknown artists be¬
come known artists?”
‘ ‘ It’s a mystery. How does a chry¬
salis become a butterfly?”
“Well, lean earn a little.” She
was determined to keep cheerful for
his sake.
He closed her mouth with a kiss.
“ No !” he said, “ I shall givo my¬
self six months’ holiday; that is all I
can afford. And then I must begin
again and take my chances. Perhaps
the doctors are mistaken. They often
are.”
“Yes, very often,” echoed Mary.
With a smile and a glance which ex¬
pressed her sympathy better than any
words could, she left him. When she
was alone she began to cry very
quietly.
Poor fellow!
It was the day of the Private View,
and Lacy sat in his studio wondering
if any among the brilliant crowd at
Burlington House had cast a passing
glance at his picture. The day wore
on. Towards dnsk a telegram came,
reply paid. “ What is name and ad¬
dress,” it ran, “of lady who sat for
Clair Ingelow — Mark Ffollitt, Bed¬
ford Row.”
Now, everyone knew Mark Ffollitt.
He was the solicitor, and acted for
half the aristocracy. His was a famil¬
iar figure in artistic and theatrical cir¬
cles. Of course he had attented the
Private View.
What could it mean?
Lacy telegraphed back the required
information.
He w-ent to see Mary next morning.
“ Richard, dear, ” she began almost
immediately, “ I know I’m a brazen
minx, but I think we ought to get
married at once. Thon I can keep an
eye on you to see that you don’t work.”
“ Don’t joke, dear girl,” he said,
with a tremor in his voice. “I’ve been
thinking, and I’ve made up my mind
that I ought to release you, as there’s
no prospect of my being able to keep
even myself, to say nothing of a fam¬
ily.”
“ Then I shall sue you for damages
for breach of promise.”
“ Richard seemed to bo iu no mood
for pleasantry, and looked out of the
window.
Mary went softly up to him, and
showed him a letter which she had that
morning received from Mr. Mark
Ffollitt, of Bedford Row. It set forth,
with the usual legal formality of
phrase, how the writer, catching sight
of Mr. Lacy’s picture at the academy,
had been astonished at the likeness
which it bore to a Miss Norris, who,
twenty years since, had several times
visited his office iu company with her
uncle, Sir James Norris, who was an
old client of his; that Sir James Nor¬
ris had died about a year ago, intes¬
tate ; that it had been discovered that
the deceased left no relations except
liis niece, and that the latter had mar¬
ried a gentleman named Blackwood,
and subsequently died leaving a daugh¬
ter; that Mr. Ffollitt had hitherto
been unable to trace the issue of this
marriage; and, finally, that he was
convinced that the original of ‘ ‘ Clair
Iugelow ” must bo the daughter of
Mrs. Blackwood, and heiress to $150,
000 and a country house.
“I remember,” said Mary, when
Richard read the letter, “ that mother
used to mention her uncle. Sir James,
sometimes, and tell me how rich he
was. That was after father died,” she
added thoughtfully, “and we were
very poor then.”
“ Mary, ” Richard said, “ accept my
congratulations. But of course a girl
with $150,000 and on ancestral hall
won’t throw herself away on a penni¬
less urtist. ”
“Won’t she?” was the reply. A
kiss momentarily stopped the progress
of the conversation. “Just try her.”
Richard had a holiday extending
over three years, aud so saved his eyo
sight. He puts A. II. A. after his
name now, and paints portraits for
$5,000 apiece. Bnt Mary always tolls
the children that the best portrait their
father ever did was that of “ Clair In¬
gelow." — [Yankee Blade.
A Coincidence.
“I am not a fatalist,” said T. Davitt
Henning, “but occasionally I run
across things that puzzle a great deal.
Not long ago l)r. Tom Hewitt of Lead
ville, Col., died. Hewitt was some¬
what of a fatalist and believed in a
great many things that I didn’t. Omens
and harbingers of evil he was muoh
given to believe in. You have un¬
doubtedly heard stories of people dy¬
ing and the clock stopping at the same
time, or some numeral of its face pop¬
ping out. Hewitt had a sign iu his
office window in his residence which
read. ‘Dr. Tom Hewitt. ’ It was com¬
posed ol eleven white letters glued to
the pane,
“Hewitt took sick about sixteen
months since. A few days after his
illness I noticed that one of the white
letters had dropped off aud was gone.
The illness of the doctor caused the
family to forget almost everything else,
and so the letter was not replaced.
“A month later Hewitt was still sick,
and I noticed a second letter was gone.
He lingered along, up and around now,
and then sick again, for a period.
Meantime the white letters were not
replaced.
“Month after month went by, and
every succeeding month saw a letter
disappear. Hewitt noticed it, and then
he would not allow them to bo re¬
placed. After over ten months of
sickness, ana when ten of the letters
had disappeared, Dr. Tom got an ex¬
tra severe spell of illness and died.
The morning after his death I visited
the house and noticed as I passed in
that tho last letter was gone. ”—[St.
Louis Globe-Democrat.
Cosmopolitan Relations.
Here is a state of things that New
Yorkers need not be assured is actual.
The speaker is a bachelor, perhaps
30 years old. He says:
“My barber is an Italian, a Chinese
does my laundry work, my tailor is a
Jew; I breakfast in an American din¬
ing room, lunch in a German saloon,
and dine usually in a French restaur¬
ant ; my physician is an Englishman,
and my favorite preacher is a Scotch
dominie.”
“But where does the Irishman come
in?”
“Oh, he owns the house I live in."
SI.OO a Year in Advance.
NO. 28.
To our Murray friends we
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at low prices tlmn ever, and
we will make i$to their in¬
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niture, Carpets, Matting,
Lace Curtains, Window
Shades and Picture Mould¬
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