New Orleans daily crescent. [volume] ([New Orleans, La.]) 1851-1866, 1854-03-09
A Love Story.

A Love Story.
The golden light of evening dazzled the eyes
of young girl who stood upon stile, watch
ing for the arrival of the London coach
1t was about hundred miles from London
no matter in what direction-at the bottom of
a green valley, down the western slope of which
the road came winding here and there concealed
by trees, A well-beaten pathHIed to village
a few fields distant, embowered in orchards, and
leaning, as it were, against the massive oaks
and elms of park, that shut in the view in that
direction. The square steeple-tow of the old
church scarcely overtopped this background of
leaves
Florence May was waiting for her mother,
who had been absent some weeks in London,
and who had been compelled to leave her all
alone in their humble cottage-all alone, unless
her rectitude and her sense of duty may be
counted as companions.
They were poor, humble people Mrs May
was the widow of country curate, who had
died, leaving, as curates sometimes do not, a
slight provision for his family 1t was like a
Providence. Having fought the fight of life
nearly out on ESQ or EGO year, some distant
relation, whom they had never seen and scarce
ly ever heard of, put the curate in his will for
glOO0. This sum, invested, was sufficient to
support both mother and daughter in that out
of the way place.
A letter had arrived, when Mrs May had
been q widow three years, requesting her to
come up to London, to hear of stsomethine tc
her advantage" This was vague enough; but
she resolved to comply; and not being able te
afford the expense of double journey, had
left her daughter, then about seventeen, under
the guardianship of the neighbors, her own
character, and mothers prayers,
She has been absent more than week. What
has happened in the meantime Why does
Florence wait with more than the impatience o
hllal affection with countenance in which
smiling lips and fearful eyes tell of strueGl
between joy and sadness She is troubled viii
the burden of her first secret--a secret whicl
she nurses with uneasy delight, and which sh
is anxious to pour into the ears of her only con
tidante-her mother How many maidens @
seventeen are still in this dream Of innocence
The sun had set before the roll of wheels cam
sounding down the valley; and when the coacl
began to descend, nothing could be distinguished
but the lights that glanced occasionally behint
the trees. The time seemed proGgiously Ion.
to Florence, She even thought once that SOM
tantastical, ghostly coachman was driving
phantom vehicle to and fro on the hillside t,
mock her. Young people in her state of minc
would annihilate time and space However
here it comes, the I'ally-ho, sweeping round tn
last corner-lights glancing-- horses tossin
their heads and steaming-a pyramid of luggag
swaying to and fro. ''Ihat's gals voice a
screamed said man to the Whip as the,
passed. Full, inside and out p was the reply
and on went the 1aliy-ho along the level laI
of the valley
'' She is not come," murmured Florence, afte
waiting in vain some time, to see if the coael
would stop lower down; but it pursued it
inexorahle course, and the young girl returne,
by the dim path to her cottage on the outskirt
Of the village.
That was critical period in her life. Fo
some days after her mothers departure, she ha,
spent her time either at her needle, or with on
or two old neighbors, who wearied her witt
their gossip. To escape from the sense of mo
notony, she Had wandered one morning into tn
fields, as it was indeed her custom from time t
time to do and there, with the scent of wild
flowers and new-mown hay around, she allowe
her mind to be ruffled by those. thoughts an
feelings which at that age breathe upon us fror
l know not what tregion-sparkling and innocen
stirrings, that scarcely typify the biliowy agi
tation, of succeeding years.
Across the meadows that occupy the loves
portion of,that valley, meanders a stream, ovel
which the willows hang their whip-like branche
and slender leaves. Near its margin, Florenc,
used often to sit with her work; first diligentl,
attended to, then dropped occasionally on he
lap, that she might watch the little fish tha
fitted like shadows to and fro in the shallos
current; then utterly forgotten, as she hersel
went waiting down the stream of the future
that widened as she went, and flowed at he
unconscious will, through scenes more magica
than those of fairy-land. The schoolmen hav
sought for the place of Paradise; did they pee,
into young heart that is waiting, Withou
knowing it, to love
1t was during her first walk since her mother
absence, that a stranger came slowly down th
opposite bank Of the stream; and seeing thi
lovely young girl entranced in rererie, pause
to gaze at her. His glance at first was col
and critical, like that Of q man who has troddeI
many lands, and has seen more such vision
than one under trees in lonely places vision
that, when neared and grasped at, hardene
into reality, vulgar and bucolic In littl
time, however, the brow Of this stranger unbent
and his lip uncurled and there came strang
fear to his heart, that what he saw of grace an
beauty beneath that archway Of willow boughs
was mere opticallllusion-a phantasm painte
on the exhalations of the meadow by the sun
beams There is certain pride in disappointe
natures, which makes them believe that all tb
loveliness of the outer world is of their ow
imagining, as if zoe could imagine more perfet
things than God has imagined and thrown Q
this canvas Of the universe.
birth, and muttered some ssSanta Vergines
more in surprise than devotion lie did n,
move or speak to attract the young girls after
ton, but waited until her eyes, which he sa
were restless, should chance to fall upon hin
| Her start Of alarm, when she found herself
be not alone, was repressed by the grave polite
ness of his bow.
Young lady" he said, in low musici
voice when he had leaped the stream and stoo
by her side, g am on my way to Melyyn Parl
Perhaps may learn from you in what directio
4 to turn"
The roof of the mansion shows above Il
trees replied she, rising and stretching out ht
pretty hand.
g might have guessed so, said the strange
whose accent was but slightly foreign; s' an
this is but bad excuse for speaking to you.
/ is more frank to say, that Twas surprised {
seeing so much beauty and grace buried in thi