Daily evening star. [volume] (Washington [D.C.]) 1852-1854, 1854-01-25
THE DOOMED SISTERS.
Or, BliXhled FIowers.

AhG OVU N 4 u SISTERS:
Or, blighied Flowers.
The facts of the following brief nara.
tive, which are very few and of but mel.
ancholy interest, became known to me in
the precise order in which they are laid
before the reader. They were forced
upon my observation rather than sought
out by me; and they present, to nv
mind at least, touching picture of the
bitter conflict industrious poverty is
sometimes called upon, in the great city
OF London, to wage with "the thousand
natural shocks which flesh is heir to-
1t must be now eight or nine wears
since, in traversing certain street, which
runs for nearly half mile in direct
line southwark, l first encountered Ellen
-. She was then fair young girl Of
seventeen, rather above the middle size,
and with queen-like air and gait which
made her appear taller then she really
was. Her countenance, pale but healthy.
and of a perfectly regular and classic
mould, was charming to look upon from
its undefinable expression of loneliness and
sweet temper. Her tiny feet tripped
noiselessly along the pavement, and a
glance from her black eye sometimes met
mine like a ray of light, as, punctually
at twenty minutes to nine, we passed
each other near - House, each of us on
our way to the theatre of our daily oper-
atlons. She was an embroideress, as I
soon discovered from small stitching.
frame, containing some unfinished work,
which she occasionally carried in her
hand. She set me q worthy example of
punctuality, and could any day have
told the time to minute without looking
at my watch, by marking the spot where
we passed each other. learned to look
for her regularly, and before knew her
name, had given her that Of" Minerva, {"
in acknowledgment of her efficiency as a
Mentor.
A year after the commencement of our
acquaintance, which never ripened into
speech, happening to set out from home
one morning quarter of an hour before
my usual time, made the pleasing dis
covery that my juvenile Minerva had a
younger sister, if possible still more
beautiful than herself. The pair were
taking an affectionate leave of each other
at the crossing of the New Road. and
the silver accents of the younger as, kiss.
ing her sister, she laughed out, "Good-
bye, Ellen" gave me the first information
of the real name of my pretty Mentor.
The little Mary-for so was the Younger
called, who could not be more than eleven
years of age-waS slender, frolicksom
sylph, with askin Of the purest carnation,
and face like that of Sir Joshua's seraph
in the National Gallery, but with larger
urbs and longer lashes shading them. As
she danced and leaped before me on her
way home again, could not but admire
the natural case and grace ofevery motion,
nor fail to comprehend and sympathise
with the anxious looks of the sisters
only parent, their widowed mother, who
stood watching the return of the younger
darling at the door of very humble
two-story.dwelling, in the vicinity of the
New River Head.
Nearly two years passed away, during
which, with the exception of Sundays
and holidays, every recurring morning
brought me the grateful, though momen-
tary vision Of one or both of the charm
ing sisters. Then came an additional
pleasure met them both together every
day. The younger had commenced prac
tising the same delicate and ingenious
craft of embroidery, and the two pursued
their industry in company under the same
employer. 1t was amusing to mark the
demure assumption of ofwomanhood darken-
ing the brows of the @rial little sprite.
as, with all the newborn consequence OF
responsibility, she walked soberly by her
sister, S side, frame in hand, and OCCASION
ally revealed to passers-by brief glimpse
OF her many-colored handiwork. They
were the very picture of beauty and hap
piness, and happy beyond question must
their innocent lives have been for many
pleasant months. But soon the shadows
of care began to steal over their hitherto
joyous faces, and traces of anxiety, per-
haps of tears, to be too plainly visible on
their paling cheeks. Ali at once missed
them in my mornings walk, and for
severals days-it might be weeks-saw
nothing of them. was at length start
led from my forgetfulness oftheir very ex-
istence by the sudden apparition of both
one Monday morning clad in the deepest
mourning. / saw the truth at once the
the mother, who, I had remarked, was
prematurely old and feeble, was gone, and
the two orphan children were left to bat
tie it with the world. My conjecture
was the truth, as neighbor, of whom
made some inquiries on the subject was
not slow to inform me. "Ah, SIR" said
the good woman, ''poor Mrs. D
have had hard time of it, and she born
an bred gentleooman.
| asked her if the daughters were pro.
yided for. rsL III =.
Indeed, SIR" continued nv inform.
ant, I" I'm afeard not. Twas the most
unfortnatest thing in the world, sir, Door
Mr.. D-'s dying jest as a. did. You
see, Sir. he war a soldier, gfightin' out
in Indy, and his poor wife lef at home
WI them two blossoms o. gals. He
warn't what you call a common soldier,
sir, bat some kind o. officer like; an in
some great battle fought seven years ago
he done fine service I've heerd, and pro-
~~ks