Orleans independent standard. [volume] (Irasburgh, Vt.) 1856-1871, 1856-03-28

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to have resumed their likeness;
and worthy Mrs. Plunkett viii to her
last hour believe that the constant use of
boiled milk (tepid) will produce the hap
piest results, upon the most unsatisfactory
skins.
Last week remarked that my neigh
Dor was more than usually depressed
Through the partition wall l frequently
heard her sigh, and for three nights the
footsteps kept up their regular beat with
sa.e ;.4so4 IlIIsefoIa.
Each day she looked more worn, and
my old eyes filed with tears as l watched
her. Latterly she had not turned with a
vexed frown from my observation, as l
had often had the pain of seeing her do,
but once or twice she gave me an earnest
glance from beneath her fatigued brow,
while her arms dropped moodily and
weakly beside her.
She seemed thinner, more fragile than
ever. Her gown waist was pinned over
more closely, each day; willowwand is
scarcely slighter than her waist.
But, as l was saying-it was about
eight o'clock in the evening, and I was
sitting in my own room, intending to
write a letter to my absent child in Cali
fornia, when a sob,-so loud, so deep, so
heart -breaking,-came to me from my
neighbor,
1t was irresistible. 1 started up and
went into the passage. A light shone
below the closed door Of my neighbor's
room. listened. All was still, except
from the parlor down stairs, where enc Of
the ladies was torturing the piano.
Again that heavy sigh. 1t was as if a
long pent-up agony, like mighty river
bursting its bounds rushed sweepingly,
distractingly, Overwhelmingly into sound
and action. Sob upon sob; ; tears falling
in mad sorrow; and then fall, as if a
figure, gathered up to its full height had
suddenly dropped prone upon the floor.
| Ifelt the impropriety,-the intrusion
but l softly opened the door, carried away
by a sympathy stronger than convention
al rules.
There lay my neighbor. Her long hair
untwisted, disheveled; her head buried
in her arms gathered in a reckless heap
writhing in uncomfortable misery. Bitter
sighs, half uttered words, and ceaseless
means. The room was bare; no curtains
to the hard, comfortless bed none at the
solitary window. A stiff, uncushionet
chair, small trunk; not book, not {
sign Of woman's presence; the mos
cherries spot conceivable. But opposite
to me there rested an object so strange
to find in such an apartment, that i
riveted my attention and kept me spell
bound.
A large packing-case held picture il
a splendid frame; the upper side had beeI
removed only recently, for it yet leane,
partly against the picture.
1t was portrait; full length portrai
of a beautiful woman SO brilliantly beau
tiful that l wondered if lips so red an,
eyes so dazzling could have ever existed
The dress was of a fashion of fifteen year
back or more; the surroundings repre-
sented drawing-room, handsomely fu1
nished, and, reclining upon a sofa, wit
one arm half buried in its downy depths
lay this beauty sparkling petulanct
, a naughty grace enveloping her, an
, shining jewels decked her lovely perso
] with a glorious fitness like dewdrops-up
violet blossoms.
, By the light of a sixpenny glass lamI
in which burned camphene, on the tabl
near, I saw this luxurious picture, and IL
p weeping, groveling woman in her coars
garments and her fierce sorrow o
h the floor at its feet. They seemed th
r antipodes Of life, and yet it appeared
9 me that in the lofty dignity of the one,
could trace a dreamy likeness to the low
poverty of the other.
q Was it so? Had these wea1ied, me
ancholy eyes, which now were veiled
- her silver hair, ever been faithfully re
resented by those .insolently beautif
ones? Was there truly a connectic
= between the portrait and the poor own
|, of it?
= Was it Magdalen weeping before h
= early self?
l. The more looked, the more / believ,
it. Withered, worn, shabby, old as s.
now was-this portrait had once, like
mirror, reflected the features of my nelg
III Dor.
d What business had I there? VIII
u could l do for grief like this? The pro
IN spirit which danced in every sparkle
u; the portraits eye, the pretty seorn viii
IT, shone its air, might yet linger in Z