Raftsman's journal. [volume] (Clearfield, Pa.) 1854-1948, 1859-09-14
THE PORTRAIT.
By MRS. MARY A. DENNISON.
lfhnr WAS that our house Onca 2,3

| were born IN that front chamber. But hurry
on, dear, it is Ours no longer. Hold your shawl
| about your chest-the wind is very cold.''
They were meanly clad, both mother and
daughter. The former was past forty few
| years; the daughter not yet seventeen. An
/ ME Low was not beautiful, nevertheless her
/ face was rare blending of amabliay and in
tellect. They passed quickly along over the
! weli-trodden snow, and wended their way to-
ward nne of the lower quarters of the city.
| There they traversed the long, ill-looking
street till they stopped before narrow shop
| door and entered.
] s.Any work yet, Mr.. Mosely ?'' asked the
widow IN quiet tone.
SO yes, madam said the man behind the
/ counter, tive have plenty OF shirts now. Shall
/ give you bundle 20 And he cast glance,
half impertinence, half admiration, towards
| the young girl.
ssWhat tare your prices7' asked Mrs. Bartlett.
"Well, you know generally give a shl-
| ling shirt to common, customers, but as it is
you, you know, why, think we'H pay two
shllings. Shan't take 1t home for your It's
a heavy bundle, too much for you to carry.
The widow hesitated. She had done sewing
| for this man before, but she did not like the
way in which he looked at her daughter. A
| mothers heart takes alarm at hint, ques-
| tion or a glance. Annie was too precious to
be exposed to rudeness; she was the one, the
only fair child of a widowed heart-but the
bundle was too weighty for either mother or
daughter, so she concluded to let it be bro't.
| "You can send it by-and. by" she said.
| go, can't get body to take it--I must 60
myself. No Inconvenience, / assure you
| right on my way to supper. Miss, wish l
could offer you one of my arms,'' he said /,
coarsely, ssbut they happen to be both full.''
| ssThey walked on, till they came to very
ordinary looking house, whose steps were COW
cred with children. The man smiled to him.
self as they ascended.
| II mil ,I.o tba soid ,bo
ow with dignity.
ssO no ma'am; couldn't consent TO let you
carry it, said the man-ssI'll take it to your
| room."
s'Put the bundle down, sir 20 said the wild
ow, with flashing eyes.
The man started, and had nearly let it drop.
| However, he threw it with an impatient jerk
| on the lower stair, and muttering a curse,
| turned and left the hall.
''What made you speak so Grossly, mother?''
| asked Annie.
s'Never mind, child. Help me up stairs
| with it, said the widow, recovering her equa-
nimity. She had seen the tailor wink across
the entry TO yulgar-looking man who came
out from room near by, and whose reputa-
| tion was none of the best.
so dcar.' 1t was said very bitterly, and
with heart-ache, as mother and daughter
tered their own neat little room, an attic cham
Der lighted from the ceiling.
'1t seems strange, doesn't it ?'' unused An
ME, looking round.
ssWhat seems strange, dear? p"
s'That you should have lived and been
born in that beautiful great house, and after
all be reduced to the garret of such place as
this replied Annie. sWho lives there now
mother 90
'sYOu have heard me say before, child,'' re-
piled her mother-ssYour uncle Harry and
your cousin Eugenie. Your uncle Harry,
your fathers brother, married my sister-poor
Annie, (yOu are named for her,) she died be-
fore your father did, should not now be
suffering in penury, or be forced to take in
suits from our interiors;
eWell, it is home,'' said the young girl, ga
Zing around, ''and not so bad one either.
Now, if we get those shirts done-why we
can buy beautiful thick shawl to wear be-
tween us. Shall l make tea tonight 7''
ssYes, if you please,'' said the mother,
sitting wearily down. ON undo the bum
die and sort out the work.
sRobert Southey, you are always standing
before that picture !''
So cried beautiful hight bred girl, as she
entered the splendid reccption-room where
stood the young man, gazing upon sylph-
like figure enclosed within a massive frame.
Young Southey turned ronnd hastly-a
rarely intellectual face was his-and greeted
the beautiful girl with smile.
ssI cannot help admiring that picture, he
Salu III mas d ldSC1naIlOD IOf me which L
cannot explain to myself. Is there an origi-
nal, or is it one of those gentle dream faces 1
that artists sometimes fashion when under the
inspiration of heaven ?''
go, its no dream -face,'' said Eugene, light
ly, ssbut cousin of mine, l believe-that is,
I've heard papa say so. She is living now,
believe, but dear me, they're dreadful COM
mon sort of people,"
ssThey ?'' queried Robert Southey.
ssI mean my aunt and cousin. They are in
reduced circumstances, and understand An
ME has got so far down that she takes work at
the shops. You smile, and l suppose you
think ought to know more about them, but l
assure you it is not my fault Ever since they
would not consent to make it there home here,
papa has forbidden me to have ything to do
with them.''
ssBut why did they not stay ?'' asked Robert.
go, they had some foolish notions of inde-
pendence-said they would not live on the
bounty of those who had robbed them, and
many other impertinent things. l wonder
papa was so patient with them Pm sure he
couldn't help it if it was their home once, ) on
know, if his brother willed it to him.
$50, So said Robert Southey. And his
fine eyes roved again to the portrait The |
noble face seemed lighted up with a trusting |
smile, as he gazed, land yet, it was but child's
face-a child of only seven years.
''How old is that cousin by this time! ~ he
asked, carelessly.
go, about my age. assure you she's a
very plain-lookng girl. The painter idealiz- |
ed that face"
Eugene Bartlett was both vain and heartless, |
and had not even wit enough to conceal eth |
er defect. She had fancied that she loved |
more than once, but never till the poet face of
Robert Southey met her vision had she in |
reality known the true meaning of the much |
used, much abused word. She fancied that |
her beauty was irreNstable-it was TO some |