The Cecil Whig. [volume] (Elkton, Md.) 1841-current, 1860-05-12
Select GturD.
OLD SWEETHEARTS.
BY ANDREW HALLIDAY.


When old Aun, Patterson used to tell me,
as we sat together by her parlor fire, that she
was once a very pretty girl, and that all the
lads of the village were over head and ears
in love with her, | wondered very much. |
should mention that l was q very small boy
then. Looking up from the footstool on
which l was accustomed to sit, at aunty's
wrnkled brow, her sunken cheeks and close
-approximatng nose and chin, could never
realise to my imagination the picture which
she painted Of herself" when she was young.''
She was a pretty girl then, she said, with
blue eyes and bunch Of flaxen curs hang
ing down her back for all the world like a
blossom of luxuriant labarnum-trcc. There
was picture Of just such girl in aunty's
parlor, which aunty said was picture Of her
self at The age of seven. 1t never occurred
to me, or indeed to any one else who knew
her, to doubt aunty's word But how could
l believe that old Aunt Patterson had ever
been anything like that The girl in the
picture had rosy checks, and over her shout
dcrs flowed prolusion of 1aXen curls, which
were now represented by brown wig with
an unnaturally white and well-defincd part
ing. In her dimpled hand, the child had an
apple as rosy as her own checks. OFT, as
sat at aunty's feet, would l look up at those
dimples, and wonderingly compare them with
the blue veins of the shrivcled hand which
held in mine. What evil genie wrinkled that
damask check, and dmmcd those brilliant
eyes? All! knew not then what a potent
magician is Time. Aunty's story was like a
fairy-tale to me.
Side by side with the picture of 90 rosy
cheeks" there hung another; it was that of a
handsome young man with bright, dark, pierre
ing black eyes and curly black hair. And
thereby hung another of aunty's tales. That
was picture of Robert Alison, who went to
South America five-and- thirty years ago
Robert and were old swecthcarts - aunty
used to tell me: {. he was poor, my dear, and
rather wild, and my father would not consent
to our marriage. 1t nearly broke my heart,
for loved Robert very dearly, and am
sure he loved me. He took my fathers re-
peatcd dcnias so much to heart that he
resolved to leave the country. 81 will 90 to
South America, Lizzy,' he said, make Il
fortune, and come back and marry you.-
Your father will not object to my marrying
you when l an rch.' cried bitterly, you
may be sure; for, as said, loved Robert
dearly. Well, Robert carried out his resolu-
ton. l got mp one morning before it was
light, and met him at the old bridge, to bid
him goodbye. l was so aurried on leaving
the house, for fear that my father should
awake and discover my purpose, that forgot
to put on my bonnet; and l remember that,
as l ran, the wind blew my curls about so
that if any person had seen me they must
have thought me mad. But nobody was up
so early. / found Robert waiting for me on
the old bridge After few hurried words,
. we parted. But before he left me, he begged
lock of my hair as remembrance against
the time when he should return and claim nc
for his bride. l had plenty of hair to give
him, and was right willing to give IT. but we
had nothing to cut it off withholding but
Roberts pen-knive. But Love laughs at
scissors makers, my dear, as we'll as at lock-
smiths, and Robert laid one of my curIs upon
Hio "a'hihS shck, ana just whitfield IL OH ana
then took off one of his in the same way,
though | did not do it SO neatly, and made
Robert cry out little. / could have laughed
if my heart had not been so full. l stood on
the bridge watching him until he was out of
sight among the trees, and then went back
home, crying all the way.'
dare say aunty told me this story a score
Of times, and always in the glooming of the
evening, between the lights. But she never
carried her early history beyond the parting
on the old bridge. All tho romance ended
there. What followed was prosac enough.
Aunty walled several years for Robert with
out hearing any news OF him; and, at length,
believing him dead, she married Mr.. Grain
gcr, the observation-disclosures, believe, to
please her father than herself
AT the end of twenty years Dir. Granger
died, and left aunty very we'll oli--so well off,
indeed, that before the year of mourning was