Litchfield enquirer., 1861-07-04
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M -~ VI -'~~-.r
 THE, BAEk-NOTE.

'You would scarcely think had been in the States Prison, would you!'
 In the States Prison! ] echoed. 'Oh! of course you mean as a visitor and felcitated myself that my good-humored host had not sold me.
 No; mean as a convict
 As a convict! echoed again. dropping my pipe in ny amazemcnt. Impossible!
 True, nevertheless
 Mrs. Fillmore raised her eyes from her knitting, and looked at her husband, and then at me, with a sort of sad smile, that seemed to say: True, every word of it.
 in Mississippi, and l. fancying myself an artist was at that time staying at his house, ostensbly engaged in painting portrait of his daughter Annette, fair young beauty of seventeen.
 True, my stay had already been longer than was strictly necessary for purposes of painting, but for reasons which will appear more fully hereafter, l still fingered on the plantation, all honored guest. And often in the calm autumn evenings we would all sit together on the yer andah, and talk for hours in home-like, old fashioned way, under the shadow of the cliuging vines.
 In the States Prison as convictv repeat cd, after pause, inwardy wondering how it could be possible that that mild, benevolent old gentleman could ever have been SO abused.
 Perhaps you would like to hear how it hap pened ? he said, inquiringly.
 Most certainly-if you arc willing to narrate it.
 I have never spoken of it since have been here; but if you will listen tonight to an old mans babbling, will tell you the story
 We relinquished our p,pes settled ourselves in our seats, and just when the sun went out of sight, the old man began his story. Forty years ago to-day I was twenty-two years old, and, improbable as it may now seem l was practising law in the city of Boston. Or rather, l was sitting in my office, waiting to practise. My father, who had died when I was but boy, had been lawyer before me, and it was my ambition always to be like him as dim. ly remembered him, and as my mother described him.
 At that time my mother and myself were liv- ing together in little house in Roxbury, and had just begun to see some prospect of success in my business.
 There was an acquaintance of mine, Louis Milton by name, at that time cashier in one o the city banks.
 Circumstances had thrown us much together and we had grown to be very good friends, SC much 50 that he had often spoken to me of { certain Mary Marshall whom he was accustom ed to regard as his future wife the contract, fol such only it could be called, having been enter ed into years before by their parents. Weston Marshall was wealthy importer, ant the elder Milton chief owner of the bank ir which Louis was cashier. Both were wealthy and both aristocratic, and hence the foundation of the contract. I had never seen her, and nev CT thought of her but when he spoke of her, lit tie dreaming that she would one day indirectly effect thorough change in my whole life. But must not anticipate.
 shall never forget, one snowy night, tht nrst time ever saw her. Some theatrical cele onty was Starring at one of the Boston thea !res, ana Louis and myself, happening together m sne evening, strolled to the play. In one o and asked: s' "''1'' '4'A'>
 Have you ever seen Mary?
 answered that had never had that r,aa sure. "N s''as p'ea
 Do you see.' he said, directing nv attent;o, to remote part of the house, that young lad, dressed in purple, with dark plumes in her hat
 T replied that did.
 Well, that's Mary.
 Placed as we then were, in the glarinp light I could see little beyond the particulars of iTes he had remarked bnt the chances of the crowd as we left the theatre, brought us quite near be- and I thought then, ss think now, that ha