The Bolivar bulletin. [volume] (Bolivar, Hardeman County, Tenn.) 1865-1888, 1866-04-14
THE FOLLY OF PRIDE.

Through the spacious length of suite of
richly furnished rooms the proud Lillian Lee
was walking with a naughty step; yet, with
all her haugtiness there was that air of ner-
vOus restlessness which betOkens mind i'll
at ease. The rich, golden rays of the set
ting sun, stealing into the room through the
stained glass, fell with soft tints upon every
thing lovely and beautiful thata refined taste
could suggest or immense " ealth could pro-
cure. Here were grouped together the love
Hest pictures with the most artistic refine
nent and there were marshalled statues
and busts from the chisels Of the most noted
sculptOrs.
But the golden light fell upon nothing so
lovely as Lillian Lee, the mistress Of them
all, the proud heiress of Rosa Hill. Now
she stopped near centre table, upon which
were piled drawings and engravings from
the portfolios of the most celebrated tourists;
now she paused before the library, taking up
one of the numerous works of the English
laureate-T ennyson-but his glowing beau
ties failed to call forth her admiration or
rivet her attention as they were won't Her
mind was pre-Occupied, and nothing save
the arrival of him whom she was expecting
would please the proud girl.
She moved toward the window as if to
watch his coming, and drawing aside the
| tapestried curtains glanced down the avenue
nothing Of the expected one could be seen.
| She listened, but heard nothing save the soft
murmur of fountains the signing of breezes
and the warbling of birds Oh, how they
Knocked herl They seemed to soar away to
/ heaven in their lightness-their gladness );
! but she crept, even in dust In her disap-
pointment Atlength. unable longer to con
troll her feelings, she impatiently said
! Why am [ so weak-so foolish to display
- IL Il
/ full, gifted, proud heiress of Rosa Hill, should
love a poor artist Dare l acknowledge it
even to myself? No alas, it is too true-I
adore himl Oh, that he were rich, and then
we would be happy for l know he loves me
as madly as l do him else why would he
urge his suit SO persistently when I treat
him so coldly, so haughtily? But why do l
love him2 He could not support me in my
preasent position it would have to be love
in n cottage because father would disown
me; and the poor artist has nothing with
which to support a wife. But forall this he
is so noble, so truly noble, that l cannot help
loving him even against the dictates of my
pride o sorrow viii he not come tonight
as he promised? Lionel, Lionell F."
As She spoke, the rapid clatter of hoofs
was heard, and a horse dashed up the carri
age way In a moment more the rider be
came visible to the anxious gaze of Lillian
but no LlOneI was IueTC-Jue form OF
stranger appeared. The disappointment wa
too cruel; She withdrew from the windoy
and flung herself into the nearest seat il
unutterable woe.
CHAP. Il.
d" Lionel, where are you 2? uttered th
sick man. in peevish, fretful voice; "whcr
are you "
We would convey the reader from the e
ecant home of the rich heiress to that Of tn
poor artist humble and lowlY. Can you nc
imagine how great the contrast?
" "Iionel," again called the voice in a NOR
fretted tone, why don't you come when
call e? Come now
" Here / am, uncle-what do you wish :?
answered q noble looking young man, as
stepped into the room. And this was Lit
mel Walton, the poor artist
:, Nothing just now, returned che SIC
man. 1" / am too weak and feeble to tal
now. Presently / viii be stronger 1 hal
something Of Importance to tell you
strange revelation to make; one, hope, thi
when I am gone, you viii be able 20 ble
your old uncle for.
For few moments neither Of them spol5
The FIRE burned itfully on the crate, castir
n weird figures and fantastic shapes upon I'll
= bare, gloomy walls The lamp hickered
{ the wind and finally went out, leaving Il
ii ! occupants Of that dismal room in darknes
,s except the itful glare from the crate.
At length the old man spoke, but no
= changed his voice The cold hands Of dea
were upon him. lie spoke abruptly