Litchfield enquirer., 1867-04-18
THE PAINTERS WIFE.

But you have not told me yet, sCyrilla Il what incident the picture is iaatanded t |; represent
 Ut is intended to illustrate the story c 1 Ginevra' as told in Rogers Naly. l dar say you recollect the poem in question?'' 70 yes: remember all about Frances co Doria and his youthful bride; and ho, the latter hid herself in an old chest on he wedding day and was smothered, and he body not found for ever 50 many years af forwards
 That is just the point-where Ginevra i about to hide herself-that Theodore is try ing to illustrate. have sat to him don know how many times already" l And 8 very good likeness it is of you my dear. And the chest in which she i about to hide herself is painted from tha real chest in the corner there It look hundreds of years old Dear, dear! it. quite wonderful. But I thought painter always invented such things out of thei own heads"
 The speakers were aunt and niece-tht latter fair and slender girl of twenty, witt a singularly youthful expression of face fol one that was wife and mother The time was half past nine on certain autumn eve ming some half dozen years ago; and the place was a pleasant home-ike room in { small villa in one of the western suburb: of London.
 "The mention of those Italian names Cyrilla," said Mrs. Reece pleasantly, puts me in mind of an old admirer of yours Signor Pietro Festini. By the by, do yor know where he now is?''
 "No. Where?" said Cyrilla Grickly.
 "In lunatic asylum. He went crazy l oho11t vaor ooo and hoe Ioa,, s1,11,r ,.o straint ever since I don't thinkyou treat ed him we'll, Cy rilla, to encourage his at tentions, and then to cast him off in the way you did"
 Cyrillas cheek paled suddenly; she sank into chair, and did not speak for min ute or two. "You have been misinformed aunt" she said at last. "Signor Fastini never received the least encouragement from me. was attracted towards him by his great musical talent; but it was his own presumption that drew him on to me as he did. Nevertheless am truly grieved tc hear of the aff1iction that has overtaken l him.
 Cyrilla sat thinking deeply for some time after her aunt's departure, going, in mem ory, through all those phases of her life in which the young Italian had been an actor Her reverie was brought to an end by the clock on the mantel-piece chiming eleven. She got up from her seat with a little sigh, and went into her dressing room, which opened out of the room in which she had been sitting, and bathed her hands and face; and changed her evening dress for a comfortable white wrapper; and unbound her yellow hair, letting It fall in rich sheaf down her shoulders; for Theodore had gone out tonight to supper party given by a brother artist who was about to enter the hg2a state ls 8f aat and she on his part, had promised to be home soon after midnight.
 Going back into the sitting room, Cyrilla with baby, who, being well behaved young gentleman, was happily fast asleep at this late hour. He was deposited in a pretty little cot close by his mothers side. "You can go to bed, nurse, and the other ser wants can do the same," said Mrs Thorn hurst. "I will sit up for master myself. See that the doors and windows are all fast ened before you go up stairs. When the woman was gone, Cyrilla stir red up the low fire on the hearth into fit- full blaze, and then took up the first volume of novel which had been brought her that afternoon from the library. Theodore would be home in an hour at the farthest and the time would pass pleasantly and quickly away.
 A pleasant, cozy, home-ike picture pretty, girlish wife coiled up gracefully, in her husbands huge easy chair; the sleep ing child; the room itself, with it's walls half hidden with sketches, prints, and water r-colors, with the easel in one corner and the pianoforte in another; with Cyril las work basket on side-table in company with a meerschaum, big and brown, and { tobacco jar after the antique. A pleasant picture, and one which Theodore Thorn hurst, artist from the top of his head to the sole of his foot, would not fail to note when he should come stepping leisurel ely 1T through one of the three French windows opening on to the lawn, which had jus been draped, ready for winter, with cur tains of crimson damask, in place of tht muslin ones which had shaded them through the summer months.
 | Cyrilla read on undisturbed for abou half an hour, at the end of which time ba by began to grow restless; so she laid dowI her book, and began to rock the cot with slow, gentle motion, and at the same tim to sing, in minor key, the exquisite era dle song from The Princess
 Sweet and low, sweet and low. Wind of the western sea | Low, low breathe and blow. ! Wind of the western sea!
 Singing thus, she lifted the child tenderl, out of its cot, kissed it fondly, and carried it through the dressing room into tn chamber beyond, and there laid it snugl in bed. Presently, she came back, stil humming the music of the song under he breath, and leaving the door of the dress ing-room half open behind her, so that sh might the more readily hear her darling should he awake and cry out Then sh sat down again in her husbands easy chail and went on with her novel But the un der-current of her thought was with he husband; and presently she glanced up a the time-piece on the mantel-shelf, only t } discover that it had come to dead sto , some ten minutes previously, for want ( winding up. She put down her book, an rose at once to perform the necessary duty for the voice of the little clock sounde like that of friend in her lonely watcl ing How the words of that song haunte her memory!
 Sweet and low, sweet and low,
 . Wind of the western sea.
 She was winding up the timepiece slowl and carefully, and humming the song ; herself, and as she did so-what woma would not have done the same?-she gla1 , ced at the reflection of her own pretty fac in the glass over the chimney-piece. Sh