The Manitowoc pilot. [volume] (Manitowoc, Wis.) 1859-1932, 1867-08-09

ridiculous past. All my vague romantic |
passions eneircled her, and loved her like, |
well, like an artist who is young and poor |
-will love.
And [ could not help treasuring that
palette for the sake of our happy days, and
in memory of that one sad look which came
into her eyes and voice at parting: Did she
really regret her choice? Could she have
been unduly influenced? Had She any
choice In the matter?
Many long year afterwards, when had
made my mark, and got beyond Tandy, the
dealer (perhaps you remember his place
behind the Haymarket a young lady
called upon me. There was dark old
Indian woman with her, who courtesied
very low.
''Mr. Westwood, I believe" said the
young lady, fine well grown woman Of
about twenty, and dressed in deep mourn
ing.
Eyes" l said, offering seat
'My name is Howard" she said 81
have recently arrived from Bombay
l felt my heart beating strangely, and
the blood rushing into my stupid old face.
I could see the likeness of Edith it was
particularly noticeable in the full gray eyes
| "My mother said | was to tell you"
! SIS she still living p ventured to ask,
for the suspense was awful.
The girl shook her head, and the tears
came into her eyes as she said, II am an
orphan
Something brought the little palette to
my mind, and It's poor faded patches of
color, and | think there we've tears IN my
own eyes too.
Il was to give you this packet and tell
you that was christened Edith West
wood
"God bless you" / exclaimed and
she came and nestled in the trembling old
arms which | stretched towards her.
She knew the story of my life.
Edith Viner had really loved the'poor
painter (How all the sunshine of the
Northern city came back to me in mo-
ment y But she had been engaged to
Captain Howard before she saw me,-en-
gagged almost from childhood, and their
hands had been joined at her fathers bed
side when he lay dying.
She had steeled her heart to her fate !;
but whilst she was free my society had a
fascination for her which she could not
overcome. At last she strove to make me
hate her; and that mornings encounter,
blow to my liking She nearly broke her
True to her last words, she had never
painted again. Alas she, too, had known
no happiness. Her husband, CLEANED af-
forwards, in quiet interviews with the
daughter, was a gay, selfish fellow, who
met with a dishonorabie death.
So our two lives were bishted and now
you understand what a big sorrow it was
which | had been doing battle with by hard
work. And if you like to call me Tilted
old bachelor, you may; but [ still cling to
that petit palette, and the memories that
surround it.
In the hands of fate we were all as much
puppets as were those absurd wax figures
in the hands of Miss Jinks, whose idols fell
into the possession of her deadliest foes.
Edith Westwood Howard was my ward
bless her heart And she appeared like
an angel at my fireside for a few short
months. She is Mrs. Lloyd Craven now,
and a mother, too; and her children call
me great grandpa in fun, laugh at my wheel
chair, and call it great grandpa s pcrambu
lator.
Have not the ridiculous and the sublime
been strangely mixed up in my life? Last
night | dreamt | was one Of the Tick street
puppets, very white and very cold, with an
old palette by my side with faded spots of
| yellow anu req ana Drown upon IL. anu
when [ awoke [ was sitting in my perambu-
lator, as the children call it, with Sc yeral
people round me; and somebody said, ''IIe
is very old man." and another said, "Ah,
he II never paint any more"
And then [ was in the Northern city
again, where she said she.would never paint
again. 1t seemed as if memory was kind
to me, and got up and went to my room,
and asked for her palette and there | sit
in the evenings, and smoke and chat with
Lloyd Craven, who is at the top Of the tree,
they say He is engaged on great picture
now called Evening" There is a bit OF
shining river in it, an old man, gray ca
thedral tower among some trees, and the
sun is setting in the west 1t is pleasant
to talk to Craven about the twilight and
the evening, and [ want him to paint an
unused palette by the side Of the old man,
and an easel with half finished picture
upon it; then Edith, his wife, peeps in
and laughs at US, and we nod at, her and go
on smoking and so the evening passes,
and the lone dark nj uht comes an