The Kenosha telegraph. [volume] (Kenosha, Wis.) 1860-1888, 1867-08-08

IIUIII tIU AVIHHIIC MUHbIIIy
A Struggle for Life.

One morning last April, as was passing
through Boston Common, met gentleman
longing along the Mall. This mans face
forced itself upon me, and very singular
face it was His eyes were faded, and his
hair, which be Wore long was hecked with
gray. His hair and eyes, if | may say so
were seventy years old, the rest of him not
thirty. The youthfulness of his figure, the
elasticity of his gait, and the venerable ap.
pearance of his head, were incongruities
that drew more than one pair of curious eyes
towards him.
The next morning again encountered
him on The Mall.
''Would your replied voice at my side.
turned and faced Mr.. H, a neighbor
of mine, who laughed heartily at finding
me talking to myself "Well" he added,
reAectingly, 81 can tell you this man s
story; and if you will match the narrative
with anything as curious | shall be glad to
hear it."
''You know him then p
''Yes and no. | happened to be in Paris
when he was buried"
''Buried"
"Well, strictly speaking, not buried; but
something quite like it. If you've spare
half hour" continued my interocutor,
swell sit on this bench, and | will tel you
all know of an affair that made some noise
in Paris couple of years ago"
Three people were sitting in a chamber
whose one large window overlooked the
Place Vendome. M. Dorine, with his back
half turned on the other two occupants of
the apartment, was reading the MOnGteUr,
from fImn IN bic
glasses, and taking scrupulous pains not to
glance toward the lounge at his right, on
which was seated Mademoiselle Dorine and
young American gentleman, whose hand
some face rather frankly told his position
in the family. There was not a happier
man in Paris that afternoon than Philip
Wentworth. In certain natures the deepest
Joy has always something of melancholy III
it, presentiment, feeting sadness, feel
ing without name. Wentworth was con.
scious of this subtle shadow, that night
when he rose from the lounge, and thong ht-
fully held jules hand to bis lips for mo-
ment before parting.
M. Dorine laid down his paper, and came
forward. 'lf the house." he said, sis such
as NJ Martin describes it, | advise you to
close with him at once. | would accom-
pany you, Philip, but the truth is, am too
sad at loosiDg this little bird, to assist you
in selecting a cage for her, By to morrow
night" he added laughingly, ''little Julie
here will he an old lady-tis such an age
from now until then"
The next morning the train bore Philip
to one of the loveliest spots within thirty
miles of Paris. An hours walk through
green lanes brought him to NJ, Martins es.
tate In kind of dream the young man
wandered from room to room. And after
dining with M. Martin, completed the pur-
chase, and turned his steps towards the
station just in time to catch the express
train.
On reaching Paris he drove to his hotel,
where he found several letters lying on the
table. He did not trouble himself even to
glance at their superscriptions as he threw
aside his travelling surtout for "a more appro-
pirate dress.
If, in his Impotence to see Mademoiselle
Dorine, the cars had appeared to walk, the
fiacre which he had secured at the station
appeared to creep. At last it turned into
the Place Vendome, and drew up before NJ
Dorine's residence. The door opened al
Philips foot touched the frst step. Tit
servant silently took his cloak and hat witt
a special Difference Philip thought; but wal
he not now one of the family D.?
IN Dorine,' said the servant slowly
lis unable to see Monsieur at present. He
wishes Monsieur to be shown up to thu
salon.
sis Mademoiselle-"
eyes, Monsieur"
''Alone?"
''Alone, Monsieur repeated the man
looking curiously at Philip, who coulC
scarcel y repress an exclamation of pleasure
1t was the first time that such privilege
had been accorded him.
Philip did not linger on the staircase; hii