The Kenosha telegraph. [volume] (Kenosha, Wis.) 1860-1888, 1867-01-03
from the Argosy j
PORT IN A STORM.

Papa, SAID my SISTER File, one evening
as we all sat about the drawing-room fire
One after another, as nothing followed, We
turned our eyes upon her. There she sat
still silent, enbroidering the corner of a
cambria handkerchief, apparently unaware
that she had spoken
1t was very cold night in the beginning
of winter My father had come home early
and we had dined early that we might have
long evening together, for it was my ia
Their and mothers wedding day, and we al
ways kept it as the homeliest of holidays
My father was seated in an easy chair by
the chimney corner, with jug of Burgun-
dy near him, and my mother sat by his
side, now and then taking a sip out of his
glass.
Effie was nearly nineteen the rest of US
were younger. What she was thinking
about we did not know then, though we
could all guess now. Suddenly she looked
up and seeing all eyes fixed on her, became
either aware or suspicious, and blushed rosy
red. H..
''You spoke to me- Efie. What was it
my dear p
''Oh yes, papa I wanted to ask you
whether you wouldn't tell US tonight the
story about how you--"
''Well, my love p
About how you"
81 am listening, my dear"
81 mean, about mama and you"
eyes, yes. About how | got your nam a
for mother to you. Yes. | paid dozen
of port for her"
We all and each exclaimed "Papa p aud
my mother laughed
''TeII us all about it," was the general
cry.
''Wel will, answered my father 81
must begin at the beginning, though.
And, filling his glass with Burgundy, he
began,
CAS- far back as | can remember | lived
with my father in an old manor-house in
the country 1t did not belong to my ia
Their, but an elder brother of his, who at
that time was captain of seventy four He
loved the sea more than his life and as yet,
apparently, had loved his ship better than
any woman. At least he was not married
my mother bad been dead for some
years, and my father now was in very deli
cate health. He had never been strong,
and since my mothers death, | believe,
though was to young to notice it, he had
pined away. am not going to tell you
anything about him just now, because it
does not belong to my story. When was
about five years old, as nearly as l can
Judge, the doctors advised him to leave
England. The house was put into the
hands of an agent to let--at least, SO | sup
pose and he took me with him to Madeira,
where he died. | was brought home by
his servant, and by my uncle's directions,
sent to boarding school; from there to
Eaton, and from there to Oxford
Before | had finished my studies, my
uncle had been an admiral for some time.
The year before | left Oxford be married
Lady Georgiana Thornbury, a widow lady,
with one daughter Thereupon he bade
farewell to the sea, though | dare say he
did not like the parting, and retired with
his bride to the house where he was born
the same house told you was born in,
which had been in the family for many
= generations and which your cousin now
lives in
1T was late in autumn when they ar
rived at Culverwood. They were no sooner
settled than my uncle wrote to me, inviting
me to spend Christmastide with them a:
the old place. And here you may see that
my story has arrived at its beginning.
1t was with strange feelings that en-
tered the house. 1t looked so old fashioned
and stately, and grand, to eyes which haC
been accustomed to all the modern com
monplaces Yet the shadowy recollection:
which hung about it gave an air of home
illness to the place, which, along with thu
grandeur, occasioned a sense of rare delight
For what can be better than to feel that yol
are in stately company and at the same
or NJ
full to this day for the lesson have from
the sense of which had spoken-that o
mingled awe and tenderness in the aspec
of the old hall as | entered it for the frs
time after fifteen years, having left it
mere child. -s
81 was cordially received by my old uncl
and new aunt. But the moment Kat
Thornbury entered l lost my hear {, an
have never found it again to this day
got on wonderfully well without it. thou OF
for have got the loan of far better on
till hnd my own, which, therefore, | hop
| never shall"
My father glanced at my mother as h
i'd this, and she returned his look in
ay which l can now interpret as a quie
tatlsfied confidence. But the tears came il
o Efies eyes. She had trouble before Ions
poor girl! But it is not her story l have
tell, My father went on
''Your mother was prettier than she
now, but not so beautiful; beautiful enoug
though, to make me think there never ns
been or could again be anything 80 beaui
full: She met me kindly, and | met b
ewkwardly."
''You made me feel that had no bus
ness there" said my mother, speaking f
the lrst time in the course of the story.
See there, girls" said my father