The Shasta courier., 1869-11-13
COURIER.
At the Intelligence once.
BY AMY RANDOLPH.


finger meditatively up to her blue veine9
temple and affected to think deeply on the
subject.
"Care for you, Carl? N-no, / don't
think | do-that is, not very much p
Carl Wicklow bit his moustached lip,
with unavailing wrath and vexation, as the
arch blue sparkle of the lovely eyes met
his! What a bright, coquettish specimen
of the female butterfly she was, that gold
haired blonde, with her long eye-lashes and
coral lips and skin like rose-shadow wax
Carl Wicklow could feel the invisible chains
Tightening around his heart, even while
the frey impulses of masculine pride urged
him to snap them in sunder, and assert
himself heart whole.
"Lucy~
Well, Mr. Wicklow p'
(The question short, sharp and imper-
ative-the answer demure in the highest
deglee)
viii you listen to me seriously, for
just half minute 2"
Presently, Carl I've forgotten all
about my poor, dear, little Canary"
Carl bit his lip again.
"Oh, hang your Canary"
"That's just what I'm going to do-up
among the climbing roses in the porch,
where pussy can't by any possibility get at
him."
Lucy, am in no mood to be trihed
with"
"That's almost pity, isn't it, now ?"
responded Miss Taylor. For, to tell you
the truth, l never felt more inclined to
tease and trihe in the whole course of my
life"
:" Miss Taylor" said Carl, gravely and
sternly, will be listened TOP
" And won't listen SO there p
In her pretty, girlish spirit of defiance,
mingled with rising spirit of anger, Lucy
Taylor futtered through the wide open
door, where the rippling tides of the June
sunshine crowned her with misty gold, as
she passed-and disappeared
Carl Wicklow stood looking after her,
with brow that had blanched to dull,
deadly whiteness, for single moment
Then, he, too, turned away and walked
silently down the little path among the
velvet green meadows, where tiny rivulet
ran gurging all the way by his side in a
voiceless refrain, which he, in the bitter
ness of his soul, Interpreted into the mock
ing of the ballard
Beware trust her not
She is foolng thee ~
Oh, Carl Wicklow. Carl Wicklow |!
what nonce you were in the great mys-
terry of a girls heart.
"Isn't Mr.. Wicklow to be here tonight"
Lucy Taylor asked the question careless
ly, as she stood before the mirror twisting
a spray OF spicy honeysuckle among her
bright curls, with half dozen village girls
chattering around her.
" Mr.. Wicklow! Why, didn't you
know? Haven't you heard ?"
Heard what ?"
She stopped, with the honeysuckle trem-
bling strangely in her hand.
+" He went away yesterday morning"
"But he will be back? Surely he will
be back p
"Not that I know of. He told DR..
Marcy that he probably never should re-
turn"
The color that momentarily died away
from Lucy's cheek came back in great
tide of carnation; she fastened the honey
suckle in with hand that never taltered
"Come girls, are you ready? she said,
lightly. "I have promised myself for the
first two dances, and l hear the music al
ready"
And no one saw how tightly she pressed
her hand over her breast, to check the dull
bitter aching of recesses. Poor Lucy the
consciousness that it was her own fault
made it no easier to bear.
1t was bright, snug little boudoir car
peted with messy velvet, and shadowed
with pink and gold lights from silken cur
tains and merry morning sunshine, and
Mrs. Theodore Wicklow sat in her little
rocking chair, with two dimpled hands up
to her ears, and her black eyebrows elevated
at an angle of acute despair while six or
seven rosy, pretty little ones, of any age
from twelve to two, tossed and tumbled
and climbed on chairs, tables and bijouterie
like swarm of noisy human bees.
81 shall go crazy" said Mrs. Wicklow.
But as, according to her own statement,
she was reduced to the verge of insanity
half dozen times day, tn. last assertion
produced no sort of impression.
"Mr. Wicklow, do you hear?" demand
ed the aggrieved title woman of an abb
stract gentleman who was deep in the col
umns of morning paper.
"I hear, my dear, | hear" he responed-
ed absently.
"No, you do nothing of the sort" said
Mrs. Wicklow, petulantly. You're off in
China, somewhere, or you're listening to a
debate in the snuffv old English Parliament.