The Evansville journal. [volume] (Evansville, Ind.) 1866-1870, 1870-11-19

as was her GaIly WORK, she f0unu GhaL
it yet wanted three. quarters OF an
hour to the appointed time, but she
did not mind waiting, for she had
plenty to think about. There were
no thoughts now to spare to the blue
ness of the skies, the humming OF the
bees, or the curling Of the smoke.
Winter and Summer were ali alike, so
long as the bills of the present re-
NAMED. Ernest was the sole axis on
which her mind revolved. She
pictured to herself the unuttera-
BILE happiness of being his wife /;
but would such happiness be
hers? She would never know joy
again If aught parted them from one
another now, and just when she
had come to this mournful conclusion
she saw him approaching. She knew
that he sould not see her where she
stood, so she could gaze with her
whole soul In her eyes on that most
beloved face; then, fearful with true
loves timidity that he should find her
watching him, she went into the
house. Five minutes later, she
walked slowly forward to meet him.
with new borne dignity and reserve
that nature gave her as disguise for
the feelings within. With all the IN
consciousness that she could act, she
held out her hand by wayof greeting.
He took it, and quickly released it.
''Ethie, sit for me just once again,
he pleaded softly.
Yes, but l thought you wished to
do the house2 | am sure there can
be no new position left for me to sit
in"
Never mind; do what 1 ask" he
urged.
ITO morrow, then?"
''Ethie, there will be no to. morrow
for me here; leave this afternoon"
he blurtsd out boldly and suddenly,
but with a stab at his heart as he
marked the blanching cneek; but, in
spite of his remorse, he experienced
an anexiety to see the effect of ais
words. And what did he see-tears,
emotion2
No, she only stopped quietly, and
gathered a flower, and murmured:
Do your In her ordinary tone.
" | am quite ready to sit for you, /" she
added q minute or two afterwards;
" and you must leave one of your best
sketches for papa"
She stood calm and motionless as a
statue before him, although her heart
was nigh to breaking; and none but
clever artist would have detected
thu terrible anguish that dil&ted the
azure pupils, or noticed that the lines
of the sweet mobile features were
rigid and set with misery.
Seymour could not bear it long.
G. - L =
walk round the garden"
She obeyed In silence, mechanically
putting up the drawing materials; but
her hands visibly trembled, notWith-
standing her efforts to steady them;
and there was piteous culver on her
little mouth.
She suddenly looked up, and their
eyes met; and in second she was In
his arms, while he pressed long kiss
upon her cold brow. Only the word
good bye" fell from his lips.
Good bye" and Ethie swallowed
her sobs-and with a mute despair
saw him pass out of tina gate. Once
he looked back and caught the girls
sorrow-struck gaze: but she quickly
turned away until he was out of sight.
Then down upon the grass, amidst the
golden blossoms, she lay for hours in
fearless grief. realizing that life was
q mistake" after all.
Day after day Ethie stood by that
garden wall, watching and waiting for
tidings; but they came not. Her face
grew pallid, and her form shadowy,
and she looked as though a puff of
wind would blow her into her place
among the angels.
Only a paper" was the answer to
her usual query for letters; and 'only
a paper " brought her death warrant
at last.
"At 81. Mary's, on the 4th of Oc-
tober, Ernest Seymour, to Alice, only
daughter of John Wynter, ESQ Of
Orton Hall. Lincolnshire"
An hour after they found Ethie in
a dead faint on the ground, with the
paper in her grasp.
When the first snowdrops reared
their white heads, poor little Ethie
was at rest beneath them.
just dream, but her life had
ended with i'll