Oxford Democrat. [volume] (Paris, Me.) 1833-1933, 1870-05-20


ances smiled. and turned to look after the
oddly-assortcd couple, but the artist was
too deeply absorbed in his own thoughts
to observe the curious glarccs that dwelt
on him.
AT length they turned into n by street
and entered handsome house, from
whose windows gas~lights and iirc-shine
beamed checrily forth through the dusky
twilight
Vincent"
A rosy, golden. haired little woman had
tripped out into the entry to greet him;
she stopped short. at sight of his strange
companion.
"Who is that little girl, vincent?r
ats my Dido, Marym
Your Dido!"
Don't you see, child. it's the very face
| have looked half over New York for
an inspiration for my picture? Dido's
despair! Dido's wistful, angry desola-
ton"
"But where did you find her?"
II don't KNOW don't care! Oh, TO
think twelve hours must elapse before the
tarly north light brightcns in my studio!"
The artists godcn-haired wife was
used TO her husbands fitful moods she
only smiled, and drew Miriam to the fire.
You are cold, my poor child. dare
say. and hungry too. Come closer to the
fire, and tell mo your name, and where
you live!''
Miriam told her name. but that was all
she could be persuaded to divulgo. On
the subject of the past her lips were reso
lutely sealed So she was fed and
warmed, and put to sleep in a cherry
nursery, where two little golden heads
were pillowed in neighboring crib. and
baby voices woke her at dawn with their
prattling music.
But j, was in the studio that Miriam's
nature burst forth into voice and fullness
the studio hung with crimson draperies,
and lined with statues and glowing can
vas, and pictured skies, and carved
brackets surmountcd with marble busts.
''Oh, it is beautiful, it is beautiful il
makes me so happy! shc> gasped, with
tears streaming down hor checks. "Oh,
if | could live here always"
Then you like it, said Vincent Carlile,
leisurely mixing some colors on his
palette. Miriam looked vaguely into his
face.
Il feel as if had been asleep all my
life. and had only just walked up" she
murmured
$50, so" unused Carlile; 1.-THE child has
genius. Dido will make name for her
self yet
The years passed by. and Vincent
Carlile's prophecy was realized--rcalized
more fully than even he, in all his artist
enthusiasm. had deemed possible.
"Woll," said honest farmer Buckley,
I'm free 10 confess that don't know
much about such things, but it does seem
10 me that a thousand dollars is an awful
price 10 pay for bit o cloth t"o foot
square, daubed over with black and green
and yaller paint. Why. when Tim Stesre
painted Mahala's portrait, he didn't ask
but three dollars. And this ere's painted
by woman, too"
Miss Carlile-and she's up to Squire
Martyn'snow, to see that the pictor's hung
just right in the new gallery" interposed
Mahala, who was better posted in the
neighborhood gossip than her husband.
Yes" said the Martyr Hall house
keeper; land pretty creetur she Is, with
eyes As black as sloes. and set o real
diamonds. They do say she's maxim n
fortune by her pictures. And Mr.. Carlile's
well enough too, only he's dreadful queer
and absent. minded, and goes about all
day long in velvet dressing-gown, and
an odd Turkish thing on his head. The
Martyrs can't set enough store by both OF
'cm. And The Squire says he'd take it
kind. il you and Mahala would come up
this morning and sec the picter."
II amt no hand at visitin' fine lolks,"
said Mahala reservcdly.
Seems to me I'd kind o like to go,
wife," said the farmer. "Only think! it's
somethin' to see a picter that costs a
thousand dollars. Say we'll 60"
"Well, l don't care-if Miss Jones will
excuse me while slip on my brown
poplin gownd."
And Mahala went up stairs to beautify
herself for the expedition.
Through the soitly-carpeted vestibule,
fragrant with eXotics, and dim with the
CLEAN of colored glass, the honest old
farmer and his wife were ushered into the
great picture gallery, where the light,
streaming down through circular dome
of crystal, illumincd some upper rows OF
pictures, and white. leaning statues.
ut seems dreadful queer" whispered
Mahala.
But her husband answered boldly:
Lets 60 up and speak to the iolks!"
There was little group standing at
the furtherest end Of the spacious room
tall gentleman in a crimson velvet
dressing gown Mr. Martyr and his pretty |
English wife; and lady in cleaning
robes OF purple silk, and hair worn like a
coronet above regally handsome brow