Weekly Trinity journal., 1871-05-13
NUMBER l9.
THE MASKS WE WEAR.

days, of "unrequitted passions" and broken
hearts," and "undying grief" and hoped that
some day l should be the heroine of such
story, and know the luxury of an ''eternaf sor-
row." Meanwhile, as l was far too young to
hope for any distinction of that kind for long
years to come, looked right and left among my
friends and acquaintance, for one who bore the
| signs of such hidden woe. must confess that
found no such person among the number whom
we called our friends. Our house was generally
thronged with pleasant visitors, who were as lit
tie given to "sighing and grief" as honest Jack
Falstaf himself.
Foremost among this gay crowd was one-a
maiden lady of some FIVE and thirty-who, in
spite of the difference in our ages, was my chosen
companion, and my most intimate friend.
She was tall, handsome, regal looking per.
sonage, with a merry laugh, and a keen, pierc-
ing eye, that filled with light and laughter at
every fresh instance of my absurd sentimentality
that her searcing questions brought to light.
Left an orphan and her own mistress at the early
age of eighteen she had also been left the mis-
tress ofa handsome fortune that enabled her to
CRAFTY her taste for books, pictures and travel,
as she saw fit. She had "wandered in far
lands, and brought from each country some-
thing of grace and beauty to adorn the pleasant
little villa she called her home so that to pass
with her through the different rooms was to
hear, from her own lips, a leaf from the journal
of her own and varied experiences, illustrated
by the miracles Of art and beauty visible on every
side.
Amid all our gay circle of acquaintances, this
woman was the one whom | most admired and
enyied hers was the home would have chosen
for my own-hers the life | deemed most free
from sorrow and from care. And to hear her
rich laugh at every word of sentiment uttered
no one could ever have imagined that her own
heart had been touched her own soul wrung by
the very pains and pangs at which she jested so
merrily in all our fresde talks.
1t was the one blot in her otherwise perfect
character, for me this strange insensibilty and
coldness-this inability to feel and reverence the
passion of love.
And pondering over it one day, l entered her
beautiful home with q new volume of poems
just fresh from the press which she had asked
me to bring and read aloud to her-love poems,
too and | knew well how numerically she
would quiz and laugh at them, and at me. Still
she should hear them
She was not in the drawing room, nor in the
library, so glancing in at either empty room,
ran lightly up the stairs, and like a privileged
visitor, opened the door of her chamber softly,
and entered and surprised her, My step on the
soft velvet carpet made no sound, and for mo-
ment stood there, absolutely stricken dumb
with astonshment, almost with terror.
The folding compartment over her writing
desk, which had always supposed to be min
iature bookcase, was open. Within | saw
portrat-the face of man of forty, fair, calm,
yet almost stern in the look of conscious power
with which the blue eyes glanced out at the be-
holder. The outline of the face was perfectly
classic the brow was broad and high, the hair
a soft chestnut, the lips closed firmly with an
expression that matched the proud blue eye.
And before this hidden picture knelt my heart
whole, careless and happy friend, her face hid
den in her casped hands, and her whole form
quivering to the anguish OF her sobs.
"Dead dead p l heard her say in a stiAed
voice. And oh you never knew how well
loved you You loved another What did
you care and what was to your Oh, my God,
to think of it My wasted love-my wasted
life And now the grave has ended all, and
from Heaven you can look down, and see what
you were-anG are--to meat lastl" stole
softly away.
| In ten minutes time rang the bell below and
sent the servant to knock at the door of my
friends room, and tell her that | was there.
Down she came in ten minutes more, elegantly
dressed, and calm, and greatly pleased to see
me. We read the poems together, and she tore
each sentiment to tatters with the Usual smiling
scorn. II was my first glimpse irio the real
world around me-my first glance beneath the
smooth surface OF the masks we wesk