The Newberry herald. [volume] (Newberry, S.C.) 1865-1884, 1872-11-27
Vol. VIII.

On apron, tied cunning little hand
kerchief over that pretty head,
and snatching up the fy-dustcr,
busted away valiantly-raised a
cloud Of dust in which l sat gazing
on the vision. What did this
mean? I consulted Moliere, my
standing authority, but MoIiere
could give no explanation. Gould
she be an angel sent to cast ray
Of light over my dismal path Of
life? Perhaps. But did angels
wear white Marseilles, and talk
about satteens and paniers? ? I'm.
| possible! It must be a dream.
She suddenly paused, and held
out her arms and said
"Roll up my sleeves, please. I
can work better with them up"
| | did roll the white sleeve up,
and then Immediately secuted the
idea Of its being a dream. Couldn't
dream Of such arms, with dimple
IN eacn elbow.
Certainly not! They were real.
I did not think that a sculptor
would have been proud to have
them for a model, because | was
morally certain that any sculptor
would have been distracted at the
sight, and dropped his chisel, de-
spairing Of ever doing them JUS
tice.
And then she busted, and while
she busted she sang. What a
voice! Don't mention Nilsson-I
won't hear Of it.
And then she drew up a chair
and sat down beside me, having
first removed the handkerchief
and the improvised apron. Then
she shook her curls and addressed
me. .
my dear uncle, let US have a
talk"
Her uncle! If my heart had
suddenly changed to a lump Of
lead, it couldn't have sunk any
quicker than it did then.
"You know" she continued,
''that you wrote me q letter, say
ing that you considered 1t best for
me to stay at the farm until you
wrote again. But, then, [ didn't
want to stay; l felt so lonely away
out there, hardly saw a new face
once a month for the twelve years
l have been therefor you know
you left me there when l was six
years old. Well, I thought I
would come to the city, so | took
the fifty dollars and bought this
suit. Mrs. Marsh picked it out
for me. You know she has been
in the city, so l came: and you
are not angry, are you? Because
if you are, I'll 60 right back again,
uncle-indeed l WILL"
Ny feelings during this brief
speech had been very painful. |
gradually awoke to the fact that
it was all blunder that the visit
Of thio angel was not intended for
me, and | felt very bitter over the
discovery; but my duty was plain.
Ny dear child" said |, humbly,
"will you have tho kindness to in
form me what your name is p
She opened her eyes, and then
laughed.
"Why," she said, "surely you
cannot have forgotten me? Little
Bcss: you know"
"Little Bess ?" repeated.
"Bessic Ludlow" she sal d,
gravely, "your niece"
No." said I, sadly; mot my
niece. I have no niece. There
has been some error-my name is
Floyd"
"Then," said she, "you are my
uncle-Richard Floyd. l saw the
name on the door, and I came in.
Now you do remember me, don't
you?"
"Sorry to disappoint you, Miss
Ludlow" said I, calmly, "but l am
not your uncle"
"You saw the name Of r. Floyd
on the door; MY name is Robert" "
"Then,' said she, helplessly,
"where is my uncle p
l felt bound to confess my igno-
rance, whereas she sat looking in
credulous. Iexplained that, strange
as it might seem, l did not know
everybody personally, who hap
pened to rejoice in the same sur
name as myself.
But, l said: chcerfully, seeing
her look blank, We can find out.
Here is a directory. Now, your
unclo's name is Richard Floyd?
Yes"
His occupation or profession ?"
"Eh ?"
"What does he do for a liviug?'
"Nothing. He's rich-awful
rich"
"Ah! a gentleman? Let US
hope they are. Now get ready,
and we'll go and find your uncle"
She stood by my side in the
street, and looked ten times more
bewitchiAg than ever. We walk
ed along the streets, and how male
friends stared and wondered and
envied me.
We found the first Mr.. Floyd
| l