The St. Cloud journal. [volume] (St. Cloud, Minn.) 1866-1876, 1872-01-25

"a 4SHVOA OVVVdIVN, AVIdOk OF ''hED Al 4 hO6k IL
SHE," ETC.
= CHAPTER XIV.
WHAT THE AUTHOR SAYS.
Certainly it l. >'e'+y work, driving
: Huel=oat The day j, one Of those
''at r. mind We OF bad pain,iuy or
u ! lau"scape on pa: ler.n,ache tea
tray: ea'rish, startling, inartistic.
The sky is all dead blue, and the trees
are all dead green. Jingle, jingle,
tiogle, sound the bells ;jig, jog, with
their noses down to their knees, 60
the horses along the road-th.t is
white a. -four, aud quite as povdery.
Up long-backed hills, down long. back.
ed bills, up, down, up, down; there is
no end to it. TIC driver forgets to
flick his whip, and cry "ANez ! a'le= !'
He sits swayiug to and fro in the sun.
shine, fast asleep. He looks old and
starving, as if be had never had
enough to eat in all bis life. Great
sweeps Of fern aud gorse spread around,
only broken by little miserable patches
Of oats aud bic noir ; endless reaches
Of desolate moorlaud-gray, barren, 81.
lent. It makes one sh,ver, even in
this broiiiug noon, to think how the
north wind must rush aod rage over
these eerie wolds, these awful lamdes,
on January night. Jig jog, jig jog.
The road still twists always, like
white snake writhiuy its endless
folds about the hills.
81 wonder how they are getting
or ? says Leuore, after twenty
minutes silence, blinking 10 the sun,
aud trying to believe that she is enj"y-
ing herself.
"They! Who?" asks Paul, with an
absent start.
"Jemima aud Mr.. scrope, to be
sure"
~ do not know about your sister, I'm
sure," replies Paul, leaning back, and
resting bis head against the stained
and discolored leather of the old hood ;
81 have not known her long enough to
say but, as l knew Scrope when he
was in rouod jackets. and have seen a
good deal Of him of and on, ever since,
l can tell you to 'nicety what he
is doing, if you WISH"
"What ?"
"He is lying on his back, in the
coolest place he can find, and drinking
c'aret.cup, if he can ask for it 10
French, which l doubt but if net,
brandy and seltzcr, cider and siphon,
anything-certainly drinking; and
as certainly making love to sone one
the land'ady, the femme de chan,br E.,
your sister, perh.p il she does no.!
Sub him as res.l.ttl> Us she does NE. !"
"Poor dear M'ma !" says Lenore,
laughing. "She will BE- surely puzzl-
cd 70 kn.w hos to take it if he. does." !"
"lf it is MT your sister, it is some
body else j.; he Is the sort Of fellow
that one could not trust alone in the
room with bis own grandmother for
Eve minutes"
"Iudeed !"
"Generally," pursoes Paul, in q
sleepy voice, latter = two days %.
quaintance, he proposes to every WON.
an he sees; if she refuses him, he
asks her to be sister, or mother, or
aunt, or something Of the sort, to him
If shs accepts him, he is of by the
next train, and never head Of (by her,
at least) sgain."
"He must remind one Of the saying
that the best way to be rid Of trouble
somo friend is to lend him {. five pound
note"
Their talk flags; the dust seems to
have got into it there is no juice ia il.
A little public-house stands by the
roadside, buoch Of box over tho door,
toshov that they sell cider there. Ia.
side, 4 woman with distaff, an old,
old woman, all grin aud wrinkles,
every wrinkle filled 10 with dirt In
menscly tall piys, with 6ne'y-arched
backs, noses like gre, hounds, aud legs
like antelopes, throug about the door
Now aod again primitive cart passes
the shaggy, unkempt horses pick their
ears aud rear and plunge, Is if they
had never seen = civilized being be-
fore. With hardly less astouishment
do their wild.eyed drivers stare. 1t
is three o'clock and past By the time
that Paul and Lenore reach Huelgoat-
Huelgoat, sitting in the sunshine, at
the very end Of the world, beside her
still gray tarn. -.
II am ravenous," says Lenore, g.yly,
as they jingle up the dead gray street.
II ate no breakfast, did you? One
cannot eat in that smell. What shall
We have7 Outlets, trout7 There
ought to be trout in that lake."