Spirit of the age. [volume] (Woodstock, Vt.) 1845-1913, 1873-09-04

CHduCc Hdu Ullc pun SioWH dSdliio
this man? Yet fancied if he wer
only out Of the way | need not despai
of winning her. Did she not love m,
sister, and had she not often spokel
kindly to me, and praised my acting
and singing? But this day / ha(
learned the worst-that her kindness
to me sprang only from a gentle ant
friendly feeling for the brother of thu
| girl she had learned to love like sis
ter, and that she had promised to be
come the wife of Count Won Walters
What wonder that I went to my lodg
ings with despair in my heart!
My little sister exerted herself tt
make things cheerful in our quiet sit
ting-room. She suspected nothing Of
the real cause of my downheartedness
for she, my confdant in everything
else, had never been intrusted with
the secret of my love for Dora; and
in the hope of drawing me out of my
moody silence, prattled on about
number of unimportant matters. She
was interrupted by knock at the
door, followed by the entrance of our
landlady. The good soul apologized
for coming in at so late an hour, but
the postman had brought letter for
me Just after we had left for the thea
tire, and as it bore a foreign postmark,
she thought it might be important |
should get it that evening. | thank
ed her mechanically, but aglance at
the postmark caused me to tear the
letter open with eager and trembling
fingers for | had often heard my
father speak Of an only brother who
had settled in England in early youth,
and from whom vague reports came,
from time to time, of successful
mercantile career. The letter was
postmarked London, and the heavy
black border lines told the story be-
fore the seal was broken. My uncle
was dead. He had never married,
and on his death bed, remembering
his only brother, he had left all his
wealth to him or his children. For
a moment I felt stunned and faint
and Ada, throwing her arms about
my neck, begged me to tell her what
bad news was in my letter, to make
me look so strange and pale. I took
her on my knee, and told her we were
rich, and would have no more need to
act in the theatre. We would leave
this miserable little town and go to
Berlin.
TO my surprise, Ada again put her
arms about my neck, and whispered
softly, "Need we leave the theatre
Immediately, dear brother q
"No, child" said I, wondering what
she could mean; "but tell me why
you should want to stay another day,
when you can leave at once and be
free from this slavery?"
because, dear BROTHER" she an
swered, hesitating and blushing,
"Fraulein Dora told me l was great
deal prettier than she was, and bet
ter dancer; and that l should have
the first place in the new dance they
are to put on the stage next week.
Oh, would like to have such a
triumph once! 1t would be such a
pleasant way to say good-by to the
stage"
1 conld deny her nothing, my little
sister; and though for me it was like
going into the torture-room of the
Inquisition to enter the theatre and
see Count Ernest on such familiar
terms with Dora, I consented for the
present to conceal my good fortune
from our friends, and go on just the
same as if nothing had happened.
The eventful evening came at
leugth. The play was interspersed
with ballet dancing, and was to end
with grand transformation scene in
which Ada and Dora were to rise as
sea nymphs, in shell-like Car, from
the waters of a mimic lake. 1t so
happened that, just before the last
scene, / went into the room under
meath the stage, where the machinery
for raising the car was placed, impell-
cd by a strage foreboding of impend-
ing misfortune, to assure myself that
everything was in order; and that no
precaution against accident had been
neglected. There | found the master
machinist, dark end gloomy visaged
man, standing by the Car, muttering
to himself in an undertone. ''Better
she should die than marry the count.
He has bewitched her, as he does all
women. A little slit would"