Daily Kennebec journal. [microfilm reel] (Augusta, Me.) 1870-1975, 1873-10-23
NO. 252.
From Appleton's Journal.
AUNT LYDIA.

Ola Irlenu puSheO her cup aside and leaned
back in her chair with her usual serene
and contented mien.
arose, pulled the bell, and, as the SER
want cleared the table, l, too, made myself
comfortable in an armchair, and for the
hundredth time let my eyes wander about
the eozy little room.
without any effort at display-like the oc-
cupant, with her wealth of white hair, her
full and expressive eyes, and her we'll
watched me with a smile, as fancied,
from the old family portraits on the walls
to the writing desk with its innumerable
pigeon holes, to the sewing-table near the
window, then to the larger table in the
corner, laden with books and magazines,
and SO on, from one object to another, un-
I'll finally my eyes rested on fancy inlaid
box that was near me. ht
"What is my little, restless inquisitor
looking for in this modest apartment?
asked the old lady.
'It is so comfortable here, so different
from what it is in all other houses! There
is no place | like so much to be as with
you, Aunt Lydia!' said /, giving her
title that love and not relationship iusti-
fed. "But, l added, as my ewes, as If
by accident, fell on the inlaid box, ibid
you not promise me that | might look
through your little collection of s0uUenirs
again to-day9"
Ny old friend nodded an affirmative,
and sprang up and placed the box on the
table before me. For long time / rum
mayed in its contents, now finding rare
stone with monogram cut on it, now
miniature-portraiti in costly frame; and
each object recalled to Aunt Lydia some
reminiscence of the friend from whom she
had received tin most cases in her
youth. While was thus occupied sud-
denly discovered that there was COM
partment in the cover, which had previ-
ously escaped my notice. l soon found
the spring; it yielded to gentle pressure.
the partition flew open, and out fell a
diminutive package wrapped carefully in
a bit Of faded silk.
glanced triumphantly at Aunt Lydia;
but as looked up she leaned quickly for
word, making q gesture as though she
would have me desist. There was some
thing in the movement that startled me.
and fastened to replace the little pack
age and close the box. AS did so, Aunt
Lydia drew it toward her, reopened it,
took out the package, and, with trem-
bling hand ,iundid its silken wrappings.
1t was q bunch of dried violets, together
with beautifully-executed picture in
water-colors, representing them as they
had been when fresh.
"How beautiful r' l exclaimed, "Who
painted them ?"
A melancholy smile passed over the
wrnkled face of Aunt Lydia as she re-
piled: Il painted them as happy child
of eighteen!'
| A scarcely audible sigh and slight trem-
ulousness of tone told me that they re-
called painful recollections. The sight
of them makes you sad" said l. "We
will put them back"
These objects recall TO my recollection
many happy hour; and. if time and grief
have rendered the bright hopes of my
membrance of those hours is still as bright
and fresh as the colors in this picture"
did not venture to ask, and yet how
wished to hear the history of these remem-
brances My old friend seemed to read
my thoughts. "Well, Elsa" said she.
"would you like me to give you another
chapter to-day OF the story Of my life
Shall tell you of the three days which
these violets recall so vividly to my recol-
| lection ?"
eff you will, aunt" replied. and as
sat down on the stool at her feet, she
leaned back in her chair, and, clasping
her hands in her lap, she began:
1T is Just noon on bright spring day.
The birds chirp and twitter gaily among
the Towering branches. and the butterflies
tlutter lazily two and fro in the warm
midday sun; there is light and life
everywhere. At an open window on the
garden side of stately mansion there sits
young girl. She may be eighteen or
nineteen; cheerful expression, pure
heart, and the freshness of youth are all
the personal charms of which she can
boast. But the little figure at the window,
who for the time has forgotten the outer
world over Hauif's fairy tales, is the pos
SCISSOR of what, in the eyes of the world,
is more than physical beauty-a great
name and very considerable fortune.
She has, however, the great misfortune to
be an orphan. The slim pale lady yonder
on the sofa, and the spare gentleman be-
hind his newspaper, are the only relations
of the young girl, and with them since
leaving school, she has found home.
Well, Lydia" began the lady, laying
the poodle she had in her lap on the sofa.
'have you considered Baron Waiidor1s
proposal?"
lydia looked up, shook the curls oil her
forehead with an air of slight impatience.
and replied: .'Why, aunt, think have
already told you that | do not love the
Baron. and, consequently, will not marry
him. .s..
"But, he is SO very eligible" remonstra-
ted the lady, and the gentleman behind
the newspaper nodded his concurrence.
What can you have against the baron?
He is young, handsome, thoroughly we'll
bred"
"Onc of the best bred of men," inter-
rupted Lydia, ''but am sure could new
er have any affection for him." And she
returned to her book. and soon seemed to
be SO absorbed in its contents as not to
hear the conversation OF her relations, the
theme of which was the estates and In
come of the Baron. Nevertheless her
eyes wandered from time to time from her
book to the clock on the mantel, which
now marked ten minutes past twelve. AT
lCoNrINuED ON FOURTH PAGE.I