The Cecil Whig. [volume] (Elkton, Md.) 1841-current, 1873-03-08

your 1ather was only TOO glad TO welcome
my fathers heir for his son: he was as glac
as my poor father would have been to wei
come you, my own Pearl. for his daughter
when he came to know all. Well, am {
poor man now, and shall have to work fol-
my Pearl, like Jacob for Rachel. l am moi
afraid, though l have not a penny, and
shall ask no man to aid me-" This was
another of his quixotisms. "Since you
have promised to wait for me till you car
be my wife with your fathers consent OF
without, l will wait and work for you
patiently, with as perfect trust for you as
l would have you put in me. Nothing in
the world shall tempt me from you; not
for moment shall forget you. But tell
me once more that, when the time for wait
ing is past, you will come to me then -
The time was too short to indulge even
in SO much as pretense of coquetry even
if his earnestness had not been enough to
prevent it.
"And, l too" she said, at least in eff
feet, 81, too, will think of you but once,
but that once will be always. Not one
instant will pass that do not think of you
and love you-not one! And the moment
that / may | will come to you, whether
you are rich or poor-yes, whether you
want me or not. l will make you need
me. There, l promise with my whole
heart! Will that content you?'' And
now, goodbye for the last time"
"No, not for the last time" he exclaim-
ed passionately, taking her closely to his
heart. 1t was dark now, so that their part
ing for three years could not have been
seen, even had there been any eyes to see.
| She forbade him resolutely to follow her
farther than the gate, and then hurried
home, almost running in her haste, while
he strained his eyes after her as she van
ished in the mist and gaslight. Then he
somehow managed to gather himself to-
gether and go his way.
Felicia had, indeed, need to hurry, for a
neighboring church clock had warned her
that it was past her fathers dinner-time.-
She did not know how little inclined he
was for dinner to-day, or she would not,
perhaps, have taken such pains to rap al
most inaudibly at the street-door, in the
hope of entering without his knowing of
her return, so that she might be able to
descend from her room as if she had only
been rather longer over her ressing than
usual. In this maneuver she succeeded,
and joined her father in the dining room
without his observing any very excessive
signs of agitation, in spite of her hurry and
her headache, which was now returning,
and which made her feel really ill.
But as soon as she entered the room she
felt that somehow something was wrong
She had often seen her father in storm
before; indeed, had not she herself been
caught in gust of it only that very morn
ing? and she saw that it had now gathered
in all its force. OF course her guilty con-
science told her that the storm was for her;
and, though she was wrong in the main,
she was not altogether wrong. In any case,
after his disappointment of the morning,
the storm would have been there; but it
would not have broken upon her in tn e
way that it did unless she herself had given
cause.
"Where have you been this afternoon ,"
he asked suddenly, as soon as she entered
the room.
"Only into the Square," she answered,
timidly. 8" l am afraid l am rather late"
"Don't tell me any lies. You are late.
And what's the reason, prayo"
81 don't know am very sorry. Shall
l ring the bell ? Dinner must be quite
ready now
mo, confound you. You shall never
dine in my house again. Is that the way
you keep your word? To 60 out walking
with that young scamp before my very
eyes?'
So it was all out. And yet she had not
been to blame.
"Yes-I did meet Arthur while was
out. But it was quite by chance. And l
was not with him long-not longer than l
could help. How could help it > Indeed
did not mean
How many lies are you going to tell
me? 1t was not by chance: you did mean:
and you aoere long-at least two hours: all |
day for what know"
"Ask Elise, papa, what time went out. |
And how could l meet him on purpose |
when you burned the note asking me to
come ,"
"Ask Elise, indeed-your go-between,
your Are there no ways of letting |
you know you are wanted besides writing |
to you? Elise will have warning this very |
evening-and so will you, young lady"
Papa
eyes, you young vixen, you undutiful |
monster. | shan't believe your word any |
more. l don't like pie-crust, you know |
that. And if you make me eat pie crust, |
you shall eat the sack. If you don't, on
this very spot, give up that scamp, that |
beggarly son of a swindling bankrupt-ah. |
you may cry your eyes ont, if you like, but |
you shall never eat meal in my house |
again, as sure as my names Peter Creole,
But she was by no means crying her
eyes out now. 1t is all very we'll to weep |
at harshness but an injustice one should |
dry ones eyes aud rebel. And SO did she. |
have promised not to see him or write |
to him till l am twenty-one, she said right |
out and bravely, "nor will |. | would not
have too day, even if | had seen the letter.
But give him up will not, unless he gives |
me up. | have promised to be true to
him, and l will. And it is wrong of You |
to let me love him when he was rich, and |
to abuse him now that he is poor-when |
you we'll knew how it was that he Became |
poor: because he is the best, the neblest |
man in the world
"You defy me to my faceo You insult |
your own father: You, who can't say |
: Bo to a gosling-whose mouth wouldn't |
melt melted butter? You are a brute |
beast, Miss-yes, brute beast would know |
it's duty better than you; crawling reptile |
would have better manner than to call its |
father a-what you called me. Once |
more-will you give up this fellow Grams |
toun or no?''
"No," she said only. In fact it was the
only thing that was open to her to say
She was doubtless brave girl for saying |
it, but had she hesitated she would have |
been none the less a coward. There are |
cases in which the fifth commandment is
best observed to the spirit by breaking it |
to the letter.
"Then - and he swore big |
11..Il