Vermont phÅ“nix. [volume] (Brattleboro, Vt.) 1834-1955, 1873-11-14

| ly, squeezing little with the plump arms.
"A bad cold heart, never to have loved
any one in its life.''
Suddenly Aunt James thin hands were
thrown up, catching Dorothy around the
shiny head, and she was drawn down on
the decetful breast in which beat that hyp-
ocritical heart claiming to look on all the
world with stolid Indifference; and Aunt
James blue eyes were wet as her garden
pansies after June rain-and she blushed
furously.
mot so bad as that, dear; have known
what it is to love in my time, and / have
also felt the sorrow which such madness
brought me. l would save you, Dorothy,
from such a.lfe as mine has been-and is.
| That is why 1 say, keep them all out.of
your heart. See-how happy you are now.
Remain so. my dear; stay just as you are."
| Dorothy's slender fingers fluttered in and
out oil the purple ribbons like busy little
birds. ,.setting this knot straight, and rety
ing that, with deadly palor in her cheeks
and very sad eyes for Dorothy.
81 am afraid, Aunty Bowles, that in tax
ing away the sorrows of life, you would
find that some of the sweets had also de-
parted," Dorothy said directly, making an
end Of the cap-strings, after ingeniously
dsposing of them in loveknots.
"You know what the poet has sad
IT'S better to have loved and lost,
| Than never to have loved at ALL"
(which sounds extremely well in gilt
edged book, dear, along with lot of such
| r,,l,l,iSb. ht,t bar bind Of tbinp in N
everyday life of tea-drnking and cotton
gown" said practical Mrs. Bowles, winc
ing little, after the affectation of having
poked knitting needle against her thumb,
but in reality thinking of dead and gone,
and almost forgotten age, when with just
such an inquiring, eager soul as Dorothy's
| she had solved the sweet mystery and learn
ed all the sharp agony there is in loving
and losing.
At the age of eighteen, Dorothy Lyme
stood just as much in need of counsel and
staid wisdom as many another young wo-
man, but Dorothy had way of thinking
her own thoughts and forming ideas which
were esteemed queer by some. Even good
Mrs. Bowes, the only mother Dorothy had
ever known, called her strange, "a regular
| hereto, unlike most girls, who are addle-
headed until twenty, but generally settle
down after that as solemn and proper as
possible"
There was a womanly quiet and self pos
session about Dorothy which no one could
| think of calling solemnity. Dorothy's soul
was all sunshine, but rather the mellow
subdued CLEAN, falling warmly, steadily
on the pure white tiles of a chapel floor,
stealing color from the richly illuminated
windows above, than the dazzling beam
slantng over velvety meadow-all gold
| and butterflies one moment-then shadows
and signing winds.
Dorothy, left very early by her father, as
her last Surviving parent, to the care and
trust of his friend Martin Lorford, had
been sent away to school among other girls,
a shy and very plain child, with a startled
look in the deep black eyes, and sobrie-
ty painful to contemplate in her age.
Yet Dorothy was not without will of
her own, which she asserted one day after
a stay of six years, scarcely interrupted by
the usual visits and holidays, by looming
home" as she called it, to the grim old
house, deeply seated in fir trees and quaint
shrubbery, occupied only by few SER
wants, the house-keeper, and the owner, a
middle-aged man, with world-weary look
and iron-gray hair, so beautiful as to aston
ish even those whe held out that there was
promise of something rare in Dolly, and
declaring that she never meant TO go back
to the dull routine again, and that, if she
| fnnp1 lack inc in pUtbuO essential
her guardian should teach her.
This he attempted after some natural re-
monstrances, but of late the power had
gone from him. The books which had at
first proven a delightful break in the mo-
notonous life at the "Croits," had been
closed for days, then weeks, then put aside
altogether.
Dorothy went out occasionally, but at
length declared herself better pleased to re-
main at home, learning proper housekeep-
ing things from Jane,' and playing wild,
mournful melodies on the old harpis- chord
which Martins mother had used to amuse
him with in his childhood, years and years
before there was Dorothy Lyme.
In her own wing things were made to
look tri1e more cheering and her light
est wish in the way of books, music and
delicate bijouterie had been sent down from
her "affectionate guardian Martin"
And so Dorothy had lived on, thinking
her own thoughts, dreaming her own
dreams, and conjecturng up such delicious
fancies as come TO such imaginative young
women situated as Dorothy was.
This calm, uneventful existence could
not continue on through countless ages
Not that either of these happy people long
cd for or srequired change, but change
comes fast enough, all the same, be the fact
pleasant or otherwise.
The change appeared first in Martin
Jane noticed it after Il little time and spoke
of it then Dorothy, who kept silent, won.
derng.
81 shouldn't be surprised il yonr guar
dian had settled on some woman to be his
wife at last, Dorothy, and means TO bring
her here before we know ii, you and
l."
"Shouldn't you?" and Dorothy looked
calmly from the window.
"Why not? Mr.. LorIord was not man
to do things hurriedly, and she was certain
that his choice would prove an excellen
one after all this time"
, "A man may take his own time, and no
be full twenty years about it, either" sale
, Jane dryly, meaning that man of tort,
had no right to make a fool of himself
whatever others do, or he would himsel
have done the twenty years before, which
is considerably stronger argument on tn,
, side of logic than sentiment.
| Fearing that Mrs. Bowles, who wielde,
, immense influence over master and man O