Rapides gazette. (Alexandria, La.) 1869-187?, 1873-05-17

n of play and the exuberance of anima
spirits, became in the least rude or bois
4 ferrous, she knew in a moment how II
: check and subdue the little offender, anC
never let them 60 beyond the bounds o
propriety.
Often, as 1 watched this pretty by-play
or saw her moving about the house in quie
dignity, had puzzled myself with vague
conjectures about her. l had made up my
mind that she was not woman of wealth
and it seemed to me that she stood very
, much alone in the world. No person evel
came to see her; no letters were brought
to her. / did not think she had kus
: : band but-was she widow? / did moi
, know that she was, and l could not in.
quire. She never spoke of her own
| affairs and affable as she was, and gentle
in manner, there was something about
her which repelled intrusion. / had, in
deed, no right to inquire, and 1 think no
man living would have had the folly to
ask her such a question, expecting to OBJ
tain an answer. At least | had not. Some
times fiattered myself had almost won
her confidence, as if she wanted to make a
friend of me. Once in particular, when l
had addressed to her some few words of
simple kindness, l fancied she was moved,
great lustrous eyes upon my face. l saw
her full, white chest heave her lips half
opened, but no words came; she only
sighed deeply, and hastily rising, walked
out of the room, with that Storytelling,
undulating step, which was in her the
very "poetry of notion" and the SEEM
ing opportunity was lost.
Oh, if she could but have told me, how
gladly would have been her friend |!
What was it stopped the flow of her con-
hdence! Why were words denied her ?
Did she fear me, or herself, or others T?
Poor thing she could not speak; it was
impossible! She could not do it; realize
it now. And when you reach the conclu-
sion OF my story, you, too, will under
stand why it was impossible for her then
to have spoken.
But when, after some weeks residence
there, had gained the goodwill of my
| simple-minded but kindly little landlady,
L cautiously ventured 10 ask her to crafty
my not, think, unnatural curiosity; but
L found, to my surprise, she knew but
little more than l did myself.
"She came to me-" she said, "just at
the edge of the evening, one cold rainy
night, and l could not refuse to give her
shelter, at least for the night, or till she
could do better. l did not think of her
remaining; but she is so pretty and gen
tie and innocent-looking, l could not turn
her out of my house--could /, now? /
know am silly in such ways; but what
could L do ?''
"But is it possible" said, Sc that she
has remained here ever since, and you
knothing more about herr"
"No more than you do yourself, gen.
eral," said Mrs: Honeywell. 81 do not
even know where she lived before she
came here. | cannot question .her, and
now, indeed, L have become so fond of
her / should not be willing to part with
her; and L would not turn her and her
little ones out of nv house for the world !"
Farther conversation elected the fact
that she was not boarder, but that she
and her little ones were the dependents
upon Mrs. Honeywold's charity. "But
don't call it charity" said the kind little
woman. 81 am sure she more than earns
her living, poor thing, by what she does
about the house. Why, shouldn't
now to do without herr
What those important services might be
which were accepted as equivalent to the
board of three l did not feel justified in
asking; but / am sure it was no servile
labor she performed, and no menial sta
ton she held; for, though l sometimes
met her coming out of the chambers, or
saw her going down the basement stairs,
her dress was always the perfection OF
neatness, and in perfect order, while my
good landlady herself, though always
clean and respectable, was apt sometimes,
poor woman to look little.-just little
heated, and tumbled, and en- deshabille:
But why do linger over the trif1ing
details? Only, L believe, because l have
1yral txsx. lii oh fha
tragical denouenaent of my story. But it
must be reached, and it is useless to loiter
thus on the way.
One fine summer day l had made an ap-
pointment with friend tOdrive out to his
place in the environs of the city and dine
with him, returning in the evening.
When l came down in the afternoon,
dressed for my excursion, l went into the
dining-r0om to tell Mrs. Honeywold she
need not wait tea for me. As 1 came
back through the parlor she was there
alone. She was sitting on the sofa. A
book lay near her, but do not think she
had been reading. She was sitting per-
fectly still, as if lost in reveria, and her
eyes looked heavy with sleep or thought,
But as / passed out of the room 1 looked
back. / saw she had risen to her feet, and
standing with her graceful figure drawn
up to its full height, she was looking after
me, with look which f1attered myself
was look of interest. All, how well 1
remember that look!
The day had been a beautiful one,
though sultry; but in the early evening
we had heavy thunde Dshower, the vio-
lence of the summer rain delaying my re-
turn to the city for an hour or two; and
when the rain ceased, the evening was
still starless, cloudy, and damp; and as
drove back to town l remember that the
night air, although somewhat freshened
by the rain, was warm, and heavy with
the scent of unseen flowers.
1t was late when L reached the quiet
steet where / had taken up my abode, and
as mounted the steps involuntarily felt
for my night-key, but, to my surprise, |
found the hall door not only unfastened,
but little way opened.
"Why, how, is this, Mrs. Honeywold?"
/ said, as my landlady met me in the hall.
''Do you know that your street-door was
left open?"
"Yes," she said, quietly, 81 know it."
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