The star. (Cincinnati [Ohio]) 1874-1875, 1875-04-14


A recompense his soul shall have
| As the joys Of home unfold.
1 --~s~.
1 cONSTANcE'S STORY.
When my husband, Roscoe Arnold,
asked me to marry him, felt it neces-
sary to tell him that l did not love him
as he loved me-that l understood his de-
votion, because had felt it for another
that other, Ivan Grey-that to my hus-
band had to give only grateful affec-
tion. Would that suffice?
He said that it'would. He told me af-
terward that, through my weeping, he
did not catch the name; that he thought
l said also that my lover had died.
| The subject was not pleasant one
we did not refer to it afterward.
| From the first Roscoe was good hus-
band. II did not appreciate him then,
was not unhappy. l had bright,
beautiful home, which Roscoe named
Hesperides. The library was extensive,
the conservatory luxurious. Books and
flowers being my ruling passions, my
husband had taken especial pains to
crafty me. To-day never smell hello
trope or tuberoses without the memory
OF those first lovely years coming back
to me.
After our boy was born, and every
body pronounced him most healthy
and beautiful child, Roscoe said to me:
"Constance, are you happyW
Hooked straight into his honest brown
eyes:
He bent and kissed me with q delight
had never seen him show before.
| "Dearest, you are mineW he muir.
INJURED.
That was all he said.
1t was just two years after our mar
riage.
/ A few days later he received letter.
/ asked whom it was from.
"My sister," he answered.
81 never knew that you had sister, !"
l said, in surprise.
"No, have never spoken to you of Ora.
When my parents died in my boy hood,
Ora was baby, and was taken by an
aunt down to New Orleans, where she
only seen her once since. She is very
pretty. This letter tells me she Is to be
married."
He gave me the letter to read. 1t was
written on delicate, fragrant paper, the
penmanship easy and graceful, but
rather too fine. Rather a brief communi-
cation, prettily expressed, asking us to
come to the wedding.
"To New Orleans In July! I am
afraid to take baby, and could not leave
himV
II see that we can not 60. 1t is i'm.
practicable. will write and tell Ora"
Sand give her my love. Say that 1
| hope she will be very happy"
had been present at but one wedding
in my life, and that was my own. was
six-and-twenty. 1t was very different
from what thought it would be when ]
was eighteen. At eighteen had been
betrothed to Ivan Grey; at twenty-six
married Roscoe Arnold.
The suggestion of another wedding
brought back the past to me. When 1
was alone, and baby asleep in his basket,
went to drawer in a private cabinet,
and took out packet Of letters and a
photograph.
The latter was avignette-a face hand
some as Greek gods, with a perfection
of contour that must ever be fascinating.
AS looked at it, the peace of my heart
fed away. The breath Of the past, ira
grant, new, springlike, swept over me;
the warm, imperious impulses of youth
started to life in my blood. All, tnat
only was happinessl That was bright
morning-this was sultry midday.
GAS starlight unto sunlight, as water
| uNUO Wluc,
sat there on the rich carpet before
the rosewood cabinet, the panorama OF
the past sweeping before me, while the
sunshine crept along the pearly wall,
slipped across my lap, and illuminated
my baby's little rosy face.
i 1t woke him ut last. He reached his
bits of hands into the golden light, and
lay cooling. A.
looked at the letters, but did not open
them. There was no need. had learned
each one by heart years ago. The packet
was small, and l sat with it held be-
tween my palms for nearly half an hour.
last, and sat down by the open window,
swinging the baby's basket TO and fro.
Another year went by. l was sur.
rounded by comfort, tenderly cared for.
resolved not to unlock the rosewood
cabinet again.
was reading in the portico, one June
morning. while Melisse, the nurse, was
leading little Lyle along the garden
walks, when carriage came Whirling
up the drive.
| I sprang up, fearing something had
time l reached the open hall-door, a
lady, alone, was coming up the steps
from the carriage. She was very young,
richly robed, and instantly addressed
me:
'Are you not my brother Roscoe's
wife?" she asked. 81 am his sister Ora,
from New Orleansw
/ don't remember how welcomed her,
I but l threw open the drawing-rOom
door, and she entered and dropped into
q seat.
"Where is Roscoe? II have come to
stay with you," she said, her face pale
as ashes. q t-"
Itook vague alarm at her appear
ance, but / endeavored to speak as
usual.
"You are tired-ill. Lay off your
wraps and let me get you glass Of
Wlne."
Invent across the hall to china closet.
When came back she lay in dead faint
upon the floor.
Roscoe had gone out of town, and did
not return until evening. l had had Ora
taken to room next to mine and put to
bed. She was a mere delicate child when
undressed, not more than seventeen
years old.
sOh, how good you are-how good you
avnW aha said with hpart.rand inc