The Tiffin tribune. (Tiffin, Ohio) 1868-1887, 1876-01-06

sll had happened, hardly realizai
that she was saved. She stood pale
and sasping, trem milling from head to
foot. Bat this new voice, the words
spoken in French, the respectful and
sOlicitious accent, acted like charm
on her quivering nerves.
so ~ she grasped, "how much /
thank you for coming l felt myself
lost, sinkingdo down, in darkness,
Ah-r
Suddenly as she was speaking, she
looked into her deliverer's face. She
started away from him, cried out
quick exclamatiOn-frightened, won
dering, amused, all tOgether-and,
covering back, held up her hands a.
If she would shield her own features
from the young mans sight.
"YOu are faint. Shall / get you
some water ?" he asked, mistaking
her gestures, and thinking she had
not vet fully recovered from the shock
of her late peril.
MOO no. am better. l shall
be better soon. o! how can thank
you enough for what you have done :?
You are very brave and kind. mon
N5lEuIF anu NAAC NSOBA So
thanks you"
This little troubadOur's head drOop-
ed as she said this but with her soft,
tear-wet dark eyes she tremulousiy
screwed her companions large and
strong figure. That figure looked
yery brave and handsome in its dress
of an officer of the guards, but her
eyes never once were lifted above the
=.
seemed to shrink from resting on his
face. perhaps from maiden mOdestg.
Her guitar, meanwhile, forgotten
in Ter fright, hung suspended by its
broad crimson ribbon from her neck.
She had not noticed that two of its
strings were snapped.
''There will, literally, be broken
chord in your music nOW," said the
young officer, smiling. He pointed
to the broken strings.
'iAh I' cried the little trOubadOur,
pityingly. She caught up her precious
guitar, looking ready to cry again,
and calculating, fondled it with car
lessing touches of her slender hands.
"Ah Monsieur, was it not wicked OF
them to do this ? My poor little
guitar ~ She pulled at the strings.
"OI but it was wicked n'-and she
all but stamped her foot. "HOw can
I make them whole again ? 1t is
such q bad omen, too ~
"a bad omen of what ," The
young man smiled at her quaint way
of saying, "A bad Omen," and the
next moment he was touched by the
merry little troubadour's grief. He
looked on compassionately, as with
flushed cheeks and little fluttering
touches of her hands he caressed the
injured guitar, and sought TO make
whole the broken strings.
"What shall do 2' At the tender
pIaint of those grieved lips the young
fellow wondered that the severed OBJ
stinate fragments did not immediate
ly unite themselves together. "Ah f!
Monsieur, is it not too bad? Now l
( cannot sing any more :"
"If you will come with me, made
moisseIle, | know an old musician in
/ the village-it is but few steps up
| this street-who will set the broken
chords all right in half an hour"
She turned about at once to go with
him. "Ah! you make me so happy
with your kindness. Merci, Gien
D1erci, y OficeaT," she continued, with
such an indescrlbably gracious soft So
ciety accent that he turned and looked
at he- more puzzled than ever.
An hour later, with her precious
guitar its broken chords by the heal
ing fingers of the old musician made
whole again-in her arms, the pretty
| troubadOur stood ready to resume
her wanderings. She held out CRATE
iul hand for her benefactOr to take in
his.
"Many-OI many-thanks for your
Kindness" she murmured. 81 shall
remember it always. pray that all
Others in your cold England may be
az gentle to the poor homeless sing
ing-girl as you have been"
Some faint culver OF emotion, some
tender tremulOusness, in the low voice
speaking these parting words, struck
familiar chord in the young mans
nStop ~ he cried bluntly, for she
shrunk involuntarily away from his
eager lock. "Will you not tell me
your name before you leave me ?"
"My name? All but Normandy
is not-." She caught her breath,
blushing.
"Ha you came from Normandy,
then ?n interrupted he.
"My name, monsieur, is Ia Fleu-
rette,n was the indignified answer.
The little troubadour turned and fled
away from him. She pressed her
cheek down on her guitar. my
name is La Fleurette, is it not ?" she
said to it-"La Fieurette, La Fleu-
rette ~ And she laughed out sweet,
trickling laughter.
Winning her way with sweet looks
and graceful rustic manners into all
hearts, the little BOheDlienne, softly
singing, travelled inland from the
Cornish coast. Her guitar always on
her arm, its crimson ribbon cleaning
on her shoulder, she went her careless
course without further molestatiOn.
Her lovely eyes sparkled joyOusly at
\ times and sometimes, when a bit of
silver had been tossed her in return
for q song, she would laugh aloud,
| touched by some secret sense of odd
ness in her positiOn--laugh out glee-
fully, looking up with sOftened eyes
into that strange blue sky bending
above her, sky not so very different,
after all, she thought, from Nor
mandy's.
The little French sOng-bird came to
| be we'll known. She and her guitar
and the Proveneal airs she sung were
| long remembered, when she had gone
her way. and the 'little trOubadOur"
grew to be household word in the
market villages. She sung her ten
derest ballads at the door of the peas
ants cottage, sitting on a wooden
bench or on a mOssy stone step, with
groups of apple-cheeked, bare-fOOted
children staring at her. Many a
| time, too, her eyes were blurred with
| tears, when she saw how, though they
did not understand the language she
tsung to them, these listeners of hers
were always moved by that subtitle
sympathy of nature breathing in the
well-belOved airs of her own land.
The golden chord of love that runs
round the world thrills always to the
electric touch of song.
One day, sitting on the steps of q
stile, she sung one of Beranger's love-
| Iiest chansOns to company OF hay
makers in the field. They shared
their luncheon with her, and then for
the first time in her life she drank
English beer. When she left them
they shook hands with her.
"Fhou art brave-harted, harmless
lass" said one brOWn-fisted, leather
faced old farmer. "Here's a half
crown to tuy thee another ribbon to
pass round thy neck. I've heard no
better music-nO, never 1 speak OF
thy voice, for the words pass me, bein'
forum. Bein' thou sung them, take
them to be worthy"
She blushed and looked humble.
She never forgot him or his words.
Once, too, this wandering warbler
lost her way. She had quite Needless
ly wandered from the highway, and,
far from any human dwelling, night
fell upon the poor frightened stray
ling. However, she said her prayers,
and then curled herself up on mo und
of hay in the open fleld. There she
covered the long night through,
alone under the scented summer
SIX y
81 never knew till then how many
stars there were," she said, naively ;
"and, Oh! how many-how very
many there seemed to be that night
. r. \ 7