The Worthington advance., 1876-11-23

fixing over ;tawdry: and limpsy stage.
dresses all the spare ttime. she could
get-ironing out their misplaced folds
while studying her part with her book
on the corner Of her ironing-tahle.. J:
It would haze been q lonely life,
but. luckily she had no time ts be
lonely. -
The night my story commences,
Clare was to play ''Undine," and was
going to the opera-hall alone, in the
rain and darkness, with no fear in her
breast, for God kept step with this
poor child in all her walks, and she
picked her way over the long, dark
bridge, whose dim lamps were shin
ing in the rapid river below, with
the white dress, covered with tinsel
stars, she had been making, and her
wreath and crown and sceptre, in
basket upon her arm:
The streets were unusually quiet. A
hag9ard, painted woman was walking on
ahead OF her, and Clare thought she had
never seen 80 long aud 50 truly awful 3
wig of curls before, even upon the
stage. She wore a bright velvet over
dress above gay silk skirt, and buff
boots, that were getting the worse for
the mud and wet, and Clare looked at
her with sort of awe-stricken won.
der.
just where the gas light shone full
upon him, man stood leaning over
the railing, looking into the water--a
tall, dark man, with a grave. self.con-
tanned face.
Glare looked at him also, and wished
she had dared looked longer, for there
was something in his face that made
her think of the artists pictures, and
the old violin-player's melody.
He looked at the gaudy woman in the
buff boots, and at Clare, in ller old
waterproof, with her innocent face,
with the little rings of hair about its
forehead, and looking down into the
water, seemed to see his young wife's
smile, the cherry bloom of whose
cheeks the earth had covered for five
long years a breath from the past, like
that of faded flowers, came over him,
and he turned and walked absently
after Clare, who was springing along
as only youth and health and a happy
heart can do.
She felt unusually exhilerated when
she entered the green-rOom that night,
and put on her shimmering gauze dress,
and, once on the stage, she played bet
ter than she ever had before perhaps
it was because, she was floating off on
the lake in the moonlight scene with
Knight Hildebrande, she caught sight
of the stern quiet man, whom she had
passed on the bridge, sitting very near
the stage, and looking at her with rapt
attention.
For the first time in her life she was
acknowledged the star of the evening.
Her encounter with the demon was
perfect the forest-wedding charming.
The effect was dazzling where she arose
in her triumphal car to her palace of
diamonds, besides Knight Hildebrande,
whom she privately despised (play-act-
ing was well enough for women, who
could do no better, but for strong men
it was detestable, she thought).
Then she sank beneath the waves in
such delicious laughter, and gave up
her love and life, at last, with such
exquisite pathos.
Lastly came grand ascension scene,
where Glare was going up to heaven
amid rosy glow of clouds, and every
one beneath her was gazing breath.
less at the snowy, floating, smiling an
gel, with her clasped hands and shin
ing wings
Just as she was poised, quite radi-
ant, in mid air, one of the pulleys gave
way, a chain snapped, and Clare was
down on the fooring--a trembling un-
conscious heap, her white wings brok-
en-, her spangled dress frayed--a pitt
full spectacle!
A man from one of the front seats
sprang upon the stage and lifted up
Clare; the orchestra ceased; playing !;
the lights went out the curtain fell.
The star Of the evening was but fall
en- one.
When Clare woke to consciousness
she was in her own little room, and the
doctor was binding up her broken arm,
and near him stood the man who had
leaned over the bridge, his rugged face
full Of tender pity.
''She will not be able to use her arm
for weeks; - said the doctor. .'and
her foot may make her cripple for
life. -: II:
This. did not trouble Clare much,
who had been taking morphine, and
lapsed of into long spells of uncon-
sciousness, waking up at intervals long
enough to know she had a woman to
care for her, and every attention that
heart could wish, and growing quite
happy, when sometimes she saw q
stern face-harsh to others it might be,
but always tender toward her-and
leaning over her, and guessed by de-
grees, that he had sent her home in
his carriage that night of the accident,
! and had been caring for her ever
since in delicate and chivalrous man.
ner.
1t was weeks before she sat up in a
big chair, with her. broken arm lying
powerless beside her. Poor little arm!
how much it was willing to do, and
might have done had it not been rem.
dered useless! Her lame toto got bet
ter but her arm did not mend at all,
neither did her general health i'm.
prove. i - ::
i Day after day she lay on her narrow
bed, watching the bit Of sky above the
roofs grow gray or blue 1t intervals,
hearing noisy cook.stove recontres
next door. the old violin and the
starved artists feeble step on the
stairs. -. .:f >E....s.= Z. zs: Z. ..z:.:.
There was another step she had
i Learned to know, and her eyes grew
.&;:3@: H. = ...