Watertown republican. [volume] (Watertown, Wis.) 1860-1906, 1877-04-18

ceased, and gentleman stepped
softly through the window on the piaz-
"a where she stood. She turned with
little start.
".Why, Mr.. Kingsley" she said,
how quietly you came. [ think you
must possess the Invisible Princes
wonderful cap, which gave the power
of moving without touching the earth,
you know"
"And it carried one wherever he
most wished to be did it not? I do not
wonder that you think / wore it. If I
had, it would certainly have brought
me here to your side," he said, low,
looking earnestly into her eyes. The
dreamy look had not left them yet,
and her face had a bewildered express
sion, as if she were wandering in some
far-off dreamland where his voice
could not reach her, or if it did, fell on
her needless ears, that listened to
other voices.
He saw that she did not heed his
earnest eyes, nor the tenderness Of his
voice, and he turned away with an air
of perplexity and Impotence. For he
was not accustomed to hear his words
fall on needless ears-this Mr.. Wallace
Kingsley. He was q noble looking
man, with something in his face that
i'm pressed one instantly with faith and
confidence in him; it was not hand
some face, but strangely attractive
and interesting one; there was an ex-
preston of nobility in the high mass
i've forehead, and Of firmness and
strength of character in the mouth.
Evidently man who would be more
at home "on the battle plain" than in
Gladys bower" but whose perseverance
and indomitable resolution would make
him a formidable rival in love.
He watched the brown eyes, where
the shadow grew deeper and deeper,
for some moments in silence, then with
a little touch of Impotence in his. tone,
said:
In what enchanted realms, do you
wander, Miss Brent? For out Of NOR
tai ken they seem to be, and even out
Of the reach of mortal voices, to-day"
She turned toward him, and the
misery trouble faded out of her eyes, SIS
she answered.:
81 beg your pardon, Mr.. Kingsley.
[ believe I was dreaming. What were
you saying?"
He made an effort at commonplace
conversation, not caring to repeat the
tender words which had fallen on un-
listening ears few moments before.
Nina has been singing to me-" he
said. "Her voice is very sweet, but she
sings almost wholly without express
sion."
eyes, she sings ballads better than
the mournful pathetic songs that she
aspires to, [ think. No one can sing
Mignon's song who has not felt the pain
and heartachc, the passionate grief and
longing, that breathe through it all like
q sorrowful WALL
"And yet you sing it exqusitely, he
said. certainly no one would imagine
you had suffered all that terrible sorrow
and pain"
"Why?" she asked, with a little ire
NOR in her voice.
" l scarcely know why, but you have
always seemed to me one of those per-
sons who lead an imaginative sort of
life, moving always in q dreamy uncer-
tain sadness, of pensive thought, and
aspect pale like Tennyson's Margaret,
you know, and whose sorrow, only sor-
rows shade keeps real sorrow far away.
Cold and calm, and content always with
quiet negative sort of happiness.
You move like a shadow in that steel
gray dress. I don't think you care for
beauty or luxury In any form. You
could dream your dream out as Well
under heavy laden skies, without
warmth, or light, or beauty, as under
tropic suns, glowing with radient light
and splendor."
" You are mistaken, Mr.. Kingsley
indeed you are mistaken. My nature
is keenly luxurious and aesthetic, cray
ing real happiness, keen vivid delights,
gayety, JOY and beauty. I should like
to live under those tropic skies, flushed
with radiant diaphanous rays, purple,
and scarlet, and gold. I should like to
be at noon IN those great forests where
the air faints with the subtle intoxicat-
ing perfume of gorgeous flowers, where
floods of thrilling melody from the
throats of great scarlet winged birds
soar up through the dense emerald
foliage, and fill the very arches of the
sky with sound; to lie at the foot of
those giant trees, whose dark foliage
would screen me from the terrible
burning rays of the sun, that hangs like
a ball Of fire above their heads, and to
feel the tendrils of velvet moss and
trailing vines waited against my cheek
in the languid, perfumed air. And
the beauty Of the northern lands, too,
[ long to see; where the red glare of
the sun falls on mountains of eternal
snow, and shimmers on bergs of trans
lucent crystal, that have stepped the
bitter iciness of their hearts in rainbow
dyes; that shed glittering sheets of
frosty radiance. Where plains of
trackless snow stretch far and wide in
their desolate whiteness, and the air,
which has been breathed through no
human lips, is heavy and stuff coating
with the death-like cold. I like bright
scenes of joyous life, too; festal halls
with flashing lights, and the sparkle of
diamonds. full Of DAZZLING scintilIant