The Eaton Democrat. (Eaton, Ohio) 1875-1903, 1878-03-07
HIS LANDLADY,s DAUGHTER.
THarper's weekly.I

Yes, Mr.. M'Goyern, she is coming
home tomorrow"
"No? Really-ahl Imean--exactly
yes"
"Ah, Mr.. MGoyern, if you only
knew how I've toiled and shaved and
pinched that that girl could have an ed
ucationl never had no learning my
self"
"Precisely-just SO.
NAnd / made up my mind that
Annie should be lady, and shesis, Sir,
she is-n
"Certainly-no doubt. Really, the
fact is-Would you mind III am very
busy"
Now the fact was that Mr.. MGovern
was determined not to take the slight
est interest in the world in his slandlady's
daughter. And at this moment, he was
also engaged upon piece Of work that
not only absorbed all his energies, but
apparently presented difficulties he was
not likely to overcome.
The case lay just here. Mr.. M'Govern,
salesman and commercial traveller for
large drygoods house, had recently
made the acquaintance in an adjacent
town, not as large but fancying itself
quite as important, as New York, of
young lady who had suddenly inspired
him with the exaggerated sentiment
we commonly call love. At least
he thought so. And now the problem
lay, how to awaken a corresponding
emotion in the heart of the fair being to
whom he felt anxious and desirous to
offer the devotion of lifetime. If he
had been rich he might have over
whelmed her with bouquets such as can
only be produced by metropolitan florists.
But he was not rich. On the other
hand, ii, as he expressed it to himself, he
had been one of those newspaper chaps,
who are always saying things and writ
ting things, you know, and walk into a
girls heart when they haven't even re-
spectacle pair of boots, or q shilling to
get their hair cut" even then he might
have done something. But, as it was,
what could he do?
Finally an idea occurred to him.
Brilliant in epigram he was not, and
certainly could never hope to be; but
somebody had surely once said that
agenius is only indomitable persever-
ance,D and there was the hare and the
tortoise, and the busy bee, and there
was no knowing but that-if he gave a
month to it he might yet manage to get
up something she would like to read
he. could certainly write as good busi-
ness letter as any fellow in the office.
But then it ought to be in rhyme. And
here another difficulty presented itself.
Her aame was Arabella, and what on
earth would rhyme with ArabellaY Yet
Petrarch had certainly been in the same
scrape: there isn't awordi in the language
that ends like Laura. But Petrarch
wrote Italian. Hal Italian-that was
the thing, But then he didn't know
Italiansneither did Arabella: and as for
attempting to deny that fellows wrote
poetry to their girls in English-oh,
dear me! no, that was too absurd.
So he set yaliantly at work, and on
the morning when Mrs. Gibson invaded
his sanctum to announce her daughters
expected return, he had gotjust this far
Midst roses fair, oh, lovely ArabeIa-"
Stopl there was cellar. But how to
work it in? And here Mr.. M'Govern
wss met by adificulty that has oppressed
many greater poet.
His landlady had broken the chain Of
inspiration; besides, it was nine o'clock
he couldn't do better than go to the
Office, for there was fresh consignment
of goods that he was expected to dispose
of. In the evening he would go out anc
call upon Arabella; which he did, and a
midnight he returned to his grimy apart
ment on Mrs. Gibson's third floor, NOR,
in love than ever.
But on the following evening when n,
came home from the Office, he remem
bered Mrs. Gibson's announcement, an,
at the tea table he looked for the youn,
lady in question. Not that he care'
what she looked like, but then
"Huml not pretty girlby any means |!
but somehow he looked again. Their
she sat, soft little body in gray merin
dress, with pair of very pretty hand
placidly folded in her lap. What wa
the impression she gave him? Hal b
didn't know. Now he had it; sh
seemed SO very, very-funny wore
wasn't it-cIean, that was it. Perhaps
wastheawful CRIME of Mrs. Gibson's fror
basement didit. Contrast is everythin,
you know. But ali she wasn' t like tt
divine, the beautiful
"Mr. MGoyern, will you have al
other cupo teaP
N.Y. what sweet voicel
Now what was it made the old boar
ing-house day by day somuch less intoIe