The Mankato free press. [volume] (Mankato, Blue Earth County, Minn.) 1879-1924, 1879-12-26

"Ahemp giggled Amsdor. 40
course-certSinly. IL Donna Beatrii
says 30, Satan himself should be beauti
full 70 her slave AmadOr." This with I
flourish, Is If the writing.master made I
signature.
al wish the child's face were painted
in, Senior Murillo, she added. "WheI
will you do it2"
"When feel that / can" he answer
ed.
She bent over a folio of sketches, anC
on q bit of torn paper inside wrot,
hastily with an end of crayOn, Then
with the paper hidden in her hand, anC
leaning close against the easel on which
the "St. Anthony" stood, she said good
by.
The three men fastened to escort hel
down stairs; but at the door Claudio
turned back into the room again. Ha
hal my lady," he Missed, with an ugly
smile. al spied the little maDeuVeI
that escaped our innocent painting tool. y
He snatched up the bit of paper that lay
on the ledge of the easel below the
picture. 1t read:
SENIOR ask your company at the Wills
for an hour this evening. At nine o'clock
shall be free Of guests"
Couched not unlike a command, the
lines meant no less than lifelong sur.
render. Murillo finding them, no diff
dence could detain his suit. Claudio
made q motion to destroy the paper
then, changing his purpose, quietly laid
it back upon the easel and joined the
group down stsirs.
Beatriz was mounted on q black horse
the dark velvet ridiDg-dress wonderfully
setting of her superb beauty-a beauty
so sensitive that it took q character for
every change of circumstance. A mo.
ment ago she was all devotion before the
pictured saint; now abe was like some
wsrlike queen refining in her restless,
curveting steed. Amador bowed so low
and paid so many elaborate compliments
that at last she laug he'd in his face out
right and heartily.
al pray your ladyship is merry" he
remarked with the air of having invent
ed subtle gsllsntry.
"You always make me merry Don
Amador," she answered, riding away.
"Santiago!" thought Amador, "but
if l make her merry, 1 make her happy;
if l make her happy, q Pc would like to
marry me. Amador, thou art lucky as
well as handsome. Go to her house this
night and ask her hand" Answering
the self-addressed admonition, he said,
stroking his curled and fragrant locks,
" ] will 60 this evening"
Murillo, on returning alone to the
STUDIO, soon noticed the folded slip of
paper. This woman's favor was the
widest, dearest dream of the artists
life. To live near her, where he could
now and then see her face, meet her
smile, and could feel she had an interest
in his work, had held him back from the
patronage of Madrid, from the advantage
of foreign travel. Beatriz de CABRERA
had made Seville the home of Spanish
art. This invitation to visit her at an
appointed hour disregarded common
social restraints, and was pl.inly mark
ed encouragement. Murillo paced bis
floor in fever of impotence until eight
o'clock, when he was to mount and start
for Pilas. Sharp upon the minute he
came running down the stairs and
opened the heavy outer door, which the
old woman who kept the house closed
early, for the painter was given TO spend
ing evenings in his studio. Passing
through in eager haste, just outside he
stumbled and nearly fell over q large
bundle. Looking closely, though an.
noyed at the delay, he found it held a
child, a feeble, wailing wasted little
creature hardly two years old, a poor
sick baby left there by some heartless
wretch to die, or by some penniless
mother on the chance of being found by
a charitable stranger. He hastily picked
up the miserable little thing and babe
the old housekeeper see to its comfort.
"NOt l." said the old woman. "Let
the creatures own people do that. It's
dying, and I'm not going to bother with
it, and then get into trouble when it's
dead on my hands. Not l. It's an
ugly brat, too"
The child was ugly; 30 wasted and
pale, all the pretty curves of boyhOod
gone, and it suffered, too, with little
faint, distressing means that told how
nearly life was spent.
Murillo hurried to a door near by,
where q mother had family of chubby
children. The woman, looking at his
charge, said:
"Senor Murillo, I'd take the child, to
oblige you; but see, it has some mortal
sickness that my own children might
catch. It's best to let it die, or carr. it
to the hospital, though perhaps you're
too late to get in"
The hospital was far of, and the
wretched little thing grew more and
more CHASTITY. Its skeleton hands
clutched, as If for rescue, about Murillo's
fingers, its eyes were growing CLASSY and
fixed. He rushed up stairs to the
studio, laid the helpless bundle on a
coucn, kindled the fire, found some milk
from his own untasted meal, undressed
the child, gave it few simple remedies,
and watched its every breath. He
started off to the door continually, with
the impulse to keep his precious appoint
ment, and was as often called back by
the wailing voice. The little creature
hung between life and death, and the
first genius of Spain worked over it with
hot lotions and medicines and soothing
words tenderly as a mother, and yet so
swkwardly that the whole scene might
have been ridiculous, if any thing thor.
oughly earnest and honest were not
always dignifed as well. At last came
ten O'clOck-too late to think of that
happy hour at Pilas. MurillO looked the
picture of tragic despair, but his hand
was gentle, his voice a musmur, and the
child grew more quiet in those strong
patient arms. The means came lighter
and lighter, and at last ceased, while the
famous nurse sat dreaming of Bestriz,
living in fancy over every moment that
had been blessed with her presence; her
greeting that day, the kiss upon her fair
hand, her kind, lingering look, As the
freight touched the est. Anthony" he
remembered she had said, 81 wish the
child's face were painted in"
It was almost morning; he looked
down at the wasted form now lying quiet
in his lap. The little thing smiled on
him and put up a pair of feeble arms.
He stopped and kissed the wan face.
Tears of Joy stood in his eyes as the poor
baby-perhaps some beggsr's offspring
or some Outcast's shame-fell into 9
peaceful sleep.
Hardly daring to stir, he drew softly
up to the easel, and holding the pitifGI
burden on his left arm, with his free
right hand he painted in the face of the
Christ-child. Through the crystal oil
those tears that wretched baby showed
such model as painter never had. The
little pale smile had sent its innocent
love into the artists heart, that had sem
back the glory of q divine pity upon the
wan face, and 50 the morning sun shon'
on the Christ-child In its neverdyiDl
tenderness and beauty.