, 1879-12-01
The Withered Flower.

.She is an iceberg. She is stone;
and if there is anything colder than the
one, and harder than the other, Miss
Alcastor is that thing"
"Bad for Miss Alcastor," said De
Courcey. Then he turned, and gave a
glance over the shoulder which was not
toward Alice Leslie, and saw a slight
girl, in plain, black dress, who was
seated under the great lamps, and in
front of the piano. All the lights of
the vast parlor seemed to converge to-
ward the piano as their center, and in
the midst of all the glitter and glow,
and scintillant, slanting beams, was
contrasted this somber figure, with a
dropping grace, its white face, and
large, dark eyes, sad with profound
and unutterable sadness. every bad
for Miss Alcastor," he reiterated,
adding, "but she sings WELL"
"And she should sing we'll. Is she
not paid to do it =? Is she not here for
that purpose?"
Miss Leslie. the speaker, had the
voice of a siren, and she had the face
of angel. Both of these properties
she employed to emphasize words
which, in the language of certain
old book, were " sharper than any two
edged sword" Edward De Courcey
turned toward her now. 1t was the
least of all little hands that lay, un-
gloved, upon his arm. 1t was the
most innocent of all dimpled faces,
which, through a floating haze of fair
hair, lifted up eyes of timid appealing
to his own. Could it be that this
woman, lovely as some creation of an
artists inspired dream, could fling
forth these venomous taunts?
Miss Alcastor," the cooling voice
went on, "Miss Alcastor is under ban
here, as you know"
"As I do not know. Have COM
passion on my benighted state"
Up and down the great, bright room
they walked. The dark-eyed girl at
the piano was singing. It was a soft,
August night. Outside, in the garden,
the white, tall lilies stood up, and
bowed their heads like spirits in prayer.
The roses, bending lower, sent out to-
kens to the south wind from the heavy
languors of fragrant hearts. The new
moon hung out her horn over the hills.
Away up the glooming mountains a
forest-fre burned vivid red against the
soft summer da-k, and, low down, in
the levels that bordered the river. a
whipp'o will was singing shrill, sor-
rowful cry that, throbb1ng on the night
air, was borne up to mingle with the
tones of the young girls voice, which
foated out through the open case
ments of Cliff House. How the two
strains seem to mirgle and greet one
another, ont there, in the tender gloom,
like sentient spirits, towering above
the shadowy garden land All this
flashed in an instant across my hero's
mind; for Edward De Courcey is my
hero. Perhaps you OWNED as much.
My hero, and trust he will be yours,
though candor forces from me the con-
fession that he is not of the regulation
nineteenth century heroism at all. He
has never survived any incredible perils
by sea or land; never committed sui
eide, fratricide, or any other eide: has
never shot down his man in California,
fought with wild beasts at Ephesus,
divorced wife or two in Indiana, or
claimed to be some one other than him
self. He is young man, just past
four-and-twenty, carrying his bright
haired head, Saul-like, above others; a
man among men, with strong right
arm, eyes that look the world squarely
in the face, and q heart brave as any
knight of the Round Table, but heart
I coafide this to you-with a soft
place in it for poor old women, for sick
little babies, for wounded creatures of
any species, and with liability to wax
tender at certain times and seasons,
such as summer nights, under the
blink of stars; winter cleaning, under