The news and herald. (Winnsboro, S.C.) 1877-1900, 1880-01-17

| lantry Of rusticl Maurice felt vague
! jealousy dawn in his heart.
"Wi'l you have me for lover?'' said he
rcsuming his work.
ooh! you! you are gentleman, and
am peasant; good girls do not listen to
! gentlemen.
That is the village code of morals; the
young man answered nothing.
81 cannot see any longer; will you come
back here tomorrow, a little caricr?"
''For my portrait2"
eyes"
| ~ will come. Good evening sir"
She raised her bundle of wood and went
away into the deepening shadows, beneath
the archway Of the dark chestnut trees.
| Maurice went home dreaming of the fair
haired child. lie had seen her oftea, and
had always looked at her, but with the eyes
of on artist Now it seemed to hun that
ho looked at her with the eyes of jealous
lover That night and the next day
seemed lntcrminablc to him; and long be-
fore the appointed hour he was in the
glade.
He worked alone, and when the girl ar
rived, little latc-already playing the CO.
quette-she was quite surprised.
cit is really myself" said sho. "Will
you give it to me7''
"No, l will make you little one for your
sclf?"
"And that one, what will you do with
| it2
cit will 60 to Paris, it will be put in a
large frame, it will be hung in beautiful
Egallery, and every one will come and. look
at it," NV E@E8 FGa 35l
r. "Ah! yes, knoy, in the:exhibition
"Havc you heard fthc exhibition"
There arc gentlemen painters here who
work for the exhibition, as they say, but
they never took my portrait"
Daylight was fading gently; Maurice
found as on the preceding evening, the cx-
quisite soft tints which had so charmed him
and his work advanced hundred cubits
toward posterity, ~. r. ,.,.......,..
He saw her again several times beneath
the checkerdaylight of his improviscd stu
dio, and he took pleasure in making this
work his best one. Already celebrated, he
had no. need to make himself a name, and
yet fo was sure that this picture would
put the seal to his rcnoun.
u By the time he was quite, satisfied with
1t, winter had come, and Maurice loved his
little model. lie loved her too much to
tell her, SO, too. much to sully this field
| flower of whom he could not make his wife,
but enough to suffer at the thought of leav-
ing her. She had none of those qualities
which secure the happiness Of lifc
neither depth of feeling nor tho devotion
which causes us to forget everything, nor
the passion which is all excuse for every
thing; she was Il pretty field flower, a little
faults, nor yet great virtues. Maurice
knew that she was not for him. and yet he
| loved the graceful lines of her figure. as
yet scarcely developed, and with her home
spun gown chastely cnfolded without dis
| guising. He loved the deep eyes, the
laughing mouth tho fair hair that was al
ways in disorder, the little handkerchief
| tied across her brcast-he loved it all, and
1t was with reluctance that he went away
We always 60 away with reluctance when
we have nothing to hope for On our return.
1t is 80 hard to leave behind bit Of ones
| life, of which nothing is to remain.
He carried away his picture, however,
and it was before it that he passed his hap
picst hours that winter, always perfecting
work which was already perfect The
| picture was admired; the critics who were
unanimous in their enthusiasm, declared
that such faces could rot exist, except in
the brain of poet, or in the imagination
of painter. Maurice listened smiling,
and kept to himself the secret of that sweet
face that had inspired him. Ho received
brilliant offers for his picture; never had so
high price been offered for any Of his
works; but he refused, and he refused also
TO allow it, to Ebe copied. Since he was
never to possess anything Of his model but
Der likeness, he intended that that should
| he his alone.
Autumn was drawing near when he re-
| turned to the village; twice had the fires of
st. John seen 'the whirls Of the merry
ance since he had painted the porrai,
and when ho thought of tho young girl, 1t
was with a smile that was somewhat sad,
as he asked himself on which Of the village
rustics she he'd fixed her choice.
His fret, pilgrimage on arriving was to
the forest of chestnut trees;sat tile foil Of
/ day-nighti c3onles q Quickly at the Beginning
of October--ho wandered down the long
path; but 1t was no longer dark; it was
ttaversed by an ambor sunbeam, which
seemed to haye fastened itself on every ono
Of the leaves which qpiyered on ,, the
branches or cracked beneath his feet.
The odor of the dead leaves brought to
him whole world of regrets, of remem-
brances of bitterness, stirring up within him
an unspcakable sadness, and more COM
plete disgust with everything that he had
| aoupht I'M t0 that time Whan he. rnache n