The Republican. [volume] (Oakland, Md.) 1877-current, 1880-12-11

decided. This affair, however, did not
dwell long in her mind; other things
absorbed her-buying the last items of
the rousseau, unpacking presents, the
perplexing task of making little
money do the service of good deal, and
trying on the wedding dress. Though
the Throckmortons as family were
well known, according to Aunt Jane, in
the neighborhood, yet Theodore was a
comparative stranger, having married
and lived in the South for years, after a
foreign education. 1t was only a year
since Rose and he had met on railway
train showed up few miles beyond Lit
tie Champion. She had been to the
city to give a music lesson; he was
coming home to look after some prop
erty that had fallen to him in Little
Champion. Though they were but five
miles from the station, yet the storm
was so cold and binding that only q
few undertook to walk into town.
There was but handful of passengers
altogether, Little Champion people
mostly, who did business in the city and
returned at night; and so it happened
that Rose was the only woman among
them. They spent the night out there
among the the drifts, there being, for
tnnately, plenty of wood on board the
train to keep them comfortable; and
under such circumstances people make
| acquaintance with comparative ease.
Mr.. Throckmorton, not wishing to
travel on foot in the storm, and rather
enjoying the novelty of the situation,
had yet ventured out mile or so, and
foraged at farmhouse, returning with
supply of dainties which he begged
Rose to share. He had observed that
she was bored, sleepy and miserable; he
sympathized with her as q man invaria-
bly, does with a pretty woman. Why is
it that beauty in distress is more appeal
ing than uglinessp Though for the mat
ter of that, perhaps Mr.. Theodore
Throckmorton would have folded his
wrap for her weary head, have braved
the storm for her refreshment, and be-
guiled her tedium with anecdotes and
nonsense, ali the same, had she been
the plainest old maid in Little Cramp-
ton; but then his conduct would have
proved an exception to that of his sex,
no doubt. By daylight Rose and Theo-
dore were as intimate as if they had
been born neighbors; and an acquaint-
ance begun thus, in snow-drift, had
drifted into more tender relation. In
spite of Aunt Jane, Rose and Theodore
were married, and set off in the early
winter for his Southern home and what
a new world it was that Rose had dis
covered! She used to wonder, during
those days, if it were really herself, poor
little overlooked Rose Thornton, who
had a right to all this splendor, to
all this love and devotion; if she should
not wake up to find herself in her dingy
little room at Little Champion, in her
black delaine, trying to make dime do
duty for dollar, with nobody kinder
than Aunt Jane to look to, with all this
happiness only dissolving dream.
''My life is like poem," she said, al
most daily.
81 hope it will never become plain
prose-" Theodore would answer.
Mr.. Throckmorton was called away
on business affairs for a week or so,
when they had been married a little
more than year, and at first it seemed
to Rose as if the sun had gone under
cloud. She tried to occupy herself with
thousand trlhes; the very roses in the
garden appeared to hang their heads
and drop their petals pensively; the
mocking-birds sang out of tune; the at
mosphere was oppressive as before
thunderstorm. Rose wandered about
the house and grounds aimlessly, not
knowing how to pass the time without
Theodore. She reminded herself of the
ghost of Mrs. Tristram Throckmorton
haunting the corridors with her lighted
taper to look at her husbands portrait;
she turned over the rare prints in the
library; she opened the old-fashioned
novels, written for a dead and gone
generation; she drew a melancholy
strain or two from Theodore's violin,
like the wailing of a banshee. One aft
ernoon she bethought herself of Theo-
dore's diary of the war, which she had
promised she should read whenever she
wanted to descend to plain prose. "Itis
hidden in drawer of my private DESK"
he had said. "Read it, Rosamundi,
when you wish to be bored within an
inch of your life." She opened the desk
and began her search; but the diary
was not so easily found. A friend had
ooilOWOo ~, uO1 lung UolOIc, Ill OIucr 10
fix the date Of some political events in
his mind. But while she turned over
his papers and opened the drawers, her
fingers must have touched accidentally
the spring of a secret compartment,
which, flying open, disclosed the picture
of woman in case bedded with
pearls and emeralds-a woman with
great velvety eyes like panther's,
rich color on the swarthy cheek, and
tense expression about the scarlet
curve of the lips; a face to haunt
and perplex one. Rose shuddered before
this apparition. "Death is in her beau
tiful eyes," she cried. "How she must
have hated to die, and leave this pleas
ant woodland Theodore! How did
he ever forget her and love me!' And
then her eyes fell upon shabby little
diary pushed out of sight beneath the
picture. "This must be Theodore's,"
she thought; and she seated herself in
Sleepy Hollow chair to enjoy it, vet
feeling as il that face would always
come between herself and Theodore,
unless she could lose herself in these
pages and forget it. In fact, so pene-
trated was she with thoughts of this
beautiful dead woman, whom Theodore
had once loved, that she had been read
ing the diary for an hour or SO, had