The Portland daily press. [volume] (Portland, Me.) 1862-1921, 1880-06-21

Will you let me tell you that love you?
Will you be my wife as you have always
been my better angel?'
81 had fancied, indeed, I had been told,
that you were very much in love with your
model. You can scarcely love two women
at once"
''She has gone forever"
Sand l am the PTS alter. Thanksp'
"Amy, 1 never loved her-it was simply
eyes. Mr.. Rainsford persuaded mamma
to go. was eager to see the original of
your picture. She is certainly very beauti-
full 1t is the same person 1 saw you with
yesterday morning, l think"
that she was my ideal of my picture, and
the two were so one in my mind that l
could not separate them. You yourself are
artist enough to understand that. And /
had no means of knowing that you loved me.
Only Augustine herself revealed it to me-"
And then he read her those portions of the
dancers note that concerned herself.
Amy pondered long over it, She did not
believe the dancers words that she did not
care for Arthur, that she was tired of Quar-
tier. She had seen those lovely eyes fill
with light when they fell upon him in the
dance rhythm. And afterwards she heard,
in some careless studiotalk, that ''the
| Spanish girl had been mad about Duncan"
1t was strange to her to think that the
Nulle uOWeT u SelI-SdcTlLcc COuiu Uuu anu
bloom in the soul of a paid dancer at a stu
dents ball.
She forgave him, for she loved him, and
if she had been man herself she doubted if
her life would have been blameless. And
the shadow of the Spanish dancer passed
out of their lives.
A year passed. Arthur's picture had
been hung on the line in the Salon, and he
had, oftener than his wife knew sauntered
Inv ,ol, II
hear of its being there and come to look at
her own beauty. She had never been heard
OF in the Quarter since she left it. More
than one offer had been made for the ''God-
dess of the Morning." but Amy would not
let it go-it had been her wedding gift from
her husband.
Spring had come again. The Luxem-
bourg gardens were filled as before with gay
crowds-the streets of Paris were beautiful
with flowers. One morning man in an.
official dress brought folded paper to Ar
thur as he worked in his studio, On it was
written: "A Spanish woman, very i'll in
| the hospital, begs to see M. lie pientre Dun
| can. Willmonsieur have the complaisance
! to come to the poor soul?" He wrote a note
| to his wife, telling her of the circumstance,
| and went across Paris with the messenger,
| stopping only moment for few white
water lilies that a boy thrust into his hand
| in the market.
They showed him into ward where wo-
| men lay ill of consumption in all it's stages.
| and in a cot near the window, where the
| spring sunshine streamed over her, he found
| Augustine, still lovely, but no longer the
| joyous goddess of morning; only pale,
fragile, large-eyed woman, whose life was
almost ended.
II knew you would come-you were al
ways good. l wanted to see you before
died. loved you when left you. mon ami.
l would have died for you; but your love
was not for me, a model-a paid dancer |
was wild in dissipation after left the Quar-
| tier. l tried hard to kill myself, and have
succeeded. With my first sign of illness
came desertion and poverty. The day was
brought here l had gone to see your picture
| and fell down before it,
He had laid the water lilies within reach
of her thin fingers; she took them up and
caressel the feshy leaves.
"They are like those used to gather in
| my childhood in a little village among the
mountains. l wish / had never come to
| Paris. But then l should never have met
you. She is beautiful and good, your young
| wife, but she cannot love you as 1 did,
ITEMS! 1 am better. Perhaps may live
| my hair has not changed-you used to kiss
| it once, kiss it now, only once-she will not
| care-she has had you for a whole year, and
| have hungered and thirsted for one touch
| of your hand."r
There was rustic Of drapery in the path
between the beds, and Amy stood suddenly
| by her husbands side in her black dress and
her sweet young matronhood, with flowers
violets and heliotrope and pale roses in her
hands. The sick woman raised herself
''You here-his wife!'
sit was you who gave him to me-" said
| Amy in the soft, low notes the years love
| had brought into her voice.
"You were jealous of me once, madame,''
said the dancer. ''You have noneed to fear
| now"
Amy laid the flowers in her hand. sYou
will get well again, and you will leave Paris
and live in the country among the fowers''
"Among the fiowers-yes, in my own
country up in the mountains where the
lilies grow in the streams. Oh, yes-I shall
go back?' her eyes grew bright, her face
radiant, for one instant she was again,the
Aurora of the Quarter. Suddenly she cried
81 am choking Some water! My mediciner'
and the life-stream rose to ner lips.
Arthur Duncan caught her in his arms
and Amy knelt by the poor bed. The fast
dulling eyes met Arthur's. The beautiful
| head fell back ON his arm, the beautiful
! shoulders that had once shone above the
| scarlet bodice in the dance-measure were
| clothed with scarlet that scorched the
white lilies on her breast even as Paris had
blighted the pure white lily of her life.