The Cincinnati daily star. [volume] ([Cincinnati, Ohio]) 1875-1880, 1880-04-16

to build up in your own way the fortune
you have? and, dear old father, l hope
you will enjoy it for many and many a
long year. Do you think my fathers
son can not, like him, endure privation
in order to be true to his own better
self? And, father, l shall 60 on the way
with light heart, and happy one, if l
could only know that was not giving
you pain. Believe me, father, what l am
doing is but what is right"
All this time the young man had his
arms round his fathers neck, and his
voice trembled as he spoke. The old
man did not move, nor interrupt him by
word, but once or twice shudder
passed over him, and when Frank had
finished he said:
"Mebbe, boooy, mebbe; but ay can't
see it; ay can't see it. Ay dun't want
to be hard on ye, but it's bitter bad for
me. Look ZEE here. boooy," he said,
opening his desk as he spoke, and taking
from it a roll of notes, which he care
fully counted; "yow must hev suffin to
maak start with. Ay didn't think to
ha' done it; for it Almost seem as eff ay
war givin' my consent; and ay' can't
gree to it. Howsumdever, you mum
hev start, an here's hundred pound
for VOW. But VOW marn't look fer no
more. Ay wish VOW well, boooy, but |
don't gree to it. It's agen my will.
They-ar, good-by, good,by."
"Good-bye, dear father, goodbye"
And the door closed between him and
the old man, who sat rigidly at his desk
while the chaise bowled swiftly down the
Horksmead Road and over Balkerne Hill;
sat there still as it reached the station
just in time to catch the train; sat there
while the whistle screamed, and the plat
form cleared itself of passengers, and the
slow grunting of the engine developed
into thrice rapid pant; sat there while
the young would-be artist was leaning
from the carriage window to catch the
last glimpse OF "old Dan Farden's cot
tage;" and sat there still when the last
glimpse of it had faded from the boys
view, and he had thrown himself back
into the corner of the carriage to dream
of the new world in which he was about
to adventure alone.
CHAPTER II.
In meditating for months, and years
even, over the means of gratifying his
irrepressible heart hunger, Frank had
drawn for himself so vivid a picture of
the difficulties which he would have to
endure, that the reality agreeably disap-
pointed him.
He had not indulged the hope that he
would be able at once to live by his PEN
Gil, and he had planned in the first in
stance to look for subsistence by teach
ing. In this scheme he was aided by
his good friends at the rectory, who had
taken much interest in his resolve
and by whose assistance he came
up to London with one engagement
already formed. His laborious, pains
taking patient disposition, and his over
flowing good humor, fitted him admir-
ably for the work, and in the course Of
a short time he had as many pupils as
he could take without trenching toe
much on the time necessary for private
practice, and for attendance Oh the ar
school which he Joined on his arrival ir
Loudon. He had brought with him &
considerable number of very carefully
finished drawings, landscapes and studies
of rustic subjects, and he had been able
to dispose of many of them, so thai
when he balanced his accounts at the
end of the first six months he had the
satisfaction of finding that not only was
the sum he had brought with him unbrok.
en-, but that he had, after paying all ex-
penses, few pounds of honorably earned
money to carry him through the next
month or two. He did not, however, re-
lax the abstemious and almost penuri
Gus habits he had seen fit to adopt. He
breakfasted ON oatmeal porridge and
went on the strength of that meal al
day. He would dine on a handful Of
haricot beans and make luxurious sup
per off cup of tea or cocoa and a roll
) And he throve on it. His spirits rose a
his prospects frightened, and he whist
: led at Ills work with infinite content
ment. His step was elastic, his ey
clear, his laugh gay, though it must no
be imagined that he was without his sal
moments, when he thought, as he di
every day, of the old, lonely father a
: home. He wrote to him regularly ever
week long, bright, cheerful letters, an
he read and re-read, and treasured u
the few brief responses that came fror
the old man, who was no great profcien
= : in the art of penmanship.
A year had passed since the Angus
!, morning when he had taken his last loo
at Horksmead. He had prospered be
Z yond his hopes, but he had never fel
more serious misgivings as to his abilit
to achieve that nobler success which h
most coveted-the glory of place, how
ever humble, among the true artists 0
> his country. He had reached an eleva
ton from which, looking back on tn
g plain he had left, it seemed far away
e but when he turned bis eyes to the sunli
$ SUBMITS they appeared more remote thai
!. ever, and the ascent sleeper than it eve
!, seemed before. The thought did no
n depress him OF make him waver in hi
9 purpose, but it nude his mood more seri
o,d thouohtful Tt was in one n