Union County courier. [volume] (Elk Point, Union County, D.T. [S.D.]) 187?-1913, 1880-09-01

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wandered restlessly through the streets,
10th to go back to the solitude Of his
chambers. He seemed to dread to be
alone, craved for the sight OF moving,
animated life, and plenty Of light.
Once he asked himself If he were in
love with this sleeping beauty, as he
could never get her out Of his thong hts.
But he laughed at the idea.
No; it was the singular stiffness and
heavy air Of that drawing-room and all
its surroundings, hat was the cause
nothing else.
The third evening was worse than eth
or Of the preceding two, or Leonard
Hartly was growing more irritable under
the strain upon his nerves. He felt that
he should like to cry out-perhaps with
an oath-at the gray-haired butler who
moved around like an inha bitant of the
other world.
But he pnt restraint on himself, re-
fiectiug with satisfaction that there was
but more sitting, and then he would
be free.
"After that, she and her father are
going away" he mused-" l wonder
whore. I should like to sec her again
when her eyes are open. It would be
pleasant to feel their ightshine on n "
The fourth and last evening arrived.
Like those who hasten to get a not over
c%ongenial task over, Leonard Hartley
was a few minutes earlier than usual.
Everything was ready, however.
everything the same as previously, only
Mr.. Kesteven's manner had changed.
He was hurried, restless, nervous, and
he asked the artist If a shorter sitting
would suffice that night.
can hour would be enough" answer
ed Leonard Hartly, by no means re-
luctantly; and thinking, "I suppose the
old gentleman breads his daughters
waking and detecting his little plot. l
wish she would; / should like to see her
out OF that dreadful Sleep"
The painting had not proceeded a
quarter of an hour when the ghostly
butler, gliding in, whispered something
to his master, who, excusing his absence
for a brief space to the artist, hurriedly
left the room.
No sooner had he gone than Leonard
Hartley threw down his brush. 1t was
the first time he had even been left, ever
for a moment, with the sleeping girl, and
an irresistible impulse was upon him to
take q closer inspection.
Rising, after a cautious glance back Mt
the door, he approached the couch.
Why did he halt halfway, the color
falling from his face, and that express
sion, half doubt, half fear, in his eyes?
A moment he stood, the beaded per-
SEPARATION ON his forehead.
Then selling the lamp from the table,
he advanced, trembling, and leaned over
the sleeper.
His hand touched hers.
It was icy cold!
Looking closer, what was revealed to
him?
The color on the cheeks was artificial!
the muscles of the mouth were drawn!
Leonard Hartley, with a cry of terror,
reeled back.
"Great heavens!" he cried; cit is not
sleep-it's death!'
Staggering, he could at first do no
more than, placing the lamp on the
table, stand gazing upon the girl.
He had been tricked-duped!
Then. suddenly he remembered MIR.
Kesteven's words:
Mr.. Hartley, do You remember the
c~onrcrsasione six weeks ago?'
OF course he did!
He saw it all now.
His words respecting the portrait OF
the dead Gray had taken him to see had
been overheard, and, aware Of his re-
pugnance, this horrible, CHASTITY trick
had been put upon him.
For q brief while loathing, horror,
blended with fierce Indignation, ragged
within him.
How should he meet his employer Oh
his return?
How could he give his anger vent in
the presence of his dead child.
Yet Hartley vowed never to put brush
again to that portait, and religiously
kept his word.
Stay!
And a sensation of humiliation came
over him.
Was he right, after all?
Was he not duping himself making
n terrible mistake?
If 80, into what an unpleasant position
might it lead him?
MI. Kesteven had said his child was
under the influence of opiates.
That might account Tor the GOODNESS
though the artist did not think it.
If so, how absurd would have been hi
anger?
But I not? Then would it be justif,
able; almost-he did not know this de
ception would be actionable.
How decide?
Selling a penknife from the table pull
ing it opcn-regardless, in his anger, o
the conseqnences-approaching the girl
he ran this keen blade into her arm.
How white it was!
Would blood come? Pray heaven
yes!
No!--though, almost unconsciously h,
had pressed the flesh-nOt the faintes
sign!
1t was, then not sleep-but death!
With a cry Of horror and indignation
Leonard Hartley, turning, dashed towart
the door.
On the way, his foot struck against
low stool. He stumbled forward an.
threw out his hands to catch some sup
port. His right had clutched but th'
table cloth, and he fell, bringing tn
vases, books, and the lamp crashing al
ter him.
AL was darkness.
He was alone with the dead!
Only for a space. There were hurry
ing feet in the passage; the door wa
thrown wide, and the artist heard MI
Kesteven's voice exclaiming, in accents
Of terror and alarm, GOOD gracious
what has happened? Darkness! Clarke
run, run, bring a light4 Oh, Heaven
what can it be? Mr.. Hartly, where ar,
you?
Here, sir" replied the artist, gath
ering himself up from the floor, as tn,
ghostly butler glided in with q light
II beg to say, Mr.. Kesteven he be
gan, then paused abruptly, his eyes di
lated by amaze, aa, naturally, the,
turned to the couch.
There was his model, truly. But sit
ting up, pushing her pretty brown hal
back with her little hands, in a half
awakened way.
1T was only a sleep, after all. VIVA