Daily globe. [volume] (St. Paul, Minn.) 1878-1884, 1881-07-03
station, whence l had dipsatched mes
sage to him. and awaited an answer

My heart ached with fear as / galloped
back to St. Elmo, lest / should arrive with
these comforting words too late. But l
reached the village just before the break
of day, and accompanied by the doctor
hurried to the cottage. My eyes were
blinded as l put the paper in Mrs. Grey's
hand. But she was past reading it. 1t
was the little Stephanie who opened and
read the message amid sobs and bitter
tears. Then she flung herself down by
the bedside
81 can never love but you, mother!''
she sobbed, wildly
"Stephanie, You will love your father
for my sake But where-where is Gus
tave, cried Mrs. Grey, stretching out her
hand blindly.
Clicked with sobs the boy knelt down
by Stephanie's side, and the thin white
hands of the dying woman were placed
on the heads of both.
"Never forget each other, children,
while you live. Stephanie, do not for
sake Gustave. Do not let pride
But the lingering tide of life ebbed
fast, and the lips were still. One other
murmur broke from them:
"Stephe! my love? my love" Then
her head fell back and we led the chill
dren away.
In two days from this time Count Won
H stood by the ceffin of his wife and
looked down upon her dead face. What
his thoughts were l know not, but on his
haggard cheek and trembling lip remorse
and shame.
Later in the day hearse and grand
coffin, velvet covered, arrived from dis
tant town, and the poor lady who had
lived so humbly was borne away in pride
to be laid in death among those who had
scorned her living
1t was after the departure of the sad
cortege that the Count came to me and
requested few minutes conversation.
II come, sir,' he said, "to clear my
dead name of any shadow that may linger
about it in your mind. It was no fault
of hers that we parted, and she lived here
in pain and poverty for twelve years"
His lips shook, and his hand, which he
extended to me, trembled.
"Allow me to thank you fer your kind
ness. l depart this evening with my
daughter. l go to Vienna to present her
to my family, after which l shall place
her in convent to complete her educa-
ton Sir, it is natural should wish her
to forget this sad time. If you ever meet
her again l shall trust to your honor not
to recognize in the Countess Won H
the little Stephanie Grey who has lived so
long among these poor villagers.
With this the count and parted
In the evening he and little Stephanie
quilted St. Elmo, and l wondered what
the proud man thought as, ali through
the length of the long avenue, the boy
Gustave followed the carriage, some
times finging himself On the sward to
sob passionately, then rising with the old
cry:
"Stephenie! sister Stephenie! say good
by to me once more. Promise me again
that you will come back"
Then Stephanie waved her hand from
the window and her childish voice, an
swered:
"Be sure | will come back, Gustave,
and we will play here again at cache
cache Do not weep any more, brother.
Wait for me next summer, here in this
road I will come, Gustave; / will surely
Gomez
"Poor children" I said to myself,
''they will never play together again be-
meath the bright canopy ofleaves."
o3
found him and his wife both enchanted
with the counts generosity
"And what will he do for Gustave?" l
asked
"Gustave is to be priest; he is to go
to the seminary, and the count pays all
expenses"
had my thoughts respecting this. but
held my peace.
My Ardennes life, with it's simple re-
minlscences, was put away from me and
almost forgotten, when, one night at a
brilliant ball in Paris, saw the face of
Stephanie Grey. Five years had passed
since last saw her, but could not mis-
| take SO rare face as hers.
"Will you tell me who is that young
| LADY," said to the friend with me.
'She is the young Countess Won H,
one of the richest heiresSes now in Paris. -
"Her face is strangely beautiful. What
is her history?"
ga blank, My Lerd," said the lady,
quoting Shakespeare. Literally blank
for the first twelve years of her life; but
we take her fathers word for it that she
has been abroad with her mother. That
is her father standing beside her, looking
at her so proudly"
"And the mother?"
ooh, she is dead. Hers was sad
story. l will tell it to you some day; the
Count little guesses that know it, but
l was school-fellow of Mary Grey's and
she trusted me with her secret.''
would have asked her eagerly for the
story, but at this moment the orchestra
| commenced wild and joyous air, resem-
bling so much in its cadence the old Ar
dennais song which the children had car
oiled in the forest, that l remained silent
and startled. Breathing family all the
time, through the strain-now lost, now
returning-came the echo of the free
woods, and saw Stephanie Grey turn
toward the musicians wild look painful
in it's intenseness. Then her face grew
deadly white, and leaning heavily on the
arm of her father, she murmured word
in his ear.
Evidently it was request to retire, for
in another instant both passed us on their
way to the hall; l started up and followed
them. A string of carriages was at the
door, and around them pressed a great
throng of people, straining eager eyes to
catch glimpse of the great wealth and
beauty that fitted by.
In loud voice the Counts carriage
was called for by an attendant, and as it
reached the door there was struggle in
the crowd and Young man rushed to