Daily globe. [volume] (St. Paul, Minn.) 1878-1884, 1881-02-20
BERTHA'S LOVER:
0h,
The Game Of Chance.


1t was dreary November day. So
are they all. From the gray sky, over
which swept vast masses of leaden-
colored clouds, came steady, drench-
ing rain, which beat down upon the
earth in a pitiless way, making. the
scene one of utterly cherries gloom.
Drip, drip, drip, came the cold drops
from the caves, and before they reach
ed the ground were joined by other
drops that had FLASHED against the
window panes in vicious way, onl y
to be beaten back and sent to join their
mates that had attacked other portions
of the house with equal non-success.
1t was modest little structure this,
against which the entire forces of the
elements seemed to be combined, but,
although small, it had a determined
look, and stuck it's various angles and
sides out into the storm in a calmly
defiant manner.
In cozy little room of the cottage
sat girl of 10 summers and about 400
falls. This excess Of falls was due to
the extreme length of the skating sea-
son, and the fact that her supports
were unsteady.
Bertha Bandoline was proud, SEN
sitive girl, who instinctively shrank
from publicity of any sort, and the
first time the ice came up and met her
she sat there calmly for an instant,
and then rose, saying softly to herself:
II have broken my panier.
Warm words of sympathy and affec-
ton came from those around her, but
she only smiled sadly, and went home
wiser but buStlelesS girl. The next
day her father received a bill for
new hustle. He looked at it a moment
and thought of the days gone by when
Bertha would climb on his knee as he
sat before the glowing CRATE, and after
pulling at his beard and saying how
much she loved papa, would fall asleep
in his arms, the Pickering blaze of
the fire making strange lights and
shadows around her head, with it's
tangled mass of yellow hair, that lay
upon his shoulder. She still sat in
front of the fire with her head in the
same place, but the shoulder belonged
to another person.
my daughter is very dear to me-"
said the old man tenderly, as he paid
the bill.
Another truth unconsciously ute
III.
Bertha is still sitting in her boudoir.
Boudoir means room, but it is more
heightened. Kind words cost nothing,
and even being good to yourself keeps
you in practice. The rain still fell.
1T is the threnody and dirge of my
happiness, said Bertha, in low, de-
spairing voice. " Rupert will never
love me again, 1t seems as if he had
sailed away in the ship with the lights
and the music and the merry passen-
gers, and left me all alone on the dark
waters in an oarless, sailless boat be.
meath the midnight sky"
Bertha was very often too previous
in her language and did not know
what threnody meant and, in conse-
quence, slung it in at random to fill up
with. But we can forgive this. All
must pity young heart torn by con-
fiicting emotions, hesitating between
faith and doubt in one it loves. Who
can paint the blackness of a nature
that would betray II trust so sacred !?
Is not it's possessor worthy of eternal
damnation?
You bet, sweety.
But while Bertha sits enshrouded in
her own sombre thoughts and fore
bodings where is the object Of her
passion Z?
In prominent gilded hall of vice,
redolent with the fumes of sour mash
and burnt coffee, stand two young men.
One is Rupert, the other is Jim.
On the surface of the hard polished
wood is rapidly spinning a glittering
bauble.
The stakes are a quarter. Finally
its revolutions cease. The young men
bend eagerly over it.
You've lost, Jim
Rupert, in the agony Of his defeat
murmurs something of the place
where the ice man cometh
not, and thus to the man with
the paste diamond behind the
counter, Speaketh:
"A little of the same!'
In another instant a tiny glass is
raised to Rupert's lips.
V.
Does he love his Bertha? Respect
for the truth forbids an affirmative
answer.
The invitations, so gorgeously en-
bellished, have been recalled and socie-
ty wonders why.
New Armaments.