The Osceola times., 1881-02-12

relied with him, because he would not
marry 20 please her, but chose a beauti-
! iul girl instead, who bad no money, Il
thing she never forgaye. In year, she
| died, leaving all her own property, and
| it was very great, to her daughter, who
| left il, in her turn, to her husband. a
| Frenchman. But the dukes lands, you
say2 II the signorino pleases, he sold off
most Of them last year, and used part of
| the money 10 improve his ancestral cas-
| tie; the rest he spent in property he had
on the Tibcr, near Rome. thinking the
location was good for villa sites. But
when once ill-luck gets hold OF one, it
pursues, as the signorino knows, till
death releases. In the inundatiOn of
seyenty-two, all the duca's banks, walls,
| trees, and houses were swept away: and
since then only the Holy Mother Knows
how he has lived"
| The rest OF the story may be told more
concisely. A son Of the old duke had
gone away, some years before, 10 South
America, to try for living, and they had
given him all that could be spared for his
outfit. The cruel anxiety of his contin-
ued silence had worn upon his father,
and then illness was added to their other
woes.
The daughter only seventeen years Of
age, and very slender, had found herself
alone with her sick father, and at last,
being without means, had accepted the
ilorista's offer of employment, in selling
flowers.
As she had been kept indoors, during
these last cruel years of her life, having
had neither dress, or servant to follow
her rs her rank demanded, the flower
woman was sure she would never be rec
ognized, and hoped for a plentiful sale Of
ilowers at her beautiful, child-like hands
to sympathetic forestier.
Needless to say that Tonic, instructed
by me, and supplied, for forms sake, with
funds by my cousin Dora, proved min.
istering angel. Nurse, service, luxuries
all made magic appearance; and the
poor of the neighborhood in their sym.
pathetic admiration for my cousin and
me, be anne 50 demoustrative, that ouI
visits had to be make at secret and un,
timely hours.
Stella for that, | found, was the name
of the daughter, had been carefully edu.
Gated by her father, and even spoke Eng
lish tolerably, though with a droll, but tC
me, most charming accent.
When the old duke got better, as he
soon did, he seemed to take all for granted
for he asked no questions of his daughter
the weakness, following upon fever, Great
ing in him strange sort of mental II,
well as physical languor. He had ne
knowledge of our previous visits to hi,
child, and though Stella and Dora adorcd
each other, the question of Il future
seemed never to trouble the gentle ltal
ian girl.
"My brother will return, and these
kind signorc will let him love them, as
do," said she.
The days to me were winged. The
little back room, in via san Jacopo, full
of flowers and sunshine. often held foui
very happy people; aud means were
found, too, for long drives in the country
after awhile. All, those sweet spring
days. But our lotos-eating was 10 be
ended in an equally unexpected cruc
manner, and before the complete recoy'
cry of the duke had warranted me in
asking him for his daughter.
On the day that her old father was O.
make his first feeble promenade about
the rooms, for a change of scene. As the
doctor had ordered, Dora and went
away to st. Mares to marvel once more
over the subtle charm in those heavenly
faces Of Fra Angelica; and Arthur Reau.
mont, quite accidentally" of course, ar.
rived, on similar thoughts intent.
As we strollcd back TO the Arno, il
seemed to me that | recognized the back
Of aunt Dodd's bonnet, in Il hack going
over the Trinita bridge; but Dora said I'll
rouldu be; there was nothing in moth.
| ap'- Ia q ',f ,l,,t1t p..tp ~
We got ices, and agreeable indigestiyes
at GilcoSas. Then | veutured 10 suggest
a desire 10 know how the old duke hal
borne his first walk.
you might 90 and inquire of the flow.
er-woman, | should think said Dora
with a shy smile.
81 will see your cousin to the hotel,
said Beaumont unable to conceal his JOY
at prospective tetc-a-tete.
| went laughing down the shady side
Of the river, and, throwing away my
cigar, turned into the familiar VicolO
No one was in the florists little shop
But hearing a noise of loud talking above
stairs, and voice thought not unfamil.
lar, | made my way at once toward the
well known rooms.
Yes, there was no mistaking the eN'
cited tones of my aunt Dodd. What
could she be doing here? pushed on
through a halfopcned door. There she
stood. her face crimson. her hat awry up.
on her silver curls, and her red umbrella
raised in a threatening manner.
The old duke, whose wild, frightened
eyes, and white unkempt hair made him
a picture Of illness, feeblene-s, and suffer
ing, that should have been his protection
sat covering in his chair, holding fast e
his daughters shaking hand. She, my
beautiful Stella, with her sweet face
hanched to deadly whteness, did not
| finch; but faced her angry enemy, with
a scornul gaze, her slender form at ii,
tallcst, and her eyes alight with the fire
of wounded dignity.
But who was this other and new factor
in the sum, man who stood by, his arm,
folded, and an lusolrnt smile on hi,
mouth. gazing from one to the other but
speaking no word2
81 tell you he will never marry you,
said my aunt, in her sharpest tones, "and
YOU can have but one object in cuticinl
him 10 your house secretly, and that is tl
get his money
Aunt Dodd," interrupted.
"But she cut me short She had turn
! ell and recognized me. "No, | won't she
cried. THAT trollope, standing there
with her grand air, has bewit,hed you
! I've no doubt she's as bad is she can be-
my poor boy, and you knowing nothing
of such wretchcs. But how could you
| have brought Dora here. your promised
] 1. L.