The Vancouver independent. (Vancouver, W.T. [Wash.]) 1875-1910, 1881-07-14

my soul!-the rascal was actually
| married.
How is Aimee?" he inquired in hi,
letter, and know he blushed when he
wrote that name, for there was o big
awkward blot directly above it.
''MeD's hearts are curious things,
thought I, my mind reverting to Paris
and the Rue St. SEVERN; and growing
restless, 1 packed my trunk forthwith,
and wandered off on one of nv rambling
tours.
Being at Rome one day in the studio
of a young artist, an acquaintance OF
mine, a half-fnished portrait OF Aimee
Lorette arrested my attention.
"Ah!" said the artist. THAT is a
pretty French girl with whom I have
been trying to pick up an acquaintance
for the last month; but she is modest,
and will not firt.1 She lives next door.
I have been painting her portrait from
memory. She used to pass 10y my win
dow every day, but hear she is very ill
now, poor girlr'
Aimee ill! I babe the young artist
good afternoon with more haste, 1 fear,
than is consistent with good manners,
and hurried next door. I was admitted
by an old negress. Mademoiselle Aimee
would see me, and was ushered into q
neat, tastefully furnished chamber where
she was sitting in an easy chair, looking
very pale and ill.
She sprang up with an ejaculation of
surprise as she saw me, faint blush
mantling cheek and brow as she ex-
tended me her hand, saying:
81 never thought to see you again,
Monsieur Gordon"
II am very sorry to see you 50 ill,
Aimee" said, sadly.
II do not believe shall live long,"
she said with faint smile, land the few
who would be sorry to see me die would
soon forget me, and-and there is only
one whom 1 would care to live for"
"a lover, perhaps, Aimee" l said
lightly.
''No," she cried passionately, "for he
loves me not.
Our eyes met, and read her secret as
she OWNED mine, and clasped her to my
bosom. 1 had loved her very long, but
my pride had never suffered it to appear
either in look, word or deed, for had
thought my love unreciprocated.
How poor reader of women's hearts
is man.
"Why did you leave Paris without
coming to say goodbye" Aimee asked re
proachfully.
because. Aimee. thought you were
tired of my society," l replied, "Why
did you grow so cold and shy"
"Because-because II loved you,"
she falteringly whispered, as the rosy
bushes crimsoned her pale features.
She promised to become my wife as
soon as she recovered her health. ex-
perienced the sensation of second boy
hood; everything that before had seemed
dull and insipid now appeared novel and
interesting. was very happy. but my
Joy was of brief duration. Aimee grew
rapidly worse. Physicians were of no
avail. Nothing was withheld that would
rescue her from the hand of death-but
she died, died as the last mellow rays of
the departing sun illumined the chamber
and fell aslant her pale, wan features
died with my name upon her lips,-died
happy.
To me the love of lifetime had come
and gone. 1t came to me as delight
full dream of fountains of crystal water
comes to the feverish slumbers of the
thirsty dying traveller amid the sands
of the desert, and, like him, awoke
to realize the bitterness of a Joy de-
parted.
Many years have elapsed since then.
am now an old bachelor, and my head
is as gray as my heart; yet at every twi-
light as sit by my sea coal fire in "mer-
RE England" and muse On bygone days,
nay eyes instinctively turn toward my
fower-dimmed bay window, and think
of sunny Italy, where signing breezes
kiss the silver lilacs above the grave of
the only woman ever loved-the brown
eyed, zel-haired little French girl of
the Rue st. SEVERN.
KnOwIny MuleS.