The Vancouver independent. (Vancouver, W.T. [Wash.]) 1875-1910, 1881-05-05
lie WASN'T ENGAGED.

! went to live with Aunt Edmonton
when poor papa died. That was half a
dozen years ago, yet my trouble seems as
fresh to-day, my loss as irreparable as on
that terrible morning when left him
lying in his lonely grave under the will
lows.
Poor papa! how fond We were of each
other. He had no one in the world but
me. Mamma died when was wee
baby, not quite two summers old-died
away off in Southern France, and she
sleeps there now under the shadows of
the purple hills.
I have seen many fair women, but
never o face half so lovely as hers. Her
portrait used to hang in the old gallery
at Edmonton Hall, but it is gone now.
Aunt Edmonton had something to do
with its disappearance, for she never did
like my mother.
The EdmOntOns are proud race, with
q pedigree running back to the old Cava-
liers, and an ancient crest on their mas
sive old silver, and the bluest of blue
blood in their aristOcratic veins. At
least Aunt Edmonton says so. Papa al
ways laughed OF her high fancics, and
held that one honest soul was as good as
another, no matter whether its owner
wore royal purple or holden gray; and
when lie met my pretty mamma. and
loved her, he did not hesitate about
making her his wife, though she was
penniless and q daughter of the people.
Aunt Edmonton was terribly angered,
and when the pretty bride came home to
Edmonton Hall, she met her with scowl.
ing brows, and led her such life that
papa soon took her abroad, and there
she died and was buried few short
months after I was born. Papa never
outlived his grief at her loss; he loved
her dead rs tenderly as he had loved her
living, and cherished me as no other
child was ever cherished. grew up in
his bosom; he was my teacher, compan-
ion, and friend. We were never separ-
ated.
What blissful life we led, Bohemians
though we were! Whittier our fancy
led us, there we pitched our tent; under
sunny skies, in the solemn shadow of
time-famed ruins, by the margin OF sto-
ried rivers. was Graded on the deep,
and reared amid the classic wealth OF
foreign lands. But as time crept by
papa's health grew feeble, and we came
back to Edmonton Hall; there he died. l
left the dear old home and his grave I'M
der the dropping willows, and went to
live with Aunt Edmonton.
As have said, Aunt Edmonton was q
proud woman. She was more-a worldly
one. Wealth was her Moloch, and she
held no heart treasure too precious to be
given as an Offering to his fiery embrace
/ was an Edmonton as we'll as herself,
and, despite the disgrace OF my. mothers
alien blood, could not be put to house
hold drudgery. Hence was installed as
q sort of companion, to read Balzac and
George Sand, while my aunt and Mar
guerite slipped their noon chocolate, and
l was to keep the point lace in order and
the family jewels we'll FURNISHED. Not .
laborious task, and it brought me bread
than butter; and bread and butter we
must have in this commonplace world,
even though our hearts break and our
souls starve.
Aunt Edmonton did not like the old
Hall. She declared that the old house
was better suited for bats and owls than
for human beings, and it was shut up,
and we lived first in one gay city and
then another, and finally crossed the sea
and went to Paris. Dear me, how my
aunt and Marguerite did enjoy the life
they led there, and how pinned and
longed for home!
BELL" said my aunt, one autumn
night, when preparations were gong on
for some famous ball, twill you have the
kindness to go to the greenhouse, an d
cut the flowers for Marguerite's hair?
She wears natural flowers tonight, and 1
can't trust to Felice." ,
Marguerite threw away her novel, and
shook down her black tresses as was
leaving the room.
BELL, don't fail to cut some heliotrope
please. Captain Carruthers is here, and
he dotes on heliotrope. By the by, you
remember Captain Carruthers, do you
not?"
MY foolish heart gave sudden thump
and the tell-tale blood rushed to my
cheeks. How we'll I remembered him!
Papa's best friend--the friend who stood
beside his dying pillow.
remembered his parting words, too,
when he left me standing beside the new
made grave.
'sNo words of mine can give you any
comfort now, Bell, but time heals the
sorest wounds. Good-by. One day 1
hope to see you again.
But in all the dreary years that fol-
I. 4 I~oo.1 ~ vvor1 from HIM