The Portland daily press. [volume] (Portland, Me.) 1862-1921, 1881-12-26

spoken, and sometimes, indeed, tlnged with
cynicism; but through them there breathed
q sympathy, a tenderness, that touches me
even now as / read them over. Finally, at
my solicitation, she sent me her photograph,
which showed her to be regular-featured,
large-eyed woman, of rather serious cast
of countenance indeed, but with lurking
smile in her mouth that | could not but con-
fess was large one. She was not beauty,
/ saw that, but she had an earnest, interest
ing face, that grew upon me every day
Little by little / gave myself up to
thoughts of her by day and dreams of her by
night. Her letters l awaited with feyerish
Impotence, and if one were delayed l was
in torment. l make no excuses Tor my
folly, dear sir or madam; but pray do not
forget that was only one-and-twenty then,
and had fed myself plentifully with novels
and poetry. And this was my first
Lowell Coventry Patmore says in one of his
poems,
Well, heaven be thanked, my first love failed,
AS, heaven be thanked, all first loves do!
This was a sentiment could not echo, for
at that time it seemed to me that ii l were
separated from my fair unseen sweetheart
nv life would be stale, fiat, and Improbable.
The correspondence was kept up all the
summer and autumn; but in December
there befell what was to me an awful calam-
ity. Miss Screven did not write. / sent i'm
ploring letter after letter, but no response
gladdened me.
"Has she Tilted you?" said Uncle Dick
heartlessly, when he noted my pale face.
In truth, could not sleep nor eat; L was
consumed with fear and anxiety. What
could have befallen her?
endured it for just ten days, and then 1
packed my satchel and went to Boston.
BAIL what day it was when arrived
therel 1t had showed little, and then a
thin, cold rain began to drizzle down de.
spairingly. The weather suited me better
than the garish splendor of the hotel, and l
wandered forth that evening, half-uncon-
sciously vending my way toward the street
in which Miss Screven boarded. l found
myself opposite the house. From an upper
window light struggled family between
the closed shutters and thrilled me through
and through. Perhaps she was there, i'll
and alone, uncared for, save by the mer-
cenary landlady, or, worse still, by slat-
ternlv servant. I went up the steps and
rang the bell A slip of girl opened the
door to me, and handed her my card, say
ing mechanically, "Ask Miss Screven if she
will see me-"
trusted that the name John Bell would
perhaps lead her to suppose that was a
cousin or the father of her friend.
The slip of a servant-maid looked at the
card and then looked at me. "Frances
Screven?" she said interrogatively.
eyes," replied. Then l took the card,
ran my pencil through the engraved name,
and scrawled my illegible signature below it..
The servant took the card again and skurried
away, leaving me standing there in the cold,
dark entry.
1t was several minutes before she reap
peared, and then it was only to say in sing
song tone, "Three flights up; first door to
the right"
went up the three flights and raped at
the first door to the right.
A voice called out, "Come in"
I entered medium-sized, plain ly-fur-
nished room that was redolent of tobacco,
with which was mingled faint smell OF
whiskey There were two arm-chairs, a
large table, covered with fade1 cloth,
and an old-fashioned horse-hair lounge,
from which, as I entered, young man
rose. He was thin and hollow-eyed, and a
beard of several days. growth made him
look, to say the least, unkempt. "Mr. Bell,
presume" he said, offering me his hand
and then drawing up chair for me.
81 have called to see Miss Screven," said
Have you, indeed?" he replied in a
nasty, sneering way.
It flashed through me at once. 1t was
her husband! She had deceived me!
"May ask if you are any relation to Miss
Jane Bell, of Dundas, Washington Country,
New York, post office box 1922 he contin-
ued, in the same sneering way.
1 suffered and stammered, tried to lie,
and nearly choked myself to death. want
ed to be diplomatic; I wanted to shield her
from his anger.
"Who the devil are you, anyway" he ex-
claimed.
"I-I am John Bell" 1 answered; "and
I have called to see your sister. Is she ill"'
81 haven't any sister," said he noncha-
nantly ''that is, / am my own sister, and
she has just escaped pneumonia"
The truth flashed upon me. "You are an
impostor, sirr' exclaimed.
''Your sister doesn t think So" said he
conplacently-
ri haven't any sister," said l, in my turn.
He wheeled sharply about: "Who is Miss
Bell, then?"
II am all the Miss Bell that exists" l
answered grimly.
"Whatp' he exclaimed; "you are the pet
ted darling who wanted to be a poet and an
essayist and Lord only knows what all?
You are the only child of wealthy pa
rents? You are the lovely creature who
sits in pink boudoir and writes verses
with a gold pen and on perfumed paper?'
eyes," said desperately.
Screven dropped into chair and roared
"a sell all roundr' said he. Aud then he
laughed until he cried, while quietly stole
away back to the hotel, sadder but wiser
man.