Daily globe. [volume] (St. Paul, Minn.) 1878-1884, 1881-07-03

the little basket himself.
care you, too, stranger, Gustave?p /
asked.
"No am an ArdennaIs.''n
"Then you are not Stephanie's broth
er?'' l said, little surprised.
''Not her brother You. are mistaken;
l have no sister but Stephanie.
He ran off, and watched them wander
away down the long, arched avenue, I'M
til their pretty figures disappeared be-
| meath canopy of leaves.
AS rode, an hour later, into the little
street of st. Elmo, my friend, the doctor,
seized the bride of my horse.
81 expected you long ago. he cried,
''but, thank heaven, you have arrived in
| timei''
"What is the matter? What has hap
pened?'
"The Englishwoman is dying--our
village mystery-our ten years wOnderl"
'My dear friend" 1 lnterposed, 'syou
forget that this is my first visit to st.
Elmo, and know nothing of your vii
lage mysteries"
Indeed, hitherto the doctor and l had
only met at Brussels, and it was there he
had given me an invitation to his cottage
in the Ardennes.
"Come with me-" he answered, placing
his arm within NINE 81 Will tell youthe
mystery on our way"
He drew me at rapid pace, talking as
he went.
sTwelve years ago." said he, ''a lady,
dressed in black, descended from the dill
gence on the grand route and asked her
| way to ST. Elmo She directed her lug
gage to be left at the Barriere, and walk
| ing herself by the shorter way through
the woods, reached our solitary village on
foot. She had a child in her arms-a
| little girl about a year Old
"Stephanie!" cried.
eyes, that IS her name. The lady
found lodgings at the house of small
| farmer, and there she has resided ever
| since. And during this time she had
never had visitor, and with the excep-
ton of two packets year from Paris,
| evidently from some notary or man of
| business, she has never had letter She
has lived like one buried alive
"And who is she?" | asked
"No one knows. She calls herself
Nine. Grey. Her means appear to be
very small, yet sufficient in place like
this for necessaries. But lately she has
| needed few luxurles, which have done
my best to supply her with. She has
struggled against consumption these two
years; to-day she is dying. l am taking
you to her."
"Have you any idea for what reason she
| wishes to see countryman of her ownw
~ can only guess. She may have
| some communication to make, some re-
quest to prefer-perhaps respecting the
child.
''ls she a widpw?" asked.
~ cannot tell you,'' returned the doc
tor, with terrific shrug of his shoulder.
II only know that for twelve years she
| has led here the life of a saint, and ex-
cept for the companionship of her child,
| she has been utterly alone. She has en-
ployed herself in working for the poor
and in educating her little daughter; Civ
ing her as fellow pupil, Gustave, the
farmers son. Like Paul and Virginia,
the two children have been inseparable.
The people here always seeing them to-
gether almost forget they are not brother
and sister"
We had now reached wild and lonely
glen, walled in with broken and fantastic
| cliffs, over which hung woods of dwarf
beech, ash and hazel. Beneath one of
the tallest of these cliffs stood a matched
cottage. with small garden spread
around it, and just beyond this the river,
which ran through the valley, narrowed
| itself between two rocks, and then sprang
| over fall of about twenty feet.
.'This is the cottage" said the doctor.
We entered; and in a moment more |
found myself in the presence of Madame
| Grey.
The dying woman looked at me eager
ly, with large, wild eyes, then she held
out her hand to me, saying feebly, in
English:
81 want to speak to you alone"
The doctor and the farmers wife, whom
we had found sitting by the bedside, in
tuitively understood her wish, and left
before could speak it.
~ am grieved to trouble stranger. l
trust you will forgive me-" said Mrs
Gray.
Mindful of the doctors counsel not to
waste time in ceremony, l came to the
point at once.
"Make no apologies, Mrs Grey, but tell
me, beg, what l can do for you; and be-
lieve that, stranger as | am, [ would do
much to be of assistance to countrywo-
man."
cit is a little thing to do. sir, and if
you will give me your promise to perform
it shall die content" l gave her my
promise, and then she drew from beneath
her pillow small pocketbook; from this
she took card, which she placed in my
hand.
'When l am dead will you write to
that address, and tell him to send or come
for his child?''
| My eyes fell on the name and address
of an Austrian noble, reputed to be of i'm
mense wealth and known to be one of the
proudest of the exclusive aristocracy of
Vienna. I glanced at the dying woman
with deep compassion. On her attenuat-
ed face there fingered the remains of great
beauty. And on this wasted page
fancied could read her history.
''And if the count will not acknowledge
his daughter, if he will neither come nor
send for her-what are your wishes then?'
l said
A faint flush suffused her cheek as she
answered me painfully:
cit was of me-his wife-that he was
ashamed; even his pride will not hinder
him from acknowledging his daughter"
"Good heavens! are you the Countess
Won H" exclaimed "And dying
| baro lilo thict;3