Alpena weekly argus. [volume] (Alpena, Mich.) 1871-1893, 1881-02-02
ONE MIDSUMMER EVE.

Os'b 80 = 1AaAA%Ah - -
A Bloomsbury lodging; on the
second floor, too. Everything looks
dingy, mellowed down to that un-
form brownish hue, the combined
result of London smoke and smuts.
Yetit is a pretty little room for all
that, with 4 decided air of being
habitually tenanted by refined &C.
cupants.
A cheap but artistic looking Gre
tonne covers the furniture, and a
few excellent prints and well-exe-
cuted oil paintings adorn the walls.
One ray of the sunlight of this
glorious midsummer eve makes its
way through the chimney tops op-
posite. 1t peeps into the room,
making a glory and bright spot
of color on a peacock's fan, and
glints lovingly upon the golden
hair of q girl who sits on a low
carved Old chair, with an open let
ter in her hand.
She is about nineteen or twenty,
slight and graceful-looking, with a
mass of golden hair browning a
small, exquisitely shaped head,
well set upon her shoulders. She
wears long, plainly made, tightly
fitting dress Of soft gray cashmere,
with little white ruffies at her
throat, and the hands which hold
the letter are small, white, and
daintily shaped. The face is oval,
with just the faint suspicion of a
faint shell pink in the rounded
cheeks, which deepens into a more
vivid hue in the well-shaped lips.
Dark blue eyes, starry as the
passion flower, CLEAN from her
long, dark lashes, and such is Ali
son Harte, artist.
She takes up the letter again,
and reads it. 1t runs thus:
MooRFHLDs, June Goth.
DEAR Alison daresay you
have almost forgotten the existence
of your uncle John, as you have
never written to me since your
mothers death, six months ago.
A friend of mine was in London
this season, and, of course, went
to see the exhibition of the Royal
Academy, and the other day, when
looking over his catalogue, saw
the name of Alison Harte, togeth-
er with your address. ! am very
glad to find you have so far sue
ceeded at your profession of an
artist as to have a picture hung in
the Royal Academy. | am told it
is in Devonshire-the home of your
mothers youth. You have never
been there since you were q child,
so the place must have made an
impression upon you. 1t flatters
an old man like me to think that
some of the young people of the
present day are not so utterly sell
fish and taken up with the world
but that they can find time to re-
collect the scenes of their child
hood.
"Should you care TO renew your
with Devonshire, on
ly say so, and | shall be happy at
any time to see you at Moorhelds.
/ trust your father is well. Just
let me have line to say you will
come soon, and believe me, your
affectionate uncle.
JOHN MELLIsH.
Such is the letter which Alison
Harte holds in her hand.
Dearly she would like to accept
her uncle's invitation, for the girl
leads hard life, coming her brains
for her daily bread, working hard
at her art, so as to keep a roof
over her head, and that Of her
father. The latter calls himself a
"literary man." but in reality is a
lazy, gin-drinking sot, doing o lit
tie hack press work now and again,
for his proclivities are too well
known for any one to think of en-
ploying Rupert Harte regularly.
SO he lives on the earnings of
his daughter. He is her skeleton
in the cupboard, and il is of her
father she thinks as she sits with
her uncle Johns letter in her hand.
Rapidly she thinks over the state
OF her slender finances. She hum
gers and yearns for little bright
ness and bravery in her life.