Oxford Democrat. [volume] (Paris, Me.) 1833-1933, 1881-08-16

by the long front window where the
Grant artists had painted from time i'm
memorial.
Thus she had learned to copy exquis-
itely. Hers were panel pieces almost en-
tirely--a briar rose, with butterfly how
ering over it, groups of feathery ferns, a
bird frightened from its nest in the rushes,
or tiny bit OF sea and shore with low
ering gray sky. Yet she found abundant
time to do the marketing and keep the
rooms tidy, and attend to thousand and
one duties, SO that poor mamma might
not be worried.
For poor mamma was one Of those del
icate, unreliable little women who cling
to something stronger, as naturally as
MADEIRA vine. And thus clinging to
Doris, she seemed to look up to her with
a timid sort of wonder, believing in her
implicitly as a superior being, who was
bound to carry through whatever she un-
dertoOk.
1t was Doris fifteenth birthday. She
had brought the old oil painting of her
ancc.tress and namesake, Doris Grant,
down from the attic, and was copying 1t
at her easel in the alcovc. 1t was easy
to see from whom the present Doris Grant
had taken her winsomc face with It's short
rings of clustering dark hair, her graceful
figure, and shapely hands. For only for
the change in costume the portrait might
have been her own. "She was all Grant,
as her mother was won't to say-rathcr
proudly, to-
The mail boy, Doris. dear, said
Ms. Grant, who was placidly sewing by
the window. Doris laid aside her brushes
as matter OF course, ran lightly down
stairs and returned with two le;tcrs-both
for Mr.. Scribe.
Now Doris and Mr.. Scribe were the
best of iIiends-the more 50 that sine was
fifteen and he sixty. SO she carried the
mail to his room on the same floor, and
the door being wide open, stepped inside.
He was writing as usual-indeed, when
he wasn't reading he was sure TO be writ
ing. Doris declared that he often got up
in his sleep and wrote.
"Mr. Scribe" said Doris, softly.
NJ answer, only the noise Of pen
tripping hurriedIy over its paper pathway
as thought was inpatient of interruption.
"Mr. Serb" this time a little louder.
The pen stopped as it was abou; refresh
ing itself at a fountain Of ink by the way.
The gentleman guiding it looked dreamlly
Mp at his book shelves. But the voice
was not Mr.. Thackery's, or SCOTS, or
Oliver Wendell Holmes s-indecd, those
three charming and much loved authors
were standing back to him.
"Wh1 the Dickens - began Mr..
Scribe, gazing in an abstracted sort of
way at :" Dombey and Son. from which
as it lay half open before him he had
been quoting. For he and his pen were
joIrneying in fairy land, and perhaps
some vague fancy fitted across his mind
that the sweet Voice which he had heard
was that of some of the children so ten
d,rly written of By the great novelist.
Your letters, sir" said Doris. bring
ing him back to the world with a gentle
touch.
"Ah, yes" exclaimed Mr.. Scribe.
Thank you. Doris" And opening the
first letter tha, came to hand, he read it
slowly.
I'm. um," murmured the author
thoughtfully. when he had finished it.
Doris" suddenly wheeling his chair
around, "do You want to sell the old
clock in the dining room , Now, this
time piece was an heirloom and had stood
in the same corner for hundred and
twenty-five years. Its tall mahogany
case was suggestive OF a casket in which
was buried the past century. while It's
pale face, palsied hands and tremulous
tones showed the effects of It's extreme age.
"Becausc if you do continued Mr..
Scribe, as Doris hesitated, q" | am COM
missiontd to offer YOU a hundred and
twenty. five dollars for it by an eccentric
friend of mine who is fitting up room
in the antique style"
Doris, who had perched herself on the
edge of the writing table, caught her
breath. Sac knew but little of the brlc-
a-brac rage and the prices paid for old
articles OF furniture. A hundred and
twenty five dollars-why, that meant the
winters coal, taxes, new dress and
cloak for the little mamma, and many
other comforts.
MAKE it hundred and fifty." said
this mercenary young lady suddenly, "and
your friend can have it."
"Time is money" replied Mr.. Scribe,
briefly. "rll close the bargain before
you repent or set the price any higher"
And taking out his pocketbook he counted
out hundred and fifty dollars in cheer
full looking greenbacks.
~ wrote him all about it. said Mr..
Scribe, as Doris thoughtfully put the
money in her portmonnaie, land expect
him here before long, when he'll take it
away with him."
Mother" exclaimed Doris, bursting
into the dining room, I've sold the
But her mother had gone into her own
chamber for an afternoon nap, and direct.
ly after, Doris heard Mr.. Scribe 60 down
and out of the front door.
Laying her portmonnaie carelessly on
the mantel, Doris went back to her copy
ing, occasionally glancing into the quiet
street. where hardly sign of life was
visible. Was it real, or did her fancy
suggest it. For as she dreamily outlined
,oe w;,cb;no face before her, while the