Spirit of the age. [volume] (Woodstock, Vt.) 1845-1913, 1882-06-21
A MAN THAT SUCCEEDED.

MY only daughter, SIR said Colonel
Monteaglc. And, as ! venture IA
hope, accomplished In her way. We
are not much IN the way Of schools OF
academies here, hut have been her In
structor myself, aud she Is n thorough
mathematician, IN excellent musician
aud inguist Of no mean capacity. We
arc studying Hebrew now every day,
she aud ], and she dcvolcS her evening
to comprehensive reviews OF her Latin
and Greek. She will be scholar, sir,
if ! live to complete her education!
Mr.. Croilon looked curiously ut the
oddly.assortcd pair--thc silvcr-haired,
shabbly.at,ircd old gentleman, with his
bald forehead, eagle eye and delicaiely
white hands; and the dark-browed,
sullcn.looling girl, with II gypsy skin,
untidy irock aud patched boots.
Pretty! Yes, she might he pretty
under some circumstances. The dia-
mond itself is not IN attractive stone
before the lapidary's art has polished its
rude angles into glittcring facets OF
white fire. But she certainly possessed
no sweet, feminine graces now.
slow old are you, Miss MonteagleT
he asked, finding it imporatlvcly neccs-
sary to say something.
And Mary Montcagle answered in
words, seventeen, while her looks re-
piled plainly, None of your busl-
ness !!
go, my child, and gather some
flowers to deck our humble board, said
the old gentleman, magniloquently,
while he conducted the son Of his old
est friend into the tumble-down old
stone house, where the carpets were
moth-eatcn, the furniture mildewed,
and every trace of dccayed gentility
told the sad story Of better days.
Mrs. Monteaglc, who had been a
beauty once, and had her portrait 'en-
gravcd in Gallery of American Rose
buds was sitting up in state in bat
tered boudoir, in black silk dress that
must have been quite quarter of a
century old, with flower in her silver
sprinkled hair, and still preserving the
girlsh attitude in which the engraver's
pencil had immortalized her, oddly con-
trasting with the sharpened outlines and
haggared abruptness of her sixty-odd
years.
Aud this was the way in which the
old couple lived, in the dead past as it
were, Colonel Monteayle starving con-
tentedly on the recollection of his past
grandeur, and his wife fondly fancying
that time had stood still since the days
in which she was counted worthy to be
one of the american Rosebuds.
Mrs. Monteagle sweetlv welcomed
her guest and touched the little hand
bell at her side.
I'VE will dine, Sarepta, she said to
the maid.
please, ma'am, breathlessly uttered
that young person, there amt nothin'
for dinner. We cat the last of the cold
beef yesterday, and the dog he tipped
over the pan of systers, and
That will do, Sarepta, said Mrs.
Mcnteagle, with red spot mounting
10 cuCIl Vi IIeT Cllcck-DOucS. Suiu-
we will dine
And Sarepta withdrew with jerk.
The dinner was served prescntly-an
instance of the magnetic power Of will
but there was no cold beef, neither
were there oysters. Fruit. thin wa
terry soup of herbs and parsely, taste
fully garnished salad of lettuce and
mayonnaise, and dish of peaches and
cream, formed the meal.
Quite Arcadianv ? said Mrs. Mont
eagle, with a giggle.
And very badly served secretly
commented Mr.. Crofton to himself.
But the salad was nice
Where is Mary?' the Colonel
asked.