The Somerset herald. [volume] (Somerset, Pa.) 1870-1936, 1882-08-02

schools and academies here, but l
have been her instructor myself, and
she is thorough mathematician,
an excellent musician ard a linguist
of no mean capacity. We are study
ing Hebrew now every day, she and
[, and she devotes her evenings to
comprehensive reviews of her Latin
and Greek. She will be scholar,
sir, if / live TO complete her educa-
ton"
Mr.. Croften looked curiously at
the oddly assorted pair-the silver
haired, shabby-attired old gentle
man, with his bald forehead, eagle
eve and delicately white hands; and
the dark browed, sullen looking girl,
with a gypsy skin, untidy frock and
patched boots.
Pretty? Yes. she might be pretty
under such circumstances. The dl-
amond itself is not an attractive
stone before the lapidary's art has
polished its rude angles into glitter
ing facets of white fire. But she
certainly possessed no sweet, femi-
nine graces now.
How old are you, Miss Montea-
gle?n he asked, finding it impera-
lively necessary to say something.
And Mary Monteagle answered
in words, seventeen" while her
looks replied plainly, none of your
business"
$50, my child, and gather some
flowers to deck our humble board, !"
said the old gentleman, magnilo-
ouently, while he conducted the
son of his oldest friend into the tum-
ble-down old stone house, where the
carpet was moth eaten, the turni-
ture mildewed, and every trace of
decayed gentility told the sad story
of better days.
Mrs. Monteagle, who had been a
beauty once, and had her portrait
engraved in Gallery of American
Rose Buds" was sitting up in state
in a battered boudoir, in a black
silk dress that must have been quite
quarter Of a century old, with a
flower in her silver-sprinkled hair,
and still preserving the glrlish ath-
tude in which the engravers pencil
had immortalized her, oddly con-
trasting with the sharpened outlines
and hacgard abruptness of her sixty
odd years.
And this was the way in which
the old couple lived, in the dead
past that il were, Col Monteagle
starving contentedly on the recol-
lection OF his past grandeur, and his
wife fondly fancying that time had
stood still since the days in which
was counted worthy to be one one of
the American Rosebuds.
Mrs. Monteagle sweetly welcomed
her guest and touched the little
hand bell at her side.
"We will dine, Sarepta," she said
to the maid.
please, ma'am," breathlessly ut
tered that young person" ," there amt
nothing for dinner. We eat the
last of the cold beef yesterday, and
the dog he tipped over the pan Of
oysters, and"
That viii do, Sarepta," F" said Mrs.
Monteagle, with a red spot mount
ING to each Of her cheek bones. Il
said-we viii dine !"
And Sarepta withdrew with jerk.
The dinner was served presently
an instance of the magnetic power
of will-but there was no cold beef,
neither were there any oysters.
Fruit. thin watery soup of herbs
and parsley, tastefully garnished
salad of lettuce and mayonnaise,
and dish of peaches and cream,
formed the meal.
Quite Arcadian y said Mrs.
Monteagle, with a giggle.
"And very badly served, ," secretly
commented Mr.. Crofton TO himself.
But the salad was nice.
where is Mary?" the Colonel
asked.
Drinking in the beauties of sun
set, | presume the lady answered
airily. "The dear child has an ar
fists soul, and we do not tie her
down to any hours or rules,
The Colonel fell asleep in his
chair after dinner. Mrs. Monteagle
and her painted fam withdrew them
selves into the boudoir-and Mr..
Croften. inwardly bewailing himself
that he had promised TO stay week
1T Monteagle Manor, sauntered out
upon the heights which overlooked
the valley below.
As he stood there, arustling sound
ed in the bushes, and there the dark
browed gypsy sprans up the hill
side.
you have a fine place here. Miss
Monteagle," he said, by way of max
ing himself agreeable.
Il hate it," said Mary, darkly.
'I-beg your pardon" exclaimed
Mr.. Crofton, in amazement.
Il do" sang out the girl hate
it all. The learning, the purity, and
the grand pretenses, and the miser
able makeshifts."
But"
"Ah p said Mary Monteagle, 'you
don't know it all. You never heard
the tradesmen bowling at the bach
doors like a pack of bowling wolves
YOU don't know that the house j,
advertised for sale for tax arrears
How should you? How should yor
be aware that the very clothes w
wear are not paid for, nor the Goa
that cooks our dinner? Papa smokes
his segars and talks about the Mex
lean war; and mama poses in tn
great chair and dreams of embroid
cry work and tapestry stitch; and
i am expected to learn Arabic ant
Sanscrit, and nobody knows wha
else. and TO ignore our wretche,
poverty. But / can't. Who could
Mr.. Crolton looked pitvingly a
the girls sparkling eyes, and pale
excited face.
81 am very sorry to hear this, b
said. Can nothing be done?"
"Yes," said Miss Monteagle
brusouely. Something can be don
and | am doing it. in so far as
can. But papa and mamma mus
not be allowed 20 suspect il. | an