Wheeling Sunday register. [volume] (Wheeling, W. Va.) 1882-1934, 1882-12-24

n asters could teach you. Why should
youno ne,
1And leave you, AnnetteT
mot for long, IhOpe.- Dearest" she
added earnestly, 81 would rather, part
from YOU forever than to 1--we 70 ieei
that ( had been the means OF spollng
YOUR life. You shall 60 to Rome.
"No, no! do not tempt me-" he inter-
posed. turning his head aside.
"Yet: for my sake" she persisted.
ssThat Won may win name shall be
proud to bear some day."
"Tbat day may never come An
inette.n
Everything comes to those who can
wait" she quoted, smiling, though her
ewes were full OF tears anu you would
not have to wait long for success am
sure of it.tf His faee flushed ana paled |;
he looked troubled and wayerfng.
We'll" he said at length, Il need not
decide now. Ihave whole month 10
consider. Let US talk OF something
else.n She said no more, but she lore
saw what his decision would be, and,
brayely as she had spoken, her heart
sank when she thought of the coming
separation, She had q reason which
Bernhardt did not guess for fearing the
future. She had never acknowledged
to him the dread which had haunted
her lately, growing heavier every day.
If he had suspected that hidden trouble,
nothing would have induced him to
leave her.
On the morning of the lst of July,
Monsieur Nanderhaven sat at break
fast in his dining room, pleasant old
room, the prevailing tint of which was
a sober brown, relieved with brighter
touches of color here and there, in q
response salver, or GIes-de-Flandres
vase land in the rich bindings OF the
books which lined one of the walls.
When he FAD finished his cup Of cafe
au-lait, he touched the bell at.his elbow.
The summons was answered by his
housekeeper, stately, high-nosed old
dame, wearing the cap and fichu OF her
native province OF Llege.
"Tell Monsieur Bernhardt that L
wish to speak to him"
Instead of leaving the room she clos
ed the door, and approached him my
seriously. ale lis not in the house,
monsieur" he said. His bed has not
been slept in, aBd-and | have just
found this letter, addressed to you, on
his table"
She fingered, watching him curiously,
as he opened it. He dismissed her with
one sharp word, then read it through,
his face growing darker with every
line. -,
"So-he is gone to study in Rome"
he repeated, with sour smile, when he
had finished. every well; he may
starve in Rome. have done with
him."
He took a vesta- match from the in k
stand, twisted the letter, deliberately
burnt ii, and then mounted the stairs to
the banduet-rOom. The painting mate
rails were gone, but the unfinished por-
trait remained on the easel. He frown-
ed as his eyes fell upon it. He guessed
whom it represented, and his heart was
bitter against this girl who, 1t seemed
from Bernhardt's letter, had encourag-
ed him in his disobedience. A palette
knife lay on the ledge ofthe easel IN a
sudden impulse of resentment he took
it I'D, and was about to cut the canvass
from the frame, but as he raised his
hand the sweet eyes seemed to meet
his with a wlstful appeal, rs If in de-
precatiOn of his anger. His hand fell,
his brow relaxed; he gazed at the fair
face with sort Of fascination.
Then, as he noted the execution OF
the picture, q new expression dawned
in his eyes a mingling of establishment
and halfreluctant admiration. II the
lad could paint in this way at 20,
what might he not achieve when his
powers were matured? An unconfOrta-
Bile feeling took possession OF the old
merchant. Had he been mistaken al
ter allP Had Bernhard done wisely
i'm obeying him? With an impatient
movement OF the head he dismissed
the unwelcome doubt, and, taking the
picture from the easel, turned 1t with
its face to the wall, then left the room,
locking the door and putting the Key
in his pocket.
"If anyOne inquiries for my grandson,
you may say that he is travelling" he
told old Ursula, briefly; and from that
day Bernhardt's name was spoken no
more in his old home.
The months went by. Summer
waned into autumn, and autumn into
winter-a winter of the good, old
fashioned" type; invigorating to the
young and healthy, but terrible to the
weak, the aged, and the poor.
One bitter December afternoon An
nette Van Elven and her mother weIe
alone in the little room which now
served them as bed and sitting room
both, on the first floor of house in a
dull, grass-grOwn side-street, not far
from the Cathedral.
Mime. Van Elven, a fair, fragile-look-
ing women, who had been beautiful in
her youth, and was still attractive,
though worn by suffering, sat in cush-
Toned armchair near the stove, while
Annette crouched on the hearth, her
head dropping, her hands idly folded on
her lap, in an attitude of listlesS deJee.
ton. The snow outside was hardly
whittier than her cheeks, and her eyes
had yelled look that made them more
pathetic than ever.
allow quiet you are, dearm her
companion said, breaking long
silence; "are you asleepT'
mo, 1 was thinking" she answered,
with an effort, al was wondering what
sort of Christmas Bernhardt would have
in Rome"
IA pleasant one, no doubt. Pleasanter
than ours will be. Poverty weighs
lightly on him; it is all part of u ro-
nance of his artist life. But with US it
is bitter reality" she added with a sigh.
Annette did not reply, but her face grew,
if possible, sadder than before.
"Did NJ. Lebrun pay you for the piece OF
lace you took to him this morning,
dear?h asked Mime. Van Elven, after a
pause.
mo; he-I shall have to go again"
Annette answered, hesitatingly.
She dared not tell her mother the
truth-namely, that the tradesman had
declined her work, as too imperfect for
sale. What she had long dreaded had
come too pass; her sight would no
longer serve for her employment.
"You are tired; can tell by your
voice." her companion said, tenderly;
and, putting out her hand, she drew
the girl to her side. Annette let her
head sink on her mothers knee, and
closed her eyes with deep, long-drawn
sigh. Yes, she was tired; so tired that
she almost felt as if it would be happi-
ness to sleep and never wake again; to
rx;x,a IN alfN,ot har tho yroary StruUpla