The south Kentuckian. [volume] (Hopkinsville, Ky.) 1879-1883, 1882-05-25

She ratified through noisy and brill
liant piece, and then her voice, sharp and
metallic, filled the air: Isl vous n avez
rien q ma dire She was singing it at
Horace who, apparently buried in
thought, was sitting near her. I won.
dered II he remembered 1t as one of the
songs had often sung to him. Bonne-
maman coughed and fidgeted and shiv-
cred; Mile. Berthe bravely sang on,
sometimes fiat, sometimes sharp, finish
ing up at last on note that Jared every
nerve and fiber.
Horace was profuse in thanks, and ],
too, thanked her, and added immedi-
ately: "Shall I sing you o little En-
glish ballad?" Bonne-maman inter-
rupted me to order the lamp, but I
maliciously remarked that would sing
q twilight song first. ! could not resist
my anticipated triumph. Straight from
my heart the words rang out, "In the
Cleaning" and vibrating strangely
through the dusk came the farewell to
my love, mine no longer "Best for
YOU ana Deht tOF me.
I I must have sung better than usual,
from the deep silence paid as tribute to
my talent, and, under cover Of the dark
ness, I rose, and, stealing silently to the
door, sought the friendly night wherein
TO hide my sorrow. Perrine met me
with the lamp, and, leaving the hateful
light and the happy circle, I turned
away to the garden. p -
~.
+ Hurriedly ] went past the clipped yew
hedge, to the stone seat, ON which I
sank, and, burying my face In my hands,
burst into passionate tears. was young,
and this my first sorrow, seemed too
! great . burden. heard footsteps, and,
shrinking back into the shadow Of the
hedge, waited breathlessly. They were
passing, when the treacherous moon
shone out and bathed me in food Of
silvery light. A hand vas kindly laid
upon my head. There, in all the glory
Of his six-foot stature, in the white shin
ing moonlight, stood Horace, looking
down with kind and pitying eyes upon
the tear-stained face uplifted TO him ;
and in the winning voice Of old I heard
my name.
"Eugenie, what is it," 49,, q
Nothing" / murmured.4 = VIA
BE bent to hear my. trembling an.
Nothing that I can do?"
Nothing that I can undo" re-
Piled.
Lower and lower he bent, and nearer
and nearer, in dangerous proximity, had
il not been for Berthe. Her shadow
was between us. Tenderly taking my
cold hands in his, he stroked them
gently. Suddenly he gave start.
Where is it?' and he passed his fin
gers lightly over mine.
"It?"I inquired.
"Your ring. You should wear IL al
ways, or fellow may be tempted te
forget himself"
"And you," I replied, "you too
should wear ring. French husbands
do, and you should do in Rome as the
| Romans do" fffi t
"But I am only hall French" he
laughed, "and I might marry an En-
glish girl; then I need not wear ,
ring"
SBerthe de Pontiac is very French, /"
returned. M M sS tN1.
"Mlle. de Pontiac Eugenie, I an
too proud to marry woman witt
money" t8Ngf8faa4
"And too poor to marry one without,
I sadly retorted.
The words slipped ont, and before
could cough them down / was in hi
arms and smothered with kisses. Ere
could realize my happiness . discree
cough sounded from the path, and W
started apart to sec Perrine slowly ad
vancing.
Il Chow touching Of her 10 warn us,
said Horace. "a Afellow-feeling make
us wondrous kind; she's setting her cal
at Pierre"
"Her capi" I laughed merrlly
"and such scapP
Monsieur was wanted TO escort Mile
Berthe, and madame wanted mademoi'
selle.
/ could not see Bonne-maman.
trembled guiltily at the thought. Wit
a whispered hTill morrow" w
parted-Horace TO convey Mile. Berth
TO her lordly chateau, I through th
kitchen to my bower, Hastily undresse
and sought my couch. HALF an hou
later, when Bonne- maman softly entere
on tip-toe, Isprctended to be asleep
Even then feared she must read m
secret on my face. She turned ava
with o little sigh, and ! felt terribl
humbug. My intense happiness fright
ened me, and in vain Itried to sleep. a
last, toward morning, fellinto doz'
from which I awoke with feeling
: coming evil.
The feeling was verified. The nez
! morning Bonne-maman was too Ill I
rise. I sat near her, and after awhil
she murmured in feeble voice
"Eugenie, my child, / should like 20
to stay with me; always, II your peopl
J will not object. When Horace is ma
: ried I shall be very lonely. Will yc
stay, dear, until you, too, marry an
) leave the old womanp" a5i
| The blood, famed in my cheek
I stopped and kissed her iondly. I.
: 81 will not leave you, Bonne-mamal
unless-unless You send me away
!. While I was speaking the doct'
4 came. Alas, my dreaded forebodinl
4 were realized Bonne-maman was il
4 deed i'll, stricken with typhus fever. &
Q And so my dream ended. / looks
/, my last upon Horace. He was obligt