The Republican. [volume] (Oakland, Md.) 1877-current, 1883-11-03

gray girl began an apology: "We are
late. As usual, Signor Boldini and
some new music. Ahr' interrupting
herself, ''it is like-why, yes, very.
Don't you think so YOURSELF"
name at last, surely--but no-"don't
you think so yourself, dear?"
eyes, do tell us what you think.
Isn't she wierdP and can you look like
thatP" cried the girls.
"Ah, the other mel" said a new
voice, softly, voice with a low thrill
in it. cit is like what / might have
been, Pmsure. Some one told me once
when | was child, / remember, that
| was like the moon. but having lived
eight years since then in flood of sun
shine"-and the gray hand touched the
black glove near hers, grateful touch,
| felt sure-''why, [ am not so much
like it now as was.''
''In spite of the smile that YOU al
ways will and always won't smile out
right. That is in the face in the moon,
too, you see. Did you ever meet Mr..
Eaton?"
"And do you think the girl very
beautiful, and very like q maniac's
dream?" broke in the shorter girl. 'Do
tell us, Anita"
So then it was Anita. / turned, and
as | walked away faced the blue-gray
eyes, like violets, and the hair like
shaded moonbeams, and the smile. Not
the little twelve-year-o Anita this, but
beautiful, sunny creature, with the
other Anita somehow suggested, and
yet not there. This one more of the
world, with savoir- faire lying over the
moonshine / had meant, if it were she,
to speak to her at once and boldly. AS it
was, | simply gazed, and when her
eyes met mine | fearit was |, not she, who
blushed. But she recognized me. My
identity was all in my face, am sure.
I'I saw puzzled look in her eyes, and |
seized my chance. l bowed; spoke:
years ago you knew me, Miss Gray
son, when l was q boy in Boston, and
| when you were like the moon"
was presented to the aunt in black.
My father had been one of the old
family friends So in few moments l
was talking like an old friend myself.
Mrs. Grayson touched on my recent
loss, and then, as 1 turned TO leave,
said:
81 should be glad to know your
fathers son. Can you dine with us on
Sunday next?"
So the golden gates were opened for
me, and Sundays came and Sundays
went and | was fathoms deep in love.
| could not paint, could not talk. |
| ~ nd q Of of I
pose-alack and alas!-read poetry.
Fatal habit of lovers! And so at last
it came to the point when | must tell
her. Armed with shield of violets
met her in her aunt's drawing-room
one Sunday again toward twilight. A
day in April it was and spring was in
the air.
The aunt was out on an errand of
charity; would soon be at home, Anita
hoped. said nothing. Talk tagged
in consequence.
eff those violets are for this house,
why do you hold them?" asked Anita
''why do you not give them to me?"
81 hold them because you will soon
touch them yourself''-which was an
asinine speech, wasn't it?
THAT is stupid" she laughed, frank
ly, "and like other men and not like
you"
"But l am like other men," I an
swered, abruptly, "for /" Then
paused, gave her the violets, and con-
versation tagged again. We tried
various subjects - Russia, dynamite,
Scalchi; all failed.
GLOW good Aunt Emily is'' cried
Anita at last in enthusiasm-'s full of
thought for the poor and needy. l
wish l had ever done any one any
good"
"You saved my life once" said,
must have said it very earnestly, for
Anita flushed and then paled.
"Why must you jest with me in this
way to-day? You are breaking our
friendship
Il want no friendship from you. !
am glad to break it. | will tell you
how you saved my life if you will say
Yes to q question | am going to ask.
But you must look at me and not at the
violets."
And so all the debutwent for nothing,
and the swells and the lordlings that
had hung about got their c0nge, and |
got my moonlight; for the girl with the
long upper lip-who, by the way, is
now my cousin-was right, and Anita
was the moon Anita to her lover.
In the course of time we married.
Such bald statement of an idylliC
fact! But that is all that words can do
-only half tell any tale. Our secret
and our love and how she looks to me
still are all told to us silently by pic
ture that hangs over the Fireplace in
our nursery, for there is nursery as
well as studio, and the picture is the
picture of moon with face in it, and
in bold black letters the name of the
artist IhanaGS Eaton.
A certain brown-haired baby boy, Oh
being held up to warm his wee toes by
: the open fire, always stretches his hands
toward the face in the moon, and calls
"My mamma my mamma p Graenat
Murdoch, IN Continent.
"A Canadian farmer writes: 81
have one satisfaction, and that is there
| Al,