The Republican. [volume] (Oakland, Md.) 1877-current, 1883-04-07


orphan.
"She is not quite penniless," n
wrote, 'for her mother had llttl
income, which, poor as | was, | va
never brute enough to meddle with
and it has descended to her, But
have been rolling stone, gathering
no moss all my life, and we neve
stayed long enough in one place t
make friends. Will you be her guar
dian? 1t is a dying mans last re
quest"
And then he wrote some words
coming from his heart, l knew, which
being of myself, / could not thlnl
that deserved them.
And TIE result of that letter, ant
another from the lawyer who has
Annie Hunters little fortune II
charge, was that one spring day
found me on board a great steamer
which lay at rest after her voyage in
the projecting arms OF Liverpool,
with two little hands in mine, and a
pair of great brown eyes lifted to my
face, and sweet voice choked with
SObs saying something of"poor papa"
and of how much he had spoken OF
me, and of the lonely voyage, and
the green graves left behind, and L,
who had gone to meet child and
found woman, looking at her and
feeling toward her as 1 had never
looked upon nor felt to any other.
Not to Elsie Hall. 1t was not the
boyish love dream come again.
Analysing my emotion, l found on
ly a great longing to protect and COM
fort her-tO guard her from every
pain and i'll, and | said to myself F.;
''This is as a father must feel to a
daughter l can be parent to George
Hunters child, in very truth" And
| took her home to the old house,
and to my mother. | thought only
of them; somehow l never thought
of Ashton.
Shall l ever forget how she bright
ened the sOmbre rooms? How, as
her sadness wore away, she sang to
us in the twilight! How strangely a
something which made the return
home, and the long hours of the even
ing, seem so much brighter than they
had eyer been before, stole into my
life. L never went to sleep in church
now; kept awake to look at Olive
Hunter-to listen to her pure con-
tralto, as she joined in the singing.
Sometimes L caught her eye-her
great unfathomable brown eye for
she had a habit of looking at me.
Was she wondering how a face could
be so stern and grim? l used to ask
Ashton used to look at her also.
He had been away when she first
came, and when he returned she
was grand surprise to him.
"Oh, how lovely she is !" he had
SAID TO me.
"She is very pretty" 1 replied.
Ashton laughed.
MAY | never be an old bachelor if
it brings me to calling such girl
very pretty" he said and l felt
that my cheek flushed, and
felt angry that he should have spoken
of me thus, though L had never cared
before.
They liked each other very much
those two young things. They were
together great deal. A pretty pic
ture they made in the Venetian win
dow in the sunset. He fair-haired,
blue-eyed, Saxon-looking youth she
so exquisitely dark and glowing.
Every one liked her. Even my old
clerk, Stephen Madly, used to say
her presence lit the Office more than
a dozen lamps, the nearest approach
to a poetical speech of which old
Stephen was ever known to be guilty;
ard | never knew how much she was
to me until one evening, when, COM
ing home earlier than usual, | saw in
that Venetian window where Ash
ton and Olive had made so many
pleasant pictures for me, one that
never forgot-that l never shall for
got as long as / live.
She stood with her back to me.
Ashton was kneeling at her feet. The
sound of the opening door dissolved
the picture, but l had seen it, and
stole away to hide the stab it had
given me.
l sat down in my own room, and
hid my face in my hands, and would
have been glad to hide it beneath me
cotfin-lid. | knew now that l loved
her, not as an old man might love
the woman who ought to be his wife
better than / had loved Elsie Hall
for it was not boyish passion, but
earnest, heartfelt love.
l in love! l arose and looked in