The Superior times. [volume] (Superior, Wis.) 1870-1912, 1883-11-03
TWICE MARRIED.
/" Oh. papa. I'm SO tired l'

Keep on I'LL We redcn the mountain top.
''Is mamma up there?" asked the
child then with wistful glance at her
father: "Do you think she will be glad
to see us, papa !"
g Glad to see you, hope, but. oh
Ailsie, you must ask her to forgive me-"
There was a slight culver IN theman's
voice, and the child, although not COM
pretending the cause of it, laid her small
hand on his coat sleeve with sympa-
thetic touch They walked on for some
time without speaking, then she broke
the silence, saying:
Papa, why Is mamma angry at you ?
/ Will not love her if she is not good to
you, for | love you dearly-dearly.
"Let us sit here awhile, AiIsie, and
will endeavor to make you understand
all about it.
She obeyed, glad of an opportunity to
rest her tired limbs Crossing her hands
on her lap she looked up into his face
trustfully.
You see, he began, "your mother
wasn't like me; l mean long ago, when
l first met her. She was lady, and
was a groom or servant on her fathers
place. She used TO ride ont every day,
and | rode after her to see that no harm
came to her. After while we grew to
be friends, then lovers. She was only a
chit of girl and when | asked her to
run away with me she consented. One
night she stole out of her fathers house,
and came to the oak grove where I was
waiting for her, / had secured a feet
footed horse, and when morning dawned
we were miles away. We took passage
on steamer bound for America, and we
were married the day after our arrival,
For awhile she appeared happy enough,
OF course, we were very poor; but l was
young and hopeful and loved my child
wife. Gradually she began to pine for
her old home. She was unused to pow
erty, and didn't know how to bear the
ups and downs of life as d poor girl
would have done. She frequently up
braided me for the misfortune | had
brought upon her, and IN time began to
hate me. | did the best | could for her
and looked forward to your birth, thi.k-
ing she would be more content when
she held her baby IN her arms; but l
was mistaken; nothing could reconcile
her to life of poverty with me. When
you were few months old [ discovered
she was receiving letters from her father
Every day helped to widen the breach
between us. Although she treated me
with cold contempt / did not blame her
much, for [ knew too well how | had
ruined her life, and her unhappiness IN
creased mine tenfOld
s. At that time | was employed on the
docks. One morning while at work
lady, closely yelled, accompanied by a
gentleman and nurse, with child in
her arms, passed me. Something about
her figure attracted my attention, and
as | turned to look after them, / caught
glimpse of the lady's face / stood
for moment unable to move or speak.
Meanwhile they had boarded a steamer
that would sail for Liverpool in few
hours. When | recovered my surprise
| went as rapidly as possible to the
home that had never been a happy one,
and learned that my wife and child had
gone away IN carriage an hour or two
before. Burning with rage and excite
ment, | hurried back to the vessel.
Your mother was on deck talking earn
estly to her companion, and the nurse
was saying goOd-by to some friends who
had come to see her of. / walked bold
ly up to her and inquired the number of
her etate-room, saving that her mistress
piled that she would 90 and get it. but |
said, pleasantly, Talk to your friends
while you have time. Only too glad to
have last word with those she was
leaving behind she told me the num-
Der, at the same time charging me to be
careful and not awaken the baby
Trembling with excitement | hurried tC
the state-room, wrapped you IN the
shawl and walked off the steamer. Have
made the story of my early life cleal
to you, Ailsie "
Yes, papa, | understand it perfect
", and am so sorry for you, poor, deal
papa" Then, with wistful glance IL
his face, " Do you think mamma CRIED
for me-for her baby ?"
1t may be that she did, bnt proba
bly, the prospect of being reunited t
her family lessened her grief for you
loss. Twelve years have passed and
have never seen or heard from her since
l have heard of her though, and know
that our marriage was annulled on the
ground that she was too young to wee
without consent of her parents, anC
about seven years ago she became the
wife of man of rank. That was the
last news | had of her. | wronged you
y
ing you from her. And now, if she vii
receive you back, 1 viii give you up
But you will not return to her penniless
you have fortune of $40, 900.
"AEd you will live with us papa ?"
No, child. will return to my old
life IN the mines"
"Oh, papar cried Aisle, bursting
into passionate food of tears" l can
not, will not stay there without you. F."
de drew the child to his breast and
soothed her with tender words, telling
her that she would soon learn to love hen
mother-that he would watch over her,
and perhaps see her often. After she
grew calm they started on their journey
again and soon reached the old-fashiOned
inn where they were to pass the night.
Aisle retired early, and her father de-
scended 10 the public room, where, after
few moments conversation with the
landlord, he learned that Ailsie's moth
er, Lady Caroline Denbeigh was living
ID retirement at DenbeIgh Hal, with
her child, sickly little fellow, about
four years of age. The old lord had
been dead a year or more, and Hon,
Mrs. Featherstone, Lady Caroline's
mother, had been with her until recent
", but was then IN Pans.
The next morning Aisle and her
father went down to the village hotel.
where their luggage had been sent a
week before, and after making the need
ful change in their dress they set out for
the hall.
The well-dressed, gentlemanly-looking
individual who walked up the graveled
path with a firm step and independent
air, bore but a faint resemblance to the
groom with whom Caroline Featherstone
had eloped some fourteen years before.
AS they approached the house, he es-
pied Lady Denbeigh and the young heir
on the broad yeranda, and his heart gave