Weekly Chillicothe crisis. (Chillicothe, Livingston Co., Mo.) 1878-19??, 1883-05-17

lcHSiOh, WuOSC llplu CcIClnOHldlS up-
your body and soul alike.
But where was PomonaP Out of this
room in which they were seated another
smaller one opened; and while the pro-
fessor entertained them with his chill,
gray-toned talk, Robert watched, in a
distant window, a young girl kneeling,
her arms folded on the window sill, her
face lifted to the evening star. By and
by, as the light faded, she rose, and
then moment later, while she touched
the strings of either with strong,
sure hands, her voice rang out, that
same voice, sweet and clear, in hymn
of evening praise to the Virgin.
She sang but verse or two, but how
beautiful it was; bella! bella! Marie,
the rose of Heaven; Marie, the evening
star" Robert listened every nerve
qnivering; but the father gave no sign.
There might have been never note OF
music heard in that house, so unstirred
his face was, so unrecOgnizing his air.
When the notes died off the ear, the
young singer approached the inner
door; She stood there, a slim, white
figure, silent, her head bent, her hands
clasped low, and hol1ing n flower in
front of her
Prof MOrrosa turned with q frown
"Are you there, Mona? 1t is time you
went to your devotions. You know
what my wishes are"
She made no reply to this. She came
forward few steps into the room
toward Robert, who rose " her ap.
proach. at is the music" she said,
dreamily. at has haunted me since
morning. Surely, Imay speak of that. "
She stood there, the folds of her heavy
white dress making her look like some
strange blossom, grown in shadow on
its slender stalk to an unnatural height;
the blue of her eyes and the brown of
her high-piled hair, together with the
strong yellow color of the flower in her
hand, making the only tintS of coloring
about her.
"Your music was so beautiful" she
said to Robert. at was like a time in
May when one stays all the long day
in an orchard, and hears the birds sing
and the bees 90 up end among the
open blossoms. | remember it. Bat
your music ended in storm and dark
ness. Why did it?'
1T was not my fault" said Robert,
as he pushed chair forward. "Most
lives, if life be long. and in the storm
of tears. Can help it?"
Pomona looked at him with smile
on her lips. at is not always so" she
said. "Some lives keep the b'uc of
their skies and the song of the birds to
the last, even through many years. |
can remember one that did. "
"There are not many SUCH he an
swered. "But am glad you can re-
member one. Even the first time saw
you, one summer night, you carried n
candle in your hand, and in moment
gust of wind rose and blew out the
light, and you were left in the dark
alone. There were flowers all about
you, but there was rain, too. You call
ed into the garden, Robert, Robert,
come, and then the light went out"
He spoke like one who tells the story
of doom in shadowcd monotone.
Pomona listened, Shuddcrlng. 81
am sorry the light went out" she said,
simply, "for thereis something sorrow
full in n light cXtinguished. 1t is not
life any longer; it is death. But re.
member it, 1t was in the old house BY
the garden with the nasturtiums on the
wall. NY mother lived there
She stopped and glanced at her faith
er, who was watching her with keen
fire in his eyes. 81 remember" she
repeated, softly. She crossed one hand,
the hand holding the yellow flower,
lightly over the other.
"What is that yellow hower?" asked
Robert. "The color is too strong. 1t
makes discord in your hand, like a
false note in a symphony. Why doyOu
carry it?'
Mona lifted the flower to her lips,
and Robert noticed it flung Il glow like
golden sunset on her face.
alt is warm, like the sun, is il not?
1t is like n lily only less delicate. 1t
grew in the old garden where the mas
turtiums We're along the southern wall.
1t was my mothers flower. She said it
was like the sun in Spain, in the south
of Spain, where the Mediterranean
flows along the land. My mother lived
in Spain-she was frozen here. And
she used to say the world was so warm
there, with the great red oleanders
c ctnr Iinpr ohnun thn ttrl,itn OF I N
Frilense and Psyche and piping Pan,
all standing on tho esplanadc, and
clumps of citrons and lilies and blood
red roses glowing in the hot air near
them. My mother was frozen here,
where there is no SUM-"
The clear light in the girls eyes, the
pathetic ring of her voice as she told
this little story of her youth to her I'M
known listener. Robert felt that he
could listen forever.
MY mother loved Spain! She was
frozen here
But here she was interrupted by her
father; he had risen and was standing
near her, shaking, Il fierce light in his
haggard eyes. He was quivcring from
head to foot with rage.
"You have said enough, now;n his
voice struggled in whistliug whisper
from his drawn throat. Leave the
roOm."
She rose at once, both the young
men rising as by one movement, with
her. She made no protest, but her eyes
burned with a proud, indignant light
and there was pathetic quiver of the
lines of her tender mouth.
leave the room!" repeated her
father, hoarsely.
Robert Marlowe turned impetuously
to his friend. Gone along, Allan; it
is time we should 60" He cast fierce
glance at the father. There is no
need you should order your daughter
to leave the room. We will say good
night now."
Pomona met his fiery look with
soft, full smile. mot so, it is for me
to go now," she said, with a proud
quiet; and then with the air of q young
princess of Lamballe dismissing her
train of courtiers, she made
a low, backward-sweeping courtesy and
walked away.
But Robert had that smile.
He went home, and poured out the
passion that was in him, in bars of
music-composition in which glowed
the hot life of Spain; the sun breathed
through it all, the sun that fed the pas.
sionate force of Spain. The white
glimmer of statues, the perfume of ole