The weekly register. [volume] (Point Pleasant, Va. [W. Va.]) 1862-1909, 1883-05-23
CARRADINE's LOVE.


Carradine alone at his easel
painting; and us he painted he
thought. Eight years before, when
he was a poor, struggling boy, just
entering on that race which must
be run by every aspirant to art and
its honors, there happened to him
something which neither time nor
toll had ever been able to efIace
from his memory. AS he was pass!
ing along the streets d wreath Of
fragrant roses suddenly fell on his
head, and, looking up in wonder,
he beheld, reaching out from the
embroidered draperies Of an over
window, a child, with
proportions, with great
dark eyes and long, curling black
locks, who stood smiling and throw.
ing him kisses from her curved
lips, colored like a pomegranate,-
While she still gazed, a nurse had
come forward and drawn the child
AWAY; the curtains were closed,
and he saw the little creature no
more. Such was the vision that
The artist had carried so long in
his memory; in his memory only,
for he had no second glimpse of the
child. That very day an accident
occurred which kept him a prison.
or in his room for several weeks,
and when next he went out the
house was empty, and q placard
with great flaring letters, announc.
ing ii for sale, stared him in the
face, from The same window in
which tho little white.robed elf had
stood waving her hand and smil
ing to him. Incourse Of time other
faces appeared there, but they were
faces, and among them was
never the one for which he looked.
Now, as Carradine sat painting
he thought of Ull this; of the
struggle that had ended at length
in success; of his hard, unfriended
and of the beautiful child
with her fragrant rose crown, which
had seemed almost like a prophecy.
That rose wreath, dry and withered
now, was all that was left to him
Of the fair vision; but when that
in turning over an old
he had come upon it by
chance, it spoke tn him of that by
gone day just as elOquently as
when its blossoms were fresh and
full.
Eight years ago." he said,
thoughtfully, letting the shrlveled
slip through his fingers
"She must be sixteen now
If she lives. If2 No, l do not
doubt her living presence-some.
where. Iwonder where she is now,
and what she is like at sixteen?"
With that he placed the wreath
beside his easel and began to paint.
The face, as it grew on his canvas,
presented young girl in the dewy
morning blush Of first youth, with
shadows in the great dark eyes and
a half.Smile about the bright curl.
ed lips, like an embodied summer
II was thus that the
artist pictured his ideal Of the
child woman, whose infantile look
and smile for eight long years had
been his own dream of love.
Carradine had not had an easy
life. An orphan from his earliest
years, poor and unfriended, he had
studied hard for the means to graf.
ify that inherent idolatry for art
which was always clamoring to
find expression in form and color.
ing. HO had fought and he had
won; but now, at twenty.six, he
stood in the place which he had
gained for himself almost as much
alone at the very heart as he had
been eight years before, when the
chill's gift came to him as a
prophecy. .
ltwas not that he was friend
less. There we're men who liked
and sought him, woman who would
gladly have taught him to forget
his loneliness in their affection.
But though. his nature responded
rapidly to any kindness, there was
one chord, deeper than all, that
remained untouched, and from the
sweetest glances his thoughts went
back to The unknown child that
had smiled down on him so long
ago,
The ideal head became his great
source Of enjoyment, and a dreamy