The Republican. [volume] (Oakland, Md.) 1877-current, 1883-06-16

| "No. perhaps not, now have them. l
am attached to them, certainly, and shall
do what can for them, but that is little.
am getting old. They must soon shift for
| themselves, for they have no relatives to
| depend on, and of course their lot Will be
hard. BOYS might get on; but girls-bah !!
So you see it all comes to this, that it would
| have been better for them and for me If
| they had never been born."
just then Jean was summoned to the hall,
and with his parting bow he said:
pardon my speaking so much. If had
been wiser | should have had different
story to tell"
A profound melancholy came over me at
this revelation of life-this cold, calculating
view which sacrificed heart and soul to ma
terial interests; and l said to myself, is it
the normal effect of high civilization to
create class whose tastes, nay, whose
necessities can be satisfied only at the ex-
penSe of the deepest and pureSt instincts of
our nature?-and at intervals through the
night woke to hear above the bowling of
the wind and the beating of the rain, jeans
satirical cry: pleasure! 1t isn't pleasure
he is looking for, but bread"
Morning rose calm and fair. Mont Blanc
leaned white against the azure sky. The
swollen Arve flashed in the sun, and all the
world seemed made for joy. We were early
on our way, and Jean had relapsed into his
usual taciturnity, and never again while
with us did he allude to his children. He
was faithful in his capacity, but untitled
for Eastern travel, and, two months later,
wishing him well and sending some slight
gifts to his daughters, we left him at Naples,
and took new man in his place for Egypt.
A year passed, crowded with new scenes
and people, when we returned to England
and went to the Charing Cross Hotel in
| London, for a little rest before the home
ward voyage. There we found an American
| friend, Mr.. Leveridge, of Illinois, who had
hppn fra Yelling for SiY months with "a Marty
from st. Louis, and who was to sail for New
Y DIRK in the Scotia the ensuing Saturday.
He was a Kentuckian by birth, but had
gone early to Illinois, and there added acre
to acre till his estate surpassed those of
many dukedom. Genial and unpretend-
ing, his warm heart and manliness and gem
erosity made him everywhere loved and re-
spected, and life had gone smoothly with
him, till the previous winter, when he had
lost his only daughter, an amiable girl, in
her seventeenth year. He was incOnsola-
bic. He could neither attend to business
nor welcome his friends, and his wife, a
sensible, motherly woman, alarmed at his
condition, persuaded him to join this party
from st. Louis for tour abroad. He had
no enthusiasm, however, for travel. "
would rather see a good field of wheat or
corn," he would say, ethan all the ruins in
Europe. Everything is so old and con-
tracted and formal here, and the mass of
UhO PSople nave W SUIuSSle 50 LOT mere eA-
lstence that it depresseS me. | shall be glad
to get home where there's room and liber-
ty." But, nevertheless, new scenes and
cheerful company had broken up the sad
routine of hiE thoughts, and he now seemed
quite himself again, except when some al
fusion was made to his daughter.
1t was Monday morning of the week he
was to sail. He had dropped in to see us,
and we were looking over some American
newspapers, when servant came to say
that Margaret Vallot, young girl who said
we had known her father, begged to speak
with US.
g 1t must be jeans daughter?" we ex-
claimed. Bring her up at once"
A moment and slight figure entered
timidly and a soft voice said:
" Pardon me if | intrude. had heard so
much of you all from my father that when
| saw your name among the arrivals here
| could not help coming.'
1--WE are glad to see you. Take this chair
by the window and tell us about him and
yourself"
ALAS" she replied, bursting into tears,
81 have no longer a father! After he left
you he came to see Lucille and me, and
stayed several days with us, and gave us
the presents you were so kind to send, and
told us much of you. We had always been
| afraid of him, but now he was so pleasant
| that it almost seemed as if dear mamma
| had come back. He kissed us when he went
away, and wrote us such good letter from
Martigny that we thought he did love u.s.
after all, and that perhaps some day we
might live together and be happy. The
next news we had was that he was dead
Crossing the Alps with his party, he was
thrown from carriage and so badly hurt
that they took him on a litter to the nearest
inn, and there, after three weeks, he died
1t was Karl Voigt, a friend of his who took
care of him and saw him buried. He had
been to Rome with some travellers, and was
at the inn on his way back when the acct
dent happened. He would not write to u.s.
but as soon as he could he came to see us
and told us ALL and brought us what things
our father left and the little money that
remained when his bills were paid, and
with him we came to London"
We were shocked by this sad intelligence
and expressed our warmest sympathy for
the orphans. Hard, well-meaning man
the time had soon come when his ''girlsn
must ''shift for themselves"
Margaret had spoken rapidly and with
many sobs, but now she sat quiet, with her
hands folded on her lap, in the full morning
light, and | observed her closely to see what
| manner of girl she was-of medium height
and slender, with brown eyes, and hair of
the same color coiled low in her neck-her
face little like her fathers in outline, but
delcate and sweet where his was heavy
| and grim-not beautiful, but very winning,
and with an appealing look that went
straight to the heart and made one long to
shield her from harm. Her black dress was
of the simplest fashion and most inexpen-
sive material, but there was dainty grace
in its arrangement-thec arelessly knotted
fichu, the collar just showing at the throat.
the dropping hat-rarely seen in the attire
of an English girl of any rank, and which
she had brought with her across the Chan
mel.
And what friends have you in London?"
we asked at length.
only Aunt Mary, mammals sister, who
is widow and lives in two rooms at No.
II Horton Street. We could live cheaper
on the continent, and so have never been
In England till now; but mamma was very
fond OF her own country and told us much
about it, and always liked us to speak En-
glish; remember how she cried once when
some one brought her a pot of daisies from
Ihorby, her old home-oh, we were very
happy as long as we had her!"
SIS your Aunt Mary like her?''
I'm some ways she is, and she is most
kind to us; but she supports herself by
sewing and is not strong, so ain unwilling
| to burden her in the least. We have nothing
to depend on but the few shillings we gel
from the Couriers' Society, of which our
| father was member, and must do some
thing at once. | am trying to get a place
as nursery governess, and Aunt Mary
thinks Lucille can go into Nine. Beckjs
establishment in Oxford Street and learn
dress-making. But / don't wish her TO do
that. She is not like me; she is light
hearted and pretty; Ihave kept trouble
| from her all | could, and it would distress
me to see her getting nala aud thin III.