The Penn's Grove record., 1884-11-01

back to Oh ,ose a husband for herself /;
and she would wed one other than the
romantic a~rt-student Ludwig HOlz, who
WIS to be e~ternaliy devoted to her.
The next morning Sophie Larlque
climbed the gardeu-wall and fed. She
wore the best Cf her school uniforms
a black silk dress and d broad hat with
white and black feathers. But the
thought struck her that she would be
described, discovered, and brought
back before she could ven reach Calais.
All she exclaimed, seeing a bright
colOred heap on the shore, 'sOme Il
is having a swiml If they pursue me,
| shall outwit them. 1t can be no rob
bery-can it 2-to leave silk and feath-
ers instead of this cotton dress and
straw hat"
So Sophie made the exchange, and,
driving in country carts and resting at
cottages. felt safe enough in her perfect
disguise until she reached Calais.
She crossed the Channel safely, and
had completed her journey from Dover,
and was naturally feeling nervous at
the thought that she would next have
to inquire in London, the great bewil-
dering foreign city, for the house of
Madame Verneau in Great Wimpole
Street, She was terrified and exhausted,
and hardly knew where to turn when
the train stopped and she stood alone
among the rushing crowd on the plat
form.
All at once two men in a dark livery
and a brown-faced Frenchwoman seized
her and began leading her away.
DO not give trouble, mademoiselle.
We are the servants sent for you. You
will come with us at once to the return
train"
Sophie struggled, argued, screamed.
The woman whispered to the crowd,
who fell back without interfering and
let the group pass sophie was not-even
sure who these people y ere /; they would
answer none of her questions ana, lift
ing her into a railway-carriage, they
were soon being carried back to Dover.
II am fainting I" she cried.
The woman gave her something to
drink from a flask, and presently Sophie
sank back against the cushions and
passed from faintness to deep sleep.
Her next sensation, after awaking to
life, was a strange one. With the first
flash of memory, she hoped the flight
was a horrid dream. But not had
been reality and she was not back at
school again, but in some place that she
had never seen before. She was lying
on a couch in a dingy shadowy room
hung with tapestry, and an old woman
in a PEASANTS high muslin cap was knit
ting in the fading twilight near the
window. 1t was a small window in a
deep recess of a thick wall. and from
the couch one saw across the polished
floor to the hearth, recessed too, like a
cavern, under a high old mantelpiece of
carved stone.
Sophie sat up, weak and frightened.
valerie dear, you are awake, - said
the old woman, hurrying to the couch
and kissing her forehead. you silly
child to run away But they have
brought you home now ; and how glad
| am to have you again 1t was a long
i've years, child, and | felt for you.
Take this drink, my little Valerie, and
say you know your old nurse ; it will
tighten my heart"
"Her kind face guaranteed that the
drink was no sleeping-draught. Sophie
took it and stared about, asking. in a
frightened voice
Where am / 7"
cat home, dear child, at Kergadec.
You remember home, Valerie ? You
make me tremble, chlld you stare as
if five years have made you forget us
all p
This is not home 70 cried Sophie.
Let me get away My father IS In
Paris My name is not Valerie ~
A look of anguish passed over the
old woman's face.
Poor child !" she said, at the same
moment urging Sophie to remain sitting
ON the couch, and stroking the auburn
hair that had now fallen loose.
She touched a bell. A servant in
livery brought in a tray, and with one
searching curious glance at Sophie, set
it On a little table neal her, said, "Mon-
sieur desires mademOiselle to come
when she is able, and retired.
The old nurse wodld not allow Sophie
to utter a word but she pressed her to
a delicious little feast-cold chicken,
dainty bread, an omelette, and fruit.
81 got it ready for you, my Valerie"
she said. II am sorry to say your un-
Gle is as hard a mar as ever he would
have called 1t folly, 50 L said nothing.
No-do not speak-It might be bad for
your poor head, my child. But | wished
to give you that little warning, as you
will have to go down to him now. Do
not make him angry f.; humor him about
the Marquis"
There is nc use in trying to talk to
this kind old woman" thought Sophie
-''she will not let me but | will ex-
plain when | see this uncle of whom
she speaks"
AT sight of the supper the girl re-
membered that she was hungry /; and
she was presently strong enough to Of
fer to go down to see this uncle, or
whoever he was
The old nurse told her that she must
put ON a pretty dress first, and, again
stopping all protests, she led Sophie
into an adjoining bedroom, where there
was a vault-like atmosphere, as If it
had long been disused, and a ghostly
bed with a pointed canopy of a pale SAT-
from color, TO- faded and fringed with
black, which a better light would have
shown to be furnished gold.
"Your dresses were sent after you
Immediately by order. No-hush ! You
must not make yourself Ill with saying
silly things. Hush !"
And forthwith Sophie's blue cotton
was changed for a white summer dress
that fitted to perfection and floated
light as a cloud. The old woman's ca
resses and admiration gave the girl con-
fdence. She could not helm smiling
and peeping into the glass-an old mir
ror framed in furnished silver. Behind
it there was another deep-set window /;
outside an iyy-clad tower with a round
roof rising to a point evidently formed
part of this same building and she
could see IN the distance the night
clouds coming up ragged and brown
over the sea.
One word, - she begged. do let
me say it Am l in a castle ?"
eyes, my chlldl You know old Ker-
gadec ~
"Ah," cried romantic Sophie, ''What