Frostburg mining journal. [volume] (Frostburg, Md.) 1871-1913, 1884-06-14
FROSTBURG, MD, JUNE IA, 1884.
SELECT STORY.
A Man That Succeeded.

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"ATy only daughter, SIR" said Col
onel Monteagle. ''And as l venture
to hope, accomplished in her way.
We are not much in the way of
schools or academies here, but | have
been her instructor myself and she is
a thorough mathematician, and ex-
cellent musician, and linguist ofno
mean capacity. We are studying
Hebrew now every day, she and |,
and she devotes her evenings to COM
prehensive reviews of her Latin and
Greek. She will be a scholar, sir, if
live to complete her education"
Mr.. Crofton looked curiouslr t the
oddly assorted pair-the silver haired,
shabbilyattired old gentleman with
his bald forehead, eagle eye and del
icately white hands, and the dark
browed, sullen-looking girl, with
gypsy skin, untidy frock and patched
boots.
Pretty? Yes, she might be pretty
under some circumstances. The
diamond itself is not an attractive
stone before the lapidary's art has
polished its rude angles into glitter
ing faces Of white fire. But she cer-
tainly possesses no sweet feminine
graces now.
''How old are you, Miss Mont
eagle:?' he asked, finding it impera-
lively necessary to say something.
And Mary Monteagle answered in
words, seventeen while her looks
replied plainly, "None of your bust
ness
500, my child, and gather some
flowers to deck our humble board"
said the old gentleman grandiloquent-
ly, while he conducted the son of his
old friend into the tumble down old
stone house, where the carpets were
motheaten, furniture mildewed, and
every trace of decayed gentility told
the sad story of better days.
Mrs. Monteagle, who had been
beauty once, and had had her portrait
engraved in a Gallery of American
Rosebuds,' was sitting up in state in
a battered boudoir in black silk
dress that must have been quarter
Ola century old, with flower in her
silver sprinkled hair, and still pre-
serving the girlish attitude in which
the engraver's pencil had immortal
lzed her, oddly contrasting with the
sharpened outlines and haggard
abruptness of her sixty-odd years.
And this was the way the old
couple lived, in the dead past as it
were. Col. Monteagle starving con-
tentedly on the recollection Of past
grandeur, and his wife fondly fancy
ing that time stood still since the days
in which she had been counted
worthy to be one of the "American
Rosebuds."
Mrs. Monteagle sweetly welcomed
her guest, and touched the little hand
bell at her side.
"We will dine, Sarepta," she said
to the maid.
"Please ma'am," breathlessly utter
ed that young person, ''there amt
nothin' for dinner. We eat the last
of the cold beef yesterday, and the
dog he tipped over the pan of oysters,
and"
"That will do, Sarepta," SAID Mrs.
Monteagle, with red spot mounting
to each of her check bones, said-"we
will dine -
And Sarepta withdrew with a
jerk.
The dinner was served presently
an instance of the magnetic power of
well-but there was no cold beef,
neither were there oysters. Fruit, a
thin, watery soup of herbs and pars-
ley, tastefully garnished salad of let
tuce and mayonnaise, and dish of
peaches and cream formed the meal.
"Quite Arcadian !" said Mrs. Mont
eagle, with giggle.
| "And very badly served" secretly
commented Mr.. Crofton to himself.
"But the salad was nice"
"Where is Mary" the Colonel
asked.
drinking in the beauties of the
sunset, presume" the lady answer
ed alrily. "The poor child has an
artists soul, and we do not tie her
down to any hours or rules.
The Colonel fell asleepin his chair