Spirit of the age. [volume] (Woodstock, Vt.) 1845-1913, 1884-01-02

Leaving Tue roses only nalI tleu up,
tool" But just then stray sunbeam
lit the stone on Dorothy's finger to daz
cling flame. She forgot all about Miss.
Abigails hurried exit as she
turned it now this way, now that, ant
ended by kissing it with burst of rap
ture. You dear, dear little ring
she said.
You see it was quite novel to her yet,
her engagement and her ring.
This was only August. In May she
had never dreamed of the existence Of
such person as Mr. Paul Carlisle.
He had come down to Blue Berry
Hill in June, successful young sculp'
tor, seeking isolation, rest and country
quiet, and the very first thing he did
he, who could have chosen last season
from half q dozen brilliant society belle:
was to fall head over ears in love witt
Dorothy Stratton.
She captured his erratic artistic fancy
and she pleased his instructive sense Of
refinement.
She wasso 1.-THE and graceful, with
such arch, graceful curves of throat and
arm, and she held her small sloe- black
head with such quiet, charming dignity.
And what could be more winsome thar
the face with its colorless skin and liq,
uid grey eyes and curved, black brow;
and grave, sweet crimson mouth?
Just how June and July had passed
neither of these happy, foolish young
people could have lucidIy explained.
And the precise manner in which he
had spoken at last the shy confusion o.
her answer, the parting with hopes, re-
grets, love unutterable, was still mere
mystic, enhancing, delicious remem
brancc.
But there was the ring, q gltterine
tangible reality. So what wonder thai
Dorothy turned it up and down, anC
under and over, and kissed it in sheer
joy of hearth
Over at Mrs. Evans Miss Abigail sat,
her sunbonnet united and pushed back
on her head, her spectacles perched OIL
her accommodatingly rigid nose, deer
in the perusal of the CyclOps Courier.
TOO bad, ch?' queried Mrs. Evans,
quickly topping gooseberries.
"Yesm assented Miss Abigail, "aftel
all his years of saving. All, what!
this?"
''What's whate' asked Mrs. Evans
startled at her guest tone. She wal
staring straight at the sheet, her eye:
very troubled and her mouth grimly
set
Dear, dear, Miss Byrnes!' exclaim
ed Miss. Evans, in feeble alarm, " dc
tell"
But her visitor made no reply, only
reused herself with an effort, tied he!
sunbonnet strings with an energetic
jerk and marched straight out of the
house, the Cycl0ps Courier in her hand
Mrs. Evans stared after her moment
Then she tapped her forehead signif
cantly, muttered single word, and
went complacently on topping her goose
berries. Dorothy sitting still by the
vine-wreathed window, twisting the
bright circlet round and round on her
slim, brown finger, started as Miss.
Abigail banged the garden gate behind
her and hurried up the path,
A heavy tread on the stairs, and the
door was flung wide and she stalked
into the dainty chamber, all pink silecia
and snowy dotted muslin, like herald
of war.
"Dorothy!' she said, in quite an aw-
full voice.
aunt" cried Dorothy, rising.
Look here! Readm
She held up the paper, and waved
her arm with tragic gesture of COM
mand.
Dorothy glanced at the paragraph
pointed out and read as hidden.
And this is what she read:-"The So
oial exodus has begun. Among the
names of the pleasure seekers leaving
this evening on the steamship Asia to
summer on the continent, we notice
those of Paul A. Carlisle and wife.
Dorothy looked at the paper blankly,
then she began TO read it over again.
"Well?" questioned Miss. Abigail,
sternly.
The girl stood up, white to the very
lips and trembling little.
There's some-mistakew she said.
Miss. Abigail gave n distrustful
snort.
IF there is" she said, "we've made it!
He's scamp, my dear and then wax
ing emphatic, "a double distilled
scampr
you mustn't speak so!' said Doro-
thy, striving to swallow the great lump
in her throat. ut is-some other-Mr.
Carlisle
yes" Knocked Miss. Abigail. scorn-
fully, "very likely! Do you think there
are two men with exactly the same
to tho middle initial
whose departure would be considered
worth chroncling in the CyclopS Cour-
ier-do you?"
But Dorothy sprang to the door, and
ran down the stairs, and out into the
shadowy old orchard like thing pur-
sued.
And there she flung herself down on
the smooth, short grass, dry-eyed,
white-lipped half mad with soaring in
credulous pain.
And up in the room she had just left,
hard-featured Miss. Abigail sat down
In Dorothy's particular, beribboned
rocker, and tlinging her blue apron over
her face, cried for very sympathy. The
day wore on. The sweet, warm August
day. And Dorothy still lay crushed and
faint, and heart sick under the big
The Courier was dated the 18th
this was ths 18th City papers were