Wood County reporter. [volume] (Grand Rapids [i.e. Wisconsin Rapids], Wis.) 1857-1923, 1885-03-05
NEXT MY HEART.

and country were alike baking and
broiling beneath the rays of a blazing
sun. But in the small cottage of the
Hazeldeans, on the Hudson, all was
GOODNESS, greenery and shade. Vases
of flowers stood in the open windows,
blossomlng vines wreathed over the
verapdas, and the interior, with it's
moss colored carpets. its white cur
tains, and the light chairs and sofas
of bamboo and cane, was sight most
refreshing to eyes that had been wearl-
ed all day long with the dust Of travel
Or the binding glare of city blocks
and streets.
At her dressing table, in a front
upper room, sat Lizzie Haze1dean, the
mistress of the pretty cottage and wife
of the rising young lawyer" of Spruce
street.
young lawyer" he was called by
his friends of the same age, ard by
the newspaper reporters who had &C
casion to speak of him. Yet he was
two and forty years Of age, and success
had but just begun to grow acquainted
with his name.
And Lizzie-bright, gypsyish, dark
eyed Lizzie-who had been a beauty
and belle in her young days-in her
young ays!-alas! she began to own
to herself Dong after other women
had said it of her, mind YOU, that
she was growing old. The young
days were left behind forever, and
Lizzie, though she still kept her bright
cheeks. and sparkling eyes, and agile
step, Lizzie was 40 years Of age on
this very day when we first behold
her.
She sat at her glass, half-hiding her
face behind her clasped hands. She
no longer had desire to look into
that too faithful mirror. Only this
very afternoon it had revealed a most
unWelcome truth to her. There on
each side of her rounded temples, she
had discovered a narrow path of white
among the jetty tresses of which she
had so long been proud. A gray hair
here and there had not mattered here
tofore. She had pulled them out half
seriously, half laughingly, whenever
she had happened to see them. But
now, not ten" but hundred-nay,
a thousand seemed to "come to their
funeral" In a year or so, at this rate,
the whole, soft glossy mass would
have lost its brilliant black-another
year, at most, and then she would be
quite an old woman, with hair as
white as her own grandmother's had
been!
She Lizzie Haziedean : an cold
lady" a gray-no, whlte-haired
woman
Could it be possible! Her heart
was young as everi When she play
ed with little Lizzie on the lawn, at
ball, or battledoor and shuttlecock, it
was hard to say which NEST enjoyed
the game, she, or the child of years.
She could walk as far and as fast as
IN her girlhood, She could oversee
her household affairs as well as ever.
But the white hair was there before
her, ever repeating its terrible lesson
-"Growing old, growing oldm
It was nearly tea-time. She could
hear little Lizzie talking, on the lawn,
to her pet kitten and her doll about
the slime for papa to come, and what
would papa bring them when he
came" Downstairs In the kitchen,
and IN the dining groom, below her
chamber, she heard the ring and tinkle
of glass, and silver and china, and
knew that the servant was doing her
best to have everything in order be-
fore the master arrived.
Yet she sat still before her mirror,
wiping away tear now and then, and
choking back sob. Of what use
were all the arts of the toilet now?
How long would Walter love her
after she was old and gray?
Suddenly there was wild cry of
delight from the lawn, and Bridget be-
gan to fly to and fro in her dominion
more swiftly than ever.
Had Walter come? It was full half
an hour before his usual time.
Lizzie spraug to the window, screen
ed herself from observation behind
the curtain, and peeped out.
Eyes, there was her husband tossing
his child IN the air, looking cool and
handsome in his white linen suit and
dark blue tie, while little Lizzie was
like fairy in her white muslin dress
and rose colored ribbons, and the band
of roses that fastened back her long,
dark curls.
But who was that beside them,
smiling at the excited child, and talk
ing to Walter in such low, sweet
tones?
A tall, elegant womans, slender, up
right and graceful. clad in perfection
of Partisan walking toilet, with
fluffy cloud of golden hair shadowing
her low, white forehead, beneath the
bonnet OF lace and tulle.
Mrs. Hazledean gazed at the UNI
welcome visitor in establishment and
horror, as she recognized her at
last.
Mildred. Pontifex, of all women in
the world! Mildred Pontifex, the
blonde beauty of Philadelphia, the
great heiress, who, as Dame Rumor
had once whispered, would gladly, in
her girlhood, have thrown herself and
her hundreds of thousands of dollars
at the feet of her cousin, Walter
Hazledeanl
Oh, horror horrorl And the house