Cheyenne transporter. [volume] (Darlington, Indian Terr.) 1879-1886, 1885-07-15
THE HEIRESS.


ayes, I'm awfully sorry, but it won't
do, YOU know. She has nothing to re-
commend her but very pretty face,
and a sweet disposition; and |, with
every talent for spending money, have
very little genius for making it, so L
must steel my heart against rosy lips
and dimples, and turn my attention to
the rathcr-hum-ripea and mature, SO
to speak, attractions of Miss May
nard."
Thus soliloquized an exquisite of the
very first order, as he stood on the
piazza of a summer hotel in the town
of Annapolis, Nova Scotia. lie was
an Englishman, and he had come over
to "do the colonies" He had already
'done" u considerable number of Lon
don tradesmen. For the younger son
of a younger son is not generally
blessed with much of this worlds
worldly goods:
''Reg,' as his friends called him,
was of the order of British swells pic
tured by Tennyson,-
"His face, grant, in spite of spite
Has broad blown comeliness, red and white,
And his siX-feettwo, as think he stands
But his essences turn the live air ok,
And barbarous opulence jewel thick
Suns ititsef on his breast and his hands"
The Honorable Reg Vaughan was
also well able to meet any advances
on the part of supposed interiors by
"Lesurely tapping glossy boot,
And cuiving cOntumeiOus lip
Gorgonizing them from head TO foot
With stony British stare.''
Reg was not alOne-he had friend
who looked upon him as the rising
light of his generation-a youth by the
name of Smythe. He spelled his name
in that way, the hopeless effort after
the unattainable resorted to by the
desperate.
Smythe had money-plenty of it
but that did not prevent him from
being toady and humble sycophant.
He worshiped the Honorable Reg, and
glowed with satisfaction when that
noble man borrowed money of him,
and condescended to accept other
friendly services at his hands.
"Yes, 1 can't do it, Smythe. The
little girl is just the kind of a girl l
fancy, but you see / cannot afford to
indulge my taste. The old girl is
worth some four hundred thousand,
so they tell me, and of course I'll take
care to investigate before l commit
myself. I've friend in New York
he'll look up the matter for me. be-
lieve old Maynard made his brass out
OF oil, or some such muck; but never
mind, one doesn't expect much of
Amcricans-but to tell the truth
haven't much show at home. I've
popped to nearly all the girls with tin,
and somehow they fight shy of ME.
Devilish odd! I'm about used up in
the home market, so here goes for an
American!"
Miss Maynard was a woman of
about thirty-tive years, a quiet, digni-
fed lady, tall, pale, intellectual, and
rather retiring. Her companion, Miss
Eva Church, was her opposite in every
way. She was small, dark, rosy,
lively, perfect little butterfly, run
ming from one place to another, now
playing waltz, now singing a snatch
of song, now perching birdlike on
the steps of the piazza overlooking
the old French fort, then trying to
row boat with more patience than
success, a laughter-loving artless,
beautiful girl, with all a wild girl s
wayward fancies and all good girl s
generous impulses. 1t was Eva Church
who was first on the spot when little
Jack Holiday, the poor widows son,
was run over by passing carriage;
it was Eva who helped to carry him to
the drug store; she it was who held
his hand while the doctors set his
broken arm; and when. after days