The San Antonio light. (San Antonio, Tex.) 1883-1886, 1885-06-17


eyes. His goddess was not among them,
but there were good many outlying
cottages. Vincent made up his mind
that he should fine her In one Of these.
And at last he lit upon the one that en-
shrined her. lie saw an old woman
making nets at the door; and though
she was wrinkled and grown ugly with
the sun and wind and the hard work Of
years, he fancied he traced a likeness
and he stopped 10 talk to her. lie ask
ed her questions at first about the fish
ing and the storms, and then he entered
on more personal grounds.
your husband goes out fishing.
suppose, like the restyn
II have none, sir" the woman an
swered, quite Tranquility: he went down
In our boat twelve years coming next
October, with my only son. aud my
daughter live here alone"
Nincents heart beat. you have q
daughterln
Yes. sir. It's pity she amt a lad
It's hard work for women 10 make a
living. | often wish Id had the sense
tO hide ms | was. | was better of, a
deal, when I was in service at Sir
George TTessilian's. But my man was
very steady and good to me; you may
have heard of him II you're at Penruth
John Trevarroch. lie owned boat
and we were well-to-do. till he went
down and all my luck with him." she
added. with the first touch OF pathus In
her rather hard tone.
But you have a daughterln
"Ay Mary. She's decent girl, but
she's got no better luck than the rest.
Her young man-Will Pcnruddock
was drowned little better than year
ago
Her young mani" Vincent said. and
ns lie spoke the picture rose before his
mind ot the sad, beautiful figure. the
eyes fixed on the sea, the hands stretch
cd ont To II, the inarticulate cry.
lcs-hcr sweetheart; they were 10
have been married. lie was pretty we'll
tO-do--owned some property here-a
steady fellow and handsome. But IL
was her luck, like the rest of us, poor
maidl'
81 am very sorry. And how do you
live nowY'
swered, with sort of dreary dryness;
1--WE work.
You havea very beautiful view from
here"
She glanced around indirercntly.
"Ay, well enough. IL blows awful
stormy In winter, can tell You. You
should hear il whistle through thcrcl'
and she pointed Ia a deep chasm In the
clif, cut. ns IL were. right through from
the elevation where they were standing
down Ia the beach some hundreds Of
feet hclow-a eddy place 10 look at.
IL am an artlst-a painter. / should
like to come and make sketch up
here"
"Ay, I know YOU are. You can come,
of course, If YOU like to draw it. can
give YOU chair out Of the house"
Mrs. Trevarroch was not cordial;
there was something repellant In her
manner. but something TO he admired,
too. In its way. She spoke we'll, her
look was honest, IL hard. Vincent
thought ii was beaten into ruggedness
10y the cruel strokes Of loss and misfOr-
tune. lie was determined To make her
his friend, for he was unreasonably sure
that the woman whose image was I'LL
ing his mind was no other than Mary
Trevarroch, The very name began To
identify itself with his remembrance
OF her. Mary Trevarroch of Penruthl
The words had kind of vague sugges-
ton IN them of sweet, pathetic poem.
He fingered on, talking to the mother
In his gentle, easy way, which always
won upon rustic minds, In hopes Of the
daughters return. But at last he had
to 90 back again to the Fisherman's
Rest unsatisiied.
lie took the first opportunity Ofasking
the landlord Of this hostelry whether he
knew anything of II widow named Ire
varroch, who lived up the Eagle cliff.
Yes, | knowed her husband well. A
good fellow AS ever breathed was Jack
| TrevaTroch. lie went down of Tin
taglc, and his son with him; and then
poor Mary's sweetheart, VIII Penrud-
dock-it's "A common tale in these parts.
Mary's good girl. though she always
held her head over high to please the
lads"
Vincent cleared his throat. "She felt
the loss of her lover very much!n
"Ay, | reckon 80. I've never seen
much of her"
she's q very handsome girl, isn't
sheY think I've seen her.
"llandsOmey Well, perhaps you'd say
so; | haven't thought much on it,"
And this was all there was TO be got
out of mine host.
The next day Vincent found his steps
leading along the same steep path; but
this time he carried his painting gear
as u warrant for his appearance. The
widow was at home, and she came out
TO give him Il chair, and to chat with
him; but the daughter was not there.
' otil hbhils anu lhll AltNlltu III u
few strokes. lie hardly saw what he
was doing-his eyes wandered so often
down the rocky way. Presently they
frightened, rs "A tall figure, laden with
heavy basket of bread came slowly
upward. He flew down to relieve her
of her burden, but she held il back with
a look of hali-amused surprise,
The near view did not diminish one
of her charms to him. On the contrary
the full, open light of her wonderful
eyes almost intoxicated head which
was mt times but weak to such influence
Won't you let me help you with youl
basketr' he said, trying to speak In thu
most careless of tones.
mo! Why should you? It's not 50
heavy, and I'm used TO it, You're the
painting gentleman, suppose, that
mother spoke Off"
Yes. have come up to try and get
some sort of u picture Of your beautiful
cliffs from here. | shan't be in YOU
waypr
"Oh, no." she answered carelessly.
Her voice and way of speaking, like
her mothers though rustic, was by ne
means unretined. II had a certain music
of its own, which suited the melancholy
beauty of her face. But though THU
face never lost, even while smiling, III
pathetic lines. she had not IN speaking
any trace of the heartbrOken maid Il,
had expected to find. While her eye
had an expression of infinite sadness and
the curves of her lips We're wistful ant
at times even mOurnful, she spoke will
a calm, not uncheerful air, of every-da!
sense. The truth was that Mary Ire
varroch had learned to live utterly I,
herself. No hand had touched the SO
cret wound since that bitter Marcl