The Washington critic., 1886-07-03
STORY OF A PORTRAIT.

blOlI VI ~ O~t L IL all
well must say that / think it
horribly mean of your Aunt Betsy
Estella. After making such fayorite
of you all your life, and having you
with her ever since you were mere
baby she might have sent you some
thing worth having on your twenty
first birthday, especially as she knows
how poor we are since your fathers
death" said my mother, sharply.
"Iou had better take II as hint for
the future, and not build any more
castles on what Aunt Betscy is likely
TO do for YOU" remarked my sister
Lena.
Walter my brother, added with
provoking grimIce:
Here cnduth my sister Stella's ox.
pcctations"
"You need not make such unplens
ant remarks" | answered. pettislly
'In sending me the portrait of her old
sweetheart poor auntie has given me
her greatest treasure, and she, no
| doubt, thinks shall value it rs much
as she does"
| "Well, 1t may come in useful for all,
for If, as | expect, you never get n
sweetheart, you can imagine he was
| yours when you are n sour old maid
like Aunt Betsy" said Lena, who
pridcd herself not little on being en-.
| gagged at Is, while at 81 had never had
an offer, nor even the ghost of a lover.
| / had lived with Aunt Betsy down in
her quiet country home in the south of
| Cornwall until my fathers death, two
years before, when, coming up to
London to his funeral, found my
mother left in such Strengthened cir.
cumstanccs that | felt it my duty to
stay and earn what money | could to
help her, thereby, however, | incurred
Aunt Betsy's anger.
Things went on from bad to worse
with us, and my 22d birthday found
me in despair.
| Walter, in despair, had gone to New
| Zealand Lena had married on very
slender income and gone to live in the
North. could not bend to ask help
from Aunt Betsy, and my mother was
i'll and my work so scarce that could
barely find us the necessaries of life.
AT last |, too, became i'll, and We had
not penny in the house; everything
We had, even poor mamma's engage.
ment ring, had gone for food.
"Stella, you must go and get some
money. Mrs. Burton says she will
have the rent tomorrow, or we shall
have to turn out in the street. There
is-would you mind, dcar9-your
Aunt Betsy's present. you could get
enough for that to keep us for a long
time"
Mamma, dear, | cannot, dare
not sell il Anything of mine
would do without, but this-oh, don't
ask me-"
"And yet the generous douer has
never sent us the price of loaf, q"
said my mother, bitterly. well, take
my wedding ring; 1t has never been off
my finger since your poor. dear father
put 1t on % years ago; but it must so
now"
mo, mamma, you must not, shall
not take it OH. | will 20 aud take
aunt's present, not to sell, but to the
pawnshop; then may, perhaps, get it
back when Walter sends us some
money"
With heavy heart ana weary, lag
ging steps | departed on my hateful
errand. All our things had been sold
we had preferred to lose them to GO
ing into that last disgraceful refuge of
the destitute, London pawnbroker' S.
Arrived outside | paced to and fro
until my tottering limbs, weak from i'll
ness and continual fasting, warned me
that my strength would not hold out
much longer.
entered. Only one other person, q
tall, dark gentleman, whose face
could not see in the semi darkness,
stood there talking to the shopman.
Il tell you, my man, the plate Is here
1t has been traced by clever detective
who will join me here in n few minutes
lie is only delayed because he thinks
he has TRACED the thief, aud has gone tc
follow up the search"
"Wcll, sir, am sure you are mis-
taken, but my principal will be here In
few moments you must talk to him.
What can do for you, young woman
he asked, turning to me somewhat
eagerly, evidently glad of m excuse TO
e1adc his uplcasant visitors converse
ton.
Unable to speak drew forth my
treasure. The shopkecper looked sus.
piciously at me rs he TOOK 1t up and
tested 1t,
Your name and address, please. &"
he said, sharply. "And how much do
you wanty"
II want "a little money, II you
please" | faltercd.
As ] spoke the gentleman turned
and could feel a pair of bright, keen
eyes scanning my pale face. | grew
more helplessly confused, my tongu,
refused TO utter word.
"Tcll the shopman how much you
want and your name, my good girl,
he said in a kind aud plying tone,
Then, for the first time, | raised my
eyes 20 his face feeling that | had
found q friend Merciful Heaven
was | dreaming, or had my late
troubles driven reason from my brair
and filed It with wild, dclusly,
faRcies
Surely there stood the original o
Aunt Betsy's portrait, but young aut
stalwart US he had been forty years age
when It was taken.
In vain | tried to speak. coul,
only point helplessly to the portrait
the shop with its occupants swan
around me and with Il cry for JOY
sank fainting to the ground,
When | next awoke to consciousness
was lying on am improylsed bed OF
the old couch in our sitting a
home. | Imoyed my head; It felt veal
and sore. Then | tried to lift m.
hands, but, to my surprise, | wa
powerless to do so, A woman plainl.
dressed, with kind, motherly face
was sitting near me, and rose as
moved
1 looked around bewildered