Daily Kennebec journal. [microfilm reel] (Augusta, Me.) 1870-1975, 1886-08-25

room, making loud frou-frou with her
thick silk gown.
Jean Logan took the box in her trem-
bling hands. Her body seemed animated
by some strange force; she darted out of
the house like ore who had been struck by
some terrible blow; her limbs tottered
under her as she walked, as in trance,
breathlessly to her humble lodgings close
to the Edgware road.
Jean Logan had two rooms and bit OF
kitchen at the top of house in an OBJ
scure street leading out of the Edgware
road. A house let out 10 flats, mostly in
habited by the working classes. She stag
gered rather than walked up to the land
ing; any one meeting her might have be-
lieved she was intoxicated.
Jean looked at her silver watch. 1t was
only four O'Clock; her little girl would
not be back from school tor another hour.
She fumbled at the lock and opened the
door. How gloomy it looked that dreary
afternoon-Do fire, no gas! She struck a
match, applied it to the CRATE, and soon
bright flame illuminated the tiny parlor.
Jean Logan had been working her eyes
out, giving all her time and skill to make
beautiful dress for Malcolm Mackenzie's
wife. He was the man she had once loved
and trusted and he had betrayed her in
nocence and ruined her happiness. Such
was the terrible irony of fate. Day after
day she had been using her utmost skill to
make dress that would set off the beauty
of the rich young wife of the man who
had blightcd her own life.
Jean flung her damp coat and shabby
bonnet on chair, and lighting a tallow
candle, stood in front of large picture in
oils that hung opposite her table. 1t rep
resented handsome young girl with a
mass of red brown hair; fearless, almost
saucy look of happiness lit up her rosy
face; the deep-blue eyes, the winning
smile that played about the rich pomegran-
ate lips had witcherv in them. The tail up
right lassie looked goddess of health and
high spirits. The wild landscape, with its
brilliant purple heather and blush high
land hills, formed fine background to
the Hebe.
The only thing she had ever accepted
from Malcolm Mackenzie was the picture.
She had been his model. She clenched her
hands as she gazed at it; hot tears stood
in her eyes as she thought over that ter
rible episode in her life. Why had he not
left her to herself ?-she was happy in her
highland home with her old dad. No Her
fatal beauty as Malcolm Mackenzie called
it, intamed him. She was ignorant of
evil and fell ir love with him, the hand
some, six foot. genial, pleasant. dark-eyed
young painter; he flattered her vanity
and twined himself round her girlish heart.
1t was all so romantic, those meetings on
the wild moorlands. Jean went to a
drawer, unlocked it, and took out a bundle
of letters; the ink had paled with years
the paper was yellow and wrinkled; how
could he have written thus if he had not
loved her? She gave a cynical, bitter
laugh as she read these letters, addressed
to his own, sweet, bonny. darling Jean,
telling her how he worshiped her; that
she was his goddess, his queen her beau
ty inspired his art, and would make him
a great painter; her grace. her queenly
figure, haunted him day and night; and
as for her kisses, they maddened him, &c
There was no end of letters in this strain
telling how several of his pictures painted
from her had made sensation in the
Royal Academy; his reputation was en-
tirely due to her, &c.
(Tc be continued