The Cambria freeman. [volume] (Ebensburg, Pa.) 1867-1938, 1886-02-26

tnelr way 70 Ine Nlliage as tile Servants
in this.
Il know it." returns Mr.. Craven, with
considerable force; @she would. Of
course. wait until the morning. Why,
IL would be inhuman. actually unsafe, |
think, 70 send any one abroad on such
a night as this"
And mamma is not inhumaniT mur-
murs Cecil, with a slight smile, staring
thOughtfuily into the glowing Goals be-
meath her.
Over the chimney-piece is a large
picture, finely painted. IL represents
an elderly lady, with charming face,
with brown hair arranged in little curls
on either cheek, q handsome bust, gen
erOusly displayed, a waist well under
her arms. and a small foot prOtruding
from beneath the satin gown that part
ly covers her. 1t is the foot that at
tracts CecIs attention. 1t is very
small, and clad in black velvet. She
laughs.
Il hope you are not making merry
over my elderly relative" says Mr.. GRAY
en-, severely.
Far be it from me; she is much too
uncomfOrtably dignified to excite mirth
in any one. was only thinking of that
old adage; 1t is i'll waiting for dead
mems Shoes and wondering whether it
is as ill to wait for a dead woman S,
because l am sure / am at this moment
wearing your" She hesitates.
"Great-grandmothe he prompts.
"Great-grandmother slippers" con-
cludes Cissy, laughing again, and look
ing down at her velvet shoe. the very
fac-simile of that worn by the dead and
gone gTandam.
what miraculously small feet my
great-grandmotheT must have had"
says Mr.. Craven solemnly, regarding
her foot with interest.
-
on me-" she replies, innocently.
Il can see that" he remarks, unwise-
ly, and regrets his speech a second later,
when to his chagrin the pretty foot is
hastily withdrawn.
a silence follows, and then Miss Riv-
ers, as though the thought has just oc-
CURED to her, says gently
i must now bid you goodnight, and
go to Mrs. Richards; she has promised
me tea at nine"
But it is not nearly that yet. It
wants quite quarter to it" protests
her host in a somewhat injured tone
Pray do not hurry yourself Do you
know" waTningly-"that from the mo-
ment YOU Join Mrs Richards until Won
elect to go to bed, she viii spend the
time telling you old tales about the
family. [ know it, because l have been
through it. And it is no joke. Every
story IS thirty minutes good, not a sec
Ond less"
How nice! adore old stories, SAYS
Miss Rivers, sweetly.
You won't adore hers: there's not a
bit OF go in them, not a murder, or a
ghost, or a suicide, or anything anus
ing from start to finish. We are a
wretched lot, you know, when all is
tOld"-alluding apologetically to his an
CestOrs. Don't let yourself in for it,
if you love yourself"
You greatly relieve my mind" saws
CIssy. L couldn't sleep in a house
where a ghost walked"
Couldn't you? l should find even
that poor excitement welcome, 80
dreary is my present existence. You
can't ejectedly-"hOw slow |
find it here, with no society. Your
coming tonight has been such a relief.
Up to this l have had to endure the
Major; and, though I'm generally con-
sldeTed rather goOd-natured than 9TH
erwlse, he IS much too much for any
fellow. lie was agent, you see, in my
uncle s tlme-WhO never attended to
anything-and now, before retiring
from Ofiice-thank goodness, he is re-
tIrlng-he insisted on coming down here
with me to see after things, and behave
uncivilly, and haTaSS the very lives out
of my unfortunate tenants"
why do you let himy" reprOachfully.
Il am afraid to interfere; and besides,
1t doesn't matter much, because he
can't stay long; and I'll make it up to
them afterward. The gOut overlook
him yesterday. I'm devOutly thankful
that it came down upon him heavily, as
have been spared his inane twaddle
for few hours at least"
Poor mani" says Cissy, vaguely,
leaving il doubtful whether she intends
her sympathy for the Major or his
WearIed friend.
L have often wished l hadn't come
here at all" continues Mr.. Craven; my
place in Kent is so much prettier and
far more comfortable; but / was obliged
to do so. He talked me into it. But
nOw"-warmly-'I feel l owe even the
Major debt of gratitude, as my com
ing has enabled me to be of some slight
use to YOU"
Even that miserable solace is denied
you" returns Miss Cissv, with a calm
smile, IF you reflect that, even if you
had remained in Kent, Mrs. Richards
would still have taken me in. and been
very good to me-"
True" rejoins her crest-fallen host;
Il have not been of much service to
you, after all-have II"
CisSy is cOnScience-stricken.
Yes. indeed you haYe!" she saws i'm
pulsively, 1T wasn't civil of me to
say that. was it. when you have been
HOIt lilStIl KIM 10 I0er linen. rs
though ashamed of her amiability, she
goes on hurriedly, with a rather brill
liant cOlor-"GoOd-nigh Mr.. Craven; /
must go, or Mrs. Richards will think I
have vanished in as mysterious a man
neT as l came"
You consign me to solitude?"-half-
jestingly, half in reproach.
"A cigar VIII no doubt console you
etfectually."
And Mrs Richards's company will
be relief to you. / shouldn't, of
course, dream of doing combat with a
woman of Mrs. Richards's attractions.
May | show you the way to her room?
As yet the house is strange to you. She
has tea at nine, / believe you said"-
with calm glance, but faint acces-
sion of color that betrays itself even be-
meath the bronze that Egypt has lent to
his face. DO you-dO you think, # 1
asked her, she would give me some? If
there is anything on earth | covet, it is
cup of tea at nine"
you know Mrs Richards four DAYS
longer than l do" answers Miss Cissy,
cOOlly; you can ask her"
So he does ask her after a short pre-
amble about nothing in particular.
Mrs. Richards makes her Sunday cOurte-
Sy, and assures him she Will feel it
great honor to entertain him; where
upon he thanks her gracefully, and, tell
ing Miss Rivers he has some letters to
answer, but will be back again in no
time, he leaves her for the present.
And indeed his promise holds good; be-
cause the time that elapses before he
again makes his appearance is scarcely
worthy of record.
CHAPTER III.
Cecil rails into a sound sleep that night
almost as soon as her head touches the
pillow.
All through the silent, ,darksomeh hours
she hes, scarce stirring, until morning
forces itself rudely through her cham
per wlndows, morning so called; but it
IS dull, and dark as twilight.
Sprmging from her bed. Cecil runs
paietooted TO the window, and pushing
back the curtains gazes eagerly on the
outer world. Nothing hnt The sarne