The western sentinel. [volume] (Winston-Salem, N.C.) 1887-1926, 1888-04-05
A MODERN SPARTAN.
BY MISS EDITH MAY DOVE.


the main incidents of our rambling
story will be enacted. This Inn
was very like other Inns of the
same grade. It's landlord and
landlady mere obsequious to filthy
lucre, and respectful to no one but
"bullies." The kitchen possessed a
cook who was constantly giving
warning, and a range which burned
everything, but hard boiled eggs.
The billiard table was something
over a half century in age and
no pockets. Every chimney in the
house smoked, and the Inn was al
ways 'just OUT of everything which
traveller happened to particularly
desire, from cigars to soap. But
the gorgeous scenery embalming the
little Inn made up for all short
comings in cuisine, and herds Of
sightseers focked to it each succeed
ing year, and the keepers of the Inn
were we'll provided for pecuniarily
in the shape of two perpetual board
ers, Roy and Daisy Hazeldeen !;
whom their father, an Indian Col
onel, had settled at the Inn when
they were tiny children of six and
four years old. That had been ten
years ago, but they had remained at
the Inn ever since, growing strong
and healthy in the wine like noun
tain air, and being bothered by stud
les very slightly.
Their education was conducted
by clergyman at the village two
miles distant. Once week he rode
up to the inn behind a superannatcd
gray pony and spent scant couple
of hours in hearing Roy and Daisy
recite the bits of elementary gram
mar and history which they had
CHANGED to learn at odd times during
the week. Then he would discuss
religious topics in a half quizzical
manner with Roy-who was 'old for
his age" and in country parlance
chad a head for argument, until
the obstinate pony drew the chaise
up to the door and the clergyman
rode back to the parish. This Sc
cluded life had made Daisy a merry
girl, who believed herself undeniably
wicked and gloried in the fact; while
Roy was sternly religious, and, al
though he hated Romanism, was
an ascetic acolyte at heart.
On one breezy summer morning
Daisy and Roy stood at the door of
the inn waiting for the break which
carried travellers to and from the
nearest railroad station. Roy was
going away, having been invited by
his reverend tutor to spend few
days at the Manse. Daisy was
longingly wishing that Mr.. Rogers,
who visited the inn every year trout
fishing, would happen to be in the
break. In personal appearance the
brother and sister were very dissim-
liar. Roy's face spoke of nothing
but the highest standard of rectitude;
he was beautiful, with clear blue
eyes, faxen hair and a perfect COM
plexion, but his expression seemed
to despise all but truth. Daisy was
a pretty girl, with long braids Of
brown hair here and there breaking
out into curls; ruddy cheeks, and a
piqnant nose. She was impulsive,
and as, the break, drawn by four
horses suddenly came into sight she
began to clap her hands, crying,
"Mr. Rogers is there, he is!
care you glad to see him? Oh
Geordie." asked Roy.
Daisy again peered out at the
break.
"Geordie is there" she exclaimed.
ooh, how nice"
A moment later her brother was
riding away and Daisy was escorting
Mr.. Rogers, a smiling gentleman
who had won Daisy's heart by his
alteration Of children, into
the Inns best parlor, while Geordie
Rogers, a handsome curly haired
lad, followed respectfully in the
rear.
"Ha," said Mr.. Rogers, pinching
Daisy's ear, you're coquette, Idon't
dare stay here but one day. I'm
afraid of you, but I shall leave
Geordie. He's just come from Elton
under the impression that he knows
everything. Show him the High
lands, Daisy, and make him explain
why heather grows.
True to his promise, Mr.. Rogers
took his departure the following
morning, leaving Geordie to spend
his entire vacation at the Inn. Roy
still remaining at the Manse, Daisy
and Geordie Rogers rollicked away
the long sunny days in perfect hap
piness. They emulated Mr.. Rog-
ers, ST., and fished daily in the
lake, seldom catching anything of
more consequence than a wetting
from a sudden shower. They mar
auded the kitchen and diary, took
away much spoil of tarts and cream,
which they would peacefully devour
out in the heather covered fields.
During the long and warm
evenings they would sit by the
window of the dreary Inn parlor,
wishes to the new moon, or
telling stories in a whisper.
Daisey Hazeldeen, although she
did not know it, was a keen reader
Of character, and, while still good
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