The Appeal. [volume] (Saint Paul, Minn. ;) 1889-19??, 1889-09-28

The tears dropped of the long lashes and
a bitterness settled over the white face-so
very white now in the deepening twilight
II her young heart was breaking from
neglect and want of sympathy, what differ
ence did it make; what difference, indeed?
She was only an orphaned niece, moneyless
and friendless, finding shelter under the
aristocratic rooftree of Uncle Wilton, sim
ply because it could not very well be other
wise. People would have censured, you
see. =
Cousins Kate and Clara were in the
drawing entertaining friends, and the
soft light came through the drawn curtains
OF filmy lace with a dreamy r: dance suit
ing well the slow, sleepy music of the
guitar some one was playing inside
The girl paused to look In at the cozy en-
joyneent hungrily. How she loved music;
butthen she could not sing. No; the mu-
steal vein OF the Wiitons had failed to throb
into her life for some reason.
She couldn't sing, she couldn't dance,
neither could she appear we'll in society; so
Aunt Marie said there was no use bother
ns with the little, ignorant beggar."
The big tears, hesitating on.the dark lash
es, FLASHED down on the crimson shawl, and
Babbette turned away with choking SEN
sation in her throat.
Out across there, though, where thelights
twinkle Through the trees, lived a dear old
friend, the gray-haired rector How many
happy hours she had passed in that pretty
cottage; the little study with it's modest in
grain carpet and softly-shaded lamps; with
its marrow, green shutters opening out on
long, old-fashoned piazza by day, and closed
on the little happy world at night was o
paradise to the lonely girl
Doubtless the low rocker in it's snug cor
ner waited her coming tonight as often be-
fore; and they wouldn't miss her in there
where the soft, sweet music mcllowed the
air and floated out on her desolate night =.
No, there was no room for her anyway,
had she chosen to have remained in doors
Her place must be among those in the
dreary by-ways of life!
But the rector, kind old man, was COM
panionable and friend. She would step in
and have another of those long, serious
talks she delighted in. Poor man! He, too,
was alone now, with none but the house
keeper to look after him. His wife slept
over there in the church-yard, and his son
well! Babbette didn't mind of ever see
ing him.
He was away to college somewhere, but
the rector had told her that he would be at
home shortly. After his coming, of course,
Babbette argued, she wouldn't feel as free
to occupy the willow rocker at the rcctory,
! for! Well, she was now eighteen and real
| Is child no more. for all Aunt Marie kept
herin ankle dresses and long, childish curls
Turning from the music and mcrriment
within her unole's drawing groom, she drew
thea crimson shawl closely under her dainty
chin and went away in the darkness. Cross
ing the lawn and shutting the wicket gate
behind her she ran swiftly along under the
greening cedars toward the rectory.
Tapping at the study door she was ad-
nitted By the gray-haired clergyman, as
usual, who drew the familiar rocker for
ward and, pushing his books aside. turned
| around for the talk he knew was expected
to be forthcoming.
"And tonight am eighteen,' said Bah
bette. letting the shawl drop from her
| shoulders with a weary gesture, land what
have accomplished, or where is the pros
pectlve niche for Babbettc Wilton?"
Her fingers clasped and unclasped them
selves in an aimless nervousness, and the
choking sensation welled up into sob.
The good old man placed his trembling
hand on the brown curls. ''Daughter," said
he, "be of good cheer; violets are lowly,
but dare say the brilliant and stately bios
as much as they.''
A step sounded in the hall The rector
looked up. ut is my son, Max" he ex-
planned. "He came home yesterday:
didn't tell you, did I? Nax!' calling,