The Democratic press. [volume] (Ravenna, O. [Ohio]) 1868-1901, 1889-05-30

| determined at once to look up all my
I old friends and accept all the invita-
| tions | got, for until now, wrapped up
i'll my art, [ had rather neglected the
first, and always declined the last. But
everything had changed; since my
dream had been but the shadow OF
sweet reality l seemed to have reach
ed at one bound the very soul of life.
After some months of solitary wan
derings / began to journey slowly
hOmeward, pausing at each pictures
que village which took my fancy, and
| crossing the rich Lombard plain to
Milan, and so to Genoa and the Ri
viera.
1t was late on Christmas eve when L
reached a quaint little town near
Bordighera and drove to the Hotel
Francia. | was very tired, and after
supper and hasty glance at the beau
tiful bay and the white moonlight
shining on the rugged Rocher Rouge
and mingling with the glancing lights
fitting about in the steep, arched lit
tie streets, l went to bed, feeling a
strange sense of familiarity and ex-
I pectancy, which strove in vain to ac-
count for. However, soon fell asleep,
and then once more the old dream
came to me.
There was the violet sea laundering
on tho beach, the shadowy purple
hills, growing paler against the clear
gold of the dawn, and the strange,
wild chorus of bells surging and quiv-
ering through the hushed air; and
then, with gathering sense of terror
and fear, the darkness, and that dead
face yelled in the coffin before me.
With sharp cry awoke to find
this was no dream, but a horrible
reality, for the room was rocking and
trembling with that sickening mo-
ton one grows to know and dread in
countries subject to earthquakes. and
terrible sounds of falling buildings
were mingled with the cries and
groans of those buried beneath the
ruins. The sea broke on the shore
with a sound like thunder, and above
us tho peaks seemed to shiver and
crack, and huge powders came totter-
ing down on the little city.
sprang up and, hastily dressing,
CROPPED my way out of the hotel; and
not moment too soon, for as I reach
ed the road, which here sloped sharply
down to the sea, the ground again
qnivered and rocked slowly backward
and forward. and the whole building
fell into a mass of shapeless ruins, and
as the steep little streets seemed lean
ing together, the unearthly chorus of
bells rang out again and again, half
drowning the cries of the terrified
people.
1t was all exactly as had seen it in
nv dream. and l turned away with a
shiver, noting how familiar was each
detail, and feeling sick and dazed and
helpless, when a voice near me recall
ed me to myself.
"Ina. where are youP My Godi
where can my daughter be?'
recognized the voice at once as
that of the old man I had seen looking
at my picture. and the girls sweet
name sounded like a hymn of peace
amid the horrible scene.
WAS she in the Francia?" gasped.
Yes" lie replied eagerly; ''she was
with me as we CROPPED our way down.
stairs, but a blow from some falling
beam hurled me here, and she-where
| is she?"
He strove to rise, but even as he
spoke another fearful shock came, the
ground opened at our feet, and with
a terrible cry and hopeless clutch at
the yielding masonry of the wall by
which he stood, he disappeared, swal-
lowed up before my very eyes! Had [
been a foot nearer | must have gone,
too. AS it was. staggered and fell
heavily; but only to struggle up again,
! haunted by the terrible thought that
she was lying buried, perhaps dead,
underneath those cruel stones.
| must find her! And nerved to
greater haste and energy by the awful
sight had just seen. rushed into the
ruined house, calling:
'1nai Inai where are you?"
Alasi there was no answer.
/ CROPPED my way over great heaps
| of debris through what had been the
hall of the Francia. Great jars of rude
native pottery, in which grew orange
and palm trees, camellias and myrtles.
had been set against the wall on either
side. Most of these were now crushed
and broken, but at the farther end,
close to the solid stone staircase. stood
two apparently uninjured, though half
buried, and in the dim light of the
returning dawn l caught glimmer of
something white underneath a heavy
wooden beam which appeared resting
on these two immense vases, its falling
having been broken by the balustrade
of the staircase.
FASTENED forward, and as reach
ed the spot the first ray of the Christ
mas morning sunlight rested upon it,
and showed me sort of rough tomb
or alcove formed by the beam resting
on the two unbroken orange jars, and
in it lay the girl l was seeking! There
she was, exact as l had seen her in my
dream, apparently dead, the lovely
face as white as the draperies around
her. The huge block of wood had
probably knocked her down, and,
falling above, had been caught by the
lars, and so protected her from all the
other debris scattered around, par
TALLY walling her in.
tore away the stones and broker
fragments with frantic hands (tht
beam itself, of course, | could no
move by q hairs breadth) and at las
was able to draw her gently from
underneath it and carry her tenderly
out on to the road, which was nov
rapidly filling with carriages into
which wounded and sick people hat
been lifted for greater safety than
could be found in the tOttering houses
In one of these carriages, to M.
great Joy l recognized the face o
Reginald DoOne's mother, lady wh'
was almost as dear to me as my own
and who always looked on me rs on
of her boys, Reginald and havin!
been so much together. She was nov
J looking out anxiously, and, recogniz
ing me, stopped the carriage.
Ina was still perfectly unconsc ious
and with few words of explanation
left her in my old friends motherl
care, promising to come back to ther
, as soon as all possible help had beel
given to the unfortunate people, man.
of whom were still half buried beneat
the ruins of their homes.
= l feared to face Ina, knowing wha
7 her first words would be, and the ter
rible answer must give to her, an
J l strove to forget the inevitable pail
r by hurrying from place to place, as
, sisting as best l could those in need c
help. 1t was very desolate scene
: amid ali the beauty of purple mour
| tains and blue sea, that Christmas-da
1 sun shone down upon. The little cit
l.