San Antonio daily light. [volume] (San Antonio, Tex.) 1886-1907, 1891-09-14

tears to her eyes, and her lips quivered
1t would be unjust to say that any fool
ish sentiment caused her emotion. A
very natural inconsistencies had preyed
upon her mind at intervals since coming
to Savannah, and of course every letter
from the pocket" and every other spe-
cial reminder Of the old mill aggravated
the malady, and it was with feeling of
relief that Rosalie turned from the banjo
to read one addressed to her uncle from
Mr.. Edgar Julian.
Here is something that may interest
you, Mr. Roosevelt had SAID as he
handed her this missive postmarked at
some town in the south of France. The
latter part Of it is really meant for you
to read. judge you will be charmed
with it,
"Oh, it is from Mr.. Julian" she ex.
claimed, almost joyfully, as she glanced
at the signature He is in the south Of
France, sure enough And such long
letter.
She kissed her uncle in thankful antici-
patton Of some news from lie Chateau
Chenier," and ran off to the nearest win
dow seat to read.
Mr.. Roosevelt stood for a moment
contemplating her. This was the first
time his fascinating adopted daughter
had ever kissed him He was shrewd
old fellow; he suspected that Kiss us be-
ing meant to go clear across the Allan
tic He thought it not worth while to
make any remarks, however, and with
bland smile on his semi-Jewish face he
went away to his Office.
Rosalie's hand trembled as she held
the letter. Her eyes ran rapidly over
the clear, rather small writing, scarcely
the half Of which had anything to do
with Mr. ROosevelt's business Evil
IDENTIFY Mr. Edgar Julian had done val
liant and valuable work in behalf of the
railroad schemes of his employers, for
he had sent back the contract of the
Dutch Syndicate" duly approved. signed
and sealed. A matter 50 completely fin
ished needed very few words of explana-
ton, But turning from railroad diplo-
macy to something which seemed to in
terest him pleasantly. he wrote as fol-
lows:
81 promised Miss Chenier that would
look up the old estate in Provence to
which her father thought he might have
some claim. Qt may be said here that
Rosalie could not remember any such
prOmise.) II have seen lie Chateau Che
merit still bears the name; most
lovely old ruin in the midst of vineyards
and fig orchards. and trimmed round with
olive crowned hills. The chateau itself
is not inhabitable, save that one tumble
down wing has been kept as pretense
of shelter for Il family of peasants, of
very low order | should say; but the
place has been grand one.
IF one had lived few hundred years
ago one would have loved such home,
for it was then fair castle in the center
of the worlds most charming region. The
estate is quite valuable even now, and
its ownership seems in doubt. After all,
Miss Cheuier's father may be the right
full claimant II he could establish his
title few thousand dollars judiCiously
expended would make the whole place
garden of beauty This climate is en-
chanting. | should like to settle here
with a colony of my own picking The
wind. and the sunshine, and the fra
GRANGE of things fill one with a sense of
the value of mere existence But the
people are dry and stolid on the one
hand, or gushing and monstrously in
cliued to exaggeration on the other
H.. ,,-hnCa ln hnrinU
classes wear sabot5 is safe TO live in, 1t
has the appearance Of decay Ill its last
stage Sandals, bare feet and wooden
shoes are not the Accomplishments of
progress. In walking about among the
people and the buildings here am con-
stantly reminded Of ashes
Indeed, am not sure but that the
fervent sun Of this climate has slowly
burned up everything. Such energy as
we have in our great west might not be
able to resist it through many genera
tions. especially five should fall into this
wine drinking habit Everywhere one
goes here one sees wine used like water.
and great deal of it isa villainous sour
stuff unfit for hogs TO drink
They tell US that this region was once
the center of European literary culture;
that here the fragrant dregs of Roman
civilization. and, through the Roman,
the Greek artistic refinements, were left
over after Italy had become cinder.
These lemon groves and vineyards, these
old chateaux, these stony hills and
drowsy valleys ought to be the ideal
region for the poets. but it seems they
could not stay; the climate made dust of
them by dreamy process Of slow COM
bustion. Some of the old picturesque
things anl some of the poetical customs