Waterbury evening Democrat., 1891-05-06

| "D0nG you Ike n1mr asked the girl, giving up her laughing pout for quick, eager look into the cheery face.
 For answer the other sobered as she saw the look in the clear, appeal ing eyes, and with a mist rising intO | her own, drew the slender girl close
 against her and held her there with the
 iilken head nestling against her neck.
 Then she kissed her tenderly, and
 with her arm about her they went out,
 the younger with her eyes upon the
 carpet, and the elder looking out be-
 fore her with a tear slipping down
 either cheek. I John Earling found the dinner hour
 almost pleasant beyond words, save
 that Celeste seemed little shy. He had
 never known much that was lovely in domestic life, and now, after his years
 of the little room under the roof of
 Bowers Block. and the rather mem
 agerie-like methods about the pub
 lie board of the Openstone. Ho-
 tel, the chaste and tranquil
 tons snowy table pervaded him with
 a very grateful sense. He felt the
 spirit of his surroundings enter and
 sooth him like a sweet perfume, and
 talked on in his fine, quiet way through what seemed to him the first real hour
 of happiness he had ever known.
 Celeste was ready with smile and listen-
 ing ear, but not with many words,
 while the young man and Mrs. Bray-
 ton got on very fast and smoothly to- gether. Something in the air made
 him tell them of the beautiful things
 he had seen, with such language as
 only poetic insight creates, and with
 such a relish as comes alone of an un-
 sated heart Then. helped on by the
 elder lady, he unconsciously unfolded
 his pity for the poverty and wretched-
 ness he had seen, and Celeste through
 her luminous eyes seemed to come
 very near to him.
 After that, the lucent June days be- gan to stretch away swiftly, with the | first sense of soft delight increasing in
 the young mans blood until he felt
 life, with its fair surroundings and daily privilege of looking upon Celeste face,
 a very delicious thing. Now and then his natural inclination to be at work
 wrenched at him, and he said to him. | self that he had come to be only an idler, 0 sort of pleasure-enfeebled shirk- CT in the game of life, yet he had had so little of gladness he could not take
 his lips away from the bright bowl | when at last he held it in his hands.
 He said to himself he should be going,
 but the soft law that held him and that
 he did not recognize, was too strong for him. Then he had no kin or estab- lished interests to take him away. why l should he not loiter a EttleP ! regard of Mrs. Brayton, a thing denied him in his previous life, was | very comforting. In a few days she had told him of her son, lost fin the war
 before he had come of age; of her l daughter, a young wife in Cleveland; | of her own husband, once a merchant l of the city. who died three summers be- | fore, leaving her an income ample tor
 her needs and something over with
 which to ease her heart of its charit-
 able promptings. Then she told him | of Celeste's life, an absorbing theme to
 him and strange and sweet in it's rev. | citations. How Celeste's father had
 been a Colonel in the war, and lost his
 life leadingra charge on the field of
 Antietam; then how the won-
 her child and entered the service as a soldiers nurse; of the brave, helpful
 life they led, of the mothers heroic deeds, of the child's carrying water to
 the wounded in the Wilderness, of her
 wound in the limb with a musket ball
 which left her limping through life, of the mothers life and death as a | newspaper correspondent at Washing ton when the war was over, and Ce- leste's coming to Cincinnati to share her home.
 The narrative touched the soft-heart- ed. bravery-loving John Earling as with invisible fire. It seemed to him
 he could feel Celeste's wound, and see the blue-eyed, bird-like child with cups of water in her hands giving drink to the dying upon the field of carnage. It thrilled him; where had he been in that heroic hourP Working out his supposed debt of gratitude in Joel Whitney's store! Though it was not, yet his own honest action seemed triv- ial to him. Prompted by loving pity, of what bravery had she not been ca pable! An, the noble daughter of the dead soldier! This, arch, shy, gentle, slender, silver-throated Celeste! Was it possible such strength and selfiess fire lay back of all her chaste and soft docilityp Surely he was only boy, he thought, and did not yet know much of women.
 Every morning he walked with her down the hillside through the sweet June air, and together they boarded a SoAS tAhNS 4uA0AOA 4AtO lOWup got down at the door of the School of Music where she taught. These little trips were very much to him, he found, for then she was in his care, and while ever silent as to the slight lameness and it's hallowed cause, the touch was infinitely tender with which he aided her. Then she was less shy, he thought, as in truth she was, being carried away by his presence and the rosy weather from her instinctive attempt to hide the beautiful flame that burned within her. Sometimes he would return and visit awhile with Mrs. Brayton, and drive with her to look after her chari- ties, or wander away to the green heights in Eden Park and read and loiter, looking down over the vast and shimmering vista of city, river and rolling hills. Then presently he found that the beautiful courthouse, that |