Reporter and farmer. [volume] (Webster, Day County, Dakota [S.D.]) 188?-1946, 1893-07-06
PRINCE Or PAINTER.

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a shaggy name of gray hair escaping
beneath the skull cap Of faded velvet
and hanging over the massive, wilful
brow.
He came in to buy a book Of an
cient engravings,'' answered the girl.
He said he was a painter. my father"
She stood on the inner side Of the
small counter, her blood-red head In
relief aginst the rows Of dusty old vol
umes L their mellow. brown, worm
eaten bindings. The light was dim in
the little shop. The air was full of the
faint, acrid odor that ONE from old
books, old parchment, old manuscripts.
She was the most beautiful girl in Vi
emma, Miss Deborah, the daughter Of
the old Jewish keeper Of the ancient
book-shop in which bibliomaniacs had
found treasures that had made his
name famous among the clan half over
Europe, With wealth dt was rumored)
and with this u~nrecognized celebrity,
the old Jew had never moved his place,
had never changed his mode Of life.
Naught cared he for the world or its
estimates. One pearl Of great price he
had, guarded with jealous avarice-his
daughter. Tall and straight as a palm
on Lebanon she was, with a throat like
milk and n mouth like "the scarlet
thread" Of the singer OF the Song Of
Solomon. Her hair had caught the
light of sunset and enmeshed it for
ever. Her eyes were soft and dark
and fathomless, like deep, still wells
In which you see one star shine by
night.
BUT Deborah had no suitors. Would
her beauty fade unplucked, like the
rose on the bush? No mans shadow
might Dnger across the threshold of
the old Jews shop. Let them purchase
their wares, transact their business and
be gone. His daughter was not for
profane Eyes to dwell upon, for Jew or
Gentle TO cc.et.
And has this young man not been
twice, thrice. here in a few days?'
Like arrows the small, piercing orbs
darted theic inquiry across the coun-
ter.
Twice only, my father. The engrav-
ings made not a full collection the first
time"
Deborah's eyes met the fathers and
quailedfpot. An instant more of mer-
CHESS Scrutiny and the old man, with a
gutteral sound Of admonition, turned
away.
Hail TO me! Bring forward your
congratulations at the same hour
cried a young man, fair and pale,
whose artists garb of velvet jacket
and soft hat had been exchanged for
a glittering uniform of Hussars. II
have made Roadway. The citadel is
notSWpregnable."
"NGtitadel is likely to be that where
your Royal Highness is concerned"
said the suave tones Of the confidential
friend and courtier.
Bah! Who knows? A good general
Is he who foresees defeat and its col-
sequences, as well as victory. And the
old Jew is an enemy worthy of all
ones strategy. To foil him viii not be
an easy task, even when / have won
the daughter to my side. But she is
worthy of every risk! We gods. L
have seen no such beauty as this girl
from spalace to howell in all the EN-
pire!"
Indeed no.. This Deborah is a beau
ty of beauties; Your Royal Highness
says truly. There is none like her"
The next time 1t was the confidential
friend and courtier who sought the old
book-shop. and who, from the other
side Of the counter. managed, between
two phrases relative to the purchase
of a moth-eaten pamphlet of price, to
allude to his comrade, the young paint
er. Consumed alas, poor fellow, by
the most sudden, the most tragic of
passions"
A fiuttering of the eyelids, a deeper
flush Of rose on the cheek. To the
heart of the Jews daughter, a heart
hitherto without knowledge of it's own
pulses had come the revelation of
quick. tumultuous throbs. The deep
sleep that had visited her pillow hith-
erto, unbroken by dreams, grew fitful
and haunted with visions.
Love was rising in her woman's
bosom as the sap rises In the tender
young twigs Of spring.
The old Jew went his way among his
European correspondence with sayants
and ~bibliophiles. and famous book
worms among his rare collections, his
microscopic Investigations of authentic
manuscripts. And still with unsleep-
ing vigilance he watched his pearl Of
great price, the beautiful Deborah.
Still no man might loiter. In CONVERSE
ton with her. about the dim, crowded
little shop. Still he guarded his treas
ure, as a miser his gold. Or. still he
thought he guarded it. But love and
passion and great power of coercing
circumstances on one side may softly
smile at figurativc bolts, at moral bar
riers.
Deborah loved, and now she knew
that she loved not a poor, picturesque
young painter. but the prince, the heir
to the throne; a man known through
out Europe as irresistible, and a lber-
tine, who had assumed this disguise
the more easily to be able to approach
her, disarming suspicion: but a man
whom she trusted because of the di-
vine faith of love; because, by that
testimony of the inmost soul which lies
not. she felt that he loved her, not as
a passing caprice, but with the deep,
full, despairipg earnestness of the first
true passion of a heart.
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