Weekly expositor. (Brockway Centre, Mich.) 1882-1894, 1893-11-24

very lODu Vi lllt " ElllH, anu 0iltOuJ
she had begun to build her little castles in
the air for their benefit. Rose was TO marry
Philip that honest young mechanic from
the far south, beyond Carcassonne, who was
doing so we'll as journeyman cabinet
maker, and who was something OF an artist
in his way, and thus a little above the aver
age mechanic. And now here there had
dropped from the sky, as it were, the very
lover of lovers for Kathleen-yOung, hand
some, refined, as charming as a lover in
play.
Maman Schubert told herself il was high
time Kathleen should have lover, whose
duty it would be to protect and cherish her,
and to marry her so soon as ever they were
rich enough to marry. She was much too
pretty to remain unguarded by a strong
mans love. For such fresh and innocent
loveliness Paris was full of snares; she
coald not go the length of street alone
without encountering perils. The wolf was
always on the watch for this lamb. Rose
O'Hara's avocations compelled her to be abb
sent all day long, and she was obliged 10
NEW her young sister in the little sitting
room, forbidding her to go step beyond
her daily marketing within narrow radius
of the Rue Git lie C9ur.
The wolf, as represented by the gdndin
or petit creUe, was not often on the prowl in
this humble locality. The pavements were
too rough for his dainty boots, the region
altogether too shabby for his magnificence.
But from the SorbOnne, from the Luxem-
bourg, and from the Hotel Dieu issued
wolves of another and rougher species
students Of all kinds; and Rose lived in
ever-present fear lest one OF these should
assail her cherished lamb. Maman Schu-
bert was often too lazy to go marketing;
and then Kathleen must needs go alone on
her little errands to the green-grocer, or the
pork-butcher, or the cre1nerie.
The creneric was just round the corner
one of the neatest daintiest little shops in
Paris, or at least it was so thought by the
inhabitants Of Git lie Ceur, who patronised
1t literally. 1t was q tiny shop in narrow
street, and one descended TO ii by two stone
steps, trodden hollow and sloping by pill
grins in past ages; for the shop was an old
shop. coeval with the departed glorles of
the Faubourg st. Germain. 1t was cellar
like and dark, but that was an advantage
on a hot summer day. 1t was cool and shad-
owy, like a rustic dairy, and it was clean
ah, how il was clean! You might have of
fered napoleon for every cobweb TO be
found in Suzon MichePs shop, without fear
of being out of pocket by your offer. The
little tables at which Suzon's customers
breakfasted were of spotless marble. Her
thick white crockery had never a stain or a
smear Her brass milk-cans and tin coffee
pots were as bright as silver in silver
smiths shop.
1t was in this acknowledgement apartment
that EaCtD1n NfnptaOar fha journalist
took his breakfast every day--coifee and
eggs, roll and butter, occasionally diversi-
fed by q plate OF redishes.
This simple and wholesome fare was en-
livened by the society of Madame Michel, a
buXom black-eyed widow Of six-and-twenty,
who had always the last news OF the quar-
ter, and CHEEKY word for every conner, and
who found great deal to say to this par
ticular customer. She stood behind her
bright little counter, flashing her knitting
needles, or moved deity about the shop,
polishing and arranging her pots and pans
while CASTOR Mortemar breakfasted, and
that hour seemed to her always the bright
est in the day. BY the time he had lived
six months in the Rue Git lie Ceur, they
were on very intimate terms. She used to
upbraid him if he were five minutes later
than his usual hour, and she would pout and
look sorrowful if he seemed in haste to de-
part. Once she served him better break
fast than he had ordered, and wanted TO
supply hiTn with dainty dish gratis; but
Monsieur Mortemar drew the line here. His
angry flush and naughty frOwn told the lit
lie widow that she had gone too far.
please to remember that am gentle
man, and not a piqtedSsiette, he said, land
that eat nothing l cannot pay for"
Madame shrugged her'shoulders, and said
it was hard she could not offer an OnleIette
0ltI points daSpeTyeS to friend if she
liked.
"When visit my friends 1 take what they
choose to give me-" answered CASTOR cold
"; ''but have no friends in this part of
Paris"
Suzon Michel looked as black as thunder,
and took the journalists money in sulky ST.
lence. She broke jug before dinner-time,
and was snappsh to her customers all the
rest of the day.
what Satan-lke pridew she exclaimed,
thinking of her favoritc patron; and then
she muttered remark which might have
found place later in the columns of the
Pere Duchene.
She cried when she went to bed that night,
cried and sobbed, and swore an oath or two
by way of solace before she laid her head
on her pillow, thinking that CASTOR Morte-
mar would come no more TO the little table
at the end of the shop. But at the usual
Cine he walked into her shop, and sat HIM
self down with an imperturbable visage.
She served his coffee az carefully as ever,
but said never a word. He read a newspa-
per while he breakfasted, paid, and went,
without word on his part.
Next morning there was bunch of daffo-
dis on the little table, bunch OF yellow
bloom lighting up the shadowy corner.
Suzon had trudged to the flower-market be-.
fore she opened her shop, to buy these
spring flowers for the man she loved. Yes,
she loved him, aud meant to marry him il
she could. He was a gentleman, and she
cdndule dc cdndille. But what of that?
Did not the gutter throne it yonder on the
side of the Seine, in the Bots, in the Pare
Monceau-the gutter made glorious in silks
and satins, driving thoroughbred horses,
scattering their lovers substance i'm waves
of gold? Did not all that was noblest i'm the
land lay itself down and grovel Mt the feet