Daily Kennebec journal. [microfilm reel] (Augusta, Me.) 1870-1975, 1894-09-25
A PRETTY GIRL. z
Nay, but you, who do not love her.
Is she not pure gold, my mistress?

Nay, but you, who do not love her,
Is she not pure gold, my mistress?
-Brownin&
There had never been any doubt as to
Polly Pembertons beauty. She had been
young tyrant from babyhood. 1t had
never been of the slightest use trying to
keep her under Her mother made con-
scientious attempts to not have her in evil
dence when guests were about, and her IA
| ther feebly seconded her efforts by trying
to keep out of Polly's way. The under
taking was nevertheless hopeless. Polly,
standing wistfully at the nursery window,
made prudent resolutions vanish like chaff.
Polly, as Cherry Ripe going to church,
was the enchanting thing of the day.
When newcomers first caught glimpses of
her wheeling her doll carriage or playing
with the pup, they were useless for further
purposes of entertainment until the first
novelty of intercourse with Polly wore off.
"Her conversation alone is worth the
price of admissions" condescended cous-
in of Polly's, second year at Yale.
When Polly grew, horribly spoiled, of
course, petulant, exacting, fairly gener-
Gus, warm hearted, openly truthful, she
was so beautiful that everything was per
keep even men whose appreciation was
worth something devoted to her.
The time naturally came when two out
of the crowd of worshipers were distanc-
ing all competitors. Polly knew her world
| and foresaw the inevitable decision she
would presently be called upon to make.
She intended to marry for love, being
much too clever to be willing to miss that
h,r ha 1afo ipa1 tn
out of life all that was in it.
"What comfort it Is to be pretty!"
she thought contentedly. "Then really
nice men fall in love with one. How
| dreadful to have to choose from impossible
| creatures''
| One of the men was an artist. He loved
| Polly's beauty. Her soul was of no mo-
ment. But Polly did not know this. 1t
| did not occur to her that any one would
| dare to separate the two.
The other man loved the inner Polly.
He revcrenced her beauty, as he did all
beauty and truth and tho other things
worthy men worship. And Polly did not
| know the difference between the two loves.
There was tender poetry in the artists
wooing, which was very sweet to her
He had way of gently touching her
udlF anu quOtlIlS'
| Holds earth aught-speak truth-above her?
| Above this tress, and this touch,
But cannot praise, love so much!
which went to Polly's heart Yet the
constant referring to a strong, serious ma
ture, which the other man unquestiona-
bly, attributed to her, kept her in a rarer
atmosphere than, but for the stimulus Of
his personality, she could have breathed
Ia kI; II, h,,% l.,
more keenly when the other man was with
| her.
The futures the two men offered her
were vastly different. The artist drew
winning pictures of beautiful dreamy
old world life, drifting in Venice, driving
through the Wordsworth land going from
German villages to the Boulevard fetes
from the cnchantment of Swiss lakes to
the Land of the Midnight Sun, and every
where living lover existence of love
and beauty and delight.
But the other man spoke of a working
day world, of q place where men and
| women and pitiful children needed help
and succor. He drew her into the life of
the worse half of the world and showed
her its need He made her hear the cry of
children wanting bread, made her see girls
|
through it all she felt his love about her
protecting, comforting, infinitely tender
and believing.
| Meantime the summer was passing. The
cooling breczes of early September brought
fresh joys. The artist took Polly canoe
ing, and the other man, who was very
boyish and enthusiastic, rowed off his
feelings in single scull.
| A oil w
decided Polly One afternoon Polly was
making tea on tho lawn while tho rival
contestants were playing tennis. She
looked unusually beautiful, and when the
set was over the artist made several
sketches of her. One of them he called
lover the Teacups, - in playful love for
the dear waiter. He afterward painted it
in and in a few days showed it to Polly.
II don't like it at all, she objected.
"It is the portrait of q heartlcss girl"
The artist laughed.
"What does it matter?" he said "With
such holy beauty as yours, you could be
anything you liked No one expects you
to be anything but beautiful"
Miss Polly Pemberton was not slow. A
great many things came back to her as she
looked at him for moment. Then she
smiled vaguely.
conc man docs" she said sweetly.
1.-THE man l am going to marry, not you,
you know. He thinks mo true and good,
but it docs not matter to you, docs it,"
is it Ferris?" asked the artist.
, YES said Polly, and SO she was irrev-
ocably committed. Ferris one coherent
remark was that it was better to win her
by fluke than not at ll.-Madge Robert.
son in New York Press.
Fear as a Cause of Disease.