The Cecil Whig. [volume] (Elkton, Md.) 1841-current, 1894-04-21
ELIZABETH, THE HERMIT'S
DAUGHTER.

The wet willow boughs lashed the
gray walls OF Bolenbroke Manor, and
the summer wind ran boisterously
about the one ruined wing.
In one of the deep set windows
Miss Elizabeth Bolenbroke sat
dreaming. She longed for the
| unattainable. She lived in a world
of her own and made her thoughts
appear realities. for her life was
lonely.
Her father was an artist, and after
his beautiful young wife's death,
broken down by sorrow, he had
brought his little daughter to the
home OF his boyhood, and engrossed
in his art, he tried to forget his grief.
| Elizabeth had never left him. The
village school was many miles distant
so she had learned to read at her
fathers knee, and tnen she found her
way to the musty old library, opened
the creaking shutters, and, climbing
on a chair, she unlocked the glass
doors of the bookcase, pulled down
an ancient volume and began the
first lesson in history unassisted.
After this, she went every day; she
would curl up in one of the big arm
chairs, and read all the books she
could reach on the dusty shelves.
Shakespeare made her long to be an
actress; she studied Macbeth"
"Othello" and "Hamlet" until she
knew them by heart. She would
practice gestures, expressions, muir
ders before the long mirrors in the
drawing room. History made her
wish for war so that she might
distinguish herself like a second
Joan of Arc or as hospital nurse.
Biographies OF men famous IN
literature caused her to begin a
novel which was never finished. She
thought that if she could focus all
her powers she might kindie the
fire of genius, and she was vainly
endeavoring to discover the burning
glass with which this could be accom-
plished.
But of late new ambition had
been awakened in her soul. One
evening, when the daylight had
grown too dim to see, she stole to
the kitchen where her old nanny
the only domestic around the
premises, was doing before the fire.
She sat down on her lap, as she had
done so often when a child, and
begged her to tell her something
about her mother, and nanny in
hushed tones, for the master could
not bear the past, told her of "de
good ole times befo' de whar," when
Elizabeth's grandfather was the
richest man in the country, and her
mother a belle, and all the men that
spoke to her fell in love, and would
come miles just to have peep al
her, and if she smiled on them they
would be happy, and if she troEned
they would choose some haunted
dell where they could fight duels
and be killed uninterrupted. And
how one unfortunate individual, on
his way to see her, was killed in d
railroad accident, how another was
thrown from his horse and broke
his leg, how another went to wal
because she thought 1t was his duty
and he was brought home the next
month shot.
What fine silks and satins she
used to wear, how beautiful she
looked, how the mail bag used tc
be filled with love letters, and how
gay the house was with company.
Do l look anything like her?
Elizabeth had asked.
You's her livin' image, chile, an e
yer had one young gentle mar
comm here you'd had a hundred
70 mems like sheep; they follers arteI
one anudder.
Nanny shuffled off to prepare te;
and Elizabeth stood meditatine
upon her last words. From tha
moment her mind was made up
she would be belle; all the girls II
novels were bellies; why could no