Sullivan republican. [volume] (Laporte, Pa.) 1883-1896, 1894-11-02
LAPoRTE. PA, FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 2. 1894.

subjects. She was herself a student
of the piano. SO there was enough to
talk about.
Hooked at my watch. was after
| eleven o'clock. How the time had
passed. Three hours had slipped
away and I hadn't realized it. What
better proof that I had found my
newly discovered cousin absorbing.
1t was q new sensation for meme,
who, with my surfeit of fair cousins,
had always been inclined to take the
society of women at discount.
"Why, I do believe am actually q
little in love with sais GIRL" I solilo-
quized on the way back to my lodg-
ings. "But it will do no harm.
She's my cousin" So interested was
in the subject, however, that at that
late hour I sat down upon reaching
home and wrote letter to my mother
in New York, telling her all about
Daisy Tillotson. She was an acquisi-
tion to the family, said.
| I had arranged to take my cousin to
the Luxembourg gallery the next day.
Then we would go to the opera in the
evening. This was my plan. I called
for her in the morning with car
riage. Think of me riding in car
riage! Why, like true bohemian, I
had always hated anything less pie
beian than public omnibus or BIZ
cycle. But then, "she's my cousin"
argued to myself, "and must make
her stay in Paris memorable. It's oil
on her account" y
Yes, she certainly did look pretty,
that fresh, inspiring April morning.
She must have studied to look her
best. I took this to myself as COM
pliment. In turn, I had myself given
unwonted attention to my toilet and
had spent some little time trying to
decide which cravat / should wear.
"What romontic and unconven-
tional situation fate has thrust us into,
Miss Tillotson," I remarked as the
carriage rolled off toward the Luxem-
bourg. "Here are two young people
who have never known and scarcely
heard of each other before, cast sud
denly together, far away from home
and left to each other without sponsor
or chaperon. 1t sounds too bookish
to be reality"
eyes, I've been thinking of it,"
she answered, "but you know we're
cousins, and that's different"
"After ALL" I persisted with the
idea of teasing her-for I'm con.
firmed tease-''are you perfectly sure
of that? You never knew me. Jones
is q common name. There may be
half dozen painters in Paris by the
name of Jones. Ia fact, I know one
myself. You picked me out at ran
dom. Perhaps I'm not your cousin at
all. Maybe the other Jones is the for
tunate one."
"Oh, you're just trying to tease
me-" she responded, ''and shan't be
teased. I know you'd like pretext to
get rid of me, but it's quite a privi-
lege to have cousin in Paris who
knows everything, and Pm not going
to let you go so easily, Mr.. Jones.
"'Mr. Jones, indeed" said I in an
injured tone. eff you call me 'Mr.
Jones I am no cousin of yours. My
name is Arthur-to my cousins. And
I'm going to call you Daisy. May I?
Miss Tiilotson' is so long, you know" ="
81 don't know why you shouldn't,
she said, little coquettishly, "if
you're my cousin.
1t was gala day for me. How I
enjoyed telling her what knew about
the pictures. And in the evening,
how enjoyed hearing her talk of the
opera-it was Carmen. Music was
as familiar ground to her as art was to
me. And how often we found that a
truth was as applicable to one art as
to the other. We had both been pro-
crossing in the same field-art in the
abstract-along different but parallel
paths; and the comparisons of views
were interesting and broadening to us
both. Ponder the subject we'll and
you will find that there are numerous
essential analogies that run through
pictorial, musical and literary art.
For two weeks scarcely touched a
brush. During that time the doors of
the Fine Arts knew me not. My art
had been temporarily eclipsed. "Oh,
well, fellow doesn't run across such
cousin every day." I urged to myself
in excuse for my neglect of study. !
was trying to persuade myself that !
was interested in Daisy Tillotson
simply because she was my cousin.
But knew better. began to wish
she were not my cousin.
We were very frank with each other.
There was no reason to be otherwise.
One afternoon we were out at st.
Cloud-out under the budding horse
chestnuts whose shade Napoleon so
loved. had been reading "Paul and
Virginia" to her in French, I remem-
Der. ''You have no right to be my
cousin, Daisy" said. ''What per-
versity of circumstance. Here you
are the only woman have ever come
across that has forced from me any
real affection of the tenderer sort. And
you are my cousin.
''But maybe am not your cousin, -
she responded with merry twinkle.
"You have said often enough that you
are not sure of it. Perhaps I am
some adventures who, counting on
your brilliant future, has set trap
for you and baited it with this cousin
pretext SO as not to frighten you
away. There's no telling. Aren't
you little suspicious?"
And SO we kept up the sentimental
skirmish. It would have been a real