The Providence news. (Providence [R.I.]) 1891-1906, 1895-01-23

with my youth. which somehow feel erds
with today, and OF which, until you went
away, you were n part. For you new life X
Just bcginning. Mine is but the same old story,
only il seems as il the rest OF it would be what
they call in books an "appcndix." writo this
letter to wish you Joy and peace and all that
your heart most Graves.
/ think / know you well enough TO be sure
that you would not have married without love,
and iovo is tho greatest thing in the world.
May all its fullness and blesscdness be yours
now and in time TO come, so prays the friend
of your earlier years. ELEANOR GRAY.
She addressed this letter to Thomas
Rhodes, care Of John Riding, Esq,
Denver" She scaled and posted it, and
then the 30-year-old young woman felt
that she had indeed turned the last page
Of her youth and the appendix" of
her life was already begun.
1t was not long after this that new
conner to the quiet old town of Ryefield
made Miss Gray's acquaintance. Here
at last-so it seemed-came the verita-
Bile knight of romance Of whom Eleanor
had dreamed Austin Bland was poet
and painter both. One glory was not
enough for him. Ho had come to the
little Connecticut town to paint some of
its beguiling bits of stream and meadow
land, some Of its famous old trees that
seemed fairly human-they had lived so
long and were so full of wayward indi-
viduality His pictures. he said, were
for sale. His poems, on the other hand,
were not the property of the world. He
supposed it was unfortunate, but the
truth was he was utterly subjective.
His verses. such as they were, were the
very cry of his heart, and surely they
did not belong in the market place.
From the first Bland seemed to take
an especial interest in Eleanor. Nat
urally this interest flattered her. 1t had
been many years since any man had so
persistently sought her society, and
now, here in her appendix" of life,
came the conquering hero, ready to
turn her subject for her sake, eager to
paint her charms and to sing her praises.
Was it, then, for him that she had un-
consciously been waiting, and was it
when she was past 80 that she was real
ly to begin to lire? 1t seemed so just at
first.
Bland had brought one or two good
letters, for even in rural Ryefield letters
were necessary, and he had met Eleanor
at high tea at the rectory the very
first week after his arrival. It was the
glorious midsummer, the long golden
days VIXEN the sun seems SO in love
with earth that he sets reluctantly,
when all the world is at its lest and
the birds sing its praises and yhe but
terflies flutter lazily about as il to see
in what beautiful sphere they are al
lowed to pass their little day. There
were soft mists at evening in the valley
of the Quinebaug, mists that followed
the splendor of the setting sun and fed
before the rising moon.
Austin Bland never tired of saying
how infinitely precious it all was.
Sometimes he studied the trees, and
sometimes he studied Eleanor.
rketohed her as Cleopatra, whom size
certainly did not resemble; as Isoult,
whom she might have been; as fair Rosa
mond, with the fatal cup in her hand;
as herself, in score Of attitudes. He
wrote verses to her in French meters
roadeaux, triolets and ballades-and
these, he told her, were for her only,
that cry of his heart which none other
than herself must hear. It was all SO
delightfullv romantic that Eleanor be-