The Washington bee. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1884-1922, 1895-10-19
A CASTLE In SPAIN.

/ had mounted an omnibus on the
| Boulevard Rousseau and comfortably
! seated myself in corner of the dimly
! lighted vehicle.
| A pale-faced girl sat at my side, and
! her marble cheeks glistened with tears.
| Sympathy is not my strong point. When
, I was a young man distress dissolved
me like the sunbeam pierces the dew
drop and translates it's vapor to the
! sky Misery always made the wings OF
my soul fiutter, and I felt at once
! struggle to rise to the heroic. But now
I an old and the frost of years is on my
feelings like the locked lid on a family
chest of silver.
But those fearful eyes rolled in their
LIQUID loneliness, and their light shone
like shaft of FURNISHED metal.
"What ais you?' l asked kindly.
"Me? Nothing. I weep for my broth
err"
Her unselfshness robed her in the
garb of a heroine. / wanted to know
more.
"Where is your brother?"
"At home. Very sick"
She had asked the conductor to stop
at the Place Moliere. and was about to
alight, when l carried a small bundle
to the street and asked to be allowed to
go to her brother.
Across this wide esplanade, dedicated
to the memory Of dramatic genius, there
is an abrupt turn in the street that leads
to a large building of stone. 1t is
dreary structure, the fitting abode Of
present misery, as it had been Of past
crime. Here the phoenix of the Revo-
luton expired in the fires of it's ferocfty,
to rise again and again from its ashes
and spread gloom and rapine and eter-
nal wrong.
The girls football seemed signal
for light at the upper window, which
cautiously opened.
''Who is there?" asked a trembling
and an aged voice.
"Only Clarette, mother"
I felt easier when heard that golden
word.
Wherever is a mother the angel Of
mercy is with her. She is never alone.
We entered a room at the end Of the
hallway.
The brother, pallid, weak, seemed to
be fading from the earth like beauti-
full flower that a rude wind had with
cred. It was Youth in the embrace of
Love, passing to the arms Of Death.
Never a strong child, fever had sap
ped his strength and was now loosen
ing the ties of life.
I scrutinized the fading features; gen.
tleness Of woman blended with mas
culine look of purpose. Ambition was
craven on the broad brow, and the lips
denoted purity of thought. All is not
yet lost. I will save this boy. Ambi-
ton, hope, faith, that are imaged In
your noble face, shall be for thee and
for the waiting world, to bless 1t. I, who
for all these years had lived for myself
alone, whose life had been an air-bub-
BILE floating with the mote in the SUM-
beam. realized that had been blank
mage in a volume of fifty-seven chap
ters.
Philanthropy seized me like fever.
7 wanted to do good at every turn. A
ycung doctor, poor and struggling, !
gladly and promptly answered my call.
A druggist who was striving to own his
store filled the prescriptions. There
was hope. the doctor told us. When
he left in the gray of the following
dawn his words of cheer were more
glowing to our hearts than the reap
peaTing sun.
\ few weeks constant care had re-
stored the ebbing strength, and the boy |
brishtened like tree fed by the waters
Of brook.
My visits were daily. forgot my
self. I did not quarrel with the waiter |
that the Burgundy was too warm.
My dyspepsia had disappeared. In |
the streets, at the table, by my bed, 1 |
saw a trinity brighter to me than the |
thenlogist's glory-goodness, gratitude |
and love. I who laughed at day dreams |
dreamed on when the monday beam |
gilded the obscurest corner. I could see |
that boy, so fair to look upon, winning |
laurels, gaining fortune. I could see
him walking with his sister In cathedral
aisles to link her life to the youth she |
had loved when poverty made havoc
Of the hope and despair had burnt her
soul till it's inner shell was like char
red and ashen tree.
The mother, too, rested at their side, |
with q loving child at either arm sup