The Vermont watchman. [volume] (Montpelier, Vt.) 1883-1911, 1896-05-20

"'O Oh, why don't you come to our
classes?' he said. l know that Mr..
Morris would be pleased to have YOU
And l don't know just how it came
about, but one morning the boys tutor
invited me to the class in French. l
went. l went again the next morning.
l became regular attendant at French
and Latin and literature. l became
thoroughly fascinated witt my studies
| loved to read and to write with a new
love and a new zeal. All went glo-
riously for awhile, then suddenly it
became evident to me that some
thing was wrong something was
the matter. 1 didn't hear half that
was said. Numbered in my answers,
1 felt ill at ease, and the Amo, Amas,
Amat,' seemed to send a great pain
through my heart; and-well, l decided
to give up the classes. Mr.. Morris said
that he was sorry-and that was the
end of it all"
Jess paused a moment, and thought
that she had finished her story. "But
Ned. We were speaking of Ned, you
know" suggested.
eyes," she continued, 81 know. 1
had not forgotten. But up to that time
l had never thought of him as Ned
He was only the boys tutor, who had
helped me very much.
"That afternoon papa received tel
egram which made it necessary for him
to return to New York within few
hours, and as the time of our intended
stay was almost at an end, mamma and
/ decided to accompany him.
1t was just after lunch. Ned and
the boys had gone skating, and would
not return before dark. We left the
hotel at four O'Clock, and so did not
even say good-by to Ned. l expected
never to see him again.
AT home, / was once more in the
midst of the social whirl-life was just
as full of happy events, friends were
| just as kind-but something was differ
ent. 1t was myself. l had no heart in
anything that did! Alasl l realized
it fully now, l had left my heart at
Lakewood. l tried to bury my secret,
and strove to enter into the life that
was mine and to be happy in the atten-
tions that had once pleased me.
81 devoted two hours each morning
to my studies. Ned had told me that
had literary talent, and that ought
to write. 1 determined to try. did
try. But, oh, dear me, what a failure
made of It'll II l chose pathetic tale,
it set me to dreaming; and in my
dreams wandered far from my plot,
and my pathos grew insipid. wrote
in lighter vein-of knights and ladies,
happy in love and beauty; but when
my hero held my lady's hand, and
strove TO tell her of his passion, though
his heart were full to overlooking, all
that his lips could utter was 'Amo
Amas, Amat,' and my efforts to aid
him were of no avail.
" What soulless, lifeless little stories
they were, to be sure. OF course they
were returned. | grew heartily sick Of
seeing long envelopes and of reading
stereotyped notices of articles being
mot available l knew the little
printed slips word for word, and gen
orally consigned them to my waste.
basket unread. | could have cried nv
heart out with disappointment. 1t was
not the remuneration that cared about
but l was piqued to think that had
failed, failed, failed.
" l tried again and again. l wrote OF
spring-of apple-biossoms and daffodis
of swallows and orioles; but my flowers
grew stiffiy and my swallows were moi
at all glad that summer was at hand,
"But there came a day when the
long envelopes contained something
more than my poor little story and the
tiresome unavailable notice-it con
tanned note. 1t was from an editor
in New York, who had somehow beer
the chosen object of my importantly
A kindly man, it seemed, whose swee