The Banner-Democrat. [volume] (Lake Providence, East Carroll Parish, La.) 1892-current, 1898-07-30
Nobody's Papa.

A sombre-l looking man wandered
gloomily from picture to picture. He
had no catalogue, some people prefer
to go without and gaze untrammelled
by prejudice. He was not perhaps the
only man in the room without cata-
logue, but there was that about him
which distinguished him effectually
from every other human being in that
crowd. No one else looked SO utterly
unamused and Indifferent as he, though
many were less critical. He knew q
good picture at once, and gave it a
quick, appreciative scrutiny, while
the worthless specimens he passed. by
with o glance Of contempt. Presently
he turned listlesslyaway and sat down
on the ottoman in the centre of the
room. Folding his arms, he sank
into brown study What was he
thinking of? A woman of course!
Yes; but not woman that he loved.
He thought of her as the beautiful
heiress whom he had wooed and won.
She was courted as only such women
are courted, and from all the host of
admirers he had borne off the prize.
He, penniless and obscure, with only
his personal qualities to recommend
him--ahl she must have loved him
then. How beautiful she was, and
how sweet-she seemed! A bitter
smile curled the mans lips. Sweet!
she was made of muriatic acid. He
himself, to be sure, was not all honey
lint
womanl His ideal of womanhood had
always been softness, gentleness she
should be hero worshiper-and her
hero naturally should be her husband
Gertrude had been accustomed to
homage. She had not been willing to
own a master, had expected apparently
to find in him q slave-a slave! She
should have married another man than
he. They had scarcely week of love
and happiness, and in six months he
had left her.
eYou married me for my money!"
was the last fatal insult she hurled at
him in her passion.
every well, madam. / will leave
you your money and relieve you of the
presence of despised husband l. for
everI''
Those were the last words he had
ever spoken to her-the last words he
ever should speak. He had left her
then and there, to her grand house,
with her grand servants and her grand
friends, and he had gone to Australia
to begin life anew with only his brains
for capital. The capital, however, was
q good one. He had made his fortune,
and he had come home, yielding to a
strange longing to see-not her oh,
mol nor any man or woman alive, but
to tread his native soil, to revisit the
scenes where he had spent a happy
boyhood-and then-he should return
to Australia. There he had friends;
there he had land. 1t was his home
now No one knew of his arrival in
England; no one should know. From
his wife his separation had been CON-
plete. There had been no letters-no
inquiries. To each other they were as
dead.
twas seven years since they had
met and married and parted, and he
aid not know if she were living or
dead. OF course he did not want to
know. She perhaps was anxious to
hear of his death in order that she
might marry somebody else. Perhaps
in time she would assume his death.
He started up. The heat was in
tolerable, the pictures odious, the
people detestable, their cackle unen-
durable. He would go straight out.
He would not look at another daub.
That one was not so bad, thought In
spite of himself be stopped to look at
it. 1t was the portrait of little girl
"a dear, little girl in hat and fur tip
pet and muff, standing in the porch of
a country house. 1t was evidently
stormy winters day. Her feet stood
in the snow, but she was standing quite
still in an attitude of eager expectancy.
1t fascinated him; he looked long and
earnestly. 1t was good picture, but
it was not altogether its artistic merits
that captivated him. The child's face
seemed to awake some far-off memory
a memory that kept on eluding him
in perpiexing manner. Then at last
it came to him. The likeness was
little sister of his own who had died
in early childhood; she had been his
boyhood's companion. He had loved
her deeply: he had mourned her long.
Poor Nellie! Her name had excited
the first disagreement between his
wife and himself. He had said that if
they should have daughter he would
wish her to be called Ellen after this
sister of his. His wife had declared
with heat that she hated the name.
Was it possible that she could be jeai-
GUS even of dead child? Or was it
simply that love OF opposition which
ended by making their life together
impossible? All, if Nellie had lived,
he would have had some one to love-
some one to turn to in his desolation.
The likeness was extraordinary.
"Do You like my picture?'
He turned round and saw the orig
inal Of the portrait standing at his
elbow. What pretty little girl she
wasl And how much prettier than her
picture The artist had done his best,
but he could not ade luately render the
light which danced in the dark eyes,
nor the tlimples that came aud went in