The Republican journal. [volume] (Belfast, Me.) 1829-current, 1899-06-22
NOBODY'S PAPA.

JUDGE. He was not perhaps the only
man in the room without catalogue,
but there was that about him which dis
tinguished him effeclually 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 good picture ct once,
and gaveit quick, apprecative scrutiny,
while the worthless specimens he passed
by with glances of contempt. Presently
he turned listlessly away and sank down
on the ottoman in the centre of the room.
Folding his arms he sank into a brown
study. What was he thinking of?
woman, of course. Yes; but not wo-
man 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
conrted, and from all the host of adj
mirers he bad borne off the prize. He,
penniless and obscure, with only his
personal qualities to recommend him-ah
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, was not all honey and
sugar. Men are not-but woman! His
ideal of womanhood had always been soft
ness. &c ntleness-she should be a hero
worshipper-and her hero naturally
should be her husband.
Gertrude had been accustomed to hon.
age. She had not been willing to own a
master, had expected apparently to find
in him a slaVe-a slave. She should have
married another man than he. They had
scarcely a week of love and happiness,
and in SIX months he had left her.
" Gu married me for my money" was
the last fatal insult she had hurled at him
in her passion.
very we'll, madam. l will leave you
your money and relieve YOU of the
presence of a despised husband for
eyerr'
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 a good one. He
had made his fortune and lie had come
home, yielding to a strange longing TO
see-not her-oh, no! nor any other man
or woman alive, but to tread his native
soil 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
complete. There had been no letters, 20
inquiries. To each other they were as
dead.
1t was seven years since they had met
and married and parted, and he did not
l-vN Oh .loH n
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 intoler-
able, the pictures odious, the people de-
testable, their cackle uncomfortable, He
would 90 straight out. He would not
look at another daub, That was not so
bad. though, In spite of himself he stop
ped to look at it. 1t was the portrait of
little gina dear. little girl in hat and
fur tippet and muff, standing in the porch
Of d country house. 1t was evidently a
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 earn
estly. 1t was good picture, but it was
not altogether its artistic merits that
captivattd him. The child's face seemed
to awake some far Off memory--a memory
that kept on GLIDING him in perplexing
manner. Then at last it came to him
The likeness was to a little sister of his
own who had died in early Oh .dhood 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 lit
tie sister of his. His wife had declared
with heat that she hated the name. Was
it possible that she could be jealous even
OF dead child? Or was it simply that
love of opposition which ended by max
ing their life together impossible? All, if |
Nellie had lived, he would have had some
one to loye-some one to turn to in his
desolaton. The likeness was extraordi- |
nary-quite extraordinary.
DO you like my picture?'
He turned round and saw the original |
of the portrait standing at his elbow.
What pretty little girl she was. And
how much prettier than her picture. The |
artist had done his best, but he could not
adequately render the light which danced |
in the dark eyes, nor the dimples that
came and went in the round, rosy cheeks. |
1T is very nice, but you yourself are
nicer still,'' he said with smile How
that smile became him.
What is your name?" he pursued.
''Nellie.''
He started.
cit is a curious coincidence he said,
''that you remind me of Nellie who
died long ago"
The child looked up with sympathetic,
wondering eyes.
''You weren't her papa, were you?"
''No; am no little girls papa
"Oh"' said Nellie in disappointed
tone, and her face fell. Then it's no
ase-I won't tell you. No, l won't tell
you now"
She stood for moment irresolute; then
made as if she would 90. He did not want
her to go; he took her hand.
"Tell me-oh, do tell me"' he said
''It's secret-why that picture was
painted-why co me here every day, but
l won't tell you-no, l won't tell you
Good bye, nobody's papa"
She bounded off like little colt to her
mothers side. He supposed she was her
mother-a tall woman dressed in black,
who stood with her back to him absorbed
in landscape Opposite