The Somerset herald. [volume] (Somerset, Pa.) 1870-1936, 1899-08-02
SOMERSET, Pa. WEDNESDAY AUGUST 2. 1899

white rufiied cap pulled low over her
hair and eyes.
"Have these been disturbed?" he
asked.
She threw up her head and seemed
taller. ''Yes, / wore them last night,
and lost one OF the shoes I am
sorry"
He took the lost slipper from the
pocket of his coat and laid it beside the
other.
81 have found you." he said quietly.
This sad event will necessitate some
change in your life,n he began, form
ally, but, gIaucing at the ashamed, red
dened face, he went on hurriedly: This
is not fitting season, but l shall not
see you for while alone-not before
go away. And l want 10 say it all
now, please. l love you. Will you
give me the right to take care of you?
After all, we know each other better
than thought. Will you be my wife,
Edith? ?"
IL was not the wooing she had dream
ed of, but the voice was low and tender,
and the eyes full of entreaty. So. very
slowly, with the slippers and the rose
strewn gown between them she whis-
pered:
"Yes."
Together they unfolded the papers
old love-letters, some of them were
and then 8 little scarlet-b bound diary,
dated sixty years ago. In gilt letters
was the name, "Alice Annesley." Sew
eral leaves were tied together with bit
of faded ribbon. Philip united il and
together they read:
"Florence, June 3eth, ls-. Our baby
is girl. Horace will be Disappointed;
Berta is. The Brents have fine boy,
born the same night as ours. They are
miserably poor. Berta says Philip is
genius, but she loves him still, in spite
of his wife and boy! Poor Bertal
"July 5th. My head is queer. Berta
says 50. She dismissed the nurse and
sat with me alone, LAST night. The new
nurse tells me that my baby is boy.
wish Horace was here. am strange
ly weak. 1t is the Brent baby that is
girl, and mine"
Here the faint scrawl broke off.
"Brent? ?' Edith drew out the locket.
at is here, the name, you know, and
can show it to you now.
Philip opened it, On one lid were
engraved the names, Philip Brent and
Berta Annesey, and facing each other
were two pictures. One like Miss An
nesley's portrait and the other
"It is yourself, Philip Edith whis-
pered.
There was another paper in which
was recorded the death of Philip Brent
and, later, the marriage Of his daugh-
ter. Edith, to Arthur Wylde.
''That was my grandfather. When
he and granny died Miss Annesley
brought me here Edith said, wonder
ingly.
Later, they stood beside the wee,
CHASTITY form in the rose-strewn gown.
ibid she know you, Edith ?'' Philip
asked.
Philip had come home now and then
from his wanderings, and his heart had
gone out TO this wee, old woman in the
great chamber. This living morsel of
a long-gone past. She told him stories
of the men of long ago; and sometimes
when he came after the shadows had
gathered in the big chamber, and the
fire burned in the tiled fireplace, she
told him of the great and wonderful
love that had come into her life-a love
that was immortal and could never die.
1t was in Florence, and she was
young, and that world was fair to see.
She pointed to the walls where hung
quantity beautiful pictures of the old
city, as the story went on; but there
was a picture across which hung a cur
tain of priceless tapestry, and this he
was never permitted to see. He knew
that the curtain hid the face of her
lover.
"Did he-die?" Philip asked one
night when the red freight gathered
about the wee witch looking figure,
bringing to it the curves of youth.
''Die? Almost everybody has died
in a way, Philip, but not really, you
know. My lover is alive" The glow
of the. uncanny old eyes made Philip
turn from her.
at was in Florence where my father
was born. Was 1t then? So long ago?"
he asked.
at was then, but it is not so long
when you've measured it step by step.
Yes, it was then. 1t began and ended
no, it hasn't ended. Alice died. She
was your grandmother. She knew,
but she died. She was frail; that was
why we went to Florence. And Hor-
ace was gone. Certainly, she would
have died any way. Leave me now,
Philip. My head is--yes, go now?'
Only tonight, before the gay compa-
ny had gathered, he had been with her.
He had come in all the bravery of his
great uniform, and she
had fondled him with her claw-like
fingers, and watched him with her
burning eyes.
His heart was full of pity for the wee,
worn creature propped in the great
chair.
mot many women are so happy as
I, Philip. I've had my lover through
three generations, in spite of all that
came between" she said, as If her
bright eyes read the pity he could not
conceal.
And Edith had come in, quiet little
body, ia her dark dress and white
apron and cap. To Philip she was
part of the room; one of the things
that belonged to the old woman whose
world it was. He had never seen her
out Of it, never thought of her except
as he thought Of the pictures and the
shadows in the queer place. His visits
home were short; his life belonged TO
the world beyond.
The house was athrob with music to-
night when Edith closed Miss Anues-