Chicago eagle. [volume] (Chicago, Ill.) 1889-19??, 1902-02-01
CHAPTER I,

= reply; tired of waiting. How old are
you, Irene"
Seventeen and a half. l have been
wondering ever since was fifteen what
fate had in store for me-"
The grave voice asked:
did ] see you running after white
winged butterfly this morning. and did
YOU not spend an hour yesterday in teach
ing starting TO say something that
sounded like wordi'
"Ycs.' and ripple Of laughter came
with the reply.
Last night you dressed doll for the
millcr's little daughter, did YOU notl'
"Ycs: /"
Eyes. and much pleased she was when
1 took it to her this morning. She put
Ii In little boat, and sent it sailing down
the mill stream. heard you tell Susan
that IL she forgot everything else In the
world she was to remember to purchase
blue ribbon for your white k'ttcn-was
1t not SOP
"Yes; Minnie is just as fond of blue
ribbon as am. Why do You ask ne all
these questionsT'
ut comforts me. | might feel fright
ened ut your ardent longing for life #
did not remember that you had the
loves, likes, dislikes and pursuits of II
child. Ii you were wise, Irene, you would
keep to the butterflies, kittens and dolls.
Life holds so much; but, child, 1t holds
more pain than pleasure"
"Old people say 50, not young ones"
was the reply.
"And who should know 50 well as old
pcOple-who know what a battle life ha $
been 30 well as the person who has
fought 1t? Which can tell best what the
battle is--thc young soldier. or the OLD
warrior, 1reneT'
The two speaking were Irene Darcy
and Mrs. Cotrcl, her grandmother-lrcne
In the first flush of lovely girlhood-Mrs.
Cotrel on whose worn face the light Of
heaven was already shining. A pretty
group, the elder lady In her easy chair.
sitting where the lime trees threw a light,
half green, half golden. near a great
sheaf of white lilies. over which the
white-wingcd butterflies lowered; and the
girl, more beautiful than IL poets dream.
sat on the grass ut her feet. The shin
Ing sun, the fragrant flowers the song
of birds, were all so many sweet sources
of delight to her.
Mrs. Cotrcl went over again the one
passionate sorrow of her life. She had
not loved her husband very dearly, al
though he was one of natures gentle
men-a scholar, ana noble, kindly
hearted man. For many years he had
been Vicar Of Branlca, and died, leaving
his wife and only child, Alice. fairly pro-
vided for.
On his death Mrs. Cotrel went to live
At a pretty villa called Fernside. where
she devoted herself to the one great love
Of her lifc--her daughter. Some women
empty their hearts and lavish all their
love on their husbands, Others on their
children. Mrs. Cotrel was one of the
Latter. They lived happily enough, moth
err and daughter, their simple lives filled
with simple pleasures, until the shadow
that falls over the lives of all women
Tell over theirs. and she who, In her
mothers eyes was Il child, fell In love
with Il young artist who came to Bran
lea In search Of the picturesque.
Santon Darcy came like other artists
came, but, unlike them, he remained !;
for, one evening, as he was skctching n
glorious mass of golden cloud, that seem
ed to rest on the green hilltop, there came
to him what he thought ut first vision.
fair-faced, fair-haircd girl, who de-
scendlng the hill, looked as though she
had just left the golden cloudland. He
said to himself IL she would but stand
STILL and he could In skctching her add u
pair OF white wings, she would look like
an angel. 1t seemed rs though she nn-
derstood his thoughts, for half way down
the hill, with the light of the golden
cloudland round her, she stood quite still.
shading her eyes with one white hand,
and rs she stood there. he remembered
her until the tragedy was ended.
Years afterwnrd he was at an evening
party and someone sang GOunod's bcauti-
full song. There Is green hill far
AWAY" and his thoughts went back to the
beautiful cloudland, to the golden light
on the green hillside, to the tall. slender
figure, to the fair face shaded with one
white hand, and he rose with u cry OF
bitter pain, unable even to hear the
words. Someone asked what was WRONG
with the gifted artist, and the answer
was that he had never been the same
since his young wife died. For that was
the tragedy that dnrkened his life--the
death of the fair-hared, fair-faced girl,
who had seemed to him on that summer
evening to come out of the golden cloud
land.
They Were very happy for one brief
year; Alice was always b!ithe and gay.
sohc "uShc" 'hc sWcctcsl, SllVery laugh
ter when her husband told her how ho
had first seen her coming out OF the gold
en- cloudland.
''rhose same golden clouds may opcn
and take me back again. Santon." she
said, and without the least consciousness
of the prophecy of her own words.
The prophecy came true one year later.
when Irene was horn. They laid the
new born babe in its mothers arms lust
as she was breathing her last.
''Santon," she whispered, "you viii
bring my baby to heaven" And whom
they looked next the smile on the white
lips was the smile OF soul who was
with the angels In heaven.
There are no words in which such grief
as theirs could be told. To the artist
husband life was never the same again.
No other love came to him, no woman's
face charmed him; he was true to his
wife dead as he had been to her living.
As time wore on the hot, quick passion
or his grief gave way to settled meIan-
choly. lie lived In the world, but not OF
1t, so that he could take Alice's baby 10
heaven. He kept himself pure and stain
less as a child, so that one day he might
enter the beautiful cl0udland, holding the
little one by the hand, and place her in
the outstretched arms of his wife. No
false or light words, no mean actions.