Wausau pilot. [volume] (Wausau, Wis.) 1896-1940, 1905-10-17
CHAPTER TIL.


The garden at the back of Mr.. Slea-
ford's house was large square plot of
ground, with fine old pear trees shelter
ing neglected lawn. A row of hazel
bushes screened all the length of the wall
upon one side of the garden; and when
ever you looked, there were roses and
sweet brier, apples and tall struggling
raspberry bushes, all equally unfamiliar
with the gardeners pruning knife.
1t was dear old, untidy place, where
the .odor of distant pig sites mingled
family with the perfume of the roses.
and it was in this neglected garden that
Isabel Sleaford spent the best part of
her idle, useless life.
She was sitting in a basket chair nm
der one of the pear trees when Sigis-
mund Smith and his friend went into
the garden to look for her She was
loIing in low basket chair, with book
on her lap, and her chin resting ON fine
palm of her hand so absorbed by the
interest of the page before her that she
did not even lift her eyes when the two
young men went close up to her She
wore a muslin dress a good deal tumbled
and not too clean, and a strip of black
velvet was tied around her long throat.
in a great loose knot, from which q long.
untidy curl fell struggling on her white
throat-her throat was very white with
the dead, yellowish whiteness of ivory.
Il wish that was Colonel Montef-
asco'" said Mr.. Smith, pointing to the
book which the young lady was reading.
Il should like to see lady so interest
ed in one of my books that she wouldn't
xx-ba
was waiting to be introduced to her"
Miss Sleaford shut her book and rose
from her low chair, abashed by this re-
preach: but she kept her thumb between
the pages, and evidently meant to 90 on
with the volume at the first convenient
opportunity. She did not wait for apy
ceremonious introduction to George but
held out her hand to him. and smiled at
him frankly.
You are Mr.. Gilbert, 1 know" she
said. 'Sigismund has been talking of
you necessarily for the last week. Nam
ma has got your room ready; and sup
pose we shall have tea soon. There are
to be some chops on purpose for your
friend, Sigismund, mamma told me to
tell you"
She glanced downward at the book, as
speaking and wanted to get back to it.
What is it, Izzie?" Sigismund asked,
interpreting her look.
Alderman Mountfort
81 thought So Always his books"
A faint blush trembled over Miss
Sleafords pale face.
''They are 50 beautiful she said.
Dangerously, I'm afraid, Isabel" the
young man said, gravely; beautiful
sweetmeats, with opium inside the sugar.
These books don't make you happy, do
they, Izzie2"
mo, they make me unhappy; but
she hesitated little, and then blushed
as she said-"I like that sort of unhap-
piness. It's better than eating and
drinking and sleeping, and being happy
that way"
George could only stare at the young
lady's kindling face, which lighted up
al in a moment and was suddenly beau
tiful like some transparency which seems
a dingy picture until you put lamp
behind it. The young surgeon could only |
stare wonderingly at Mr.. Sleaford's |
daughter for he hadn't the faiatest idea !
what she and his friend were talking
about.
She shut her book altogether at Sigis- |
mund's request, and went with the two |
young men to show George the garden;
but she carried the dingy-looking volume |
lovingly under her arm, and she re- |
lapsed into a dreamy silence every now
and then, as if she had been reading the |
hidden pages by some strange faculty |
of elairvoyance.
After tea the two young men walked |
up and down the weedy pathways in the |
garden, while Isabel sat under her ia. |
vorite pear tree reading the volume she |
had been so loath to close. Sigismund |
talked of what they called old times; |
but those old times were only four or
FIVE years ago, though the young men |
talked like graybeards who look back |
half a century or SO, and wondered at |
the folly of their youth.
Isabel went on with her book: the |
light was dying little by little, dropping |
down behind the pear trees at the west
ern side of the garden, and the pale !
evening star glimmered at the end Of
one of the pathways. She read on more
eagerly, almost breathlessly, as the light
grew less; for her stepmother would call
her in by and by. and there would be a
torn jacket to mend. perhaps. or a heap
of worsted socks to be darned for the
boys; and there would be no chance of
reading another line of that sweet SEN
timental story, that heavenly prose,
which fell into cadence like poetry,
that tender melancholy music which
haunted the reader for long after the
book was shut ans laid aside. and made