The Marion daily mirror. (Marion, Ohio) 1892-1912, 1909-03-06

die. See, here is the pistol, loaded
here, beside you on the table-Hush!
your High AGAIN. He listened "No,
only my imagination. Well, kiss your
lily hand anyway-ah, you have no
hand? Your cherry lips, you say? No,
| no, l am not worthy. Just the
hem Of your garment--ah, but ! see
you haven't any on! See, as a com.
promise, | kiss the name of the pho
tographer. Thrice happy man to have
posed youl"
Angelo placed Mile. Jolie upon his
little old wobbly piano, draped a
wreath OF withered autumn leaves
around her, blew out the light, drew
back the window curtain, then In a
moonbeam sat down to compose. The
Muses. must have been waiting round
about, for in a moment he was playing
softly. The inspiration fairly flowed.
Angelo was in heaven That greatest
Of joys, the, Joy OF artistic creation,
was his. lie played long time--un.
til the moon went down. Then by
the yellow lamplight he wrote down
what he had played.
For two days and night he slept
but little and ate nothing; the divine
fire needs no replenlshingl The hap
piness that the years had denied him
was his at last TO measureless extent.
Like Israfels, his heart.strings we're
a Lutte. and the Cosmos itself was
busy playing upon him
The second night he felt a quite
earthly faintness within him. 81 am
not hungry. little one" he said to
Mademoiselle Jolie, "it is simply my
stomach"
But the call of his stomach was In
sistent so he put on his hat-and his
goggles-and ventured into the hall.
The light of the smoky hall lamp was
so dim, however, that he feared he
might fall all the way downstairs, so
he took off the goggles and then
crept down noiselessly a step at a
time. He got out of the house with
out meeting Mademoiselle Jolie, with
out even meeting the landlady, for
which he thanked God with gusto.
With some beef broth and crackers
inside him he returned to the house;
and now It was that his good angel
deserted him. He was half way up
the stairs when a strange young man
ran up behind him, pushed him against
the wall, laughed boisterousy, and
then-crowning infamy disappeared
In Mademoiselle Jolie's room!
How he reached his own room out
ragged Angelo never knew-but in a
moment he was pointing his loaded
pistol first at his own head, then at
Mademoiselle Jolie's picture. then at
the piano, then at the score of the un'
finished opera. But glorious inspira'
tion seized him Just in time.
"Her brother!" he cried, falling on
his knees and weeping for joy, "her
poor, long-lost brother! Most chaste
and noble OF mademoiselles, can you
ever forgive me?"
Early next morning there was a
knock on Angeles door. He knew the
landlady's peremptory tap, so, shiver-
ing with terror, did not answer. But
the landIady knew Angelo, too. She
threw a little card through the tran
som--and then laughed that jarring
laugh Of hers.
"A ticket to the vaudeville tonight,
signor,' she called. "Mademoiselle Jo-
lie who is much interested In you,
wants you to hear her new song"
Angelo sat motionlcss. With horror
struck eyes he gazed at the ticket on
the floor. It was red, It seemed to
burn It seemed to burn into him.
Vaudeville! A ten.cent show! In
stinctively he put on his goggles and
stuffed his ears with cotton. Go?
Never!
He awoko late the next morning.
The most golden of sunbeams lay
across him, but alas! the landlady's
strident voice was calling him through
the transom.
"Sgnor Angelo!"
"Yes."
"Mademoisele Jolie was terribly cut
up because you weren't at the vaude-
willie last night She leaves for a swing
around the circuit the end of the
week ana wants to see you before she
goes"
All that day he worked feverishly
unremittingly. That night the com
passionate gods pressed down his eye
lids and made him sleep. In the morn.
ing he dared write a little note to
Mademoiselle Jolle stating that he
should do himself the honor Of calling
on her that night after the theater,
Moro singular still, he dared tiptoe
down the hall and slip it under her
door.
That evening with the ending OF An
gelos year came the finishing Of An
gelos opera The wretched little
piano was glad. So was Angeles
scratchy pen. So must have been
the overworkod muses..
In the remains of his ancient dress
suit Angelo primped, pruned and
primed, waxed, polished and perfumed
sat waiting. lie was dreadfully ex-
cited. lie was hot and cold by turns.
But he was resolute.
/ Aa.tho plnck efruck If ha haard