Year: 1868

y L
flesh doug organic duty under her bodice.


That my curiosity was fully aroused it
would not be wise to doubt. The more |
thought about it the more delicate [ felt
about asking her any direct questions.
But [ found out at last, and it happened
in this WISE


Passing by her room one evening I
found the door wide open, and looking in
| saw Miss Conness sitting by the win
dow in such an atmosphere of silence and
repose that | ventured to ask if she were
ILL.,


"No," she said, slowly, "only think
ing. VIII you come in and sit down p
Her voice was so changed from its
Wonted pith and harshness to softness and
tone of gentle sadness that I sat down
wonderingly, feeling that it was all an
illusion, and she would presently start up
and assume her. old manner. [ looked
at her tace, and that too was softened and
relaxed and the dim faded eyes were
agloW with warmth and beauty [ had
never seen in them, and began to won
der if she had not once indeed been quite
beautiful. She sat looking out the WIZ
dow, as if she were looking in fields and
gardens farther away than my eyes could
see, rather than on the shape of land
scape that bounded the vision from her
window. At the same time [ also OBJ
served that she held volume Of poems
in her hand, and in the opening of the
leaves was miniature on ivory of what
looked.l.fe the face of a young man. /
at once recognized the poems as being
those of. Phillip Whitney, and fancied
tLat the picture might have connection
with the poet, and said, by way Of say ing
something:


Il see you get time for some reading,
Miss Conuess. Is Whitney your favorite
poet? -


She did MT answer me at once, but
after little said, softly, ayes, lie is my
fayorite poet; indeed, to me there is no
ether. You would not dream that
through all there hard, working years, in
which have grown old amidst suffering
and care, and become harsh and appar
emily unfeeling, that in my heart blooms
a garden of perpetual beauty and light
and love that no circumstances of fate
can disturb, and to whose fragrance and
freshness | am never weary ofturning
[ rarely talk Of it, but tonight it will do
me good to talk it. all ever and dream
about it. It may equally difficult for you
to believe that I was once called beauti-
full. My friends-you know of them, at
least-are wealthy and aristocratic {; and
even SO long ago as when | was young,
girls were educated and accomplished,
and [ had every advantage that could be
desired. | had suitors from the best and
most influential families But the only
man I ever loved or cared for beyond
common friendship was Phillip Within, y
To me he was the embodiment of all man
illness, tenderness, and gentleness. But
he was peoniless, and my father forbade
my throwing myself away upon poor,
shiftless, lazy writer of rhymes


Having been trained IN the rigid
Puritanic manner, had no courage to
violate my fathers will, and to be dow
erless wife to my penniless lover would
only be like clipping the wings of my
song-bird. But how loved him 10y
ed him not jealously or selfShly, for |
would have given him my souls salvation
for inspiration to his song, or my body as
stepping-stone to his advancement.
Any thing, every thing, for Phillips sake,
was the one anthem and refrain Of my
whole being. PSI q 51


"But he was poor as he was proud,
and sensitive as he was gifted My faith
er,s rejection Of his advances, and posi-
tive contemptuous treatment, united with
my own determination not to burden him
with himself, unless by marriage / could
materially aid him, touched his pride,
and he left me, bitterly saying the time
would come when the name Of Whitney
would be a prouder one than ever that of
Conness had beenj and the poor shift
lers writer Of rhymes would win the'name
of Poet --.--


sHe went away, and 7 have never. seen
him since The silence that came Of his.
absence became unsupportable. Fortune
deserted my fathers Golfers, and he, dy-i
ing soon after, left me free to work for
my living or accept the profered support
Of wealthy friends I chose the former,
and placed myself where the demands of
duty and necessity would drown with
their Whrl and activity the regret and
sorrow that would otherwise have room
to grow. .s-.... .r,.a- ..-.- -. .s.....s4


"Philip-that was the name I called
him in those beautiful days-is great
poet now. [ gathered IN his poems as
they appeared in papers and magazines,
as SO many pulsations of his heart that |
could feel I learned them, and count
them over inmy speech as nun fingers
the heads of her rosary Every word
and line and stanza have meaning that
none other sees as [ DO, I see the light
Of his eyes, and the glow Of his face, hear
the sound Of his voice, feel the clasp Of
his hands, as I saw, heard, and felt them
in those beautiful days-oh, those beaestj
tM.days? He must have gray hairs now
NOT so gray as mine, | fancy-and he
has wife, and children, and .home, and
fame, and friends, while I am poor, and
lone and old Yet | would not give the
memory of that short, brief splendor aud
passion of his love for me. for. all that the
world giveth; and burying her face in
the printed poems she gave way to qu ct
weeping 1t was no time for words, and,
rising, [ passed noiselessly from the room,
leaving the faded aud worn creature to
dream Of the love whose glow still amin
ated her heart.
/ Since then l never hear the name of
Whitney OF his poems mentioned but
! I.g- -