Year: 1871

! that such a treasure was not for him
| Then across the darkness of his life his
| art cleaned like star, and he labored


--fiercely and revengefully at first,


calmly aud lovingly afterward- gain


for himself the fame and position which


should lessen the gulf that separated


him from others.


His reward came at last, as it rarely


fails to when it has been fairly earned.


He grew famous, and tolerably rich,


but his heart was still empty. At


thirty-seven, when the tierceness of the


struggle was over, and,he found breath


ing time, for the first time in his life


er who had shared his evil and his


prosperous days with him, was dead;


and after the days work was over,


when he sat hown at his freside, he
longed to fill the vacant chair opposite
| him with some one upon whom he


could pour out the long pent-up love


of desolate life. * X


1t was during brief visit to his ma
tive country that Barton first met the
| girl who was to become his wife. A


widow lady and her daughter had come


to reside there during his absence


Very poor, but evidently of gentle


birth, they speedily attracted the


painters notice by their marked differ


ence from the other inhabitants of the


Cornish village, and he passed much of
his time in their society, The mother
was a gentle, amiable woman with,
perhaps, tendency to revert some
what too often to the days of their
bygone prosperity; but Marie thought
this natural enough, and would have
overlooked far graver faults for the
daughters sake. She, he said
to himself, when he had
returned to his lonely home
at Chelsea, was a pearl Many other
men had said SO who had seen her fair
young face for the first time, had heard
her sweet voice singing the old-fash
ioned ballads which men love best; or
had caught a glimpse of her dark violet |
eyes, which had such an unfathomabl9 |
depth of thought in them But all ex-
cept Marie turned away with a sigh |
when they learnt that those beautiful |
eyes were sightless exquisitely |
painted windows, through which the |
imprisoned soul never looked forth up |
on the world without. Alice Trescott |
had been blind from her birth.


Marie grieved as others had done
when he learned this on the first visit,
but hope whispered to him that he had |
found at last the only woman he might |
ever dare to ask to become his wife |
without the fear of scornful refusal. |
She at least would never know him as
he was outwardly; his money, so la
bOriously acquired, would surround |
mother and daughter with the comforts
to which they had been accustomed,
could 1t but teach her to love him as
he already loved her.


To make long story short, Barton
Marie on his next visit to the village
found that Alice Trescott was not in
disposed to listen to his suit. Poor
girl for her the painter was what he
was to the imagination of the world
that knew him only through his works,
and her only fear was that Marie was
urging her to an unequal marriage from
a chivalrous sense of her forlorn con
dition. As for Mrs. Trescott, she was
overioyed at the prospect of her daugh-
ter's being united to so famous and
wealthy man, and congratulated her
self upon being placed once more in her
old position.
So Barton won Alice's consent after
long pleading, and they were married |
in the little antiquated church among
the Cornish hills-the church in which |
the painter had listened, when a child,


with swelling heart to the music of the |
grand cid organ, the gift of rich /
mine-owner in the neighborhood, and |
coniured UP SO many bright visions of
the world in which he was to play his |
oil h61 oh
He had gained mastery over the |
bright phantoms that then foated


dreamily through his brain, and could |
summon them at will upon the canvas
which people focked in crowds to see. |
He was sufficiently rich; more than all,


it was his wife who passed by his side, |
SO young and beautiful, from under
! the low porch into the sunlight, which |
had no charm for her dark violet eyes:


The painter brought his blind wife |
to the old house at Chelsea, and there |
they lived, happily enough until the
evil day when Barton's old friend Gray
found him out, after long absence |
from England Mrs. Marle's affection
instantly appealed to his sympathy, |
and aroused all his professional ardor |
to relieve it. After minute examina-
tion he came to the conclusion that the |
case was not hopeless; he had recently !
treated, and with success, one of sim
liar nature, and he announced to Bar. |
ton that his wifes sight might yet be |
restored. To his utter astonishment, |
the painter, instead of being overjoyed |
at the intelligence, received it with
something very like dismay. Nay,
more, DR.. Gray had to return again
and again to the subject, and plead
with all the eloquence in his power to
be allowed to make the attempt Their
last conversation has been already de-
tailed i'll part, and again the man of
science had left Chelsea without gain
ing the husband S consent.


The morning broke cheerlessly
enough over the cold, sluggish river,
and in it, harsh, unsympathetic light, |
Barton Marie, after his sleepless night,
looked dreadfully worn and haggard. |
But there was new expression in his |
sunken gray eyes, unusually so cold |
and saturnine, and his stunted figure |
drew itself up with a proud air of tri-
umph. He had achieved a victory over


himself. How hard the struggle had |
oooh peloi6 Ills DeGIeE naCufe pore DOWN
the more selfish impulses of his heart,


he alone will ever know. All through |
the night he had asked himself over


and over again one question-could he |
hope to retain his wife's love if she |
ever saw him y he was, so plain,


so misshapen, 81 utterly beneath all


other men? He knew how shame |
full 1t was for him to weigh his own
happiness against Alice's; he knew how
selfish and hard he was to pause for