Year: 1873

follows:


There was motley collection of peo-
pie at the little summer resort, where
we find Lydia, after short year. Her
relations mixed freely with the crowd,
but she had another world, other
thoughts and other longings than the
laughing, careless many around her.
From her guardian or his good.natured
but superficial wife she could not ex-
pect any very warm sympathy or afiec.
tion, but in their stead, they gave her
what she at the moment priced much
more highly-her liberty. And so it
came that, while her relations we're
among the gayest, she gave little time
to society, but spent her days in explor-
ing the neighborhood, sketch-book in
hand, and her evenings in being rowed
by the hour on the lake by an old boat
man. 1t was then that her thoughts
wandered away to that land of art and
poetry domed by clearer sky studded
with brighter stars and then, among
pertumed orange-groves and the rich
art treasures inherited from the past.
she sought the tall figure of man
who, like her, gazsd at the distant stars,
and returned the greetings of her low
ing heart. And again she dreamed of
the happy future, of making the jour
ney of life with the man of her choice,
and of her pride at his achievements
in the world of art. And, when the
little boat returned again to land, it
seemed as if the golden gate of fairy
land closed suddenly behind her.


One evening, on returning FROM the
lake, she found a letter on her bureau
post-marked ''Italy." She opened it
with feverish haste, and out of it fell
bunch of dead violets.


With cry Of deepest anguish she
threw herself on the sofa, and buried
her face in the cushions.


Deserted - faithlessly deserted
What was to become of her now?


And now came sad, desolate days.
Among her gay and joyous surround
ings, she was alone with her grief. She
longed to be away, tar away, in anoth-
er land among other people. Even the
questions of her guardians with regard
to the cause of her pale cheeks and
mournful mien annoyed her. What
could she reply to them? How would
they have received a confession Of the
true cause? Could she make them her
contidants Could she endeavor to
picture to them the suiferings Of her
soul! Oh, no, rather thousand times
bear her great grief IN silence.


When, therefore, the affairs Of her
guardian called him for year to Eng
land, she begged, with a morbid long
ing for change Of scene, to be allow
ell to accompany him, and her request
was granted.


1t was a misty autumn day on which
they embarked. The clouds hung dark
and heavy over land and water. Wrap
ped in her mantle, Lydia stood On the
deck and gazed upon the land as it
steadily disappeared. And, when the
evening came and the cloud. cleared
away, she looked up at the gray au-
tumn sky, and thought of her lost star
and her cheerless life. Her spring
time had passed-her youth was gone,
and she had nothing to hope from the
future.


My old friend had let her head sink
low upon her breast, and she held her
hands claspod in her lap. l stopped
down and gently prassed my lips to
them. She Strengthened up and said
.Oh yes, my child, know that my a.ra
has not been wholly wanting in love;
since then | have learned that who
sows love reaps it,


And she resumed her narrative:


Years had passed since that day
the young girl had become a middle
aged matron, the freshness of youth
had long since disappeared, and her
dark locks began to be sprinkled over
with gray; what was at first consum-
ing grief had given place to a soft mel
ancholy. Lydia had remained faithful
to her first love; her heart had never
warmed toward any other man; her
nature, however, was not soured, and
she gave to humanity what she would
otherwise perhaps have layished on
one, and therein she found consolation
and peace.


In these years it happened that a
young girl whose health had become
seriously impaired, begged Lydia to
accompany her for time to a warmer
climate. She readily consented. and
they Immediately set out for Meran.
The young girl improved rapidly,
thanks to the change of air and Lydia's
watchfulness.


One day at the dinner-table at their
little hotel, an old gentleman stated
that he had that morning witnessed
melancholy scene. In the garret of
neighboring house there lived a blind,
consumptive painter, who at the most,
had but few weeks to live. 'Even
now," said the old gentleman, IL can
not for moment escape the mournful
sight of the poor unfortunate man,
with his white hair and large, sightless
eyes. He seems, besides, to be in
needy circumstances for despite the
neatness of his lodgings, they are sad
ly lacking in comforts. There is
worthy object for your charity, mad
ame," he concluded, turning to Lydia,
who had already decided to lose no
time i'll hunting out the poor, blind ar
tist.


The next day-it was a pleasant,
sunny autumn day, such as they have
only in the South-the matron slowly
assembled the three flights Of stairs that
led to the poor, blind painters garret.
She was in thoughtful, melancholy
mood recollections of days and scenes
long since passed came upon her with
unwonted vividness. Why did her
heart throb so violently? Had she not
gone on scores of similar errands of
mercy before? Why, then, to-day this
unusual nervousness?


In response to the gentle rap = weak,
soft voice bade her enter. She opened