Yet Somers's sneer was transient. He was struck by two things-the woman was blind; and she had once worn a face like that of the pretty girl - not her face, but a face like it. With a sensation of pity, he recalled Andrew Lang's verses; inaudibly, while she greeted him, he was repeating: "Who watches day by day The dust of time that stains her, Whose grace hath passed away." Her eyes were closed, but she came straight toward him, holding out her hand. It was her left hand that was extended; her right closed over the top of a cane, and this added to the impression of decrepitude conveyed by her whole presence. She spoke in a gentle, monotonous, pleasant voice. "I guess this is Mr. Somers, the artist. I feel we feel very glad to have the honor of meeting you, sir." No one had ever felt honored to meet Somers before. He thought how much refinement and sadness were in a blind woman's face. In his most deferential manner he proffered her a chair. "I presume I am to paint you, madam,” he said. - She blushed faintly. "Ain't it rediculous?" she apologized. "But Mr. Gates will have it. He has been at me to have somebody paint a picture of me ever since I had my photograph taken. It was a big picture, and most folks said it was real good, though not flattering; but he would n't hang it. He took it off, and I don't know what he did do to it. 'I want a real artist to paint you, mother,' he said. I guess if Kitty had lived she 'd have suited him, though she was all for landscape; never did much figures. You noticed her work in this room, ain't you? on the table and chair and organ — art needle-work. Kitty could do anything. She took six prizes at the county fair; two of 'em come in after she was in her last sickness. She was so pleased she had the picture — that's the picture right above the sofy; it's a pastel- and the tidy -I mean the art needle-work-put on her bed, and she looked at them the longest while. Her ра would never let the tickets be took off." She reached forth her hand to the chair near her and felt the ticket, stroking it absently, her chin quivering a little, while her lips smiled. "Mr. Gates was thinking," she said, “that maybe you'd paint a head of me- pastel like that - landscape that's why he likes pastel so. And he was thinking if—if maybe my eyes was jest like Kitty's when we were married if you would put in eyes, he would be awful much obliged, and be willing to pay extra, if necessary. Would it be hard?" Somers dissembled a great dismay. "Certainly not," said he, rather dryly; and he was ashamed of himself, at the sensitive flutter in the old features. "Of course I know," she said, in a different tone than she had used before-"I understand how comical it must seem to a young man to have to draw an old woman's picture; but it ain't comical to my husband. He wants it very much. He's the kindest man that ever lived, to me, caring for me all the time. He got me that organ-me that can't play a note, and never could just because I love to hear music, and some. times, if we have an instrument, the neighbors will come in, especially Hattie Knight, who used to know Kitty, and is a splendid performer; she comes and plays and sings. It is a comfort to me. And though I guess you young folks can't understand it, it will be a comfort to him to have a picture of me. I mistrusted you'd be thinking it comical, and I hurried to come in and speak to you, lest, not meaning anything, you might, jest by chance, let fall something might hurt his feelings like you thought it queer, or some sech thing. And he thinks so much of you, and having you here, that I could n't bear there'd be any mistake." "Surely it is the most natural thing in the world he should want a portrait of you," interrupted Somers, hastily. "Yes, it is," she answered, in her mild, even tones, "but it might n't seem so to young folks. Young folks think they know all there is about loving. And it is very sweet and nice to enjoy things together; and you don't hardly seem to be in the world at all when you 're courting, your feet and your heart feel so light. But they don't know what it is to need each other. It's when folks suffer together that they find out what loving is. I never knew what I felt toward my husband till I lost my first baby; and I'd wake up in the night and there 'd be no cradle to rock and he'd comfort me. Do you see that picture under the photograph of the cross?" "He's a pretty boy," said Somers. "Yes, sir. He was drownded in the river. A lot of boys in playing, you know, and one got too far, and Eddy, he swum out to help him. shore didn't git He was And he clumb up on Eddy, and the man on there in time. He was a real good boy, and liked to play home with me 'most as well as with the boys; and he'd tell me the things he was going to get me. the greatest hand to make up stories of what he would do. But only in fun; he never told us a lie in his life- and it come hard sometimes for him to own up, for he was mischievous. Father was proud as he could be of him, though he would n't let on. He was real bright, too; second in his class. I always felt he ought to have been head, but teacher said behavior counted, too, and Eddy was mischievous. That cross was what his schoolmates sent; and teacher she cried when she told me how hard Eddy was trying to remember and mind and win the prize, to please his pa. Father and I went through that together. And we had to change all the things we used to talk of together, because Eddy was always in them; and we had to try not to let each other see how our hearts were breaking, and not shadder Kitty's life by letting her see how we missed him. Only once father broke down; it was when he give Kitty Eddy's colt." She stopped, for she could not go on. "Don't don't distress yourself," Somers begged, lamely. His cheeks were hot. "It don't distress me," she answered, "only jest for the minnit; I'm always thinking of Eddy, and of Kitty, too. Sometimes I think it was harder for father when his girl went than anything else. And then my blindness and my rheumatism come; and it seemed like he was trying to make up to me for the daughter and the son I'd lost, and be all to once to me. He has been, too. And do you think that two old people that have grown old together, like us, and have been through losses like that do you think they ain't drawed closer and kinder and tenderer to each other, like the Lord to His Church? Why, I'm plain and old and blind and crooked — but he don't know it. Now, do you understand?" "Yes," said Somers, "I understand." "And you'll please excuse me for speaking so free; it was only so father's feelings should n't git hurt by noticing maybe a look like you wanted to laugh." "God knows I don't want to laugh," Somers burst in. "But I'm glad you spoke. It it will be a better picture. Now may I ask you something? I want you to let me dress you — I mean put something about your neck, soft and white; and then I want to make two sketches of you- one, as Mr. Gates wishes, the head alone; the other, of you sitting in the rustic chair outside." "But" she looked troubled "it will be so expensive; and I know it will be foolish. If you'd jest the same 99 "But I should n't; I want to do it. And it will not cost you anything. A hundred dollars will repay me well enough. I wish I truly wish I could afford to do it all for nothing.' She gasped. "A hundred dollars! Oh, it ain't right! That was why he would n't buy the new buggy. And jest for a picture of me." But suddenly she flushed like a girl, and smiled. At this instant the old man, immaculate in his heavy black suit and glossy white shirt, appeared in the doorway, bearing a tray. "Father," said she, "do you mean to tell me you are going to pay a hundred dollars jest for a picture of me?" “Well, mother, you know there's no fool like an old fool," he replied, jocosely; but when the old wife turned her sightless face toward the old husband's voice, and he looked at her, Somers bowed his head. He spent the afternoon over his sketches. Riding away in the twilight, he knew that he had done better work than he had ever done in his life, slight as its form might be; nevertheless, he was not thinking of his work, he was not thinking of himself at all. He was trying to shape his own vague perception that the show of dainty thinking and the pomp of refinement are in truth amiable and lovely things, yet are they no more than the husks of life; not only under them, but under ungracious and sordid conditions, may be the human semblance of that "beauty most ancient, beauty most new," that the old saint found too late. He felt the elusive presence of something in love higher than his youthful dream; stronger than passion, fairer than delight. To this commonplace man and woman had come the deepest gift of life. "A dream?" he murmured; "yes, perhaps; but he has captured it." And he sang: VOL. XIX.-23 "In dreams she grows not older, The land of dreams among, Though all the songs be sung; Still fair and kind and young." CELIA (LAIGHTON) THAXTER. THAXTER, CELIA (LAIGHTON), an American poet; born at Portsmouth, N. H., June 29, 1835; died at the Isles of Shoals, August 26, 1894. When she was five years of age her father removed to one of the Isles of Shoals, nine miles from the nearest coast, to be keeper of the light-house. Her poems are full of the shimmer and dash of the sea-many of them exquisite marine paintings. Her works are: "Poems" (1872); "Among the Isles of Shoals" (1873), a series of charming prose sketches; "Poems" (1874); "DriftWeed" (1879); "Poems for Children" (1884); "The Cruise of the Mystery,'" etc. (1886); "Idyls and Pastorals" (1886); "The Yule Log" (1889); "An Island Garden" (1894); "Letters" (1895); "Stories and Poems for Children" (1895). SEAWARD. To How long it seems since that mild April night, Southwest the wind blew, million little waves Ran rippling round the point in mellow tune; We called to him, while blindly through the haze We called, and lo, he answered! Half in fear Sadly it died away. By permission of Houghton, Mifflin, & Co. |