Thrice Lost, Thrice Won — page 80: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

» - d Ts / . , ro 4! ’ : Helen “Mallory. ie 76 1s an old uk 4 to you. ae had best vo and see ee dinner. Our little patient will be hungry, I dare say, by the time I have done.” Norah rose and left the room. Helen looked at her niece with a sad smile. “She has been with us from my childhood—this faithful ~ ; Norah—until now. She i is more an old friend than a servant. ‘She knows all I am going to tell you—your poor mother’s mournful story. More than you know—is it not, my dear ?’ “Hixcept that I was born at Fisher’s Folly, that she died there, and was buried in Rockledge Cemetery, and that her name was the same as mine (KHstella Mallory), I know nothing.” -“Her maiden name, my child; she had a right to a far | prouder one, as ‘you have, also, Estella de Montreuil. But we did not know it; she was faithful unto death, and kept her ~ heartless hushand’s secret to the bitter end. For he was heartless, dear child, though your father—as cruel and cold- blooded an aristocrat as ever broke a loving heart. I suppose | it is romantic and sentimental in an old maid like me to be- _ jieve in that standard delusion of poets and novelists—broken | hearts; but-if ever human heart broke with sorrow and lost Jove, hers did. My poor, tender, faithful little sister !” The steady voice broke down-—she turned away her face. Great tears rose in Estella’s brown eyes, as she gently took one of Helen’s slender hands. “Go on,” she said, softly. “Let me begin at the beginning,” Miss Mallory said, enn a pause; “when he came to us first—an exile—an impover- ished Ponctasice, under a false name, as a teacher of his na- tive language, Monsieur Raoul he called himself—a hand- - gome fellow enough, though I never liked his looks or his _ manners, faultless as were both. He was like a hero of ro- mance, dear—I suppose you read romances ?—tall, and dark, and distinguished, and melancholy-looking, with great, pa- thetic, black eyes, a sallow face, and waving masses of jet- black hair. Yes, he was very handsome, and very elegant, voice of his for hours, and hold us all spell-bound with tales — of fair foreign lands—-of his own beautiful Paris; he could and very accomplished. He could talk in that deep, musical sing, he could play, he could waltz, as only Frenchmen can. He could do everything, in fact, that was fascinating, and shallow, and irresistible, and the short of the matter was that _ poor Stella fell madly in love with him before she had known him a month.” “So should J,” said Estella, with kindling eyes. “I only / wonder you did not, Aunt Helen.” i ie iy at is ‘agian my dear—call me Aunt Helen. No, I did comic Gbhooks-Go