Thrice Lost, Thrice Won — page 86: what you’re looking at

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

Sa ie vn, 4 E's oh 4 wh A Fe aia Pn) OS, 3 4 - Be. ae we a » i: '’ new 4 eRe js ~ 7 a ee e a. ae A ee ee as shee drones oe Ay wil ay ae is y ike ey = ; : es Pi e Conquering. Pict Petar een * « . ~ oye — TRAN we a a, ” jb Pia & ‘ =A we ee Fa < ss at ie sits ees a ~~ < : * ot at - - “74 < ory. could tece: Bice fe fatiire-—have lifted one corner 4 Re would have shrunk in horror from the future she was plan- ning for her niece! But that tragic future was hidden, and re ee went on blindfolded to her Fate. : sys > « CHAPTER XI. | THE OONQUERING HERO. | ‘Estella Mallory recovered rapidly. Youth, and hope, and rs a cata constitution speedily triumphed over the weary ill- - ness that had held her a prisoner for weeks. And they were mother, over her first-born, could be more devoted than - ghe hovered about her, never tired of ministering to her in- valid wants, of coaxing that sick appetite, of reading aloud, of conversing. All Estella’s former life, as far back as she a ‘eould remember, was hers, and, in return, Aunt Helen told e her of the one romance of her own lonely existence—that lit- tle love story, blig ehted forever by her only sister’ Ss supposed oe disgrace. _ ta of that mystic eurtain which hides our destiny—how ‘she. 0 kind to her—Aunt Helen and the faithful Norah. No : _ Helen Mallory to this beloved niece. By night and by day “Perhaps I was wrong,” Helen said, with a an Tor. & Ran loved. him dearly, and he loved me, and no act of any third. _ -person should have come between us. But I was proud and bitter, and I gave him up, and made both our lives desolate. For, though George Bartram married another, he never loved e his wife as he loved me. I knew it from his own dying lips. And J—ah, Essie! the dreary, weary, lonely years I have dragged through—my heart empty and cold and heavy as ‘b . _ _ pang of parting comes back, bitterer than death!” 25 Sgt brother ?” ro teak 4 es, my dear—Alwyn Bartram, big only ay as many es - years younger than poor George, and his living image. He ces com here to see me sometimes. He knows our story, Essie, _ and his presence seems like ‘a link between the living and the Ra dead. For George left no children, and his wife is mar- * ried agai, and Alwyn is the last of the Bartrams. You ought to see him, Tissie, my little hero-worshiper. He is - grerything at is delightful. If I could see my little girl -_ Mrs. Alwyn Bartram, I think I would cease to regret all the et peers. of my life.” os e } = stone! I never look upon his brother’s face but that the old handsome as -demi-god, and an author, and an artist, and — ks (C(O) ico mm any