The Secret Shot; Or, The Rivals Of Misty Mount — page 18: what you’re looking at

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afflicted ones were fond of his society, and the genuine zeal with which he had instituted search for Walter’s murderer had elevated him even more in their esteem. Two weeks had passed, and the young captain was at rest beneath the turf of the pleasant valley ; but though that subdued and silent air which fills the heavens upon the taking away of ‘a beloved and cherished form still pervaded the atmosphere of the manor- house and its surroundings, the soothing solace of time was beginning to heal the wounds of sorrowing hearts. Cleaveland had been so good and kind, he was so courtly and refined in his manners and feel- ings, that it was little to be wondered at that those two weeks of sorrow and sympa- thy had drawn him closer into the lonely household. The old man had come to love him dearly ; and Ida—what carn we say but that she too loved the brave soldier and true friend ? Cleaveland was an excellent reader; and the shelves of the Gwin library were loaded with the lore and poesy of the not dead past. Nothing was more delightful than to hear his deep voice on the pensive rhapso- dies of Dante, the balmy love-wails of Pe- trarch, the sweet strains of Spenser, or the grand, high imagery of Milton’s muse. Be- sides, he was a musician. What could be more delightful and consoling than the har- monies of the guitar to those whose souls were pining for peace. In a hundred ways, he exercised his ingenuity and talents to bring back the old happiness to Misty Mount. And, though the new grave on the hill, the empty chair at the table, and the well-known sword that hung so brightly and lonesomely over the portrait of its for- mer owner, on the drawing-room wall— though these were ineffaceable mementoes of the “gone, forever gone,” the efforts of the handsome officer were not wholly with- out success; and every day he was looked for with increased pleasure. It was such a short distance to the camp at Valleyton —barely a ten minutes’ gallop—that there was no excuse for his not riding over to the mansion every day. And the lovely Ida began to experience a thread of tender- ness in this gratification which she would have been extremely unwilling to confess. Jenny, her maid, a bright black girl, saw _the light impression which was gradually dcepening in her mistress’ feelings, and was ‘not slow to talk in favor of the colonel’s appearance. THE SECRET SHOT. “La, Missus,” said she, one day while do- ing up the fair tresses of her mistress, “la, but dat Cunnel Cleavelan’, if he isn’t de sweetest gemmen I ever set eyeson. Twice as handsome as any one in de valley, an’ al- most as magnificent as poor Massa Wally was. An’ oh, what a beautiful miniature - dat is what he carries roun’ his neck !” “ Miniature !” “La, Miss, how you start! You nearly drawed your back hair out by de roots. Oh, my! how many dimons and camphires and ametwists dere is strung roun’ dat sweet lady’s picture !” “ Lady’s picture |” “Yes. But la, Miss Ida, how pale you’ve growed all on a sudden! Wait till I get your smellin’ bottle.” “Nonsense, you silly thing! Goon with my hair. Every one has a right to wear a lady’s miniature, if one chooses.” “Yes, Missus; but every one isn’t so lucky as to hab one strung all roun’ wid di- mons, camphires—” “Nonsense, I say! lady’s face ?” “Yes, Miss; and sich a face! I declar I neber see’d de like. Sich eyes! sich hair! sich lips! an’ oh golly! sich a nose. Gorra Massa! it looked jis’ like—jis’ like—jis* like pop-corn.” “How could it look like that, you silly thing ?” cried Ida, laughing in spite of her- self. “T mean it look jis’ like dat are tastes, you know.” “In the first place, how did you happen to see this miniature ?” continued Ida. “La, Miss, dat night when it blowed an’ rained so and Massa made de cunnel stop all night, I see’d him fastenin’ of it roun’ his neck when I fetched de shayin’ water up to him in de mornin’. ,Oh, golly! sich a face !” “There, that will do, Jenny.” But, nevertheless, do what she would, Ida could not drive Colonel Cleaveland’s miniature from her mind. She found her- self imagining its appearance with a pain- ful curiosity. It could not be the picture of a wife. She had heard the colonel men- tion that he was a bachelor. It must be of a sweetheart. And yet might it not be a cousin, an aunt, a friend? It is seldom that young men burden their hearts with the gem-encircled portraits of cousins, aunts, or female friends. In fact, whose evuld it be. “Well” thought Ida, laughing to You say it was a 6) oy 0) (2) 9) =) () rat