The Argosy — page 261: what you’re looking at

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

244 The Fabric of a Vision. Poor Will! his mad jealousy, in pushing Winifred into the stream had really been the best advocate of his cause. He very effectually persuaded her of the sincerity of his passion, at any rate, and I be- lieve their betrothal was settled before they had been out of the water three minutes. The history of their love does not concern this story. William Norreys was clerk in the factory above mentioned: and this girl was governess in the house of the chief partner, and able to grace her husband’s position, when soon after, by the means of substantial help from my husband, he became third partner in the firm. William was only so very ike Edward by moonlight. In the day- time he does not look nearly so handsome. And how about my dream? There is very little to tell. I only learned that every time this vision had come to me, my husband had been widely, vividly awake, and had had the whole scene intensely present before his mind. Not an explanation? No, I suppose not. Yet one hears now-a-days of all sorts of thought-reading, though my only experience of it took place years ago, before it became fashion- able. FABIAN BLAND. —— ORE CRS IR MY PICTURE GALLERY. *Tis no oaken panelled room with art treasures hung, Lovely fabled haunts whose charms olden poets sung ; Quaintly robed and powdered dames fitly set in antique frames. Painted shepherds tend no flocks ’mid arcadian bowers, Nor with mimic wreath and lyre smile away the hours: One fair landscape, one alone, only can I call my own. °Tis a cottage vine-festooned, on a rising ground, Leafy woodlands shadow it, roses bloom around; Clear and bright its streamlets run, dimpling, sparkling, in the sun. There my happy youth was spent, there my childhood played, When sweet ties and kindred hearts earth an Eden made; Memory is the golden key of love’s picture gallery. Portraits line its silent walls, each one in its place, And the true and tender eyes of each angel face That has looked its last below, follow me where’er I go. Earthly sunbeams pass it by, never down it shine, Yet to me each picture glows with a light divine, As I tread its lonely floor, enter its enchanted door. J.I.L. EOMIGIOOKS (E() m