The Argosy — page 197: what you’re looking at

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

180 Lady Valena. CHAPTER XI. THE GIFT OF THE RED FLOWER. On the day on which this story opened, the finger of some meddling Fate twining and twisting the life threads that had till then been running so smoothly apart, caught one stray filament, hitherto floating aimlessly, and tangled it into the web. Elsie Paramount woke to her work-a-day world next morning with a curious sense that all life had changed somehow; or her point of view, perhaps. She opened her eyes to the same ugly little den of a bed-room, kept spotlessly clean and trim at a daily cost of such painful toil as many a fine lady never knows from season’s end to season’s end, and limped forth from it, white and frail, to the old monotonous round of work. She found the little parlour newly swept, the kettle filled and the fire lighted. ‘That was graceless Sammy’s work. Huis feckless hands could be as deft as a woman’s in her behalf. What remained to be done cost her many a slow journey from corner cupboard to table, and from table to fire-place, but the breakfast was ready at last, all in the exact order of the good old days before ‘“‘ Mother’s ” strong arms and brisk feet lay at rest for ever. Then she went to the open window where her pots of mignonette stood, over-hung by the scarlet-runners of Sampson’s training, and leant out to see above the blank wall that bounded her horizon ‘‘whether the sky looked blue to-day.” As she did so, a sound overhead made her start. ‘The ponderous creak of the great wooden window-shutter. Mrs. Beltran must have come home. Elsie felt a sudden pang of remorse as she thought how little she had missed her during the six months she had been away, and how little wishful she was ever to see her again. The little clock in the corner struck; a brisk step was heard outside, and old Mr. Paramount appeared, spruce and well-brushed, if somewhat thread-bare at knees and elbows, with his cravat neatly tied, and his square-toed boots resplendent. ‘Good-morning, my dear. Have you slept well? You are look- ing better, I think.” His invariable formula, from which Elsie never dissented. Then out of the big Bible and worn little book of prayers which she had laid beside his plate, he conducted a short service, of which graceless Sammy only received the benefit of the concluding half as he slunk into his seat near the door, to be greeted by a curt ‘‘ Good-morning, sir,” as they sat down to breakfast. This was to-day an embarrassed, uncomfortable meal. Mr. Para- mount stirred his tea viciously, snapped at his bacon, and kept his eyes averted from the unwelcome prodigal who ate and drank ina deprecating, apologetic fashion, helped himself to butter furtively, and CORMICLOOOKS EO) im