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THE NATIONAL TRIBUNE: WASHINGTON, D. C, DECEMBER 31, 1881.
ORCHARD LANDS OF LONG AGO.
JAMES W. KILEY.
The orchard lands of long ago !
O drowsy winds, awake and blow
The snowy blossoms back to me,
And all the buds thnt used to be !
Blow back along the grassy ways
Of truant feet, and lift the haze
Of happy summer from the trees
That trail their tresses in the seas
Of grain that float and overflow,
The orchard lands of Long Ago !
Blow back the melody that slips
In lazy laughter from the lips
That marvel much if any kiss
Is sweeter than the apple's is.
Blow back the twitter of the birds
The lisp, the titter and the words
Of merriment that found the shrine
Of summer-time a glorious wine
That drenched the leaves that loved it so,
In orchard lands of Long Ago!
O memory! alight and sing
"Where plump and rosy pippins cling,
And golden russets glint and gleam
As in the old Arabian dream
The fruits of that enchanted tree
The glad Aladdin robbed for me !
And, drowsy winds, awake and fan
My blood as when it over-ran
A heart ripe as the apples grow
In orchard lands of Long Ago !
THE WHITE LADY OF HILLBURY,
BY MRS. C. DESPAKD.
III.
From the moment when she awoke from her
long sleep perfect health seemed to return to the
lady who had fallen in so strange a way into the
hands of Lady Montague and her daughter. But
in the lovely lady's form the mind of a little
child seemed to dwell, and this was what puzzled
them.
During the first few days she was with them
Dr. Griffith came and went; but he would not
see her. He listened to all they had to say,
gave his advice, and went away. When Lady
Montague asked him why he would not see her,
lie replied that he was afraid he might alarm
her. "I want her to see only pleasant things at
first," he said ; "see cheerful faces, hear charming
sounds."
Whereupon Lady Montague accused him once
more of being a poet.
Meanwhile their strange and lovely visitor,
who had at first seemed incapable even of con
nected speech, was learning rapidly. " Say what
you like," said Ellen to Dr. Griffith on one of his
visits, "I am certain she has intelligence of a
high order."
"She never forgets a single thing we tell her,"
said Lady Montague. "It is really pathetic to
see the efforts she makes to please us. As she
appears not even to remember her own name, we
have given her the name of Theodora, and she
answers to it. She seems to like the sound of it.
I suppose we shall find out her right name some
day."
The Doctor approved the choice of the name.
"She seems like a protege of mine as well as
yours," he said. " But where is she now ? "
They brought him to the window of the garden
parlor, and pointed her out moving to and fro
among the plants in a glass-house near at hand.
"She is still dressed in white," observed the
Doctor, watching her with attentive scrutiny.
'"Yes," said Ellen. "We tried her with a
colored dress of mamma's, but she appeared un
easy, so we gave her back her own, which, after
all, suits her best, and I am having other dresses
made of the same fashion. It is cut like those
Greek dresses that the aesthetic people are raving
about in London just now ; and do you know
that her belt is worth a mint of money ? It is
studded with jewels ? "
"Imitations, most likely," said the Doctor,
and unheeding Ellen's indignant protest
"What is more important," he said, turning to
Lady Montague, " is our patient's state of mind ?
Do you think she is satisfied still ? Has she
begun to ask questions ? "
" She has not said anything," replied the lady ;
"her vocabulary, you know, is not very large
yet. But I think she begins to be perplexed."
"I will see and speak to her the next time I
come," said Dr. Griffith, taking his leave hur
riedly. Theodora was no longer to be seen in the glass
house She had probably entered the long cov
ered passage which connected it with the garden
parlor. Many weeks elapsed before the Doctor's
next time of coming. He wrote to Lady Mon
tague in the interval. He was overwhelmed with
work. His patients had chosen to fall ill in a
batch. Should there be any urgent necessity for
his presence at Hillbury, he would make a point
of going there ; if not, he trusted Lady Montague
would excuse him.
Then came news that his work had been too
heavy for him ; he was breaking down. Since
the worst cases were in a fair way to recovery,
and his assistant was careful, he thought of tak
ing a run up to London to recruit himself with
a little music and art On his return he would
make it his first business to call upon Lady
Montague, and see for himself what she and Miss
Ellen had made of the White Lady of Hillbury;
for this he informed them was the name their
guest bore in the neighborhood. This latter fact
was known at Hillbury, and had given some
little annoyance to its inmates.
Lady Montague, vho was quiet, retiring, and
eminently correct in all her ideas ideas which
had been a part of her heritage could not bear
the thought that, from any cause whatever, she
or hers should be a topie of conversation to their
neighbors ; and for some time she had tried to
hide the fact that the guest whose beauty and
strangeness made her necessarily a subject of re
mark had come to them in so mysterious a man
ner. But such things cannot be hidden. The
story, with many an embellishment, was soon
noised abroad, and Lady Montague was put to
the ordeal of hearing from particular friends
what friends, who were not so particular, had
been pleased to say on the subject.
"There are some who will have it that the
poor thing escaped from a mad-house," said one
lady in the course of an afternoon-call, prolonged
almost past endurance.
"Oh! but that's not the strangest thing that is
said," put in another visitor. "Think of Miss
Winthrop saying she was a relative of yours a
sister, whom you had believed to be dead, come
to life again. I said it was absurd at the time."
"Well!" said the first speaker, gathering her
furs about her she had been lingering in the
hope of seeing the " White Lady," and judging
for herself "no one can say now that you are
not a miracle of goodness, dear Lady Montague."
"A miracle is easily coined in our neighbor
hood," Lady Montague could not help saying.
All this grated upon her; but she had a certain
compensation in the delight of watching her
strange guest, and in the admiration and interest
she experienced as, day by day, some touching
beauy of character, some rarely delicate percep
tion, or some acquisition of knowledge, rapidly
grasped, proved that the being they had saved
and befriended was, from every point of view,
worthy of their love and care.
From the very first the young lady had shown
herself strongly attracted by Lady Montague.
As the days and weeks went by her devotion to
the mistress of the house increased. It was very
touching. She watched Lady Montague moving
about the house, working, talking, or writing,
with a wistful, eager love, which was in keeping
with her childlike nature. In the garden-parlor,
as at afternoon or evening they sat together, she
would place herself where she could command
a view of Lady Montague, and she would spend
long periods in studying her face. Soon she
learned to perform little thoughtful services for
her friend, to anticipate her wants, to read to
her, to thread her needle, and arrange her flowers.
Of Ellen she showed herself fond in a calm,
sisterly fashion. Lady Montague she seemed to
reverence as well as adore.
Of course this homage was not displeasing to
its object.
"I am glad the dear child likes me," the gentle
lady would say ; "it "is so much easier to carry
on her education." The education had already
reached that point when it was impossible to
hide from Theodora the knowledge that this
calm present, with its even-flowing days, was not
the whole of her life.
She loved wandering about alone in Hillbury
Park, and she manifested a special affection for
the grand old beech wood which made it famous.
Certain persons, who were curious to meet her,
found out her tastes, and Theodora was inter
viewed, first by Miss Winthrop, the gossip-monger
of the neighborhood, and secondly by Mr.
Protheroe, the new curate.
The lady asked her some perplexing questions ;
the gentlemen (he was acting from conscientious
motives) drew her out, and being shocked to find
her we quote his description "nothing more
nor less than a beautiful pagan," he took upon
himself to enlighten her.
On her return from that memorable stroll,
Theodora electrified her teachers by saying, " No
human being is isolated. Is that true?"
Lady Montague assented.
" Then I have responsibilities," replied the girl.
"What are they?"
"For the present moment to learn, I think,"
said Lady Montague, smiling.
"For the present moment," echoed Theodora.
"Btat I have a past. Everybody has a past!" '
" Can you remember anything out of the past,
dear?"
" I don't know. I have dreams sometimes. I
see a face like yours."
"Like mine? But then it is a dream of the
present, not of the past."
"Do you think I shall ever remember?"
Theodora asked, wistfully.
"Of course you will, dear. In the meantime
do not trouble your head."
" I am sure your face is my past," the girl per
sisted. "Did you ever see me before the day I
came to you? Think; you may have forgotten."
"No one could see your face and forget it,
darling," said Lady Montague.
This conversation took place in late spring,
when Theodora had been about five months at
Hillbury. It made Ladjr Montague uneasy, and
she was very glad, on the following day, in the
afternoon, to see Dr. Griffith's carriage driving up
the avenue. Leaving Ellen and Theodora in
the garden parlor, she went out into the hall to
meet him. "I should like you to see your
patient," she said.
"Why?" he asked. "Does not the improve
ment continue ? "
" She is very well, most amiable, perfectly in
telligent." "And you are not satisfied?"
" Yes, so far as that goes. But she has a per
plexed expression. She begins to ask questions."
"Ah ! " he looked grave. " We must stave that
off a little longer. I want her kept quiet."
"So do I. I am afraid some busybody has
been talking to her."
"Unfortunately, we can't shut out the busy
body ; he is as penetrating as dust in March. Lady
Montague, with your permission, I will see your
guest. It's my opinion she has already seen
uglier mortals than I am."
From that time Dr. Griffith's visits again be
came frequent. Theodora took to him, not in
the same enthusiastic manner as to Lady Mon
tague, but showing a quiet, almost filial confi
dence, which gratified him exceedingly. So far
as her physical and mental health were con
cerned, this feeling was useful, for Dr. Griffith
was able to do what had been possible neither to
Lady Montague nor Ellen. He set her mind at
rest, accomplishing the feat by a very simple
process. " You shall know everything some day,"
he would say. "And, believe me, in time enough,''
Then she would fix her dark eyes, which had
again begun to look mournful, upon him. "Do
you promise me that?" she would ask, and upon
his answering, " Yes, I promise," the expression of
childlike confidence and gladness would return
to her face.
But soon after this the summer had now com
pletely run its course Theodora became sad
from another cause. She read trouble in the
faces of Lady Montague and Ellen. They did
not speak to her of their sorrow', and it is prob
able that this distressed her, as well. One morn
ing, at the breakfast table, when the post-bag
had just been opened, and it contents distributed,
she saw tears in Lady Montague's eyes.
Theodora was becoming perfectly womanly
now, in all but the persistent failure of memory.
At that moment, though her heart was full, she
said nothing. In the evening she drew her low
chair to Lady Montague's side and said, "Why
don't you send for Dr. Griffith?"
"Should you like to see him, dear?" asked
her friend.
"No; but I should like him to see you. He
is very good when people are in trouble."
"In trouble, Theodora!"
"You are in trouble, Marraine" (she had been
taught to give Lady Montague this pretty French
title.) "You have not told me, but I know, and
Dr. Griffith is a wise man."
" So he is, and he used to take a great interest
in Harry. Ellen, I really think Theodora's idea
is a good one. I will ask the Doctor what I
ought to do about my boy."
Lady Montague's note found the Doctor at
home. It was a piteous little note. "I am in
deep anxiety," she wrote. "For six months my
boy has not written to me. At first I believed
it was only carelessness on his part. I am con
vinced now that something is wrong. He is ill,
dying perhaps, in some out-of-the-way place. I
must trace him. You are a man, and a wise man,
Doctor. Tell me what steps I should take."
It is sad to be compelled, as an historian, to
relate that Dr. Griffith, when he read this heart
rending note, smiled grimly. It reached him
about his dinner hour. He sent out word that,
after he had dined, his horse should be brought
round, and at about nine o'clock that same even
ing he drev
Looking u
there, and j
scarcely no
The Doc
tague and
room. He
somewhat
., terrace of Hillbury.
Vhite Lady standing
a ith a grave salute. She
:jdi
,v
d found Ellen Mon-
i . heir ordinary sitting-
'. is at rest, acting in
a as he had done by
Theodora
ouuuuo how this man always
.A.LI t r o
inspired confidence. "I happen to know where
Sir Henry is," he said. He is not ill not in body,
that is to say ; but he is in rather a peculiar
state of mind just now."
Lady Montague's eyes filled with tears. Ellen
looked angry. " No state of mind can be any
excuse for his conduct," she said, "giving poor
mamma all this anxiety!"
"Parden me, my dear Miss Ellen," replied the
Doctor temperately; "your indignation does you
honor; but, ju3t now, it is misapplied. Lady
Montague, you are good enough to call me your
friend. Will you turst me entirely ? "
"Yes, Doctor, I will. You love my boy."
"I have a great regard for Sir Henry, and I
would, notmislead you for the world. Now, I
want yoiitbhave patience. That is hard. Yes,
I knowjbut-as you can actually do nothing "
"You will not so much as tell me where my
poor boy is ? "
"I cannot. He is wandering from place to
place. A friend of mine is his companion. I
heard from this friend two or three days ago.
Sir Henry experienced a shock not long ago.
Pray, don't look so frightened, Lady Montague!
The danger to his mind is, I firmly believe, over
now. In the meantime he could not do better
than travel. I believe they are going eastward
now, into the Desert, where communication with
him will be difficult. ' I advise "that for the present
Sir Henry should be left to himself. He is a
sensible man. When he feels fit for civilized
society, he will return home. You know he was
never a letter-writer."
Though much relieved, Lady Montague -was
only half consoled.
"To think of his confiding in Dr. Griffith, and
not in me, his own mother ! " she said later, with
flowing tears. But when use made her familiar
with the sting of this wound, she drew large
comfort from the fact that a friend of the Doctor
was with him.
To be continued.
THE SABOT AND VIOLIN.
Toward the last of September, 1832, the artis
tic world of Paris was deeply affected upon learn
ing that Paganini, the celebrated artist, was very
ill. He was seized with a violent fever at the
close of a concert, where he had been the star
and only attraction.
Kind friends and warm admirers did all in
their power to ameliorate hi3 sufferings, but
without avail. Day after day passed, and still
the condition of the much-beloved artist did not
improve. His physicians became alarmed, and
urged upon him the necessity of taking a rest of
several months.
A beautiful morning in the month of October
he bade adieu to the capital he had filled with
his merited renown.
At that time there was a celebrated hospital
near Paris, which was only frequented by distin
guished invalids. It was the Villa Lutetiana,
named without doubt in memory of the ancient
Lutece. This fine edifice was situated in the
centre of a pleasure garden which overlooked a
charming and heavily-wooded park. There were
shady groves and walks for dreamers, public
drawing-rooms for the lovers of games and con
versation, and private apartments for those who
preferred the " chez-soi " in tete-a-tete with the
last novel. His days were spent in promenad
ing up and down the most retired walks of the
garden, and when evening approached he has
tened to his room to read and reread a package
of letters, yellow with age, to which a fresh one
was added from time to time,
Among the inmates of the Villa Lutetiana
there were four old ladies who had become very
warm friends on account of their common love
for card playing, and the secluded life which
Paganini persisted in leading seemed to cause
them much annoyance.
"Indeed," said one of them, '"he is not my idea
of a great man. I do not perceive any tiling re
markable in him ; in fact, taking him all in all,
he is just like other men."
"As for me," said the second lady, "when I
heard he was to become one of our number I was
in raptures, and flattered myself with the thought
that he would frequently enliven our promenades
and soirees with his wonderful music, but behold
how we are treated. He rarely deigns to recog
nize us, and whenever he is requested to favor
us with a little music he calniy shakes his head
and retreats at once. He is a bear a real sav
age." ,
"Ah! "said the third lady, 'you do not un
derstand his case yet. Paganini, my friends, is
simply a miser. Do you wish the proof? Does
he not always refuse to assist in charitable con
certs?" "It is very strange," said the fourth lady, "how
great men lose prestige upon acquaintance. I do
not doubt but that he is of some account on the
stage. But here ! I do not know but, as far as
sociality is concerned, I would prefer to associate
with the gardener."
" Oh ! do not hesitate, I pray you," replied the
youngest of the ladies. " As for my part, I would
greatly prefer 'most anybody to him. Did you
ever see a man manifest so much indifference, yes,
even contempt, for ladies' society ? "
" I am of your opinion ; but come, my ladies,
I have a scheme to submit to you that has just
popped into my head. We must give this sleepy
bear a shaking."
The celebrated violinist, however, continued
to live in the usual manner, and slowly regained
his strength. But one would hardly have be
lieved him to be any better, he looks so very pale
and thin. His physicians rigidly forbade his
doing any mental work, and the great musician,
entirely deprived of his art, passed the autumnal
days in a sort of intellectual somnolence, which
was most beneficial to his feeble state.
He never became a victim to loneliness. As a
wood-carver Paganini was without a rival. Hour
after hour he sat in his cosy little room and skil
fully handled chisels, knives and other sharp
edged instruments.
Although he seemed to be surrounded by ene
mies instead of friends in his new home, there
was one being who studied his comfort and ex
hibited the most tender regard for him. This
devoted creature was a young chambermaid,
named Louisette, a charming young girl, with a
frank face andsmiling countenance, who cordially
greeted the distinguished artist every morning
as she lightly entered his room with the early
breakfast.
While the artist partook of the fragrant coffee,
delicious rolls and honey, Louisette endeavored
to amuse him by relating some of the incidents
which transpired at the hospital. From time to
time she succeeded in causing a faint smile to
appear on the wan face as she aptly imitated the
four eccentric old ladies.
One morning Louisette entered Paganini's
room at the customary hour ; but the greeting
was pronounced in a most doleful tone. Her eye
lids were badly swelled, her cheeks void of color,
and a very sorrowful expression played around
the finely-cut mouth.
"What is the matter, my poor Louisette?"
asked Paganini.
" Oh ! I am so unhappy ! " Then she hesitated,
apparently checked by the fast-falling tears and
child-like sobs that came in quick succession.
Paganini allowed her to weep undisturbed for
a few moments; then said, in a most sympathetic
tone: "Tell me your troubles. Perhaps I can
devise a way to alleviate them."
" Oh ! no, kind sir. No one in the whole world
can help me."
"Tut, tut! I am inclined to believe some lover
is the cause of all your grief."
Louisette colored and dropped her head.
"The wretch! has he broken his vows?" asked
Paganini, with a smile.
" No ! no ! " replied Louisette. " My dear Henri
loves me too much to do anything so cruel as
that."
She could not continue, and, throwing herself
upon a chair, commenced sobbing as if her heart
would break.
Paganini stepped to the window where she was
seated, took her hand in his, and said, very seri
ously : "Have you confidence in me, Louisette ?"
"Oh! yes, sir," she replied.
"Very well, my dear child. Dry your tears
and we will endeavor to remedy the evil, how
ever serious it may chance to be."
'Henri has drawn an unfortunate number,"
said Louisette, speaking very rapidly. " He must
join the army and leave for Lille on the morning
express."
"Can he not procure a substitute?"
"A substitute! How could we ever dream of
raising such a sum?"
"Would it require very much money?"
"Fifteen hundred francs are demanded, on ac
count of the prospect of war."
"Well, your misfortune is not so serious, after
all. Wipe away those tears and let me see your
merry face once more. I will exert myself to ob
tain this formidable sum. I am sure that mv
efforts will be crowned with success."
Louisette warmly thanked the violinist, dried
her tears with the corner of her white apron, and
disappeared, with a face radiant with joy and
hope.
Winter advanced, and Christmas, with its
feathery garb of snow and crown of holly, was
on the threshold once more. It gently rapped at
the door of every dwelling, and at this signal
families assembled around the cheerful hearth
their hearts warm with love and good will to
man. The little children filled their shoes with
hay and placed them in the fireplace, that Santa
Claus might see them right away when he
jumped down the chimney with all the presents
they had ordered ; and the little homeless ones
came and offered a prayer at the door while
breathing in their hands, which were blue and
stiff with the piercing cold.
At the' Villa Lutetiana each one celebrated
Christmas according to his pleasure. Our four
old ladies enjoyed an animated game of cards;
while Paganini, seated in a secluded corner of
the room, absorbed in an interesting book was
wholly unconscious of the malicious looks that
were given him from time to time.
Suddenly the door opened, and Louisette en
tered. "Sir," said she, betraying much excitement,
" a large box to your address has arrived. The
porter is waiting in the vestibule."
"A box?" said Paganini, much astonished.
"It must be a mistake. I do not expect any
thing." " But, sir, your address is on it."
"It is true, but that is all the same. I cannot
conceive Where is the porter ? "
" Here he is, sir. He says he is in a hurry."
"Whence comes this box?" asked Paganini,
regarding the man with suspicion.
j: rum iiiu ojuue, air. x uu iiul .uuy tujri.imii
more about it, except that it was sent from Lyons
or Orleans.
"Stranger and stranger," remarked Paganini.
"I have not an acquaintance in either of these
cities."
He paid him, however, thanks to the interfer
ence of Louisette, who had taken possession of
the box.
The porter had hardly turned his back when
Louisette, glancing at the box with much curios
ity, eagerly said : " I will assist you to take it up
to your room, sir."
"No, Louisettte," replied Paganini, trying to
refrain from smiling. "Leave it there inthe
corner. To-morrow will be time enough to at
tend to it."
"And you are not going to open it?" asked
Louisette, much disappointed.
"Yes, indeed, I will, since you are so anxious
to see its contents. Come, aid me, and we will
have it open in a few moments."
They removed two layers of hay, several bun
dles of brown paper, cut a number of strings and
found at the very bottom of the box an old
sabot.
"Well, I am not much surprised," said Pagan
ini, "it is a very nice invention. They have sent
me this sabot as an allusion to my avarice and
wish it to say to me that I am like children, who
rather receive than give ; but they are very much
deceived if they think they can wound my feel
ings by this unkind act.
"I will say in the presence of all the inmates
of this house that before the expiration of two
weeks this sabot shall be worth its weight in
gold."
Thereupon he retreated, with the wooden shoe,,
leaving the spectators in an amazement easy to
comprehend. The old ladies seemed quite embarrassed.
It was they who had sent it, and Paganini was
well aware of the fact, and secretly rejoiced that
it had not afforded them all the pleasure they
had promised themselves.
From this day Paganini was no more to be seen
in the saloon of the Villa Lutetiana. The faith
ful Louisette was the only person admitted to
his presence. The four old ladies tried their ut
termost to persuade her to explain his mysterious
disappearence, but she placed her finger on her
lips and quite resembled the statue of discretion.
It was true Louisette knew something of his
plans ; but not all. She did not know that, by a
remarkable ingenuity and exquisite skjllfulness
the old sabot was being transformed into a violin,
which for tone and finish might have challenged
an Amati. Paganini had given more than an
ordinary soul to this object, and the world was to
be the judge of it.
Soon large blue posters appeared all around
the Villa Lutetiana, and were freely distributed
in Paris.
They announced that New Year's eve a grand
concert would be given in the saloon of the Villa
Lutetiana, in which Paganini would reappear
upon the stage.
It is needless to say that a few hours after the
distribution of the posters every ticket was sold.
The programme consisted of ten pieces five
upon an ordinary violin and five upon a sabot.
The most capacious theatre of Paris had been
too small to accommodate all the admirers of the
great artist ; but he had determined to play in
the saloon, consequently had given orders that
only a limited number of tickets should be sold.
The anxiously-awaited hour arrived, and soon
an artistic and aristocratic assembly filled the
grand saloon.
Finally Paganini appeared, with his instru
ment, in the midst of a silence so profound that
the beating of the hearts was almost audible.
Tumultuous applause burst forth from all sides
of the audience; then subsided into one grand
shout of welcome, which caused a smile of grati
tude and pride to appear on the pale face of the
celebrated artist.
Paganini gave one stroke with his bow, and
quiet was soon re-established.
After a short prelude, he suddenly strikes out
into a brilliant fantasie. He is no longer a man.
He is transformed into an angel of harmony. The
audience, thrilled with joy, become motionless.
They hardly seem to breathe; and as the last
notes die away there they sit, still listening in
tently. " He will not be able to surpass that .' He never
played better!" vras whispered throughout the
assembly.
However, prepared for miracles from a man
who had accomplished upon the violin what no
human being had ever achieved before him, the
amateurs waited with a feverish excitement. In
a few moments Paganini reappeared, holding the
announced sabot in his hand.
Suddenly notes so plaintive and sweet fell from
the new violin that every one is moved to tears.
The artist seems no longer to belong to the earth.
The musical drama he executes could have only
one significance. Hear the rolling of the drum ;
behold the excitement of the military life, the
sorrow of the soldier who bids farewell to his
companions, the approach to the paternal roof,
the meeting of the betrothed, the tears of joy.
Tremendous applause shakes the saloon to the
very foundation. The ladies throw bouquets,
and the gentlemen kneel before the illustrious
artist. Here and there or.e is seen drying the
tears which the magic power of the music caused
to flow.
No one sees a young girl secreted behind a
curtain and crying bitterly. It was Louisette,
the poor chambermaid, upon whom the return of
the conscript had made the deepest impression.
Paganini calls her to him, and says: " My dear
child we have been fortunate enough to collect
500 francs more than is required to procure a
substitute for your betrothed. Take them. They
will be sufficient to defray the expense of the
journey. And now, as I am about to leave this
house, I give you a souvenir. Here is the old sa
bot. Perhaps it merits the name of violin, now."
Louisette was too much affected to speak, and,
grasping his hands, she covered them with tears
of joy and gratitude.
The violin was a fine dowry for the young girl
She sold it to an amateur for 6,000 francs, and it
has become, by inheritance, the property of a
crroni: Tiplffinn mnTniffinfiiroi- -ix'Virk TUltnitlJiy
--fc. AUi(UlUULUll II 11U -- -
enough, values it at a very high figre
loves to relate its history.
and
