For the next year his habitual haunts would know him no more. He would combine with his trip a while in Paris. Casting aside all obligation he entered into the spirit of the life about him. Paris, with all its dangers, all its charms, the extraordinary influence of that congenial life, touched him with a glowing heat of inspiration. He revelled in his hopes—in his dreams. Here he would write something worthy of him. His nature was rich in the vivid impressions, intense feelings and fine thoughts which make life full of real meaning and significance. Here he saw many sides of it—much of it was meaningless and distasteful, and repelled all of his finer senses, but “it is in experience that one sees all that is most vile and all that is most beautiful.” This was an excellent opportunity. All the while he was maturing—beginning to have a more tolerant knowledge of his fellow man. His heart was kindlier—the weight of his judgment lighter.
Half the world away, Esther was sorrowing for him—the memory of the disappointment he had caused touched deep fibres in her that ached and ached and ached. Besides this, she could see her old grandfather growing feebler with the setting of every sun. His small stock of vitality was slipping away.
He knew that the stalk was withered, and soon must fall, yet he tried to face the truth in smiling silence. Sometimes—when he thought of the hands that had so longed to have control of his child—the anguish in him overflowed. They would soon have her in their grasp.
THE GIRL.
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CHAPTER I.
Mr. Campbell did not live through the winter.
Esther was left to the care of his nephew, living in a remote part of the valley.
One morning, when she had rocked one of the children to sleep, she sat with it in her arms, gazing out on the gloomy day with sad, set eyes. For the time being she lost all memory of the scene about her. The laughter of the children, the woman leaning over the bed, cutting small garments out of coarse cloth. She began to remember all that her grandfather had meant to her. She recalled his tenderness, the strong fortress of his great love built between the world and her. It had crumbled so slowly that she didn’t comprehend that it could ever wear quite away, until it had crumbled to the ground. True he was dead, but he had made a defense for her even beyond the gulf. Though stinted in many things, he had always held to his life insurance. The farm was worn out—the house old—it would bring little, but the two together would help her to maintain her independence until she could master her art. He did not know the years or the money that it required—he only felt that through the medium of her art she might hold some of the dignity of position to which she was entitled by right of birth. Knowing this, Esther yearned with her heart and soul to go forward. His lofty, beautiful character shone out before her mind without a flaw. The thought of again taking up the task alone was sweetened and ennobled by that memory.
The woman glanced at Esther as she laid aside one pattern, put the pins in her mouth until she could place another. She was a saffron-faced, stoop-shouldered woman—one who prided herself on the drudgery she could do, who welcomed, rather than flinched from hardships.