Pioche Daily Record

A TOUCHING ROMANCE.
Into the arid atmosphere of politics and bread and butter sometimes comes a bit of romance of melting sweetness.
Of such is the story of two lovers and a hard-hearted, remorseless father, which, as it has just been told by a Bostonian, must of course be true. Ten years ago a beautiful young Boston girl was sent to the Vermont hills to arrest, if possible, the indications of approaching consumption. She recovered her health, and meantime inflicted a cureless wound upon the heart of an intelligent and well educated farmer's son. Unlike Lady Vere de Vere, she did not scorn his timid affection, but returned it heartily, referring him to her father. That traditionally unromantic personage wouldn't hear of it. "Never, Lever, shall a base mechanic wed my child!" The young man retired, went West, and made a large fortune, and the young woman married the man prescribed by her father. She went to live in France: her husband died in two years, and her parents also dying, she remained abroad. The memory of her first romance faded with her as with its object, who, though unmarried, was too busy in making money for tender thoughts. Last year his business took him to Europe, and one night found him on a little steamer plying between Marseilles and Leghorn. A storm came up, and a lady, who had risen from her seat on deck to go below, was thrown overboard by a sudden lurch of the vessel. The base mechanic jumped after her, and though in the dark the steamer drifted away from them, they clutched a providential plank and floated until morning, when they were picked up by another vessel. During the night, in the cold and darkness, they discovered in each other the loved and lost of earlier years. The old feeling came back in that fearful hour, and on their arrival at Malta they were married. End of the poetry. The rest is prose.