The Forest Republican

MY LITTLE BOY.

I was a widow. A young widow, I suppose—for no one would regard three-and-twenty as a very venerable age. And a pretty widow, people said. Whether they were right or wrong, I cannot take upon myself to say. Of course I knew, whenever I looked in the glass, that I was not an absolute fright—and so, when my cousin, Mrs. General Foxley, invited me to spend a summer with her at the Oriental hotel, where there were balls and soirees, lawn tennis and archery breakfasts going on all the while, I wasn't at all sorry that Mlle. Chatelage had sent home my lovely new half-mourning dress, all trimmed with pearl and lavender, sparkling jet and prismatic clair de lunes, and that Aunt Lavinia, our family "etiquette-book" had decided that it was quite proper to wear my diamonds if I pleased. For I was a decided brunette, and dark women always look well in diamonds.

Not that it had occurred to me that I should ever marry again. My old commodore had been very good and kind to me, but he was feeble and ailing, and required a great deal of care and my general impression of matrimony was that it involved trouble and solicitude, and a constant burden of responsibility.

And now, I was free, and I intended to remain so! I felt like a caged bird that had managed to give its golden wires the slip—a butterfly in the blue June air! I meant to go to the Oriental hotel and have a royal time, waltzing, dreaming—even coquetting a little in a harmless sort of way, if it seemed good to me—but as to marrying again—no, not I! Even Priscilla Bent, my companion, who was the most logical of creatures, declared that I would be the greatest fool alive to do that!

But we never know just what is going to happen to us. The very night before we were to start for the Orient, I came into the room where Priscilla was packing the lace things, which were too nice and delicate to be intrusted to Fifine, the maid.

"Prissy," said I, "look here! a telegram from San Domingo! My cousin, Fanny Black, is dead!"

"Dear me, how sad!" said Prissy, putting on the regulation look of affliction, although she had never in her life seen Mrs. Captain Basil Black, of H. M. 114th Fusiliers, stationed in the West Indies.

"But I suppose that won't interfere with our trip to the seaside, will it?"

"But that isn't all," said I. "She has left a son. And with her dying breath she charged it on her attendants that I should take him to this country and make a home for him."

"How old is he?" said Priscilla Bent, looking aghast.

"Let me see," said I, counting upon my fingers. "Basil Black—that's his name, for I remember cousin Fanny writing about him to mamma when I was a mite of a thing—must be one and twenty at least by this time."

"Bless me!" ejaculated Priscilla, "and you are only just turning twenty-three yourself!"

"Prissy," cried I, with mischievous glee, "You're as good as a book of dates!"

"But it won't be proper," said Priscilla.

"Not proper!" echoed I. "Why won't it be proper? Isn't that dear old Commodore's house big enough for all of us? Aren't you here to matronize us? I think myself it will be rather fine to put a suite of bachelor apartments—smoking room; dressing-room—"

"Elsie," cried Miss Bent, in despair, "I believe you would make fun of anything! Don't you see how outlandish a plan would be? Write at once to San Domingo people, and tell them out of the question."

Prissy, I've always wanted to adopt a little boy, only the dear commodore wouldn't let me.

"Elsie."

"Well, Prissy?"

"I think you must be crazy," groaned Miss Bent. "A little boy, indeed! A dashing, flirting, drinking West India fellow, six feet high. I'll go bail, and broad to correspond! I shall leave the house!"

"No, you won't, Prissy," said I, coaxingly. "You'll just make the best of it, as I am going to do. I dare say he is very nice,—and poor Fanny never would have left him in my charge if he wasn't all that is delightful. And perhaps he'll want to go to college, or study law or something, so he won't be very much in the house, after all—and you know, Prissy, one can't neglect a dying woman's request."

"It was very thoughtless of her, at all events," grumbled my faithful old chaperon. "A young thing like you!"

I laughed. I dare say she heard I was a widow," said I, "and probably imagined me a middle-aged horror with eye-glasses and a double chin. Leave these things, Prissy—we shall not go to the sea-shore now until cousin Basil is safely installed with his gun case, his hookahs and chibouks, his books and papers, in my blue rooms! Come with me and we'll have up the house-keeper, and turn them into a bachelor suite at once."

I was very happy for the next three days, studying the imaginary tastes of my unknown cousin, culling out choice editions of the poets, hanging rare engravings on the walls, and matching carpets and curtains. Miss Bent, poor old soul, said it was all nonsense,—that no young man of any spirit could condescend to "sit down" (that was her expression) "in a house where he was to be a dependent."

"But he is my cousin," said I. "He has a claim on me."

"Nonsense," said Priscilla, "that doesn't alter the case in the least."

In the meantime I was watching the papers—and when I saw in the shipping columns the arrival of the "Bonnie Kate" from San Domingo, I put on my hat and veil, ordered the carriage, and called Prissy to go and accompany me to welcome my new guest.

"If I must, I must," said Prissy. But she was not at all enthusiastic about it.

I was just pinning the crape bow under my chin, when Alice, the parlor-maid, came courtesying in.

"A young gentleman in the parlor to see you ma'am," she said in a smiling flurry. "From the San Domingo steamer. And—"

"I'll go down at once, Alice," I cried, tearing off my hat and veil and flinging the heavy cape streamer on one side.

"Elsie, Elsie, wait," Priscilla's shrill voice entreated me, but my mind was full of poor cousin Fanny and her orphan child—and hurrying down stairs, I found myself face to face with a tall, slender young man, very pale and fair, with dark blue eyes, a soft, silky mustache, and plain mourning dress.

Involuntarily I threw my arms around his neck and kissed him.

"You are welcome, Cousin Basil," said I. "welcome a thousand times."

He drew back, colored a little. "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Charteris," he said, "but there is some mistake here. This is your cousin!" and a pale child of four or five years old, whose long golden curls hung over his black suit, crept out from the shadow of the curtains, slowly and shyly.

"I am Frank," he said. "And Mr. Lesley is my dear, dear friend. He lived on the next place, in San Domingo. He has come to the United States with me!"

"But," I cried, looking helplessly around me, "where is Basil?"

"Basil died two years ago, when the yellow fever decimated our place," said Mr. Lesley, quietly. "I was his most intimate friend. Little Frank is all that is now left of the Black family, and I promised his mother to see him in safety to your house."

I looked with a pang of pity at the dear little golden-haired fellow, of whose very existence I had hitherto been ignorant.

"Sweet little Frankie," said I, "you shall be my little boy henceforward," and I clasped the baby form to my breast.

"And Mr. Lesley, too?" said the little lad, solemnly reaching out his hand to his friend.

"Cousin Elsie likes Mr. Lesley, or she wouldn't have kissed him."

I could feel myself color to the very roots of my hair, but Mr. Lesley's features never stirred.

"She thought I was you, Frankie, don't you see?" said he. "She didn't expect to see such a mite of a chap as you. Good-bye, now, I am going to the hotel, and I shall see you very often, if Mrs. Charteris is—"

But at this Frankie burst into an infant cry of dismay and desolation, and I, recovering my presence of mind, spoke up at once:

"Frankie, don't cry," said I, "Mr. Lesley will not leave you—just at present, at least. You were my dead cousin's trusted friend, Mr. Lesley," I added holding out my hand. "May I not hope that you will be my guest, also."

And Mr. Lesley seeing that I was thoroughly in earnest, consented.

"If I shall not be a bore!" he said, when little Frankie jumped and danced around him, for very joy.

"Now I shall love cousin Elsie all my life said he. "And so will Mr. Lesley!"

Mr. Lesley occupied the suite of apartments which I had so unconsciously fitted up for the poor young cousin who was sleeping the while in the West India cemetery. Little Frankie, who had refused to be parted from his friend, slept in a crib close to his bedside.

"Well, Prissy," I said merrily to my mother chaperon, "see we've got two guests instead of one!"

"It's dreadful," growled poor Prissy.

"Do you think so?" said I. "Now it seems to me that it is very good fun!"

Well, of course anyone can conjecture what ensued. Mr. Lesley was handsome,—moreover he was young and had a handsome fortune of his own.

Incidentally remarked that if he had any object he would prefer to remain here permanently.

"But," he added, mournfully, "it is sad to be so entirely without ties, that no one cares whether you stay in one place or another."

"I care," piped up Frank, who sat as usual by his side, holding his hand.

"And so does cousin Elsie."

"Yes," said I, laughing, though not without some confusion. "Frankie is right. We both care."

"There," said Mr. Lesley, "I will stay."

We were engaged within the month.

And as soon as I laid off my half mourning we were married, so that Frankie never yet has been compelled to separate from his friend.

And Miss Bent lives with us still, and we are very happy! There is the end of my love story.

Ought not all love stories to end so?

Miss Bent says that all real romances end sadly,—but my experience, you see, has been altogether different. And perhaps I am a better judge than she is.—Shirley Browne.