The Sale of a Heart.

Observer, Volume XV, Issue 796, 31 March 1894, Page 12

The Sale of a Heart.

The ball is over,

In a pretty boudoir, lighted only by a taper, and the flames that flicker on the hearth, the belle of the evening recalls her triumphs. .- he has wheeled the easy chair within the circle of firelight, and her fitful gleams reveal her, wraith like, in the white ball-dress that is scarcely whiter than the face above it.

An hoar ago, one of a brilliant throng, her glancing feet kept time, unwearied, with the measures of the latest waltz.

An hour ago ! Yet the cheek that is pressed against the downy cushions has lo3t its bloom, gone is the sparkle from her eyes, and the crimson rose 3on her breast are drooping, dying ! She holds in her hand a jewel casket, and slowly, with balf-reluctant admiration, lifts from their satin nest a string of glowing rnbies, laying them against her bare white throat.

'Fit for a princess,' she murmurs, ' but what a price to pay ! lam to trample my heart under foot, forsooth, and all that the world — my world — most prizes, is mine. To be admired, courted, the observed of all observers, is as of the very breath of life to me — why do I hesitate ? With his name, with his many thousands, there are no heights in the social scale that I would not dare. And yet — what did 1 read in the bold gaze that followed me everywhere to-night ? Not love. Passion, admiration it may be — love wears not the guise of a serpent, seeking its prey. Ah 1 well. He wishes a handsome figure-head for his establishment ; I long for wealth and position -a barter one sees every day. So shall it be.'

The flames die out upon the hearth, and amid the grey ashes a single ember glows. The woman shivers murmuring— 'How cold it has grown ! I seem to see phantom faces on every side — his face as I saw it_ yesterday. One moment his eye 3 met mine as my carriage whirled by and oh, the reproach in that glance ! Enough of this. I will ring for my sleeping draught and drink oblivion.' Her hand seeks the bell to rouse the sleeping maid; she hesitates, then lifts to her lips the flowers, drooping on her breast. " Send back to me one little rose," he said, " that I may know I can hope." Ah, Kobert, my love, my own— once I thought the world well lost, gazing into your earnest eyes ! 'It Beems so long ago, that happy summer.

'Do you remember, dear, as I do, the quiet country lane where the wild rose 3 ran riot? And there was the lilac scented garden where our mornings were passed, and the lake where we gathered water lilies. I was Marion to you— never the society butterfly. Though you wooed not boldly I well knew the words you longed to speak, and often I pictured another and a better life, when I should place my hand in yours and we should go forth into the world together. Sleep is not for me this night until the words that seal my destiny are penned.'

The trim maid, who enters noiselessly in answer to the summons, marvels much at the carelessness of her mistress as her glance fall6on a chain of rubies trailing ita glittering length upon the hearth-rug. And with the. crimson roses resting above her heart, the maiden writes.

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