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UGLY -RAC H E LeI

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UGLY RAC H E Le I In the Cumberland mountains, near a 1 touch-travelled road, and not far from a stream that seemed to exist in a succession of accidental tumblings, there once lived an old man who held natural claims to local distinction, but who was chiefly known for one cause. He was a wonderful rifleshot, but this brought him no fame he was one of the most skilful of fishermen, but this aroused not the slightest degree of interest; he was a dangerous opponent in a wrestle a champion at a corn-shucking a notably solemn man at a funeral a marked re- joicer at a celebration; an astonishing breaker of colts a master of stub- born steers, and the terror of balky horses, and yet all these accom- plishments, any two of which are quite enough to bring renown to a man in alnfost any mountainous community, were dis- regarded. Why, then, was he known to all ? Simply because he was the father of Rachel Moss. It had often been declared by men of keen judgment and women of unerring taste, that Rachel was the most unattractive, indeed, the ugliest girl that nature could possibly form. She had the hayest-like hair, the catist-like eyes that had ever been seen her mouth looked like an incision made in impulsive revenge, and her chin was the very climax of ill-shape. No imagination, unless diseased with the fitful wanderings of feverish la grippe, could pic- ture a more unattractive woman. Naturally enough, Rachel was never in- vited into society." No one seemed to think that there could possibly be any enjoy- ment for her. Once a young fellow, who, in early youth had been struck on the head with a stone and who had afterward been nearly squeezed to death by a bear, a man who, in short, was a jabbering idiot, chat- tered a declaration of love to her, and every one who heard of it roared with laughter. Old man Moss, Rachel's father, took sum- mer boarders, but the girl never attempted to force her society upon them. When not engaged in the kitchen, or when not shyly picking her way along the tumbling stream, she sat alone in an attic room. One evening a. distinguished-looking tra- veller stopped at the old Moss house. He was an artist, and at one time dreamed of fame, but the unexpected inheritance of a large estate, and the ease which naturally followed, turned his mind from the thoughts of a struggle for a place in the capricious world of art. He had passed through seasons of dissipation, and was now seeking Test far from the exacting eye of fashion. He paid no attention to the other boarders —he lived within himself. The days passed, and although he politely answered every question addressed to him, avoided meeting anyone. After a time he was put down as a man suffering from the gnawings of remorse. One day he caught sight of Rachel. His impression was a shudder of repulsion, and then moved by a strange fascination, he sought a better view of her face, which, when gained, made him yearn to place a closer look upon her features. The dinner- hour was over and the boarders sat in the shade of the porch, nodding. The wood- fiecker, with his red bill glaring in the sun- ight, tapped on the dead arm of a white oak tree, and a ragged sheep, with her eyes bulging in a. melancholy stare, stood in the dusty road. Rachel slyly stole away, and sought the cool brink of the hurrying stream. The artist followed her. She had gone some distance up the rugged glade, and, pausing under an over-cup acorn tree, was looking at a wild honey-suckle hat trembled under the weight of a humming-bird, when she heard a stone splash in the water. The next moment, she had turned to run away, when the artist. scrambled out of the stream, whither a treacherous boulder had thrown him and. cried "Please wait a moment. She paused, though with painful embar- rassment, until he approached, and, half hiding her face, waited for him to speak. If the water had been deeper I should have had a good ducking," said he.. "I am not as dry as a powder-horn, as it is." "I am sorry you fell in," she answered. "Oh, it doesn't amount to anything," he cheerfully replied. We live in the same, .house, I believe ? 44 Yes, I am Mr Moss's daughter." "I didn't know he had a daughter." ff Then you have not heard of me ?' No, I have heard of nothing concerning the family affairs of any one in this neigh- bourhood. You have been fortunate," she said, with the merest suggestion of bitterness in the tone of her voice. I didn't suppose that any one could escape hearing an account of my father's unfortunate celebrity." I don't comprehend your meaning," he rejoined. Is your father celebrated on account of a misfortune V Yes." 44 And may I ask what that misfortune is ?" "The fact that he is my father," she answered. But why is that a misfortune ?" Can't ypu see V' she bitterly asked, throwing aside, with unwonted boldness, her old son bonnet, and exposing every feature of her face. Don't you see that is because I am unrivalled in my ugliness Come, be honest enough to acknowledge that you do fBee V "I confess that you may be without a rival in your unenvied line of distinction, but I can't see why the old man should be held accountable. "Oh, your honesty is charming," she cried, laughing merrily "I never encoun- tered such frankness outside a book," You know something of books, then, do you Yes; I have been driven into an acquain- tance with them. You must know that) among ignorant people much depends upon looks. Intelligence counts for nothing, and cultivation is looked upon as a weakness, or rather as an insanity. An old school teacher boarded at our house years ago, and filled our attic—now my attic—with books. He was kind enough, or tolerant enough to teach me, and when he died he left me his books. That is, he was unable to take them with him, and as no one else wanted them they became my property. 1£ I hd been passably good looking, I should doubtless have never looked into them, but as my face Was my physical misfortune, I was driven to the attic for my only real pleasure. I know but little of the neighbourhood gossip, and, therefore, have but little to say to the neighbours. In fact, I am ashamed to talk to ignorant people." U I must thank you for the compliment you are now paying me," said the artist. Oh, you are under no obligations what- ever. But to tell you the truth I am sur- prised that I should talk so freely to you, a total stranger. I suppose, though, we all have our moods. If I had seen you sooner, I should have run away. I'm glad you didn't, -for I am in need of your society, although I am not so very bookish. I have devoted my life to the study of art." There you have a decided advantage of me, she answered. I know nothing whatever of art, except what I have read." In that event you know as much as most people, for there are thousands of pre- tended art critics who do not even read about it. By the way, I have become interested m yoo. 41 Thank you. I wiM attempt to make better bread after this." I am serious," he earnestly declared. M So am I," she replied. There is nothing more serious than making bread." Come, now," don't guy me don't make fun of me, I don't think I can make anything of you more than you are." That's a compliment, or it isn't, I don't know which but, really, I am interested in you and have a favour to ask." What is it V you will meet me here every day." But I should like to know why." I can't tell you now—I will some other time. I can't promise." But you will meet me here to-morrow ?" Yes, I will promise that, but I don't know why. Indeed, if I had been told an hour ago that I should ever have agreed to meet anyone, and especially a man, I—well, I could not have thought such a thing pos- sible. I must go now. The artist sat for a time gazing after her, and then he gave himself up to meditation. He was interested in her, more deeply inte- rested than he had ever felt in any human being. I will paint her portrait," he had mused while talking to her. From the wry childhood of 1:1 art down t9 its un- revered gray hairs to-day, the aytist his sought in high and low life, the beautiful face that should, on his canvas, carry his name down through 4 all time to come.' Why should not I reverse this order-why should not those ugly fea-" tures bear my name to generations yet to come ? I will win her consent, and paint a true portrait, which,. in comparison shall show Medusa' as a joy for ever, being so truly a thing of beauty." He sat there deeply meditating, and to him there came back, as if an anxious hour of the necessitous past had stepped into the prosperous and easy present, a dream of tame, a dream so vivid and intense that he shook with agitation. The next day he was sitting on that same rock, when Rachel came. "I don't know why I am so prompt," she said. In fact, I don't know why I have come at all, yet something seemed to be drawing me." His blood leaped. Fate herself was aiding him. "I should have been greatly dis- appointed if you hadn't come," he answered. Isn't the day lovely?" Yes, it falls upon the earth like God's beneficent smile." He looked up quickly, and wished that he could have thrown her face upon the canvas at that moment. Hb asked her to name her favourite books, and for more than an hour he sat listening to the passionate praise which she bestowed upon her friends, and at times he fancied himself attempting to paint her words. Once he thought to tell her of the intended portrait, but discretion whispered that the time was not yet in full bloom. Day after day they met under the over- cup acorn tree. The time was in full bloom and he said Rachel, I have another great faveur to ask of you, the greatest that I could possibly ask." Is it that I might still farther improve in my bread making V Will you never forbear to ridicule me ? What do I care for bread ? Bread may be the staff of life, but art is the wing of the soul. I want to paint a portrait of you want to paint you just as you are, so that in after years I can look upon your face and bring up'these surroundings." She laughed. He looked up in surprise. A miracle has been wrought," she said. A man has cultivated me for my face alone. Yes, you may paint my picture, for your poorest work can but flatter me but I will name the conditions. The picture must be painted here, and at no time must you work on it after I have told you to stop." "The conditions are satisfactory, Rachel? I will begin to-morrow." Day after day she, sat for him. Some- times with his brustf just ready to touch the canvas, he would pause and listen to her as if her words were the unexpected wild- wood notes of strange music, and some- times, when she seemed to be inspired with poetry, he would turn away* from his work and in a tranquil rapture gaze upon her. One day he touched the canvass and, throw- ing down his brush, exclaimed God in Heaven, it is beautiful." It was the picture of a divine face—the features of an angel. Rachel," he cried, "I have painted your soul. See," it sprang from the picture like a burst of light. Look, girl, I have caught a face fresh from Heaven's mould. It is your soul, girl, it is your soul! Look, Rachel Come, will you not' look! Rachel He ran to her and started back in horror. She was dead.

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