The Harvest of Years | Page 7

not come in upon me, resolved to bring about different conditions. She
succeeded at last, and the afternoon found us quietly sitting together in
our middle room apparently enjoying ourselves, though I did not forget
Hal was gone, and a cloud of woe overspread my mental horizon.
CHAPTER IV.
OUR NEW FRIEND.
We could not object to the stay of our cousin, and she planned to
remain indefinitely. I always smiled at the relationship, and I don't
know exactly how near it was, but this I believe was it--father's mother
and Mrs. Desmonde's grandmother were cousins; that brought me, you
see, into very near kinship. She laughed at it herself, but, nevertheless, I
was "her dear cousin Emily" always. "Little Lady" was my name for
her, but she forced me call her "Clara." Her mother, it seemed, had

married a gentleman of rank and fortune of French descent, and
although she told me she was the picture of her mother, the graceful
ways of which she was possessed, her natural urbanity and politeness,
together with her fascinating word-emphasis accompanied with so
many gestures, were all decidedly French, "Little lady" just expressed it.
She was, when she came to our home, only thirty-seven years of age,
and looked not more than twenty. Her complexion was that of a perfect
blonde; her hair was light and wavy, clear to the parting; she had a
luxuriant mass of it, and coiled it about her shapely head, fastening it
with a beautifully carved shell comb. Her eyes were very dark for blue,
large and expressive; she had teeth like pearls, and a mouth, whose
tender outlines were a study for a painter. She seemed to me a living,
breathing picture, and I almost coveted the grace which was so natural
to her, and hated the contrast presented by our two faces. She called my
complexion pure olive, and toyed with "my night-black hair" (her own
expression), sometimes winding it about her fingers as if to coax it to
curl, and then again braiding it wide with many strands, and doing it up
in a fashion unusual with me. She was a little below the medium size, I,
a little above, and though only turned nineteen, I know I looked much
older than she. We were fast friends, and I could do her bidding ever
and always, for her word was a friendly law, and I am sure no family
ever had so charming a boarder. She bought gingham, and made
dresses exactly alike for herself and me, made some long house-aprons,
as she called them, and would never consent to sit down by herself but
helped about the house daily until all the work was done, then changed
her dress when I changed mine, and kept herself close, to us, body and
soul--for she seemed in one sense our ward, in another our help,
making her doubly dear, and I many times blessed the providence that
brought her to us just as we were losing Hal. She was sensitive, but
never morbidly so, apparently anxious to have every one about her
happy, and I never saw the airs that I expected her to assume, for she
was ever smiling and happy in her manner.
As the days passed over us, we took long walks in the woods together,
and she unfolded to me leaf by leaf of her life history.
The deep love she had borne her husband remained unchanged--and

nightly, with perfect devotion, she looked upon and pressed to her lips
his miniature, which was fastened to a massive chain hanging on her
neck; never in sight, but hidden from other eyes, as if too sacred for
their gaze. Her husband was of French parentage, but had, when at the
early age of sixteen she married him, been alone in this country. He
was twenty years older than herself, and her parents passing away soon
after her marriage, he had been husband, mother and father. Her son,
Louis Robert, eighteen years of age, was named for him, and both she
and her son had fortunes in their own right. It seemed that Mr.
Desmonde had an illness lasting for months, and knowing it must prove
fatal, had arranged every thing perfectly for his departure. It was his
wish that Louis Robert should, if agreeable to his mind, pursue a course
of study, to prepare him for professional work of some kind.
In a letter written on his death-bed he impressed upon his son the
necessity of dealing honestly with his fellow-men, and exhorted him to
endeavor to be always ready, as opportunities presented themselves for
small charities and kindnesses; these, as his father thought, are often
more praiseworthy than donations to public objects, and the giving of
alms to be seen of men, as many