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By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller 502—Fair Maid Marian By Mrs. Emma Garrison Jones 503—A Lady in Black By Florence Warden 504—Evelyn, the Actress By Wenona Gilman 505—Selina's Love-story By Effie Adelaide Rowlands 506—A Secret Foe By Gertrude Warden 507—A Mad Betrothal By Laura Jean Libbey 508—Lottie and Victorine By Lucy Randall Comfort 509—A Penniless Princess By Emma Garrison Jones 510—Doctor Jack's Paradise Mine By St. George Rathborne 513—A Sensational Case By Florence Warden 514—The Temptation of Mary Barr By Effie Adelaide Rowlands 515—Tiny Luttrell By E. W. Hornung   (Author of "Raffles, the Amateur Cracksman") 516—Florabel's Lover By Laura Jean Libbey 517—They Looked and Loved By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller 518—The Secret of a Letter By Gertrude Warden 521—The Witch from India By St. George Rathborne 522—A Spurned Proposal By Effie Adelaide Rowlands 523—A Banker of Bankersville By Maurice Thompson 524—A Sacrifice of Pride By Mrs. Louisa Parr 525—Sweet Kitty Clover By Laura Jean Libbey 526—Love and Hate By Morley Roberts 527—For Love and Glory By St. George Rathborne 528—Adela's Ordeal By Florence Warden 529—Hearts Aflame By Louise Winter 530—The Wiles of a Siren By Effie Adelaide Rowlands 532—True to His Bride By Emma Garrison Jones 533—A Forgotten Love By Adelaide Stirling 534—Lotta, the Cloak Model By Laura Jean Libbey 535—The Trifler By Archibald Eyre 536—Companions in Arms By St. George Rathborne 538—The Fighting Chance By Gertrude Lynch 539—A Heart's Triumph By Effie Adelaide Rowlands 540—A Daughter of Darkness By Ida Reade Allen 541—Her Evil Genius By Adelaide Stirling 543—The Veiled Bride By Laura Jean Libbey 544—In Love's Name By Emma Garrison Jones 545—Well Worth Winning By St. George Rathborne 546—The Career of Mrs. Osborne By Helen Milecete 549—Tempted by Love By Effie Adelaide Rowlands 550—Saved from Herself By Adelaide Stirling 551—Pity—Not Love By Laura Jean Libbey 552—At the Court of the Maharaja By Louis Tracy
The Best of Eveything! an Advrtisement
Title page for Only a Girl's Love
Why Take a Chance? An Advertisement
An Advertisement regarding having no rivals CONTENTS. PAGE CHAPTER I. 1 CHAPTER II. 10 CHAPTER III. 17 CHAPTER IV. 24 CHAPTER V. 30 CHAPTER VI. 39 CHAPTER VII. 44 CHAPTER VIII. 51 CHAPTER IX. 57 CHAPTER X. 65 CHAPTER XI. 71 CHAPTER XII. 87 CHAPTER XIII. 93 CHAPTER XIV. 98 CHAPTER XV. 102 CHAPTER XVI. 112 CHAPTER XVII. 117 CHAPTER XVIII. 125 CHAPTER XIX. 139 CHAPTER XX. 146 CHAPTER XXI. 154 CHAPTER XXII. 160 CHAPTER XXIII. 163 CHAPTER XXIV. 170 CHAPTER XXV. 176 CHAPTER XXVI. 181 CHAPTER XXVII. 186 CHAPTER XXVIII. 192 CHAPTER XXIX. 197 CHAPTER XXX. 204 CHAPTER XXXI. 209 CHAPTER XXXII. 216 CHAPTER XXXIII. 220 CHAPTER XXXIV. 226 CHAPTER XXXV. 232 CHAPTER XXXVI. 239 CHAPTER XXXVII. 245 CHAPTER XXXVIII.       253 CHAPTER XXXIX. 258 CHAPTER XL. 267 CHAPTER XLI. 274 CHAPTER XLII. 282

[1]

ONLY A GIRL'S LOVE.

CHAPTER I.

It is a warm evening in early Summer; the sun is setting behind a long range of fir and yew-clad hills, at the feet of which twists in and out, as it follows their curves, a placid, peaceful river. Opposite these hills, and running beside the river, are long-stretching meadows, brilliantly green with fresh-springing grass, and gorgeously yellow with newly-opened buttercups. Above, the sunset sky gleams and glows with fiery red and rich deep chromes. And London is almost within sight.

It is a beautiful scene, such as one sees only in this England of ours—a scene that defies poet and painter. At this very moment it is defying one of the latter genus; for in a room of a low-browed, thatched-roofed cottage which stood on the margin of the meadow, James Etheridge sat beside his easel, his eyes fixed on the picture framed in the open window, his brush and mahl-stick drooping in his idle hand.

Unconsciously he, the painter, made a picture worthy of study. Tall, thin, delicately made, with pale face crowned and set in softly-flowing white hair, with gentle, dreamy eyes ever seeking the infinite and unknown, he looked like one of those figures which the old Florentine artists used to love to put upon their canvases, and which when one sees even now makes one strangely sad and thoughtful.

The room was a fitting frame for the human subject; it was a true painter's studio—untidy, disordered, and picturesque. Finished and unfinished pictures hung or leant against the walls, suits of armor, antique weapons, strange costumes littered the floor or hung limply over medi�val chairs; books, some in bindings which would have made the mouth of a connoisseur water, lay open upon the table or were piled in a distant corner. And over all silence—unbroken save by the sound of the water rushing over the weir, or the birds which flitted by the open window—reigned supreme.

The old man sat for some time listening to Nature's music, and lost in dreamy admiration of her loveliness, until the striking of the church clock floated from the village behind the house; then,[2] with a start, he rose, took up his brushes, and turned again to the easel. An hour passed, and still he worked, the picture growing beneath the thin, skillful hand; the birds sank into silence, the red faded slowly from the sky, and night unfolded its dark mantle ready to let it fall upon the workaday world.

Silence so profound took to itself the likeness of loneliness; perhaps the old man felt it so, for as he glanced at the waning light and lay his brush down, he put his hand to his brow and sighed. Then he turned the picture on the easel, made his way with some little difficulty, owing to the litter, across the room, found and lit an old briar-wood pipe, and dropping into the chair again, fixed his eyes upon the scene, and fell into the dreamy state which was habitual with him.

So lost in purposeless memory was he, that the opening of the door failed to rouse him.

It was opened very gently and slowly, and as slowly and noiselessly a young girl, after pausing a moment at the threshold, stepped into the room, and stood looking round her and at the motionless figure in the chair by the window.

She stood for full a minute, her hand still holding the handle of the door, as if she were not certain of her welcome—as if the room were strange to her, then, with a little hurried pressure of her hand to her bosom, she moved toward the window.

As she did so her foot struck against a piece of armor, and the noise aroused the old man and caused him to look round.

With a start he gazed at the girl as if impressed with the idea that she must be something unsubstantial and visionary—some embodiment of his evening dreams, and so he sat looking at her, his artist eye taking in the lithe, graceful figure, the beautiful face, with its dark eyes and long, sweeping lashes, its clearly penciled brows, and soft, mobile lips, in rapt absorption.

It is possible that if she had turned and left him, never to have crossed into his life again, he would have sunk back into dreamland, and to the end of his days have regarded her as unreal and visionary; but, with a subtle, graceful movement, the girl threaded the maze of litter and disorder and stood beside him.

He, still looking up, saw that the beautiful eyes were dim, that the exquisitely curved lips were quivering with some intense emotion, and suddenly there broke upon the silence a low, sweet voice:

"Are you James Etheridge?"

The artist started. It was not the words, but the tone—the voice that startled him, and for a brief second he was still dumb, then he rose, and looking at her with faint, trembling questioning, he answered:

"Yes, that is my name. I am James Etheridge."

Her lips quivered again, but still, quietly and simply, she said:

"You do not know me? I am Stella—your niece, Stella."

The old man threw up his head and stared at her, and she saw that he trembled.

"Stella—my niece—Harold's child!"

[3]

"Yes," she said, in a low voice, "I am Stella."

"But, merciful Heaven!" he exclaimed, with agitation, "how did you come here? Why—I thought you were at the school there in Florence—why—have you come here alone?"

Her eyes wandered from his face to the exquisite scene beyond, and at that moment her look was strangely like his own.

"Yes, I came alone, uncle," she said.

"Merciful Heaven!" he murmured again, sinking into his chair. "But why—why?"

The question is not unkindly put, full, rather, of a troubled perplexity and bewilderment.

Stella's eyes returned to his face.

"I was unhappy, uncle," she said, simply.

"Unhappy!" he echoed, gently—"unhappy! My child, you are too young to know what the word means. Tell me"—and he put his long white hand on her arm.

The touch was the one thing needed to draw them together. With a sudden, yet not abrupt movement, she slid down at his side and leant her head on his arm.

"Yes, I was very unhappy, uncle. They were hard and unkind. They meant well perhaps, but it was not to be borne. And then—then, after papa died, it was so lonely, so lonely. There was no one—no one to care for me—to care whether one lived or died. Uncle, I bore it as long as I could, and then I—came."

The old man's eyes grew dim, and his hand rose gently to her head, and smoothed the rich, silky hair.

"Poor child! poor child!" he murmured, dreamily, looking not at her, but at the gloaming outside.

"As long as I could, uncle, until I felt that I must run away, or go mad, or die. Then I remembered you, I had never seen you, but I remembered that you were papa's brother, and that, being of the same blood, you must be good, and kind, and true; and so I resolved to come to you."

His hand trembled on her head, but he was silent for a moment; then he said, in a low voice:

"Why did you not write?"

A smile crossed the girl's face.

"Because they would not permit us to write, excepting under their dictation."

He started, and a fiery light flashed from the gentle, dreamy eyes.

"No letters were allowed to leave the school unless the principals had read them. We were never out alone, or I would have posted a letter unknown to them. No, I could not write, or I would have done so, and—and—waited."

"You would not have waited long, my child," he murmured.

She threw back her head and kissed his hand. It was a strange gesture, more foreign than English, full of the impulsive gracefulness of the passionate South in which she had been born and bred; it moved the old man strangely, and he drew her still closer to him as he whispered—

"Go on!—go on!"

[4]

"Well I made up my mind to run away," she continued. "It was a dreadful thing to do,

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