The Child of Waterloo, or, The Horrors of the Battle-Field — page 22: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

THE CHILD OF WATERLOO. 19 And Rafferty Brolick bones, who feared to be picked up in so many pieces from the field of Waterloo, that some of them would be lost—where is he? Has fifteen years quenched the sparkling, merry humor of his heart? Have they dimmed his rception of the ludicrous? Have they attacked in any way is love for whisky ? Let us cast about for some chance of discovering the where- abouts of some of those whom we have mentioned, and whose fortunes we still propose to follow, With a foreknowledge of where to look, we cast our eyes upon one of the most romantic and delightful spots in Cumberland. It is summer time, and all is fresh and beautiful, and full of radiance, joy, and beauty. In one of the most favored spots that the country could pre- sent for many miles around, was an ancient, large, rambling, roomy, handsome farm-house. The house and farm attached went by the name of Moncton Friars, and since the memory of man, in the way of tradition, from father to son, it had never known any other appellation. It is the same month, June. in which the battle was fought which laid upon the field of Waterloo, Henry Morton, the young ensign who had been so badly wounded; it was the anniversary of the Battle of Waterloo. The slant rays of the setting sun were just streaming over the lands of the farm, and the glaring light of day had given place to the mellower and more welcome radiance that filled the evening air, when a solitary figure might have been seen winding its way along the winding path- way in the wilderness. he form was that of a young girl, although from her stature, which was tall, no one would have thought her really so young as she was. She was attired, not showily, or in costly gar- ments, but her appearance had about it that ineffable grace which betrays at once the tenderly-nurtured girl, who has been carefully watched and tended by the sleepless eyes of fond affec- tion. A straw hat was carelessly thrown back from her head. so that the whole contour of her face was visible. Her eyes were of the darkest hazel; full of intelligence and power, and intellectual beauty; her cheeks presented the clear, transparent color which health and pure air can only give; while her mouth, beautifuily curved, and full of expression, would have been a long study for the longest summer's day that ever dawned. Her hair was not black; but it was so nearly so, that, while it had all the beauty that black could have as a contrast, it bad like. wise the silky fineness which seldom belongs to that color. It hung in masses of wavy tresses about her neck and face, and then far down her shoulders, where, with a gentle, springy mo- tion, as she walked, it danced upon her snowy breast, as if proud of the resting place it had obtained. And yet, with all her beauty, all ber intelligence, and all the tender care which had been bestowed upon her, there could have been observed by an attentive observer an air of sadness upon her face. At times, too, this air of sadness would deepen into positive melancholy, and then a sigh would come from her eart, as if, despite all incitements to serenity and joy, there comicbooks. com