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John S. Sauzade
A Novel
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It's the old Obershaw blood in him—the coarse tastes which he inherits from his grandfather, reflected Mr. Heath with bitterness. The old man had the same propensity, but avarice smothered it in him. With a sigh he turned toward his daughter for consolation. His looks dwelt on her, and it seemed as if it were the first time he had ever noticed her beauty. How lovely she has grown, thought he. A true Heath—if she were only a boy! Still, why should she not aspire, and reflect honor on me? I shall be Governor of this State, next a foreign mission, an ambassadorship. All she would need is the opportunity. Did ever coronet grace a fairer brow? My daughter a countess or a marchioness—is there anything impossible or improbable in that?
While Mr. Heath was in the midst of his fanciful cogitations, the object of them was eating in a matter-of-fact way, and in utter unconsciousness of the ambitious views she had awakened. Nevertheless, there was everything to justify her father's pride and hopes; for Edna, a girl of seventeen, had a graceful figure, a cheek as delicate as a rose-petal, soft steel-blue eyes with dark lashes and brows, hair the hue of ripe wheat, and that indescribable sweetness of expression in which American maidens surpass all others. Her plain, black dress, relieved only by a white collar and wristbands, did not in the least detract from her appearance, but, on the contrary, enhanced her clear complexion to brilliancy. So her father thought, and his heart swelled with new-born pride in the possession of such a child. There was an unusual tenderness in his voice when he questioned her, "Edna, what are you going to do this morning?"
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