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HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Exeter Advocate, 1894-8-9, Page 6THE SELECT STo yr TtELLE; SHORT, *wN FICTION. The Latest Stories By Popular, Well - Kneen). Authors.. Light eteadingeFor the JBas s and.Girls, ',.tIOTHER'S OUTING. MY, bat it seems good to get home again, and eat some of mother's cooking !" Jeannette was home from the city on vacation, "Sho ! . 'Taint better'n city boarding-house: cooking, is. it Net ?" asked her father with a chuckle. "Weil, I guess," cried Jeanette. "I suppose that is the way young ladies talk where you Baine from !" scornfully said. Brother Fred, who was somewhat critical of the eunduet and speech of girls. Jeannette was too busy with her dinner to reply. `"Well, I know something how you feel, Net," said Mr. Goodwin, as he spread an- other slice of bread and helped himself to a second dish of strawberries. "I know how 'twas when I went to Boston 'for three weeks last winter. Of course every- thing was real nice at your Uncle Will's, but land ! 'Twa'nt like mother's cook- ing. And the first night I came back mother took away all the johnny cake before I had near enough." A pleased expression flashed. across Mrs. Goodwin's worn face. She was a little woman, slender and with bent shoulders, The expression of determination and ner- vous force in her eyes and mouth told plainly why it was that she was habitu- ally able to do more than seemed possible from her frail bodily appearance. "Yes," ruminatiugly went on Mr.Good- win, "we're all glad to get home agaiu— except Fred." This -was accompanied with a very ex- pressive chuckle and significant exchange of glances. Fred blushed with annoy- ance, as he always did when he was thus reminded of an experience of his own about a year before. Having at that time come to the conclusion that farming was a somewhat slow way to make a for- tune, he had prevailed upon his father to allow him to try the city, where he was sure he would meet with the most glori- ous success. In a short time he was at home again, trunk and all, and forthwith settled down to study and farmwork in a truly ad- mirable manner. Since that time Farmer Goodwin had enthusiastically prescribed this formula for keeping boys on the farm. "Just let 'em go off to the city to seek their fortune. Don't be too set against it, because that'll make 'em want to go all the more, and might make 'em too proud to come back if they fail, Just tell 'em you don't mind their trying what they can do, and if they don't suc- ceed, they can come right back to.the old farm again." "We have all tried going off and com- ing home except mother," said Jeannette, thoughtfully. "Mother ! " incredulously cried her father. "Why, you couldn't get her off this farm for anything in the world." "Guess ma never spent a fortnight away from home in all her life," said Fred. "Did too !" said' ma stoutly- "Five years ago I went to Norwich to visit Sue's folks. Stayed two days and nights, and you couldn't get me to leave home again." A little later Jeannette went out in the field, where her father and Fred were at Mork, and told them of a little plan that she had been thinking about for some time. Her father smiled incredulously, "It couldn't be done," he said. She wouldn't go. Even if she would, it wouldn't pay. Twenty-five dollars for a single week ! I couldn't afford it." "Besides, 'twouldn't do mother any good," said Fred, loftily. "She'd be miserable all the while she was gone." "But you don't understand," protested Jeannette. "Mother has never known what it was to be free from care for a single night. Whenever she has been visiting, it has been to help somebody else. See how worn she looks ! The things that fill us with interest and en- thusiasm she cares nothing for. It's be- cause her mind is so tired, with never any change in her life. One set of nerves has been used for' years. It's time they had a rest, and some others used. But she isn't conscious of all this, What I want is for us to persuade her to go away for a good long rest." "I don't see how I can make her con- scious of it if I'm not conscious of it my- self," Fred sniffed. "III tell you what I'll do," said her father presently. ";To begin with,. I guess you're wrong. Mother's about old enough to know what she wants, and what'll do her good. But if you. can make her do what you say for a single week, and you'll pay all her expenses— you want to pay- half anyway, you say... why, I'll pay the whole amount right back to you when I ,find out if it's done her good. But you'll have to take the risk. Besides, there mustn't be any im- aginings that it's done her good, or any- thing halfway; she must tell her own self, right out, if it has done her good, and if she enjoyed it." Net's a big goose to throw her money away like that 1" said Fred with another sniff, "Might's well barn it right up at &AG. Making another do something that will make her miserable 1" " You wait and see 1" called back dean- uebte, going into the house. That night at supper table mother was almost ill-natured. "Why, mother," protested 14ir. Good- win, "what in the world's the matter? Kinder tuckered out, ain't you?" "Well, yes, 1 am," said Mrs. Goodwin. "Metty is so exasperating. Here she's been and bought tickets to Block Island aucl return, and engaged a zoom for a week at the house where the Packards are, and now she's ehanged her mind and won't go. She says I've got to. go !" " Whew !" ekelaimod Father Goodwin, looking at Jeannette in evident admira- tion of her plan of proceedings. Jean- nette shook her head warmly at her father, for fear he would say too much, and remarked quietly : " Yes, I bought the tickets a month ago and engaged the room, but have changedmy mind about going, and want to stay in Ralston this summer." All of which was very true. "I should think a girl who had to work so hard for her money as you do," said her mother, severely, "would thinly twice, and know what she wanted to do before she spent such a large sum of money as that," P 11 try to next time," said Jeannette, meekly. " Well, go right along, mother," said father, ,"It'll do you good." " Good !" was the impatient rejoinder, "Yes, it must do me lots of good to go where I don't want to ! If I should go I'd be miserable the whole time, thi of all the more I'd got to do when I" got back. I'm going to try and sell the tickets before the fifth of August if I can. That's the date the room's engaged for, If I can't sell the tickets, LLL guess they won't care if we give up: the room. There'll be plenty more to wautit at that time." Jeannette smiled. The tickets:were in her own hands yet, Even if herimother' should chance to find some one an this sleepy old town who would care to buy them she couldn't very well dispose of them when Jeannette held them. The fourth of August came by dint of persistence, seconded by father's advice that it might be a 'downright good thing for mother to go,' Jeannettee had actually induced her mother to go go to block Island. The early morning of the fourth found Mrs. Goodevin's valise packed and her face more expressive of worry and dis- content than ever. Jeannette brought down her bathing suit and tried to in- duce her mother to try it on in order to see how it fitted. "Mercy ! You couldn't hire ane to put that thing on !" she ex- claimed. "Well, Pm going to pack it just the same," said Jeannette. "You have never been to the seaside, mother, and when you're there you'll feel like doing as others do. And you know you are going to board right in the same place with Mrs. Packard and Louisa, and they're famous swimmers." Mrs. Gooawan groaned. "Twon't any good," she declared, resolutely. won't wear it." The middle of summer is a bad tim for a farmer's wife to go visiting, especia ly when she does all her. own work an that of two hired men besides. B Jeannette started bravely in. She w determined that when her mother retur ed there would be no extra work for h to do. " I thought you came home for a res Net," said Fred. "Getting a fine, on aren't you ?" "Oh," said Jeannette, hopefully, , may go to Block Island myself wee mother gets back." "You mean if it's done mother goo and father pays you back. But I giv you fair warning, that will never be." The next clay they received a tette from the absent one, written on the eve ing of her arrival—a despondent, home sick epistle. She had been seasick o the water ; and while writing was suffe ing with sick headache.n "I expect to be dowsick when I g back," the letter hopelessly ended. " I expect she will," added father gloomily, "It's always: best to let wel enough alone, Net." After this a week passed by, during which she was not heard from, then came a postal card simply saying, "Will' be home the 14th." "Mother's been sick, or she wouldn't have stayed so long," said Fred, con- fidently. "" That is what I am afraid of," said Mr. Goodwin. Jeannette was divided between;hope and fear. A. school friend had invited her to spend a week at her father's cottage on the shore. She had no money to spend even for her fare now, having given it all toher mother. Mrs, Goodwin looked surprised to see father, Jeannette and Fred ' all at the station waiting for when she arrived. " You see, mother, we all thought you must be sick because you stayed so long," said her husband. "I came pretty near going after you. But you don't look sick, and my ! How tanned you are !" " Why, I haven't been sick," said mother, "Louise and her mother wanted me to stay. Bat how have things been getting along at homer?" " First•rate, mother," said her has - band. "Did you have a good time ?'" " Oh, pretty good, I guess. But 'twas a useless expense, Net had better have gone instead of staying at home to work. Lots of reit she's getting ! She's thin - do "I e 1- d at as n- er t, e, 'I n d e r n n r et ner than she was: when she first eamo home," When Fred got his sister alone jus after supper he said : " You, see, Net, she hasn't enjoyed here self ab all. I am real sorry for your dis- appointment, but you ought to have kuown butter than to think she'd like. it.", The next morning Mrs. Goodwin gob up early and went to work. She wasn't so fretty as usual, and even, laughed a good deal. Jeannette had orders not to rise early, but from, force of habit she was up nearly as early as usual. " Did you enjoy yourself on your trip, mother?" asked Fred, ribbing his face on the kitchen towel. " We -ell, yes, _Fred," she said hesitat- ingly. She could not be induced to make any less dubious statement. Late in the forenoon Mrs. Perrin, a neighbor, ran over to see how Mrs. Good- win looked after her trip. Fred was in the field, the two women in the kitchen, and Jeannette was shelling peas on this) beak step, It was pretty warm, and by and by she took her work and went and sat on the back piazza. Through the open window she heard her mother and Mrs. Perrin talking, They did not hear her, and they could not see her beoaueej the curtain was drawn. Just then her father sauntered up the grassy walk, and seated himself on the lower step to rest and get eool. IIe was about to speak when Jeannette; placed her fingers to her lips. "Well, between you and me and the post, Mrs. Perrins," Mrs. Goodwin said, "I never in all my life spent such a happy week, not even when I was first married. I was shut off from every care and worry for the first time in all my life. I Went in bathing every day, and got acquainted with such a nice lot of peepie. If I had spent hundreds of dol- lars for nerve medicines, it would;;not have done me so much good as the air and happy life of those blessed ten days." "I want to know !" "/ es, and the worst of it is, I cannot speak about it at home ; I have to hide how good. I feel. You see, a wen t- b- e'� cause Nettie did not want to, and had the tickets. But if she and the rest of them knew how much good it did ms, and how happy I was, they would want to send me every summer, and we could not afford it. So without denying that I had a good time, I do not tell anywhere near what a good time I did have." Jeannette looked at her father with a triumphat gleam in her eyes. "Well, by jimminy !" he gasped. He wont into the house and took twenty-five dollars out of his tin box in the bureau drawer, and gave it to Jean- nette. She ran into the field, and held up the money triumphantly before Fred. "Now, sir, who was right that time ?" she demanded. That evening the matter was talked over quite frankly. When Mrs. Goodwin understood the little ruse Jeannette had carried out for her enjoyment, she was greatly touched. "Why, Nettie !" she said, and the tears sprang into • her oyes; "what a kind, thoughtful, little daughter I have." A 211R1tIBIA. WRENCH., t .J° HF sun shfitfuU was as cloudy one morning with all spring's oaprioious soul aroused—and little flashes of light oamo and went across the table. There was a gleam—now resting on the coffee-pot, now on the woman's burnish- ed. hair—that was especially persistent, Armstrong noticed it and commented with a laagh, "Tho sunshine can't keep away from you, darling. You bewiitch it, i dont blame it."He was in a buoyant mood—more joyous and sanguine than she had hitherto seen him in the long ten mouths of their life united. She marvelled inwardly at this, saying to herself, "Fate's irony, perhaps. He is utterly happy this of all mornings. He is utterly happy." She did notsmile or answer him in words. But her head moved slightly, as if in time to some dis- tant music, some solitary phrase a shriek of anguished exaltation from the over- charged heart. But Armstrong could not linger all day at the breakfast table. The world be- yond his own threshold called to him, he must respond reluctantly. Marcia fol- lowed him from the room, "I shall put on my lighter coat," he said in the hall. "There's just the tin- iest rip in the sleeve -lining, sweetheart, .I wonder if two or three of your dear stitches wouldn't avert the necessity of a visit to the tailor?" Feared His lento the most. On one occasion Judge Andrew Ellison was trying an important case at Macon City and was desired to rush it through in order to make way for another case coming up next morning. The court in- structed the jury and court officials to re- turn after supper that night, as it was intended to hold a night�session. At seven o'clock all the officers, numerous witnesses and the jury, with one excep- tion, were promptly on hand. Of course, nothing could be done without the absent juryman. The minutes ran into hours, and still the prodigal didn't return. At a late hour court adjourned without hav- ing accomplished anything. Next morn- ing sharp at nine o'clock the twelve jurymen were in the box. His honor scanned the crowd and asked for the truant. He was pointed out, and the court ordered him to stand up. "•Mr.---," said the judge, addressing the derelict, "didn't you understand th order of the court last night requiring the jury to be on hand after supper?" "Yes, your honor," said the juryman, explaining, "but you see I live quite a way out of town, and my wife gave me an order prior to the court's order that I shouldn't stay in town over night. I considered the matter, and concluded it was safer to risk your honor's displeasure than her'n, because," he added,, earnest- ly, 'I know her!," The court looked solemn a moment, as if weighing some mighty problem, then a smile started across his face, and the bar, court, ofillers and spectators broke into tumultuous laughter. The juryman was forgiven; there were many there who .could, perhaps, appreciate his position. Fresh Air Prohibited. Many are the stories told of the groat reverence in which the Scotch people hold the Sabbath. Their methods of showing their reverence, however, aro sometimes so remarkable as to draw a smile front others, who may nevertheless be reasonably strict observers of the "day of rest.'" A minister of the kirk told an Ameri- can clergyman who was traveling in Scotland that on ono occasion he passed a Sanday in a little country inn, and as the tiny parlor of the house was exceed- ingly close and stuffy and the day was warm, he started to open ono of the win- dows. "What are ye aboot, mon 9" enquired the landlady with mueh severity, enter- ing the room just in time to prevent the carrying out of the minister's design. He meekly explained that he thought it would be pleasant to have a little fresh air. "Eh, mon !" said the landlady, with additional emphasis and severity, "ye can has no fresh air in this house on the Sewbeth, Six clays are enow for that, mon:" Marcia examined the rip, then turned and helped him put on the other coat." "I can easily fix it," she said. Some- thing unusual must have been evident in her face and voice. He gave her a quick glance. Did she not look as she always aid of a morning in her neat little house gown with fresh rn1lies at throat and wrist; her hair dressed in pretty, neat style, her complexion pure from the batch ? What was it ? Was she pale-- noticeably—pale and quiet ? He took her face in his hands. "Sweetheart, is anything the matter? Are you keeping anything from me 2" he asked. She breathed two or three times; then, forcing 'the faintest laugh, answered : "Well, if I am, you will be sure to find it out when you come home to -night." She knew he would take her words in easy trust. He went away in undiminished buoyancy. And she watched him as he went; watched him longer than she had ever done before—until he was quite, quite out of sight. She believed she never would be able io forget just how he looked stepping briskly off into the dis- tance. Tall, straight, broad -shouldered, with the walk of an honest man—an honest man, such as he had always been "4o her. She went inside again with her lips pressed firmly uptn her teeth. Little grey shadows had tried to chase before her eyes, but she would not allow it. No, there was to be no weakness. She had much to do in a very few hours. In the first place, to mend his coat. That must be done quickly, and before—before she felt unfit for the task. She went about it bravely. She even tried to hum a snatch of a tune, but this she could not keep up. Something would continue to choke her in her throat. An honest man—she had nothing to complain of, absolutely noth- ing. He had never spoken a harsh word. She had only herself to blame for what she must go through, the terrible wrench of ending it all. She tried to fix her thoughts on the future—what she intend- ed to do, what interests would bo hers. In that new life abroad—that new life that she should not retain a single memory of this. She glanced up from her sewing and caught the reflection of her own face in the mirror. She was young, and—yes, young and still beauti- ful. She had not aged. Some persons might think her much younger than she really was. Twenty-seven? Could it be true ? Twenty-seven years old ? Ten years a married woman, one year a—a what ? The words of the song—the tupid, senseless sone—rang in her ears gain, about the ball being over and the usic done. She had finished mending is coat. "That is done," she said. 'That is done forever." She hung the oat again in its place and went about ther things. She tried to think ho w her ant would look after their long separa- tion. The same wrinkles between the rows, perpendicular. The same ten- ency to neuralgia. Tho same disposi- on to talk over old matters thatshe her - elf did not wish to discuss. The same inclination and plainly expressed intens on to write a book on her latest travels this time it would be about Japan. hey would go abroad without delay. r aunt would say, "Well, Marcia, I ave no doubt you are tired of staying in ne place. And now that you are sure of at man never being able to trouble you again, now that you are a widow out and ut, you will take more interests in Ings." And she would say, "Certain- , aunt, I want to sail at once." And ey—but somehow in spite of herself ther thoughts rose up. And the most rrible was a sudden swift vision of ayton Armstrong trying to prepare his tan coffee in the morning—all alone. With a tremendous effort she wheeled out in the centre of the room and ran indly toward the passage where the airs were. Her things could be packed a few moments—the few things she uld take—and she would fly from the use. She was dizzy over the packing, but at should not deter her. "hWhy," n tto flinch at anything. "How�is is? What has come over me? I sure - should be accustomed to change by s time. Eight years ago I—I got over 'foolishness when—when my huspand t sounds strange—my husband desert - me.' After ten months—it—it seems ange—I—will be all right when I get in the open air." a m h c 0 a b d ti s ti T He h 0 th tha ly th ot 01 o ab bl st in wo ho th th ly thi all —•i ed str out She stood up after looking the trunk. Something fell to the floor. She bent and. picked it tip ; it was a copper visiting card plate. Sho turned it irresolutely in her hand. Where should she—should she re -open the trunk. Hardly worth the while, She held it up and diciphcred the reversed script. "Mr. Henry Max- well." She should not use it ever again, since Maxwell was dead ; even though she must be Mrs. Maxwell to the world, she would be Mrs. Marcia Maxwell, Yet she could not leave this thing here for— for Clayton Armstrong to find; nor could she destroy it; it would not be destroy- ed, this copper plate, She thrust it on the moment's resolve in her pocket. The servant who came in for a few hours daily to perform the work of the little house had arrived. It was past noon. The woman came asking about certain things for dinner. And Marcia had to answer her. Once she thought of saying, There will be no dinner today; we are going to dine out." Then she re - fleeted that that would not do. Better to let preparations go on as usual. By the time he had some home she would :have arrived in New York—supposing she caught the two o'eloek train --yes, she would have arrived -and would be with her aunt. He would not know where she was. FIs' knew nothing of her aunt or— would have no way, to follow her. She was going back to the world, that was all. He could not blame her. She had made him happy—they had been very happy —she had been all in all to him. It was Friday and he had talked of ordering shad for dinner; he was fond of shad. She must tell the servant. She had seen the expressman coming andhad let hiin in herself. Her trunk had gone. ` There was nothing left but to say to the woman that she was going out and might be late returning, and that Mr. Armstrong was not to waitfor her. That and to write him a little note: Good-bye. It had to be some time, We have been very happy. God knows what. it has been to me. God knows the wrench it is to go .book to the world. She would say no more—no more. He must not suspect, It was habit—she had been reading somewhere lately about people being creatures of habit. She re- alized it now. Especially as they grew older, for was she not feeling this wrench much more than she had felt the shock of her first—her husband's going away from her in those long gone days? Or was it that time had dulled the recollec- tion ? Or was it—she tried to turn her thoughts back to her future. Her aunt had: their plans all mapped out. They were going to England fust, then on to Russia. It would be warm weather by the time they reached Russia. Yes, it would be warmer weather. This was March: There was an early spring com- ing. The buds on the trees in the little yard behind the house were swelling. Tho buds of the lilac bush, too, that she had been so fond of in the May days when she hadfirst come to the place to live. Clay had loved the lilacs, too. No wonder they had been happy ; who would not have been happy in that dear little hoarse, just far enough out from the city to gain quiet and lose the heat and dust—not too far to have all the comforts and conveniences. It was getting late; she would have to hurry or lose that two o'clock train. She put on her hat and took her shop- ping bag and turned to go. It seemed too bad that she might not even leave her picture that had stood on the mantel. She was outside, down'the steps. Ah, she had forgotten that she had the latch- key. Sho must return and leave it. When she was in the house again she felt that her feet were a little cold; she must warm them. As she stood over the reg- ister she saw a button on the carpet and stooping picked it up. It was a tiny but- ton—it must belong on some garment of Clayton's. She must sew it on—she stop- ped short with a horrible strange pang at the thought that she would never do any- thing more of the sort. Well, well, well, she must go ! If she should lose that train, what -would happen ? Why, her aunt would be telegraphing the Pearsons to know if she had started. The Pear - sons, whose house she had left ten long months before—ostensibly to go and board in the city and study art. The Pearsons, whom her aunt hated and would hold no communication with. Of course her aunt would not hesitate to telegraph if she thought anything had happened to Marcia. She had left the house and was nearly a half -mile away when she remembered something else. She had forgotten to pack the little house gown she had worn that morning. It lay on a chair in the dressing room. In the pocket was a let- ter of her aunt's. It was a fatal mistake. No, she dare not leave that. How had she been so stupid ? When she got back to the house she made up her mind that she could not possibly catch the two o'clock train. There was another at four or five. She could telegraph to her aunt. Her trunk was gone ; what to do with the dress ? She made a bundle of it and determined to send it by , express on the way to the station. As she was folding it in the paper she looked up and saw the servant regarding her. She felt the color come into her cheeks, almost as if the woman suspected something seriously wrong. She tried to appear unconscious. "A. dress to go to the cleaner's," she said. Then the woman spoke, asking some direction about the fish that had just come. And she had to make a suit- able response. Yes, it was to be served thus and thus. There was no great hurry, now that she had decided to take the later train. She went out again with more leisurely step. She took a different car this time. She must go first to the express office. It was four o'clock when she reached the station. The train had gone—the second train. She had missed it by four minutes. There was now a slow accom- modation which would bring her into New York at nine of the evening, or she might wait until seven and go over in the express that made no stops. She would wait until seven. In the mean- time she would kill time somehow. As dusk came on she felt the terrible impelling force of habit to make her way back to the suburbs. It was a strange sensation. It seemed to her that she was leaving a part of herself somewhere. Had she forgotten anything ? She wished it was all over. She wished that to -morrow had come and gone. She would be all right then, she was sure. He, too, would have become accustomed to the new or- der of things. After all he was a man, and men do not let such things kill them. No, he would not feel it half as much as she did. He would not suffer. Why, for that matter, was she to suffer ? Was it possible she, a woman of mature years and ability to reason, was to suffer in any way—through her own action ? How was that ? Henry Maxwell was dead • of that there could be no doubt, Who then should dare to say her nay in any 'mate ter ? Her aunt ? What had her aunt to do with her affairs ? Ah, no, ib was her own doing—just as the fatal act of ton months since had been her own doing. It was quite dark; there was yet three- quarters of an hour to wait, She was feverish, and the air of the great station was stifling. She must go outside. She felt an overwhelming desire to see the house once more. She hailed a cab and got in, directing the man to drive her thither. She would drive slowly past and see if there were a light in the upper windows. She would take a last look. She called out to the man to stop. She had driven past t wice and the light was there in the upper windows, She must get out and go softly close to the house. Those had been the only happy days in all her life; her childhood had not been happy, nor her youth, nor her bride's days, nor any time of hers except those outlawed, swot, hidden days of life with Olaytou Armstrong, It was verystill in the house, He must, be home. Wy did he not come out? She forget all about the cabman. She forgot. her purposes. She forgot everything ex- - ep. o wonder why he did not come out, Did he not know that she was right there. close to him? He could not have been so near to her without her feeling his presence. She forgot to think of her aunt or trains or telegrams or the world, or going back to ib—or anything but that. one man within there. He must be there! He must be there! She must satisfy her- self that he was there. He went away so happy that morning. His home -coming , must have been a eruel shock. She, trem- bled now at thought of it, And still the thought tormented her was he there—or where ? She erouched there numb and half dead- ened in her senses, when a hand touched her shoulder. .It was the cabman. Ile hada chance to take a party a long dis- tance. If she didn't want him, perhaps she'd settle and let him go. She finally, came to herself enough to take a bill from her handbag and send him away. Where she crouched in the shadow no one seemed to see her. The time passed. Perhaps a policeman passed—perhaps no one. It was late. She hadforgotten about any train, She had no latchkey, and she could not let herself into the house. It was terribly quiet. There seemed to be no one in the house. The servant had gone away as usual long ago. But he- was he not there ? Had he not come home? Had anything happened to him? Had he returned and read her letter and gone out in search of her, or—or for any other purpose ? She must know. The thought was setting her frantic. She crept close within the little porch. Not a sound—not a whisper. She felt the parlor window; it was looked. She remembered then another window at the rear of the house. She crept down and around through the narrow space between' the house and a high fence. She was at the window, she pressed it, it rose at her touch. She was inside, it was the base- ment. There was a dim light in the kitchen. There was no sound. She crept toward the staircase. There was no sound above. She crept to the stairs; it seemed to her her heart could only beat a few times more. But she must know the truth. No one in the little parlor; no one in the little dining -room. The table spread, the things untouched. "My God," she heard a voice that was not her own say- ing, "he has gone away." There was a light still upstairs. She crept on up—dizzily as one creeping to- ward her last hope on earth. He opened his eyes and looked up at her; a smile curved his lips beneath the long moustache. A smile of unutterable love and trust. He stirred and sat u "I fell asleep," he said, ""I lay down for only a moment to wait for you. You would not be very late. I knew. And I . fell asleep. Why, I am actually stiff. Our dinner will be ice cold. But what kept you?" She stood staring at him with numb lips. Did he not know ? Had he not read her words? "What is the matter, Marcia 9" he said in a swift, startled way. "The—letter—you—did not—" Her voice was husky; it failed her. "'Letter?" He arose and looked. about. His eyes fell on the mirror. No letter there. He looked further. His glance lighted on the mantel. The note was there unopened. Marcia flew past him and seized it. "No, no." Her voice was like the hoarse utterance of some bird or animal not human. For an instant he regarded her in silence. Then a light seemed to flame in his eyes. " I will have it—by heaven I will. I will know what this all means, I will." For the first time he caught her roughly; ho held her with the tremendous strength of one arm—she could not move. And he opened the note and read it over her sinking form. He put her down on the bed very gent- ly at last. oor child !" That was all "Poor hesaid child there in a dazed ,;ay, hardly conscious of his movements. "Poor child," he said again after a while. "Why did you not tell me you wanted to leave mo ? I would not have held you against your will. If you had only told me. I loved you so much and I was so happy in the thought that soon—so soon there would be a way to straighten it all out—no more fears. I thought you knew I knew the barrier was gone forever. I thought you meant me to know it when you left the open letter of your aunt there. I was so happy this morning, There is a church right around in the next street—a clergyman there; men don't always do things that -• they do on purpose, They sometimes want to right wrongs that have not seemed wrongs ; theysometimes love with all there hearts' blood ; they sometimes got their death blows where they •little dreamed of meeting them." Mercia rose up from the bed slowly, gasping a little, her face deathly white. She tried to speak, but no word would come. She moved towards the door— turned and put out her hands to him. She seemed to draw him after her. Tense, desperate, she moved out of the room. He followed her bareheaded down the stairs. She turned the knob of the street door. He had presence of mind enough to take his hat as he went.. She wished him to follow. That was enough. In the street she walked more firmly. she did not look back at him, but still s'he seemed to know that he was follow- ing. They turned into the street of the little church. Then he knew her par- pose. He followed breathless, his heart was beating hard in his breast. He looked up and saw a light iu the minis- ter's house, A sob came in his throat. " Marcia, Marcia! For God's sake wait. Let us go in together, my dear love—but only if you love me." His hands were outstretched to her. He felt her own fall into them. , They went up the steps arm in arm. He pulled the old-fashioned bell handle, the door opened and they went in. A Great Mistake. Walker G}oodeal—"What we ought to have in our wanderin's, Brother Walker, through the country is a kodak to take picters of the scenery with." Turnpike Walker ---."I guess not. They ain't our kind ; we press the button and the other fellers does the rest, with that sort of a, machine ; what we need is one that some other feller presses the button and let us do the rest part," Degrees of Brilliancy. If you will notice in the "says he" and "says I revelations that one hears, the "says he's" are nob at all comparable in brilliancy to the "says I's."