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AITH had determined that she would
not go to Anabel’s reception. She sent
a note excusing herself and Claude. It
was answered by Charley in person. To
Faith’s surprise, he came to ask as a
favor that she would come to his home
the following evening, and that Claude
should accompany her.
“It seems the best thing to be done,”
r-
he said. “It is necessary to take some steps to get
back in favor with our neighbors and to stop the
tongue of gossip. More than one of my friends have
told me there are unkind whispers about Anabel —
and about me as well. I rely on your true friendship,
dear Faith. I know that for my sake, and for your
brother’s, as well as for the sake of our connected
families, you will give the influence of your presence
tomorrow evening at the Lodge and help to do away
with the wrong ideas and fancies that are afloat.”
“Anabel has used her effective art to bring her
husband to her way of thinking,” said Faith to her
self. But, after a moment’s hesitation, she answered:
“If my coming can help you or your wife, Charley, I
will come.”
“And you will bring Claude with you?” he asked,
anxiously.
“Claude will come with me,” she replied.
“I thank you for this, Faith, my true-hearted, my
true friend,” he said, laying his hand on hers, that
rested on the railing of the piazza, as they stood face
to face.
A faint flush came in her cheek; she gently with
drew her hand.
“It is one’s duty to help a friend,” she said, coldly.
“One’s duty? Yes, so it is,” he murmured, and
turned away, stifling a sigh.
It was in anything but a festive spirit that Faith
prepared to attend the birthday tea at Sunset Lodge.
As she made her simple toilet, she stopped often,
oppressed by a strange sinking of the heart —a mis
giving that something would go wrong.
When she was dressed and had seen that her
father was asleep and comfortable, she went to
Claude’s room. He was ready and waiting for her
with feverish impatience.
A surprise awaited them when they reached the
Lodge. Lights flashed from every window; the hum
of voices announced a large crowd. The canvas
screened verandas, the hall and the large parlor
were lighted with wax candles, decorated with flow
ers and filled with guests.
Faith had not expected to see such a large assem
bly. Anabel had invited every person of prominence
in the town, and nearly all who had been asked were
here. Curiosity concerning the household at Sunset
Lodge was at fever heat. The sudden marriage of
its popular master to a beautiful stranger, his wife’s
queer ways, the gossip that linked her name with
Claude Harland’s, the strange disappearance of
Sylvia—all these dramatic incidents invested the
place with an atmosphere of mystery and romance.
Particularly was this fascinating to people in a coun
try town, whose monotonous lives furnished nothing
with which to feed their craving for variety and emo
tion.
As the brother and sister entered the room, all
eyes were turned upon them. Claude bore the ordeal
better than Faith had dared to hope.
Anabel came quickly forward to meet them. She
was radiant and graceful, wearing a long gown of
white silk with pink roses on her breast and in her
dark hair.
She glanced nervously at Claude, then smiled, re
assured. He was looking almost like himself, his
cheeks faintly flushed, his eyes lighted with excite
ment. Among all those faces his appeared as some
thing alien and peculiar. The large, luminous eyes
had in them “the light that never shone on sea or
shore”.
After awhile his young friends came about him,
asking where he had been, how he had been occupy
ing himself. “Studying a little, writing some and
dreaming a good deal,” he answered, smiling. Well,
it was plain he had been overdoing himself in sdme
way, they declared.
TRIAL AND TRIUMPH
A Story of the Conflict of Good and TLbil —By Mdry E. Bryan.
CHAPTER XXVI.
The Golden Age for December 15, 1910.
It was pitiful to Faith to see his old light-hearted
ness flash forth forgetfully for a moment, then as
suddenly die out. He made a hard effort to sustain
himself, now and then furtively gathering encourage
ment from Anabel’s face.
She was making a gallant fight for favor tonight.
She exerted herself to please her guests, to seem
gay and cordial and unconscious of what she knew
was in the minds of the people around her.
It was a hard task. She was acutely alive to the
coldness of the social atmosphere, alive to the sus
picion and criticism that was masked by courtesy
and tact.
She did her bravest to beat back the adverse cur
rent. She called up all her arts of fascination. The
effort exhausted her. The consciousness that she
had failed was reflected in Charley’s anxious face.
She wished with all her heart that the evening were
at an end. But the ordeal was to culminate more
bitterly still.
Claude had been persuaded to go to the piano. He
played some of his old merry waltzes and sprite-like
fantasies, then, without warning, began to strike the
chords of a wild, mournful melody, which only his
sister had heard him play before.
Anabel looked at him uneasily. Suddenly he broke
off and got up from the piano.
Anabel quickly threw herself into the breach. Be
fore a whisper could pass between the guests, she
called on some of the young ladies to recite. Sev
eral responded with light parlor pieces. One young
man gave a humorous dialect reading. Then a mur
mured wish ran around the room to hear Miss Reese,
a professional dramatic reader, who had lately come
to Glenwood to teach oratory.
Miss Reese came out of hex' shady corner, a tall,
dark young woman, dressed in a long black gown.
Her appearance breathed of mystery; her voice,
when she began to speak, almost startled you with its
deep, tragic notes.
She began in a low voice that was yet thrillingly
distinct. The poem she had chosen was, unluckily,
the monologue of a haunted spirit driven by remorse
to the verge of madness. As she went on, her voice
dropped to an intense whisper.
“Then the night grew deep, and the eye grew dim,
And a sad-faced figure began to swim
And float in my face—flit past—then pause.
“Now, why did she come and confront me there,
With the mold on her brow and the moist in her
hair,
And a mystical stare in her marvelous eyes?
“Now, that is the reason I make complaint,
That forever and ever her face should rise,
Facing my face with those great sad eyes.
“I said then to myself, and I say it again,
That there is no drop of her blood on me.”
All at once the hush that pervaded the room was
broken by a cry. All eyes turned in the direction of
the sound. They were startled to see that Claude
Harland had fallen back senseless on the lounge.
There was a commotion in the room; a group gath
ered round the unconscious boy; Anabel, pale, reso
lute, pressed through it and made her way to his side
before Faith could reach him.
“It is the heat,” she said. “It is the close room.
Take him into the library, Mr. Glenn. He will soon
get over it. Ah! he is coming round now. Claude,
you have paid Miss Reese the compliment of being
overpowered by her realistic acting. Come into the
cool library until you are better. Lean on Charley’s
arm.”
She followed them into the library, where Charley
seated Claude upon a sofa.
Anabel quickly brought him a glass of wine. While
he drank it, she turned to her husband and Faith.
“Go back, please; tell them he is all right now,”
she pleaded. “Say it was the close room and his del
icate health. For Heaven’s sake, keep down any
thing like a sensation!”
They went, and as soon as the door closed behind
them she sank down beside Claude.
“Oh, Claude, Claude, why are you so weak?” she
panted. “Why can you not have a little self-con
trol? You will ruin yourself and me.”
He made no answer; he only looked at her. It
was the piteous, helpless look of a tortured animal.
It went to her heart.
“I know it, my poor one,” she said, putting her
arms around him. “I know this burden is more than
you can bear. It is killing me, and I am so much
stronger than you. I have nerved myself to keep up
a brave front all these long weeks. It seems no use.
All this effort tonight is no use. They distrust me;
they suspect me; I feel it; and your fainting just
when you did —it will make their suspicions worse.
Oh, Claude, you must —you must have more cour
age ! ”
“I might have if I were away from here,” he said,
gloomily. “Here I am haunted.”
“Hush! hush!” she said, with a frightened glance
around her. “You know this is all your diseased
fancy. But you must go away. It will not do for
you to stay here.”
“How can I go? Faith must stay with father. I
have never been out in the world. lam not fit to go
now —alone.”
“You shall not go alone!” she said.
He looked quickly into her face. A gleam of hope
lighted his eyes. Her own were full of passionate
sympathy.
“You shall not go alone!” she said again.
(To Be Continued.)
* *
WHY HE QUIT THE SALOON BUSINESS.
When Rev. Theodore Whitfield, of Mississippi,
was pastor at Hayti Mo., he asked an ex-saloon keep
er why he had quit the business. Here is his story:
Said he: “Mr. Whitfield, one day while out driv
ing in the country I was caught in a shower of rain.
I took refuge in a poor dilapidated farm house. The
house contained a poor, thinly clad, sickly woman,
surrounded by a group of pale, neglected looking
children. I was asked to sit down. Presently the
man of the house came in. I recognized a patron
of my saloon. He informed me that the woman and
children were his family, and he was the master of
the ill-looking premises. When the rain ceased, I
was preparing to leave. The man called me by name,
and said: ‘Mr. , next week I will bring in a
load of ties, and I will call at your place and buy
some whiskey.’ True to his word he came to my
saloon and called for a gallon. I did not give him
the whiskey. I took him into my back room and told
him I would give him a pint, but he must use the
money he had received for his railroad ties to buy
some things to take home to his wife and children,
and I saw that he did it. Soon after I left the farm
house my customers began to pass in a procession
before my mind. I found that the most of them
represented such homes as I saw when I went in out
of the rain. I never got rid of that in pression. I
told my wife that I was going to quit the saloon busi
ness. I quit.” This is not all; God came into his
soul and life. The last I knew of this ex-saloon
keeper he was a proseperous business man, the stay
of his church and his pastor’s faithful helper.—The
Oklahoman.
“KEEP ON COMING.”
Ashland, Miss., Dec. Bth, 1910.
The Golden Age,
My Dear Sirs:—l wish you to continue to visit
me another year. In fact I do not see hardly how
I can get along without you. I enclose check for
$1.50. Let THE GOLDEN AGE come on.
J. P. BYRD.
AN OPPORTUNITY
The latest published copy of Rev.
George Stuart’s Sermons and The
Golden Age one year $2.00
===== Address ============
814 Austell Bldg. Atlanta, Ga»
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