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to the opening and listened, and the conversa
tion already alluded to fell upon his ears. As,
steadying himself, by grasping with his left
hand a stout young elm that had found lodg
ment for its roots in a cleft in the rock, he
heard the scream given by Marian upon the ap
pearance of Allan Bayne; then, craning his
neck forward and upward, looking out from the
rock if in any way he might see without being
seen, two dark bodies suddenly appeared, fall
ing from above, and the one nearest to him was
a woman. He leaned still farther forward, as
he did so tightening the grip of his left hand
and reaching out his right, made a sweeping
catch which drew Marian obliquely toward him.
Though his muscles seemed to crack with the
sudden jar, he retained his hold as tightly as
would have done the grim death he was com- '
batting, and with a wave of strength swung Ma
rian from danger into the niche. Presently the ■
girl knew that she was saved from the fall. She
looked her thanks, though the look was mingled j
with suspicion. Parson’s outward ensemble was I
not reassuring. He resembled more an outlaw j
than the outlaws themselves. A word or two
reassured her.
“I’m an honest trapper, gal, empl’yed by
Uncle Sam looking’ arter the reds az is on the
rampage. I reckon you’ve made a double *-
cape, and ef ye kin lay low a bit, I’ll pilot ye in
to the nearest fort, where I’m bound for. Be
easy an’ jest make up yer mind it’s all right.
I’ll continue to explore. Ther’s som’at goin’ on
up thar as I want to get the endin’ on.”
Without waiting for the thanks, which his
diffidence with the female sex rendered rather
embarrassing, the trapper turned and took up
his old position. He knew another had fallen;
but he knew something of that other, and hear
ing no sound from below, and believing him to
be dead, he felt in no hurry about viewing his
mangled remains.
The words of Captain Ronald and the rest
floated down distinctly to his ears, and he shook
his head uneasily at the sound of that voice.
“Not any of you in mine, ef this party
knows hisself, which it thinks she does. Mout
be recognized ez an individooal thet fout sartin
runnygade outlaws at Don Kamon’s ranche on
Mexican s’ile t’other side the Beeo Grandy.
Same coon I draw’d a bead on and dropped.
That was in the line o’ business; but it moutn’t
be comfortable rememberin’in case o’ re-cognis
in’. Wonder how he got clear o’ the greaser.
Them boss soldiers was jist stringin’ him up
when I left."
In some such strains as this his thoughts
wandered along as he listened. What he heard
was sufficiently strange to give him some sur
prise.
“ ’Pears to me there’s another gal in the case,
as hez a objec’ in her head. She’s still as death
about what the crazy loony has been doin’.
Must watch out a leetle. Suthin’ to pick up
hyar.”
From his eyrie, Parsons heard the men de
part; heard Ellen running down from the rocks,
and saw her bending over Ray Moulden’s pros
trate form. His acute ears caught most of the
conversation; and when Ellen went lightly
away, he gave a start at finding, as he turned,
that Marian was at his side, and had evidently
been listening also.
“ Go help that man,” she said, when she once
saw that he was aware of her presence. “He
must not be left there to die alone, or be mur
dered by those prairie rovers.”
“Sartin’; though I don’t go much on him.
He’s so wirthless lie’s ornary, if he does wear
shoulder-straps. I know the cuss.”
Still Marian’s eyes said go; and without fur
ther delay, he went.
Ray Moulden was recovering fast. He was in
a sitting posture now; and when Parsons sud
denly and silently dropped beside him, he
turned with a resolute air, as if he expected
danger, and was prepared to face it.
“Bad hurt, are ye Cap. Any bones broke?”
The scout on the instant was partially recog
nized. Moulden felt easier. He answered, still
feebly, but with a voice that seemed to be mo
mentarily strengthening:
“ Only bad cuts and scratches, and a heavy
fall. Have you a flask ?”
Parsons produced a small flask, and placed it
to the lips of the officer, who drank heartily of
the fiery liquid it contained. As the former saw
the color returning to Moulden’s face, he smiled
encouragingly.
“Nothin’ like the spiritooal fur the bed o’ lan-
guishment. Made a new man on ye o’ready.
Next thing, you’d better git.”
“ True; but how?”
“Kin ye walk?”
“ A little, but not far.”
“Where are yer men ?”
“ 1 cannot imagine. They should not be
more than a mile or so away, though I can
scarcely tell the exact distance. I left the main
body, taking with me a couple of men, at the
same time that Bob Blake, the scout, left in
almost the opposite direction. The men with
me, who certainly must have heard something
of what was going on, should have come to my
assistance, or borne word to the rest.”
“ Puttin’ on a blue jacket don’t allers make a
scallywag reliable. Guess they heard too much
and kerwammused. We’ll hav to run some
risks—wait a bit.”
Parsons hastened back up the gulch to obtain
his horse. Some risks would have to be run,
he knew. The girl and himself would have to
walk for a time, whilst Moulden rode. Perhaps
the latter would gain strength as he went along.
Somehow the camp of the soldiers was to be
reached.
The horse of Parsons’ seemed glad at his ap
proach. It held its head up in the air and
snuffed the wind that came drifting up the
canon, and pranced the ground lightly, but im
patiently.
Leading it out, he motioned Moulden to arise,
and helped him gently into the saddle. Then
in a low tone he called to Marian;
“Ho, up thar! Kin ye kirm down, er d’ye
need help ? It’s time to light out.”
For an answer came the sound of a single
rifle-shot, pealing out in the distance beyond.
Both lifted their heads and gazed in the direc
tion.
Then came the rattle and roar of firearms, and
the faintly-heard sounds of shouts and yells. A
battle of some kind was in progress.
The form of Moulden seemed to dilate, his
eyes flashed, his nostrils were expanded.
“ Trapper, I am needed. Lay low here till
you hear from me, if you cannot see your way
to join us.”
"Without further word, or moment’s pause to
see how his intention would be received, Moul
den struck the horse’s sides fiercely with his
heels and dashed out and away across the plain,
leaving Parsons standing amazed and bursting
with wrath at the summary manner in which he
had been left to shift for himself, and gazing
ruefully at his feminine charge, who stood re
vealed on the ledge above, anxiously scanning
the far-off horizon.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
SWEETHEART OF MOBILE.
BY COUNT FAIRFAX.
Sweetheart—I call you sweetheart still
As in your window’s laced recess,
When both our eyes were wont to fill.
One year ago. with tenderness.
I call you sweetheart by the law
Which gives me higher right to feel.
Though I be here in Malaga,
And you in far Mobile.
I mind me when, along the bay
The moon-beams slanted all "the night;
When on my breast your dark locks lay,
And in my hand, your hand so white;
This scene "the summer night-time saw.
And my soul took its warm anneal
And bore it here to Malaga
From beautiful Mobile.
The still acd white magnolia grove
Brought winged odors to your cheek,
Where my lips seared the burning love
They could not frame the words to speak;
Sweetheart, you were not ice to thaw;
Your breast was neither stone nor steel;
I count to-night, at Malaga,
Its throbbings, at Mobile.
What matter if you bid me now
To go my way for others’ sake?
Was not my love-seal on your brow
For death, and not for days to break ?
Sweetheart, our trothing holds no flaw;
There was no crime and no conceal,
I clasp you here in Malaga
As erst in sweet Mobile.
1 see the bay-road, white with shells,
I hear the beach make low refrain,
The stars lie flecked like asphodels
Upon the green, wide water-plain—
These silent things as magnets draw, *
They bear me hence^vith rushing keel
A thousand miles from Malaga
To matchless, fair Mobile.
Sweetheart, there is no sea so wide.
No time in life, nor tide to flow,
Can rob my breast of that one bride
It held so close a year ago—
I see agai n the bay we saw—
I hear again your sigh’s reveal,
I keep the faith at Malaga
I plighted at Mobile.
“Don’t takeaway your head, darling,
leave you in a little while.”
I must
“ Anything that I can.”
“Then wear "
“Suppose my hair all comes down; I cannot | on her finger,
fix it up again. ”
1 Not even with your silver arrow ? Some day • what will never be—and I ask no more.”
lual A CHU . I believe you are right Pity, though, that so
: this trifle still,” slipping it again rarelj’-constant love should ha\ e een ^o was ec.
. “You see 1 don't wish to be “It was not wasted: ‘Love though love may
: quite forgotten. Now one kiss for the sake of— be given in vain, is yet lovely, am
' - -- - that is. it seems to me—a love worth the name.
j you must tell me its story, as you promised.”
“You ought to guess it from the motto, “ Fi-
| dele a mort.”
“ A very noble one. But the trait it proclaims !
I is not your leading one.”
“Why?” with a swift start. “Am I unfaith- j
, ful?”
“ What a bungler I am to be sure,” kissing her i
twice, thrice. “No, sweet, I only meant that
j you were truth itself—and truth is better than j
j fidelity.”
“Oh! please don’t say that!” she cries,
LLttl » ill Uc>CI UtJ—ft Li 11 X HSK UU LLIurc. ^ , i q /valid nn
Again he holds her close, close, kissing fore- even though it were what tne wor i
head, eyes, lips, not with the exultant strength
of happy love, or the mad energy of baffled pas
sion, but tenderly, reverently, as one might
some dear dead thing, about to be forever laid
away from sight.
Lyt is strangely calm. The soft tears that
fell so plenteonsly over the wreck of Aylett
Inge’s hope seem frozen at their source. This
grief is too deep to spend itself in such summer
showers. Her pain is scarce less than that of
the man before her, who has just seen fade and
wrenching herself sharply from his hold and J wither the hope of his life.
A ROUNDABOUT ROMANCE.
BT S. M. A. c.
“Prophesy, 0, son of man.” In the spirit of
this injunction a son of man predicts that next
winter, the fashion at Washington will be Repub
lican simplicity; that diamonds will be vulgar;
that cabinet officers and the bon-ton will go to re
ceptions in cabs; and that ladies, instead of help
ing to make scandal, will only talk scandal in the
good old tea-drinking fashion before so many peo
ple were found out.
‘When is a thief like a seamstress? When he
and runs.” And when he is caught and
he’s still like a seamstress.
CHAPTER XXIX.
“TRUTH IS BETTER THAN FIDELITY.”
Night, the twenty-second of February, silvern,
stirless, starlit, with an air so soft it might have
been stolen from the heart of the coming spring
time. It is a grand gala night in M , for re
viving patriotism renews the old-time festival in
honor of Washington’s birth-day. From roof to
basement the capitol is alight. Wreaths, flags,
flowers, transform the hall into a royal-looking
ball-room. The band, safe-hid in leafy covert,
keeps the soft air quivering with delicious mu
sic, and up, down, across, athwart the splendid
rooms, the arched aisles, the massive stairways,
the gayest of gay throngs stream. The affair is
gotten up by the first gentlemen of the city, and
all that is best, brightest and bravest in the
State has here fit representation, for the cards of
invitation went far and wide, and summoned
hither an assemblage whose like has not been
since the happy halcyon days before the war.
Colonel "Windsor says this to himself, as he
looks proudly at Lyt: “Ah ! do your best,” he
thinks: “ bring together from far and near your
highest and loveliest, still she is a star that no
rival brilliance can dim.” Certainly she is un
surpassed, and to-night seems fairly unsurpass
able. She is all in white; not fleecy, vapor
ous, floating white, but some rich stuff, that falls
in plain, heavy, shroud-like folds about her
straight, elegant figure, with a glow of vivid
geraniums at her throat and in her hair, and
cheeks whose deep, variable color, almost match
ing their tint, betrays some excitement stronger
than that of time and place. Her eyes dilate
and darken momently, and her voice when she
speaks has a hall-dreamy sound, as of one raptly
listening for an echo that never comes. He
holds her truth-plighted, he believes, and trusts
her as truth itself. Still, looking back upon
these past weeks, he sees they have not brought
him perfect happiness. Even in the most bliss
ful minutes there has somehow been a strange
alloy, though through no fault of hers, he could
swear, for she is in most things marvelously
submissive—more so, indeed, than he likes her
to be. She never repels him, and her lips smile
always at his coming, but—maybe he is hyper
critical—her eyes do not, but are oftenest deco
rously downcast, and her face does not wear the
shadowy, tender glory he used to fancy it would
put on in the presence of one she loved. It is
all so new yet, maybe, in time, the fullness of
his dream may come, and he falls to planning
the life that shall be theirs—happy wanderidgs
in far old countries, whence they shall bring
back richly-rare adornings for the home which
her presence shall make, to him, little less than
Paradise. How he rejoices in the diligent youth
and laborious manhood that have given him
power to keep her, as she deserves, with the
careful tenderness, the dainty luxury, that shall
make her forget even the semblance of sorrow.
Presently he crosses to where she stands, say
ing:
“You look uncomfortably warm, Miss Can-
more. It is more pleasant in the hall.”
“I protest against that,” says Harry Bate.
“ You want to spirit Miss Lyt away, so I will lose
the dance she has promised me.”
“ And I insist that it be done,” says Mr. Inge,
for I- believe in equal and exact justice to all
women, and she occupies far more than her due
proportion of the eyes and thoughts of this as
sembly.” Then, in a low, rapid aside, “Don’t
you see she is fevered with dancing already ?”
Lyt smiles just a little.
“After that, I would not go for anything—
only I want to he fresh for our dance. Remem
ber, Mr. Bate, the last quadrille, and find me,
even if you have to employ the police in the
search.”
The next minute Colonel "Windsor has led her
across the wide, cool hall, through the cosy ante
chamber, into the large room of the library,
where few of the pleasure-throng think to stray.
“Sit down,” he says, pulling forward a read
ing chair.
“ Indeed ! I am not tired,” she says. “ That
music seems to give one wings.”
“ Have you thought of what time it is ?”
“No ! about one, is it not?”
“There,” showing his watch. “And an hour
from now I must leave M—— for a month’s ab
sence.”
“I shall he at home before you come hack.”
Is it purely his fancy, or is there relief in her
tone?
“And I shall follow there as soon as possible.”
Then, after a little silence which she seems disin
clined to break: “Lyt, darling, I am going I
away for a long time—to me.” j
“Well!” Only this monosyllable, but her set than it is when still holding her hand he
walking with quick, uneven steps up and down
| the long room.
Alter a minute he follows her, and holding
her hands in a hard clasp against his breast,
i says:
“ Lyt, you ai;e above caprice, I know; tell me
! what this means.”
“ I am trying to think how I may best do it,”
| in a low, hard voicp; then, after a short, intense
silence: “When we first met last
j thought—no matter how, or why—that you had
[ no right to treat me as—as you did, and think
ing that you meant either to trifle with me, or
be treacherous to—to—some one else, I deter-
| mined to punish you by making you love me as
I felt you could love, for I was very angry at the
part I thought you were playing, and sojvindic-
tive that I wanted yoq to be cruelly hurt by the
scorn I would heap upon you. It was very
wrong, I know, but I held to my purpose stead
ily; and it was not until Mr. Inge told me all
the truth, and—and what you had given up for
me, that I thought once how wicked I was. What
I felt then I cannot tell you. The world grew
chaos for a while. Then I persuaded myself
that I ought to right the wrong I had unwit
tingly done you, at any cost, and—and—your
name and fortune were great temptations to my
i ambitious pride; and so, between all, I gave you
a lying promise. But if you could know how
all your kindness has cut me to the heart, how
I wretched I have been in knowing myself so un-
j worthy of your tender love, you would not
j quite hate me, in spite of it all, though I have
I hated myselt sometimes.”
It comes to the Colonel with the shock of a
I sudden awaking, but he meets it bravely.
“ Is that all tne treason, Tender Conscience?”
he asks, again drawing her to him. “Iwon’t
deny that I wish you had accepted me for love,
and that alone; but darling, never name un
worthiness in connection with yourself, or think
that I can ever do otherwise than love you with
my whole strength and heart and soul. You
are so stainlessly true and honorable, that you
are making yourself morbidly wretched over
what any other woman would regard as the most
venial of faults, and yon must not do it any
longer. Look up and smile, and kiss me before
I go, and be ready to tell me at our next meet
ing, when I may claim you as my own dear
wife. ”
“ Do you wish it still ?”
Her tone is almost apathetic, bnt there is the
steely clasp of one hand about its fellow whose
meaning he knows so well.
“Can you doubt it?” he says, growing per
ceptibly paler, and an anxious inflection creep
ing into his voice. “ Why should I not? There
is nothing in what you have said to make my
purpose falter.”
“No,” dully, as before, “I did not tell you
quite all the truth.”
“Lyt,” hard .lines coming about his mouth,
“in heaven’s name, speak plainly. Y"ou cannot
mean to reject me now i”
The flame in her cheek's bums out to gray pal
lor. She lifts her eytfe-fapty to his with the slow
answer: * {
“No, I mean nothing of the sort. Y'ou hold
my promise, freely given, and its fulfillment, if
you claim it, shall not be avoided. So far as
duty can go, nothing shall be lacking. I will
serve, honor, and obey—but I do not love you,
and I know I never can.”
There is a dreary, passionless ring about the
words inexpressibly pathetic. The lover puts
her gently away from him and goes away to the
window. Oh ! the battle in his heart. He can
not give her up. She has grown a part and par
cel of his very life. It would Jbe like parting
with air and sunshine suddenly come to, after
long darkness, to renounce her|now, and he has
only to stretch forth his hand and make her his
own forever. He goes back in a little time, say
ing, very gently:
“ Let the matter rest for to-night, Lyt. You
are fevered with too much excitement already.
Stay here, while I find Mrs. Seaton and the car
riage. You had best go home.”
She looks at him piteously.
“ Do you think there is any rest for me while
it is unsettled ? It is that which has made me
feverish. Let the end be—now.”
“Do you hate me, Lyt?”
“ Oh, Colonel Windsor!”
“Do yon like me, then?”
“As well as it is possible to like anybody.”
“Lyt,” breaking wildly away from his forced
calm, “you must, you shall love me ! I cannot
live without you.”
“ Colonel "Windsor, I have tried to love you,
and if you make me your wife, I shall never
cease trying; but I know, and tell you now, the
endeavor will be fruitless.”
“Why?”
No answer; only the quick flushing of the
pale face, as it seeks for the first time the shelter
of her hands. Colonel Windsor stands aghast.
Here is light that makes plain the dark places.
Knowing so well the woman who stands, with
bowed head, before him, he understands now
why she shuddered at his embrace. No longer
can he.give ear to the specious song of Hope,
saying that her heart is but waiting to be won.
Adieu, golden dreams of Italy with her. Back
to the realm of sorrowful shadows ye sprites that
played in the home-light. How trifles haunt us
in the darkest hours. Some stray cadence of
the band without brings back to him, in grim
irony, the strain she sang in the summer-lit
parlor:
“Hearts are broken, heads are turned wi-
castles in the air.”
Presently she lifts a face calm with strong re
solve, and lays her hand upon his arm saying
very quietly:
“Take me to Mrs. Seaton, please. I am tired
and must go back; and I will keep my promise
at all cost, Col. Windsor, and forgive me for the
trouble I have made you.”
A joy-flashed that dies in springing, goes over
his face at her words. He turns away as if to
steady himself for what he had to say, and I do
not think those who may look upon his face in
its coffin sleep will see it much whiter or more
“ I wish, oh ! I wish you had never seen me,” I
she says, gasping between the words, “or that
all the pain might be mine. I alone deserve it.” ;
“You must not think so,” he says with some
effort. “Iloved you from the first, in spite of !
myself; it was all the work of Fate. And now I
must leave you or I shall lose the train. Shall I
take you to the ball room ?”
“I will spare you that pleasure,” says Mr.
autumn, I i Inge coming forward, “though I am of opinion
1 Miss Canmore is better away for the present.
Say good bye and be off, "Windsor, you have no
minute to lose.”
“ I have said it,” says that gentleman, “bnt
the word has an ominous sound which I dont
like; so instead an revoir.
As he goes slowly out, Harry Bate comes in
with Mrs. Seaton on his arm.
“Go back, my young friend,” says Mr. Inge,
“there is nothing here for you.”
“We will see,” laughs the young fellow.
“ Miss Lyt, are you ready?”
“Excuse me, please. I did not know I was
tired until I came away from the music.”
“Certainly. But what is the matter? you look
worse than tired.”
Mr. Inge gives him a look that seems to say,
“ keepyour observation to yourself,” and aloud:
“I don’t wonder at it, seeing you were her
prospective partner,” at which there is a laugh,
for Harry, though a splendid dancer, has some
what of Mr. Arthur Pendennis’s faculty for
coming in collision with other couples, and bears
the contretemps with much better temper, being
on the whole a prodigiously good-natured young
giant.
As he stoops to look into Lyt’s eyes saying:
“Were you really afraid to trust me?” Mr.
Inge looks at him with infinite pity. He sees
only too well whither all this is tending, and is
half-tempted to give the useless warning which
Mrs. Seaton’s eyes seem to ask.
Lyt hardly takes note of looks or words; her
hand plays absently with something at her
throat, crushing out of life and bloom, the
flowers below, and flecking her white dress here
and there with scattered scarlet petals.
Suddenly something falls with a sharp tinkle
at the feet of the group. Mr. Inge picks it up
and says:
“What is it?”
says:
“No, Lyt, I give you back your freedom; if,
in mv mad love, I wanted to kill you, I would
the slow torture of a loveless marriage—for it
ciuld only end in that, I know. I have no right
to ask who stands between me and your heart;
but some day, when I can bear it, you will tell
me. Forgive me the pain you have known over
all this, and promise that if I can ever serve you
you will let me do it.”
I will,” she says solemnly, “and I would
CHAPTER XXX.
“INFELICIA.”
‘‘Alas ! for the heart whose bitter dower
Is ihe perfume-breath of a withered flower.”
“ My locket, I believe,” Lyt says. “ The chain
has worn in two.”
“ It has, hut what a quaintly-fashioned trinket:
silver, with a cipher in diamonds and black en
amel. What will you offer me to take care of it
until to-morrow ?”
“Nothing, being quite equal to the task my
self ; give it here, please.”
“Not I. It is, I believe, a sort of talisman—
something that you ‘conjure’ with, as the dar
keys say.”
•‘I am sure I cannot be even suspected of the
black art, but I want my property all the same.”
“You shall have it—to-morrow. What is there
in it that I am not to be trusted with it?”
“Her heart, maybe,” Harry Bate says. “How
is it in the song?—
“Locked my heart in a case o’ gowd,
And pinned it wi’ a.siller pin ?”
“Good boy. How fast he does learn,” says
the elder gentleman, patting his shoulder. “Re
ally I’m obliged for the suggestion. I’ve won
dered a long time where Miss Canmore stowed
that portion of her anatomy.”
••Aren’t you glad to have found out?” forcing
herself to adopt his tone of banter. “ However,
it will not benefit you much, as you will hardly
find the ‘open sesame.’”
“I don’t think I would try, Mr. Inge,” says
Mrs. Seaton; “that is a sort of medallion, which
does not open at all.”
“And that treacherous creature would have
made me waste an hour of my valuable time in
a fool’s endeavor. Well, Miss Canmore, I shall
heap coals of fire on your head by returning
this at four o’clock to-morrow, or rather to-day,
mended in Blythe’s best style.”
“Will you promise to be very careful of it ?”
“Can you doubt it, knowing what Mr. Bate
supposes it to hold? Harry, don’t waylay me
and get possession of the precious article; I am
armed, and ready to die the death.”
“Don’t make my poor trinket a cause of quar
rel, gentlemen,” Lyt says; “it is sufficiently
storied already.”
“Indeed ! What’s its history?”
“The same as this arrow’s, which you were
once curious about.”
“And which you would not tell me. Let us
hear it now.”
“ It is just about a woman who lived and loved
and died.”
“For love?”
“Well, no; not exactly.”
“W"ho was she?”
“My great grand-aunt, Mistress Elizabeth
Stuart. These are part of what were meant to
be her bridal ornaments. See, in this cipher,
the letters ‘E. S. C. W.’ Charles Wyville, Esq.,
was her lover.”
“Ah! it grows interesting. Of course he
proved false ?”
“That depends. It was in the troublous era
‘forty-five,’ and her father was an old Jacobite,
who swore that his bonnie Bessie was for no
man who had not the spirit and loyalty to fight
for Prince Charlie.”
“I like him for that; ‘none but the brave,’
you know.”
“The other Charlie — Charlie Wyville—did
not. He was well content with the Hanoverian
line, and replied to the old man’s ultimatum by
proposing to elope with Miss Bessie to America. ”
“And what said she to that?”
“ Very properly, ‘Nay.’ She would obey her
father at the cost of her dearest love; and after
a stormy scene, they parted never to meet again,
for after Culloden, where two of her brothers
were left on the field, the whole family came out
to America.”
“Did she ever marry ?”
“No; though she was greatly sought in the
new world, as well she might be. Her portrait
is one of the loveliest faces that ever smiled
happy, would make one’s life thenceforward so
much higher, purer, stronger, as in the end to
more than make amends lor the pain it may
have brought us.”
Love, thou art sweet ! then bitter death must be.
Love, thou art bitter ! sweet is death to me.
Harry Bate quotes impressively.
“ My poor fellow !”
Mr. Inge’s face puts ou a look of preternatu
ral concern.
“ Is it so serious as that?”
The young fellow reddens almost angrily..
“I suppose you never make a quotation l he
says, intenogatively.
“Rarely,” is the answer; “hut I was about
to venture one which is pitably true—namely:
‘He that is giddy thinks the world turns round.’ ”
“Which is remarkable, like most of yours,
for its happy inappropriateness,” Lyt says, be
fore Harry can speak.
Mrs. Seaton yawns slightly.
“Good people, what is all this about love and
death? I can tell you, what none of you seem
to have thought of,' that it would be much easier
to die for some people than to live with them.
And now put by sentiment, if you please, and
i let’s go home.”
As Harry Bate and Mr. Inge stop for a minute
i in the light of the late moon and paling lamps
j at the door of their bachelor lodgings, the latter
| puts a hand on each of the young fellows’ broad
j shoulders, saying:
“ Harry, I want to give you a piece of advice,
which I am afraid will hardly please you.”
j “ What is it?” rather impatiently.
|\ “Let Tennyson alone for the present. Y'ou
know more of him than is safe now.”
Then seeing the flush that rises at his words:
“If I am impertinent, forgive me. I, too,
have cried for the moon and sighed for the in-
attainable.”
Of all rare foolishness under the sun—and
the capacities of this, our planet, seem in that
line fairly illimitable—there is none at all com
parable with the foolishness of advice-giving;
unless, indeed, we give advice that goes along
with inclination, when our wisdom and our
friendship shall be held at equally high premium
until we grow rash enough to oppose Hope with
Experience, when, presto ! we are at the lowest
ebb of influence and credibility.
Nobody knew this better than Mr. Inge, or
generally to more purpose. W'hy he thus broke
through his usual line of conduct, I cannot say.
Perhaps to vindicate the sagacity of his pene
tration; perhaps in the kindness of a fellow-
feeling. I only know that his words had the
common force and effect of such admonitions,
and that it was a small eternity—six months, at
least—ere Harry Bate flung away as a trifle the
flower—a crushed geranium, vivid even in
death, which to-night fell from somebody’s hair.
quicker breath and shifting color show that she
has caught his meaning. He draws her close,
close, and sets his first lover’s kiss—long, rap- . . .
turous, passionate—upon her yielding lips, choose mercifnl bullet or dagger, rather than from canvas. She lived to a great age—eighty
Why must that haunting chill come, even in
this supreme minute? She is trembling in his
arms, but not with the languorous, passionate,
half-yielding thrill that wakes when love meets
love, but rather the quick, convulsive shudder
of some wild bird, suddenly prisoned and pass
ive in the captor’s hand.
“Lyt,” putting the brown head upon his
shoulder, “are you afraid of me?”
“No,” rather slowly; “I never knew fear of I the rest of it. Take this, please,” dropping her
anybody.” i ring into his palm.
“ Why do you tremble so ?” He holds the flashing bauble to the light,
“I don’t know; I have been a little nervous j saying:
all day.” | “Willyou do me a kindness?”
four, I believe.”
“You should not have told that—it ruins the
romance. As she did not die outright of heart
break, you might have left us to fancy her, grad
ually exhaling, through a few tearful years. ”
“And I think that is just where the storys
true sweetness lies. Death cannot be incon
stant. There is no merit in its changelessness.
Mr. Aylett Inge sits alone in his own room,
apparently lost in thought, though upon what
matter of small or great moment, I cannot un
dertake to say. Perhaps it is the fashion of last-
century ornaments. Certainly, he has j ust lifted
from its bed of jewelers’ cotton a quaint silver
medalion, and turns it over and over in his
hand. I do not know that he has any thought
of the white throat about wliich it so lately hung,
but more than once his lips are pressed to the
senseless metal. The strongest of us will be
foolish sometimes, when we fauey that none
will ever see or know it, quite forgetful, pur
blind creatures that we are, that things most
privily done are often proclaimed from the
housf-tops. I wonder if he means to keep the
design always in memory Certainly, his finger
follows the intricate tracery of crest and cipher,
as though that might be his purpose. Ah !
How is this? A slight accidental pressure on
that upper diamond and the oval flies apart, re
vealing—what? One side, a lovely, langhing
face, that seems to mirror Heaven’s own bright
ness; the other, vacant, but after the story, we
can guess whose pictured semblance would have
filled it, but for the staunch, Jacobite loyalty of
that old-time father. But what was that, which
fluttered from between, like a snow-flake or a
rose-leaf? Mr. Inge stoops and lifts from the
carpet, a double oval of dainty silk paper, accu
rately fitting the missing portrait’s space. It
falls apart in his hand, and he sees—only a fairy
wreath, a tiny ring, of what were once delicate,
pale-green, vanilla-sweet grape-blossoms, such
as you may pluck from every hedge and stream-
side in the first blush of June. They are almost
dust now, crumbling even at a breath, and in
trying to place them whence they came, so they
shall not seem to have been disturbed, which he
does with an odd sense of having come unwit
tingly upon something holy. He reads upon
the outer paper a date, “June 1st, 1863,” and
within the flower-circle faintly traced, in tiny
letters, “Infelicia.”
His face is hot, his hands moist and trembling,
as he shuts the case. What right has he to pry
thus dastardly into what she would die to keep
unrevealed ? No wonder she feared to trust it
in other hands. Harry Bate was marvelously
near the truth—how near, it is a pity he cannot
know.
Infelicia ! A whole story in the brief pathos of
a word. Detail would only mar. He can well
fancy how it was. That was the time of battle
in the land; and most likely her love went down
to death on that first of June, while she was
langhing in the sunshine, and playing, as her
restless fingers have such a knack of doing, with
the soft trails of the vine. Or perhaps—but this
he can hardly conceive—the flowers are precious,
as the gift of one who crossed her path in that
changeful time, and went blind and heedless
after, along his separate way.
Infelicia. He knows now the root which flow
ered in such genuine sympathy with his own
trouble. And how bravely she has borne herself
through all these years since that sorrowful
word was written. So it will be to the end, for
she has Elizabeth Stuart’s heart, with Elizabeth
Stuart’s name; and of her, too, shall it be writ
ten, “ Fidele a mort.” She had a right to speak
of love’s ennobling power. Perhaps it is that
which makes her so strangely different to the
mass of women; perhaps, but for that, she might
have been—but no, he will not even think it.
Never, in any case, could the deceitful light of
coquetry show in her true, honest eyes. Poor,
poor Windsor ! Even his eloquence could not
teach her to forget. That was plain in his face
last night; and, indeed, hers held almost as
much of misery as compassion when he first
came upon them. Good God ! how out of joint
the times are ! A plague upon love and women,
and all the fantastic coil they bring to honest
men—but, poor creatures, how often are their
poisoned weapons envenomed in their own
wounds. But Windsor—he cannot get him out
of his mind. He loved her, as men seldom do,
with the concentred passion of a life-time.
How will he endure the fading of this mirage
that seemed so real? In a strong, silent agony,
no doubt, as he would do anything that left him
with life. That desolating philosopher, Reoch-
faucauld, laid down as one of his axiomatic
maxims, “In the grief or mischance of a friend,
there is something which gives us pleasure,”
! but I do not think Mr. Aylett Inge contemplates
give half my life to love you as you deserve, for Her life was long, busy and full of change, but j in such a spirit the coming to nought of his
aT— . fViFnnrrli all L’hfl n over ctt’flrroil frnm lior -fi rot .Ul i_
through all she never swerved from her first,
last love, but to the day of her death kept his
memory green, and wore about her neck this
friend’s cherished purpose, although that gen
tleman is no angel, but a man of faults and in
firmities like our own. Philosophers who un
memorial of her lost happiness, ‘ Faithful unto dertake to map and outline our poor humanity
J death,’ as the motto on the crest hath it.” ; are apt to generalize from extremes, and, quite^