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Waiting for the Dawn
BY IRENE INGE COLLIER,
CHAPTDR X.
Eloise, notwithstanding her heart was full of
care ot her own would have been as deeply
grieved if she bad know that her true and
earnest friend Carrie Farman was now estranged
from her lover on her account. Both Fred and
Carrie were proud and Carrie was extremely
sensitive where her friend was concerned. She
was smarting with indignation at some slighting
remark against that absent friend, whose sweet,
sad parting look and passionate kisses were ever
in her thoughts, when Fred rode over. He found
her in tears and heard her again lament the loss
of her frieDd. Life and joy seemed to have de
parted with Eloise.
‘It is always Eloise,’ Fred said impulsively.
‘Yen have thoughts for no one else. 1 would be
too proud Carrie to waste *iy love on one un
worthy.’
• Eloise unworthy, Fred Denman what do you
mean ?’
‘ I mean, I can’t bear to hear a girl I love, go
ing on about a Yankee school marm, who has
left under a cloud, and no doubt deserves what
is ssid of her.’
4 Take that back Fred. Those are cowardly
words,’ cried Carrie quite pale with anger.
4 Eloise Ennis is all that is pure and good, and
the man who says one word against her shall
never be called my friend.’
• You are excited Carrie. You don’t know
what you are saying. And I hope you will not
espouse Miss Ennis' cause so warmly every
where, because it may expose you to censure. ’
4 1 will take her part against the world, and I
thank no one to come to me with insinuations
against her.’
She turned away from Fred as she spoke, with
eyes dashing and lip curling.
He flushed to his forhead. ‘Very well Carrie,’
he said. I see you care nothing for me or my
advice. Since j ou are so taken up with thoughts
of Miss Ennis, I leave yon to meditate on her
perfections at your leasure.’
And with a low bow, answered by a haughty
bend of the head from Carrie, the two parted.
It was some days before they met again.
Carrie went about pale and silent, and Fred
tried to be busy on bis farm; neither spoke to
any of the trouble between them, but loving eyes
are quick to see, ani Mrs. Farman scon perceiv
ed tLat something was wrong with the two whose
love-current bad seemed to glide so smoothly.
Susie spoke of it to Sam in their confidential
talk. These two were now betrothed lovers.
Susie had prolonged her visit to her aunt at
Sam's urgent entreaty, and it was a standing joke
with Fred how early the gallant cavalier went
away—the ‘early’ reterriDg to the ‘wee sma'
hours, ayont the twal.’ He was an honeBt, ard
ent, impassionat young fellow and she a lovely
girl, frank, affectionate and full of life and
gayety. Situ made up a family fishing party
for her benefit, she and Fred being the only ones
invited, except Bertram, whom Anna insisted
should be asked 4 You think, to pair yourselves
off nicely and leave me out in the cold.’ When
the day came however, Fred pleaded business to
bis cousin Susie when she asked if he was going.
She and Sam set out from the house together
and lingered long driving over the two miles
of beautiful road that lay between the home of
the Denman’s and hospitable Oak Dale. A
memorable ride that was to Susie. The morn
ing was beautiful, she was conscious that her
cool, fresh muslin was becoming, S.im hand-
j- 1 fi
did she need to make her happy ?
But her pride got the better of the
pulse.
‘Is it you? You come in with little ceremony
surely,’ she said coldly. He felt the cool indif
ference of her look keenly, but he answered
cheerfully.
*1 did knock Miss Carrie, but no one answer
ed, and seeing the hall and the parlor doors
open. I came in and found you so fast asleep,
I could have stolen you. A nice bouse keeper
pro ten. With tbe sanctuary open for thieves
to come in and steal the saint.’
She could not help langbing.
‘Not much of a saint'she said.
‘Yon was'nt very saintly yesterday’ he said
‘You were awfully cross; but you are ready to
unsay all these cruel words. Are yon not my
sweet love ?’
‘Are yon ready to retract those still crneler
things that you said about my dearest friend ?’
Carrie asked prompted by pride as much as
by a sense that her lover had wronged her
friend.
‘Why no Carrie I said nothing about Miss
Ennis except what I mean. I don’t like the
lips of tbe girl I love to be always dwelling on
Eloise Ennis. I want you to forget her. Your
constant grief for her seems to me to be very
unwarranted.’
In trnth he was jealous of Carrie’s passionate
love for her friend. He was ardent, exacting
in his devotion, and he wished his fiancee's un
divided love. He could not understand,. her
loyal, almost worshipping regard for the beauti-
ful, gifted being whom she had known so in
timately. It was such a love as only a very
young girl may sometimes feel for a sister wo
man—sometimes, but it is rarely one meets
with such devotion.
If they conld have dropped tbe sore subject
of Eloise it would been better, but nowit was
brought up again, and both were too proud and
unyielding to make concessions, both consid
ered ihemselves aggrieved and the interview
ended by Carrie’s telling him she would never
marry a mas who bad not confidence enough
in her judgment and her pure instinct to feel
that she was competent to choose a friend, or
a man who conld think so meanly of her as to
believe she would desert a true friend because
idle or malicious people spoke evil of her; and
Fred saying, ‘Carrie jou can never have loved
me as you ought, or you would not let such a
little thing part us. I love you devotedly. I
have loved you since we were children together
and you will always be dearer to me than my
life, but, I cannot in honor retract what I have
truly spoken. What I said, was said honestly,
and I am sorry that you take it so unkindly. I
bad no wish to dictate, but I do think I have a
right to believe my betrothed wife would have
a regard for my opinions, and would show a
disposition to conform herself to my views.’
Carrie made no response and her cold man
ner irritated Fred still more.
‘I see it is better that we part now,’he said
‘You care for me no more. I will not intrude
nay longer on your time. I will go away—I will
not eftend your sight again. Farewell Car
rie.’
He took her hand and pressed it to his lips.
He waited for some pign of relenting, but she
still controlled herself. Pride still forbade her
to ‘make up’ so readily with a lover who had,
she thought, shown himself arrogant and exact
ing, and who refused to take back words that
she felt to be tanuting and unjust. 0ace more
he repeated -Farewell—fora long long time’ and
he left her side and was gone. She watched
him ride away aDd then throwing hersglf on
the sofa hurst into tears.
CHAPTER XIII.
Coming in sight ot Oak Dale, they saw the
party waiting for them at the g#e.
4 There they are; come Miss Anna,’ cried
Eugene, as he turned to assist her into his stylish
buggy. She was looking very handsome, 'and
smiled graciously as she extended her hand to
her elegant escort. Sydney was not going; nor
was he present this bright morning. Carrie
stood at the gate with only a light veil over her
head.
4 Where is F*ed’ called Mrs. Farman. Tsn t
your cousin coming Susie?’
4 1 don’t think he will Mrs. Farman. He says
he has some work to do this morning. He may
come when it is done, but be looks out ot
spirits.’ As she said this, she looked hard at
Carrie. ‘Why have you not your hat on, ma chere.
Are you not going with us ?’
4 No, I have had a dull headache for two or
three days, and mother thinks I had better not
go to-day. I shouldn’t add to your fun.’^
4 it's only because Fred is not going,’ Sam
began, but Carrie flushing said:
4 1 do not regulate my movements by Mr.
DeDman’s,’ and her mother shaking her head
at Sam, said ‘Don’t tease her my boy.’
Carrie jumped out of the buggy and went
and kissed her affectioateiy.
•I am dreadfully sorry that you can’t go with
us dear. Ypu must rest that poor head, and be
quite well and fresh this afternoon for I think
(in a whisper) that Fred will be here.’
Carrie tried to look haughty, but only suc
ceeded in blushing.
Soon the party drove off. Sam and Susie in
tbe carriage with Mr. and Mrs. Farman. Sam
had dutifully told his mother of his betrothal,
and tbe dear, warm-hearted old lady was all
Bympathy and kindness for the young pair.
Quite a joke was started up about dinner,
Mis Farman declaring that when folks went to
fish-fries they must dine on what they caught.
‘Nothing catch, DOtbing eat,’ at which Carrie,
who had eaten a light breakfast, looked rather
rueful, till Sam whispered.
‘Never fear; there's a basket hid away in the
carriage, with cold ham, chicken pie, biscuits
and cake enough to feed twice as many.’
Carrie stood and watched them drive away,
then sighing, she turned into the house and
sat down to the piano, but the very first touch
of the keys brought up thoughts ot Eloise, the
loss she had sustained in missing the instruc
tion and society of her sweet young teacher;
then the old harrowing conjectures over her
fate, the mystery of her disappearance, and
tbe cruelty of the insinuations that were whis
pered concerning it. And this brought up the
image of her fiance cold and proud as she bad
seen him last. She bad had no word from hint,
and now he had refused to go with the fishing
party. He mast be very aDgry, and tears came
as she said so to her heart, but then, she thought
4 I did right. I could not permit him to repeat
slanders of my poor, sweet, loit Eloise.
could not snfft-r him to dictate to me so haugh
tily. I am not his slave, and I will show him
that I am not so abject as to sue for a return of
bis favor. He must recall those taunts, and
ask my pardon or I will not forgive him. I
will show him I need not pine because he with
draws his smiles,’
Nevertheless, she was unhappy. She rose
from the piano. She tried to crochet a little,
she walked a^ont among her flowers, she sat
down and tried to sew; and at last, Bhe took the
book so dear to the heart of youthful maidens,
Lnoille. She read the verses whose rhythmic
melody soothed and Inlled her like music, until
at last her senses wandered into dreaminess and
she fell asleep on the sofa, and dreamed that
Fred and she were reconciled again and that he
called her ‘my own Carrie' and kissed her. She
woke suddenly and saw Fred bending over her
with a look of love in his handsome eyes. Her
'first impulse was to stretch out her hands and
•cry with unfeigned gladness.
Why Fred, I’m so glad to see you? I have
so lonely.’
FIT a
-fa fiery midsummer the most tropic any one
had seen here in a long while. One, afternoon
tne old yellow stage coach that brought the
mail and occasional passengers to A., rumbled
into town with two occupauts of its rcomy inte
rior One a young man, the other a stardy-look-
iDg farmer, who was rather loquacious. The
younger traveler was reticent, trying to suppress
his joy at soon being with his sister, but, to en
tertain the old farmer occasionally, he would
brtak in upon the elder to ask something
.of the village he was nearing, showing plainly
he was not thinking of what his talkative
companion was telling him.
‘Well, its pretty dull, and they ain’t doing !
much. ’ |
‘Very small, is it not? l
‘Yes, it is small compared to the place I live
in.'
‘Yes, I presume so’ He did not know what to
im- and see him. Charlie ws nothing of the
1 disappointment he will I as he turned from
Sid and advanced to Cht
‘Poor fellow ! he knowi Rhing, then, of his
sister,’ murmured Sid.
‘Charles. I am so pleas to see you.’
•Equally as glad, Mr. f som; my sister wrote
me you were here, but I d not expect to see
you, an old friend, at r first look-around.
How is Eloise ?’
‘Did yon leave all well the city ?’
‘Ail of onr mutual friei >< but as usual there
are many changes. Eavi ou seen my sister to
day ? [
‘No I have not. TjjaA quite an agreeable
surprise.’
•I trust it is agreeata (. will surprise sister.
I have not bad a letteif pr her in four months.
I guess father thinkst m too precious to be
lost, traveling as I L been, from one post
office to another, and L iked to forward them
on tome, but they will* quite stale after seeing
my dear sister.’
Mr. Sansom was an a ed; he could not say a
word, and in his minc&me to the conclusion
that he would not tell^n the sister he sought
was gone.
‘I should think thence too precious to trust
fast and loose, as theyiould have been. How
is business with the nj firm, Charlie?’
•Clevis & Ennis are (jng a crushing business,
the heaviest in the citfaith few exceptions, in
our line I refer to. Clevis wishes to have
tbe store enlarged nexjear, but I do not think
he will; I am very mi^cpposed to it. But I
mnst brush up before J sister sees me.’
‘Wait a moment Chile, let me introduce you
to one of Miss Eloise’siends.’
‘Most assuredly.’
Mr. Sansom went u{&Sid.
‘Now Sid, you mustell him, for I cannot.
Take him home with jn—for my sake do not
leave it for me to expltfc’
‘Mr. Sansom, I diale to; I am an entire
stranger.’ j
‘Only because you he never met in person.
I know she has writt|^nough of you. Tell
him, Sid, you have tbnappy faculty ofevadiDg
and putting the best»ce on everything,’ go
ing towards Charlie.
Both acknowledged e introduction and Sid
remarked very pleasant
‘Mr. Ennis, I exactea promise from Miss El
oise that I might takfjossession of you wheu
you came. As a frienof tier’s may I claim that
honored priviledge? ly conveyance is here,
will you place yourseln my charge?’
Charles, thinking Siintended driving him to
the institute, acceptedis offer, bade Mr. San
som adieu and sent soe messages to his wife,
with a promise to calli the morning if he pos
sibly could.
‘Come and dine withce, Cfiarles.’
Thanks, but I canndeave my sister. I have
only a short while to by, and I wish to be all
tbe time with her.’
The sun had set; theast lingering rays were
reluctantly creeping fm the world. The shad
ows of evening fell ton a stricken maD, his
full intellectual brow is damp with agony, his
white teeth gleamed tfeugh his black mous
tache as they crushed is thin lips in his an-
guish. ^ ,
Sid, too, bore traceajf suffering as he told
in a low, saddened voe of Eloise’s flight. He
did not conceal from Carles how much he loved
his sister, as he droveowly along, telling a tale
of woe—making one hurt bleed, yet finding in
the brother a sympatsing, patient listener
Sid told of how the tvu’s people loved her,
and how very dear she'as to each member of
his family.
I Charles questioned ’Xi closely. ‘Tell mo
r-teum^er^' 4 • '??***£* -* 11 *Z*5***-±± : -
rnnift n.nv onfi plor© you, he said. I
‘I will tell you all I know. The two last days
she was here, she spent with Carrie. Saturday
at a picnic, and during that day her escort nev
er ltft her side—a Mr. Bertram, a banker in
town. She acted very strangely, remaining a,t
our house that night. The day was doubly my
bitterest, for there she told me she could not
love me. and I bade her, bade her farewell that
night. Eloise's parting was mysterious. She
would kiss Carrie and turn again and kiss her
repeatedly; all of the family sj oke of it alter she
had gone—that was at ten o’clock, I presume.
She was fond of Carrie and we let that pass, but
early the next morning, we heard she was not
to be found.’
‘Mr. Farman, I do not understand, I—do--
not—understand,’ he broke down here.
Sid continued: ‘I and Mr, Sansom did all
we conld, Miss Albers, and in fact the whole
village; we could gain no clue. 1 wrote to a
“•Give me your name, stranger; I am what the | Mend of mine whom I knew would interest him
folks around here call a “county ’Squire.” I
reckon you know what that is,—or, maybe, you
are not versed in these parts,’
•My name is Charles Ennis, from New York
City.
I know what a 'squire is, but have never
met one before, that I know. Am a strange* in
this part of the world. I presume my enthusi
asm at reaching A has led you to form quite
an erroneous opinion of me. I have traveled
a great deal, and spent the greater portion of
this year in traveling over the West. I have
nev<-r been so far South before.’
‘Drummer, hey ?
‘No sir, not exactly. I am a partner in a mer
cantile establishment. Here is my card, you
see I am a traveling agent at present. I was i
selt'iu answering all he could find out. A day or
two alter, 1 received a letter telling me such a
lady as I described stopped there one night and
lett before daylight, bound for Memphis, that
js as far as she paid her fire; now there we were
lost: whether she went from that point North
or South, we never have heard. I think though,
Mr. Ennis, her assistant was some one from this
place, and surely of a very secretive turn of
mind, for all trace was well covered. It could
not have been one from a distance.’
‘Whom think you it was?’
‘I have not the most remote idea: there is no
one in the whole town who I think could or
would have attempted tfich a thing. The fin
ger of suspicon rested, for a day or two, on Mr.
ooo x axu a nn* uiiu&t ntt'jub as uioovus* x *» ao §, » . . » . , > > . ...
not needed at the house, and while out on this ■ Bertram. I told you he was tne last seen with
tour, thought I would come to see my sister,
who is in A , and a teacher in the Institute
at that place.’
‘Your sister a teacher !’
‘Yes sir, against my wishes,’ not caring to en
ter iulo detail.
‘Step-sister, hey ?’
‘No sir, my own sister. Have you never heard
of her ?’
‘Yes, I believe I beard my niece, who comes
over here often, speak of Miss ’ he thought
a moment, rubbed his hands over his head and
shook it.
‘Your sister is not married is she ?’
‘No sir.’
‘When did you hear from her?’
Just then they reached tbe village, and Char
lie never replied. Jastas the sun, heated aDd
worn out from his day’s exertion, was drawing
around him the gorgeous mantle of bright beams,
and upon tbe funeral pyre of tbe past was laid
one more day. The ever faithful guardian stood
ready to toss aside that day and clasp once more
his snn.
The stage harried through to the hotel where
it always stopped. The driver, a picture of in
dolence and laziness, dismounted.
How wildly was beating one heart! Nothing
could ease its throbbings but the dear word
‘Brother’ from his sister's lips. How often, on
his long journey, had he pictnred to himself her
surprise, her affectionate greeting. When be
stepped from the coach he thought the farmer,
who was out and busy shaking hands with old
friends, bad told him false, for such a crowd was
around the vehicle, but in reality this was the
only event of the day that conld enliven the
place, more especially after the oppressive
weather that bad visited tbe land, now, for a
week. But to hear the ‘news’ had bronght them,
like a swarm of bees.
‘Ah! there is one of my old friends,’ said
Charlie tu himself, as he walked toward tbe ho
tel. ‘He has not eeen me; he is talking to some
one.’
Just at that moment Mr. 8ansom glanced np
and saw Charlie and recognized him. Taming
to Sid Farman, he said:
Eloise. Miss Albers contends he did not bring
her to tbe institute; she was awake and restless
and did not hear any noise indicating her re
turn.’
Charles Ennis tried to cheer up as they near
ed Oakland and when tbey drove up, Sidney
turned to Charles and told bim he was welcome.
As he opened the door there wa3no light in the
hall and Carrie and iterna, who had fiuished tea,
heard Sid’s footsteps. Carrie had a lit of ennui
and Anna was simularly depressed.
The moment Carrie beard Sid’s voice she ran
to meet him. Running into the hall she came
up to him and kissed him, sating:
•Buddie, 1 am so glad to see you.’ before she
noticed he was not alone, that a strange,
was with him. He kissed his favorite sister
then, still holding her around the’waist, intro
duced her to Charles Ennis.
‘This is the best fric-ud, I do believe, that Miss
Eloise ever had. She has been firm as a rock
in tbe belief that Eloise was unwittingly taken
from our midst. Bhe is my youngest sister,
Carrie Farman.’
Carrie looked at her brother in astonishment
wondering what he meant, bnt in a moment un
derstood all as Sid continued:
This is Mr. Cnarles Eunis.’
Carrie's heart leaped in her month, and has
tily looking herself from her brother’s arms,
she came gracefully to Charles with both hands
outstretched to meet him.
‘How glad 1 am to welcome yon to Oakland,
the brother of my very dear friend!’ and fear
ing she was exhibiting too much feeling ceased
talking and her face turned crimson as she
quickly withdrew her hands.
He was much effected: ‘Miss Farman,’ he
said, ‘I thank yon from my heart for your kind
ness to my sister and the regard and affection
you gave her. It was fully returued. So often
has she spoken of jou ia her letters that you do
not seem a stranger. Would to God I had come
earlier that I might have known of her Btrange
disappearance and used ail the means I shall
now employ to find her.’
*Oh, I hope, I pray you may be successful.
I am glad indeed that *you have come at last.
ney, ‘Mr. Ennis is much fatigued. I want him
to have some of mother’s nice tea. Sister Car
rie. tell them Mr. Ennis has come with me, and
has gone np stairs to get ready for tea.’
Carrie handed her brother the lamp and went
to notify her mother, also sending np Mr. En
nis’ valise.
She went into the dining room and told who
was with her brother.
‘What Carrie ?’asked her father in amazement.
‘Oh, what a trial. Poor young man, I pity
him,’ exclaimed Mrs. Farman.
Anna came sottly in and hearing her mother’s
remark knew in a moment to whom the strange
voice belonged, and asked:
•Carrie, does he know she is not here ?’
‘Yes, brother must have told him. Anna, he
is so handsome, tall and dark, just as Eloise
told us; but he has such a very sad face.’
‘Sister Carrie, I regret it devolved on brother,
do you not?’
•Indeed I do,’ putting her arms around Car
rie’s waist, and drawing her towards the parlor -
They met the gentleman in the hall face to face,
so near were they to each other and did not see
them.
‘My second sister yon met first, this is Anna,
the elder, Mr. Charles Ennis. Anna.
He acknowledged the presentation with a
low, graceful bow, and the four passed into the
dining-room.
Mrs. Farman' was very much prepossessed
with Mr. Ennis, but even more so was her hus
band and they lingered long at the table.
Carrie had risen and silently goDe np to her
room. She was very sad and her eyes moist
with tears.
Anna was solemn this evening and poor Sid
looked as though he had been doomed. That
increased Carrie’s despondeny, and when alone
she sat do wn in a chair and cried bitterly. Her
tears were a great relief.
‘Oh, Eloise,’ she cried, ‘was it to be deceived
I trusted you? But judge not that ye be not judg
ed; maybe she will return and tell us a sad tale
of abduction and confinement. Oh, why did you
not give us a clue? Your brother is in the same
room where many times we have listened to your
merry voice. Poor Fred isgonetoo—yet,Eloi.-e,
I could not desert von after I so sacredly protnis-
you I would be your friend. Fred is gone, where
I know not. Perhaps where more beautifal wo
men will obliterate all thoughts of Carrie. El
oise and Fred both left me—’
Carrie could hear the sound of voices from
below only subdued, no laughter, no mirth; a
sad visit for him, she thought, when his own
heart was so happy as he entered the village this
afternoon.
Carrie felt no inclination to go below. She
heard her mother’s soft footfall and arose to see
her.
‘Carrie, my dear, don’t give way; another is
here, child, whose heart is bleeding far more
than your own. Remember, child, we do not
have crosses, who cannot bear them.’
Carrie threw both arms around her mother.
‘My mother so noble aDd kind. You are all
iu all to me; bear with my weakness. You
alone have known every secret I have had from
my infancy. You know how I have been tried
for months.’
‘Yes, child, I feel deeply for you. Thiuk you
I could see my rosy cheeked, laughing eyed girl,
day after day lose her bloom; never smiling,
never singing, without causing me a pain; but
tny love, we must pray and hope and be strong.
Come now, leave your own sorrows, and come
into the parlor. Think of your brother Sid,
Carrie.’
Carrie was pacing the floor; she stopped sud-
denlv:
•Yes, mother, what a trial. How he loved
looks badly. I believe this is bis last aJf.eiiipt
at making love—he will never marry, nowJpioth-
er, I know.’
‘I know Sidney's nature well. Would Scould
change him. I pray he may yet be happy. ’
‘I also, mother; teach me patience to bear my
trouble.’
•Most willingly, Carrie; bear your gritfs as
though others had some. You alone do not suf
fer, and control yourself with this old aphor
ism, “tbe darkest hour is just before the dawn.’
Now, come, my love, with me into the parlor.
Make yourself presentable.’
•I will, i' amma, but oh, I cannot hely remem
bering how Eloise looked forward to her broth
er’s coming. Last New Year's night at Susie’s
party she told me to look near the door at a
gentleman—a late arrival conversing with Su
sie. “What a resemblance he bears to my broth
er?’ she said. “When be comes next summer
we will have a gay time. He is so fond of lif&£
This is the gay summer, mamma.’
Then, as she stood before the mirror, she
‘Mother, let me leave my hair down, my b
aches,’as she brushed back the golden brown
hair that fell to her waist. She tied a light blue
ribbon around it, assheswept it from her brow.’
‘You look well with it so. Ready ?’
•Yes ma'am.’
‘You are looking nicely. Were it not for these
pale cheeks no one would suspect you of the
tears I found you indulging,’ patting them as
she spoke. ‘Cheer up, bonnie lassie, I will go
with you.’
Carrie walked over to a chair, which Charles
held for her nearest him, his looks told what an
iffort it was for him to be agreeable, when he
knew not where his s ister was. Charles and
Carrie joined in conversation. Sidney was
telling Anna how well she looked. She was regal
—a thin white organdy, with a few pink rose
buds and dark green leaves fastened io her gol
den hair which was looped carelessly back, for
it was not long. Her knot of pink ribbon tied
very coqueltishly added color to her face. Her
blue eyes to-n ; ght shone like sapphires. Anna
was not considered half so pretty as Carrie—one
a blonde, the other with large brown eyes, even
fairer than Anna. At times, it would prove a
study for an artist to decide between the two
girls, but to-night Anna shone loveliest. She
looked happy. Her heart fluttered as she met
the stranger's dark, sad eyes. She watched him
furtively from under her fringed lashes and
thought a nobler, handsomer, more refined man
she had never met.
(TO BE CONTINUED.) /
'Sid, that tall gentleman, with very blank ayes . Do not despair, I feel she will be found.’
and hair, is Miss Eloiss’s brother. I mnst go I 'Ws will talk of that after awhile,’ said Sid*
Mad all Her Days.
By MRS. AMELIA V. PURDY.
CHAPTER VIII.
It is ten months after Salome’s death, Vale
had gone to New York to re-stock her store. She
had prospered wonderfully in bnsiness. She
never feels the need of mon'ey now, aid of
course friends are plentiful enough. She finds
them here in New York. Many of her acqiaint-
ances are here this fall, and they show I nr ev
ery attention. The merchant, from whe k she
buys the silks and laces she needs, has i in ted
her to his home and she has found his wi ■ and
danghters very kind and pleasant, whi k his
yonng son raves of the beauty of the ‘ Soqhern
Magnolia.’
Yale while appreciating fully the attent <n of
her friends has remained at the hotel am pre
served her independence, bnt she begins t long
for home and is restlessly craving a look b the
dear loved faces. Ah* the wickedness oi the
restless, discontented women who dwol in
pleasant homes whose hearts are filled witlben-
timental voids that nothing can fill, bat aiioh
adversity would destroy in its first sharer.
They are all around us, women who dp not
know what they want, whoso *aohing voids ex
cite the stormy derision of the stronger women
who can define and classify all their needs;
who can find in the good things God has given
abundant solace and comfort and who having
much are too wise to crave all. The desolation
and bitterness of being homeless no language
can express. Diogenes should have been less
cynical and more thankful, for he was not home
less—he had a tub, and a tub is better than no
shelter at all, and sometimes it occurs to us how
much better it would have been had we each and
all been born with a roof over us like the perri-
winkle and the snail, that no storms of fate
could dispossess us of and no sheriff seize. She
is sitting at the parlor window when Camber
lounges in gracefully aDd lazily as is bis wont,
and looking remarkably handsome in his dark
suit of navy blue, and says with the blackest of
frowns:
• What on earth do you mean by staying here
so long ? What do you find to interest you in
this great Babel ?’
The sweetest speech from any living man
would not have pleased her as much as this vis
it and exhibition of temper. Her eves brighten
and flash like stars and her cheeks flush to rose.
She is dressed in black silk, trimmed with fine
lace and is looking her loveliest. She offers
him her hand and he will not take it. She takes
a seat near and says eoaxingly:
• Don’t be angry, Mr. Camber. How could I
know you did Dot want me to stay so long?
Let us shake hands and be friends.’
He looks at her gloomily.
• We must be more than friends after this, or
nothing. I missed you as much as any little
three year old would miss its mother or any wo
man miss her husband who was dead a week.
I believe I have loved you for years and did not
know it. Vale, you must return my wife or else
I go to Europe and we separate forever. I’ll
give you five minutes to decide.’
She gives him both hands and with down cast
eyes and rose red face faiters.
‘I choose to be your wife, oh you blindest of
all blind men ! I have loved you since the
night of Mrs. Dean's bal masque, years and
years ago.’
He draws her down beside him and kisses
her, and remarks:
‘ Well if you have, you are a most accomplish
ed actress. Your mother has known of my love
for you for six months, yon are au awfully par
ticular young woman. Your appetite has never
failed. You have slept well, and are superior to
nervousness. You were never found staring at
the woon, or cryiDg down in the cellar or up in
the attic as all love stricken damsels do. All
signs failed in you, and the only course left was
to ask you. It was your mother’s caudid opinion,
that you were thinking of a young gentleman
in New Orleans, who said ‘those molasses,’ and a
Tew flower,' and who had Etruscan gold com
plexion, from too much Bayou, but who had
found a new liver medicine, that would ‘fetch’
out the chills instanter, though he had a ‘good
stand’ of them.’
He opened a small box and his mischief and
sparkle is gone, He takes from it ropes of pearls
the size of linnet's eggs,and wiudsthem around
her neck, puts on the bracelets, ear-rings and
pin. and the bandeau across ber hair.
‘ Tbey were Salome’s’ he says softly. ‘I bought
them for you, the day she wold them to the
jeweler. You loved heraud I determined to give
them to you, for a bridal gift, I had no idea
whose bride you would be. By the way Horion
is married, to that brunette beauty from Key
West, who was ou a visit with Mrs. Holmes.’
Yale gathered up a handful of the snowy balls,
and said seriously:
‘ I hope they will be happy—<S’/ie hoped that.
I will always prize these pearls the more, be*
Cangfi you toyed her and she wore them. llry>
1 CamberT"! never could "bear tcTrist"tITe mr>he'y's fe
gave me and before 1 left I ordered a tomb
stone, for her grave. Horton did not seem to
think it necessary.’
Cumber looks at her curiously.
‘ The average woman would have disliked her.
Were you never jealous?'
‘Never; you loved her before you ever saw
tne. I thought it hard at times but I was not
jealous. Mr. Camber, even the smaii piti; nee
she earned she shared with the poor to the day
she died. Jealous of her? No sir. A man is
elevated or degraded in direct proportion to the
nobility of the woman he loves. Sho was to
women what the tube ros« is to roses, the white
hyacinth to the common flewers of the fitdds.
You are all the better for loving her.'
‘ What do you propose to do with that shop,’
he asks.
She reflets and then answers.
‘I will turn it over to mama and Miss Hawkins.
Don’t frown ; mam* wiil not live with us yet
awhile. She will prefer to be independent. I
know her disposition and she will want to make
a home for Bertie, and Miss Hawkins needs pro
motion. I should have taken her for a partner in
a few months.’
‘But I will want your mother with us,’ he
remonstrates. ‘ She is too old to run the busi
ness, and if you will use your influence she will
come, and let Miss Hawkins have the entire
business. I have purchased a smalle • bouse, I
remembered your horror of unoccupied rooms, a
distaste you share with Byron. I want to re
turn to-night and will make arrangements for
us to take the night train.”
At ten o’clock they are married and three
days latter are at home, the bouse is a
perfect bijou, With this natural fondness
of all women to inspect bureaus she has
opened the drawers, to And them filled with
laces, silk and velvets. Diamonds flash their
splendors f om white silk cushions, and every
thing that the most fastidious ‘curled darling of
fortune’ conld desire are there in profusion.
She glances up aDd the calender is marked Sept.
10. Memory takes her back six years before to
the she night thad sold her services to ber aunt
for five dollars to buy wine and fruit for the
angel sister. Thinking of her brave siruggle,
the heroism she had practiced for dreary jears,
the hard work and sacrifices she kuelt down
surrounded by the sheen of silk and the rain
bow glories of jewels and prayed through hap
py tears.
A month later Horton with surprised eyes
stands before Salome's grave. B-side him
stands his bride, one of the dazzling brunettes
only to be found now and then in agi-s A pyra
mid of Scotch granite is at the head of the grave,
Upon the oval is the one word “Salome.”
THE END.
The New Party la California.
The party in an almost incredibly short space
of time has risen from nothing to a position
which commands, if not the admiration, at least
the chief attention of the community. Its lead
er, Denis Kearney, whose name appeals promi
nently on all occasions, is a native of Oik-
mount, county Cork, Ireland, where he was
born in 1847. His early years were spent at
sea, and he first came to San Francisco, as first
officer oi the clipper ship Shooting Star, m 1868.
He is a married man, a Catholic by religion
and stricly temperate in bis habits. In 1872
he went into the drayage business, in which he
made some money, and which he followed un
til the withdrawal of the business of down-town
merchants consequent upon his course as an a »-
itator. He is a ready and forcible speaker, bat
his oratory is more remarkable for vigor in an
for anything else, and is marred by the fre
quent nse of profane language. Tbe influence
posaesed by him ovar his followers is apparent
ly unbounded, and all other aspirants to lead'
•rship of the Workingmen's party have
unceremoniously put aside.