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BE MY FRIEND.
For The Sunny South.
Oar paths have lain together
since childhood's early day;
Why then should a single word
Divide their future waj?
Do not let one act or look
Our lifelong friendship mar
Hut in wisdom, be content
To drift on as we are.
Your heart, I feel is noble
And stronger far than mine
But in kiDdtess all sinceie
I must that heart decline.
If you best not bold my band
In Jove's impassioned clasp,
Will tou not take it kindly
In friendship s honest grasp?
My life with yours united
could naught but sorrow bring;
woman's band without her heart
Is hut a worthless thing.
Do not >et such thoughts of love
Our sacred friendship end.
You cannot be my lover-
lie as of old, my friend.
Cornwell, S. C. —May Cornwell.
THE CAVERN QUEEN.
(CONTINUED from first page.)
of ivy and Virginia creeper that were
piled on the table to be put into the
various vases and bowls.
After thsse had all been filled there
was still a little tumbled heap of
short-stemmed llowers—roses,fuchsias,
and gladioli—that it seemed a pity to
throw away.
‘‘We could put these into a round,
shallow basket, fill the bottom of the
basket first with that lovely gray
mountain moss Doctor Olcott brought
me yesterday, and then stick the damp
moss full of the llowers and let the
ferns drop over the rim. It would
look pretty on the dressing table in
guest room.”
“So it would. Where shall we find a
round, shallow basket?”
“I know !” cried Dilsy, a bright-eyed,
dusky little handmaid whose business
it was to run errands and make her
self generally useful, “I saw jist sich
a basket up in the lumber-room. I’ll
fetch it.”
She darted out, coming back in a
minute with a very pretty basket of
delicate open-work that seemed the
shape wanted, only it had a top.
“But the top is jist tied on with dese
ribbons on bof sides,” said Dilsy, and
she proceeded to untie the knots of
faded yellow ribbon. “It’s got some
sort o’ trash in it,” she said, setting
the basket before her mistress. “Look
like it’s been a work-basket.”
Mrs. Olcott lifted the “trash.” It
was a piece of silk crochet-work, the
needle, rusted in the meshes, forming
the wing of a half finished butterfly.
Underneath lay a spool of silk, a tiny
crumpled kid glove, and a small silver
thimble.
Mrs. Olcott dropped the faded silk
butterfly as tlough it had soorched
her fingers, a sudden pallor overspread
her face. With a moan, half pain,
half terror, she pushed the basket
from her and fell back in the chair.
Amy, forgetting her weakness in
her alarm, was at the lady’s side in an
instant. Hester, coming in from the
kitchen at the same time, caught sight
of the white face and hurriedly put
down the newly baked cake she was
carrying. Her eye fell on the basket
and she seemed to understand at once
the cause of her mistress’s seizure.
She ran her hand down into her capa
cious pocket and fished out a vial of
smelling-salts and put it under the
delicate nose of her mistress.
“There, now !” she said, as the blue
eyes opened and looked at her.
“You’re all right. Come to your room
and lay down a little bit whilst I make
you some Sang’ree.”
She put her arm around her mis
tress’s waist and led her out of the
room, casting a threatening backward
glance at Dilsy, who stood looking
guilty and miserable, but bewildered
as well.
Amy, puzzled and curious, had
picked up the little thimble and was
looking at the monogram “R. N.” en
graved inside it, when Hester came
back. She seized hold of Dilsey and
shook her smartly by the shoulders.
“You little imp er Satan !” she said.
“What you fetch that basket outen the
lumber-room fur? You know you
didn’t have no business to bring it
here for Miss Hortense to look at!”
“1 didn’t needer!” returned the imp,
twisting herself free of Hester’s hands
and looking at her with sullen, injured
innocence.
“How's I to know she goin’ to
keel over like dat jist ’bout er old
basket?”
“You go ’loDg to the kitchen—Aun’
Nancy wants you—and don’t you be
so smart next time,” Hester said, giv
ing the small darky a push toward
the door. Then she caught up the
basket. “I’ll fling you in the fire after
this,” she said to the unconscious of
fender. “If Doctor Olcott knowed
about this he’d be might’ly put out.
’Twas his orders that nothin’ that ever
belonged to her should stay in this
house where his mother could ever set
eyes on it.”
“Who is it you mean?” Amy was im
pelled to ask.
“Don’t you know? Why it’s Miss
Hortense’ daughter by her last hus
band—that French count, what was
such a no aocount. She’s dead, you
know. She died ’bout two years ago
off yonder in France at the convent
where they sent her. They couldn’t
do anything with her here.”
“Mrs. Olcott must have been very
fond of her to be so affected by what
ever brings her to mind?”
Hester shook her head.
“I dunno ’bout that,” she said.
“Rozine was such a limb. She bad
good streaks, but you didn’t know how
to count on her. She was mighty
wild when she was growin’ up, so they
took her to the convent. News come
she was dyin’, and Miss Hortense and
Doctor Olcott went as quick as they
could. Miss Hortense cum nigh dyin’
herself in Paris, so they said, and
she’s been delicaty ever since. I
think Rozine must ’a’ died er awful
death, and that’s wny her mother
takes it so. The doctor won’t ’low
her name to be mentioned; Miss
Hostense can’t stand it. It’s a pity.
She was a beauty—that Rozine was—
and such a sweet voice as she had,
siogin’ like a bird. She always made
me think of one of them little red
tipped Jamaica sparrows. She didn’t
seem to feel anythin’ or care for any
body ’thout it was Doctor Olcott. He
could manage her sometimes. She’s
buried out yonder on that hill, under
a big oak tree she used to climb up in
an’ tear her frocks. You oan see the
top of the marble shaft through the
trees. They brought her body ove'
with them on the steamer. Miss
Hortense was too sick to go to the
buryin’; there warn’t nobody there
but Doctor Olcott and this Miss Con
stance what’s cornin’ today, and us col
ored people. It was pourin’ rain, and
Doctor Olcott stood in it bareheaded
by the grave. I can’t forgit how he
looked. His face was like death, and
be didn’t seem to hear his cousin and
the preacher when they tried to com
fort him. The preacher said a mighty
short funeral service. He just prayed
God to have mercy on the soul of the
dead what died so young. They did
say—but Lor’! I got no business talk
in’ about the family matters to you,
only you ’pears so interested, and you
seems like one of us.”
“But don’t tell me any family se
cret’s, Hester.”
“Lor’! this ain’t no secret; they tell
me it was in the papers, and folks here
all heard it, and tattled about it so.
It made Miss Hortense more set
against going among them—even to
church. They’d talked about her
marryin’, and told all they could pick
up and make up together, and then
they got on poor Rozine and said she
took her own life—drowned herself
in the river, and when they got her
body 'twas all decayed, so Miss Hor
tense fainted when she saw it, and had
the spell of fever that mighty nigh
ended her days. It’s er awful thing.
We don’t talk about it—never—and
you mustn’t hint about her to mistis,
Miss Amy—never.”
“ I am sure I never shall,” Amy
said.
That afternoon as she sat by the
open west window in her room, her
eyes sought the spot where a gleam of
white through the trees marked the
grave of the ill-fated daughter of the
house, and she mused sadly on her
story and the effect her unhappy death
had had upon her mother and brother.
The shadow of her fate had overhung
the lonely old house like a pall. It
had isolated its two inmates from their
kind and made them morbidly sensi
tive and reserved. It had caused the
world to lose the brilliant talents of
the son and the social charm of the
mother. It had probably doomed
John Olcott to a life of lonely celiba
cy. His mother, imbittered against
the world and against marriage, made
selfish by her sorrows, wanted to keep
him all to herself. She would never
consent to his marriage, and he was
too devoted to her, too tender and
loyal in his sympathy, to take any step
that would give her pain.
Would it always be so? Amy asked
herself. And then she thought of
John Olcott’s old love who would come
tomorrow. Might not she work a
change? Amy was beginning to feel
anxious to see the woman who had
once possessed the heart of the grave,
deep-eyed man she could not help ad
miring.
CHAPTER XXVII.
CONSTANCE WHABDEN.
At noon the next day the expected
guest arrived.
Doctor Olcott had gone to the rail
way station to meet her. Amy noticed
a little nervousness in his manner this
morning; usually he was so quiet and
self-oontrolled. His mother seemed
to observe it; she was plainly vexed
at his having to go alone to the sta
tion, and drive back tete-a-tete with
his old love. But the instinct of bos
pitality forbade her to send the empty
carriage to meet a guest who was a
friend and a relation. She would have
gone herself, but it set in to rain soon
after breakfast—merely a slow drizzle
from skies overspread with soft, gray
clouds; but Mrs. Olcott had a dainty
invalid’s horror of the “damp,” and
she decided to stay in-doors. She
moved about the rooms restlessly, re
arranging a fall of drapery here
straightening the stem of a rose or a
dahlia there, and glancing often at
the bronze clock that ticked on the
mantel-piece.
The trained folds of her morning
gown of soft, yellow-brown brocade
fell away from her wonderfully little
feet in Turkish slippers and silk stock
ings; some yellow old lace was about
her throat, and a little triangular
head-piece of the same was set on the
wavy mass of her hair.
To Amy’s eyes she was a lovely
figure, helping to brighten the old
rooms. She moved about as did the
flowers she often stopped to smell
But there was a shade of anxiety and
dissatisfaction upon her face. Amy
read her heart intuitively. She clung
to the exclusive love and attention of
her son.
He was now all her world. She had
been accustomed to admiration and
homage, but some stormy shock of
disappointment had broken off the
blossomed bough of her earlier life,
and left only her son to comfort her
and to feed her clinging but selfish
nature with the devotion it craved
She looked forward to the advent of
the woman her son had loved, and
who was now free to marry, with
natural bitterness which she was gen
erous enough to feel ashamed of.
In moving about the room she
stopped beside the piano, stately in
its case of carved ebony. She lifted
the top, touched the keys without
sounding them, then shut the lid and
locked the instrument, and stepping
to the mantel-piece dropped the key
into the rose-lined mouth of a shell
As she did this she caught Amy’s eye
and colored.
“I could not bear to hear her play,”
she said.
“Is it that she plays so badly?” ask
ed the girl.
“No; she play8 well, but she plays
too much. I am not in a mood to hear
new music rattled off on this old in
strument that has not been played
upon since—since quite other days/
She turned off abruptly, and Amy
thought—“She means since her daugh
ter was sent away—the daughter who
met that dreadful fate. Why did she
drown herself, I wonder? Was she
deranged? Was the madness inher
ited from her father? Where is he?
Is he dead or is he living? This is
surely a house of mysteries.”
In a few minutes the roll of wheels
announced the coming of the carriage
from the station. Mrs. Olcott, color
ing and paling like a young girl, went
out on the veranda. Amy, from the
window, saw Doctor Olcott open the
carriage door, jump out, and give his
hand to assist a lady, who alighted
with a graceful, elastic movement.
Amy had a good view of her as she
came up the walk through the rain
that pattered lightly on the umbrella
Doctor Olcott held over her. The im
pression she gave the girl was of a
woman full of health, energy and self
poise. Amy caught the flash of white
teeth as she laughed, the glint of the
chestnut hair, the grace of the elastic
step, and said to herself, “She is beau
tiful !” As she came nearer the illusion
was dispelled. Mrs. Wharden’s feat
ures were not regular, and her figure
was too generously proportioned to
match one’s idea of Juno. But she
looked with such beaming frankness
out of her hazel eyes, her large mouth
was so sweet and fresh-colored that
Amy forgave her for not resembling
the pictures of famous beauties in the
old “Keepsake” volumes that had
given her her ideals of female loveli
ness.
Sorrow and bereavement were
things so little suggested by this
bright-looking, wholesome woman
that Amy did not think of the absence
of widow’s weeds in her attire until
she heard Mrs. Olcott say, in shocked
surprise:
“Why, she is not in mourning at
all!”
Then she saw that, instead of crape
and bombazine, the widow was wear
ing a soft, moss-gray gown that fitted
the sumptuous curves of her figure
perfectly; a gray felt hat, simply
trimmed, took the place of the con
ventional black bonnet and long folds
of heavy crape veil.
Mrs. Olcott advanced stiffly to meet
her; but her coldness was not proof
against the bright cordiality of her
kinswoman’s greeting.
“You are looking charming, Cousin
Hortense,” she said. “I am sure you
must be quite well!”
“Indeed I am not. My health is
very delicate,” answered the little
lady, touched on one of her most sen
sitive points.
“Ah, well, looks are deceptive some
times. Not in my oase; I am not a bit
delicate, and I don’t look so—so fear
fully the reverse.”
“Yes, I confess I am rather surprised
at your appearance ” said the mistress
of The Evergreens, her keen, cold
glance taking in the wholesome figure
from head to foot. “I did not expect
to see you so—cheerful.”
“You thought I would be in mourn
ing. No; 1 have never worn mourn
ing. My father objected to it. He
would not let me wear it for my
mother.”
“But in the case
should think—”
“My mother was
I ever lost, and I
with my heart, not
of a husband, I
the dearest friend
mourned for her
with my clothes,”
returne'd Mrs. Wharden, her lips grow
ing compressed, and a little note of
firmness in her voice. Then she
looked around the room and said, with
a quick change of voice and bright
smile: “What lovely flowers, and
how many of them! The bow-window
looks like a bower; and there is Poll
looking as demure as when she bit a
piece out of my finger—how long ago
is it? It seems ages. How do you do,
Polly?”
She went up to the parrot’s cage
hung in the embowered window. As
she made her greeting to Poll she
caught sight of Amy sitting behind a
blossomed oleander. She held out her
hand:
l I am sure this is Miss Amy Whar
ton,” she said, with winning friendli
ness. “My cousin has been telling me
about you, and how you gave him the
delight of having a patient under his
own roof to try his latest theories
upon. I congratulate you on having
survived,” with an arch look at the
doctor. “We came near having the
same name,” she went on. “Wharden
—Wharton; only the difference of
two letters. I like your name best;
d begins almost every dark, disagree
able, dismal, and doubtful, not to say
dangerous and diabolical adjective in
the vocabulary. I like it much better.
Speaking of it reminds me that I am
longing for a cup of your delicious
hyson, Cousin Hortense. I fancy it is
about lunch time.”
“It is nearly our dinner hour. We
keep up the old fashioned noon-day
dinner.”
I am glad of it. The drive from
town over the hills has made me shock
ingly hungry.”
Mrs. Olcott’s mouth relaxed into
smile. She was hospitably pleased to
bear that her guest was hungry.
“Dinner will soon be ready,” she
said. “Come to your room and take
off your hat.”
Mrs. Wharden looked even more at
tractive with her hat off. Her white,
pink-tinted throat looked as fresh as
the Malmaison rose she had pinned
below it. Her hair, her teeth, her
skin, all seemed alive and rejoicing in
their vitality.
Amy could see that Dr. Olcott ad
mired her. His spirit rose under
the influence of her bright, sympathet
ic talk. After awhile Mrs Olcott seem
ed to lose sight of her suspicions and
to enjoy her son’s cheerful mood.
The table talk was animated Now
and then there was a playful passage
at arms between Constance and Doc
tor Olcott, in which the lady usually
came off victor. Hester who carved
the meats at a side table and served
the desserts, looked on and listened like
one charmed. When the others had
risen from the table and gone to the
sitting-room, she said to Amy, as she
wiped her eyes on her apron :
“I declare, it makes me cry—it’s like
old times. I wish to gracious Miss
Constance would come back here to
stay!”
“Perhaps she will,” said Amy. “Why
should she not?”
Hester did not answer. She shook
her head mysteriously, as she helped
herself to a slice of rich, brown-gold
transparent custard.
The rain began in earnest after 2
o’clock, and fell steadily all the after
noon. To counteract the chill and
gloom of the weather a wood-fire was
kindled in the sitting-room. They
gathered about the wide, ruddy
hearth, and the talk went on
quietly. Constance told inci
dents and anecdotes connected
with the people they had known or
heard of. She seemed to have a fund
of such little stories on hand, and she
told them in a picturesque, vivid way.
Amy, sitting in her low chair in the
corner, was more entertained than if
she had been reading a story book.
Mrs. Olcott let her crochet-work drop
m her lap and gave her ears and eyes
to her young kinswoman and to her
son.
Every now and then she seemed to
recollect her jealous prejudice against
Constance, and she would suddenly let
fly some small, stinging arrow of com
ment or insinuation.
Constance was too quick not to f OQ i
these and to know that they were in
tended, but she gave no sign of this
She met the attacks with perfect »„*
consciousness, and passed them by 1'
parried them so skillfully that the*
were harmless to mar the pleasure of
evening. And the evening was plea'
•ant even to the shy and shrinking
Amy. Sne^was amazed to find her
self sitting with the others around the
cheerfully crackling fire and talking
self-forgetfully, and put at her ea*e bv
the tact of this clever and kind-
hearted new-comer.
At first she had taken her seat in
the window and dropped the heavy
curtain behind her. She sat there
looking out at the gray sky and the
drenched earth, the dripping shrub
bery, the sparrows huddling among
the leaves, the fallen woodbine blos
soms—rain-beaten into the ground tin
they looked like splashes of blood, a
homesick feeling possessed her. She
felt herself an alien, out of place in
this circle of old friends. She was
wondering if there was any place for
her in the world, and how she should
set about finding it when she left The
Evergreens, as she must do as soon as
she was able.
“Where is Miss Wharton?” she
heard Constance say in her cheery
voice. “I am keeping this seat by me
for her.”
Amy was obliged after this to reveal
herself, and Constance, pulling aside
the curtain, drew her from her hiding-
place.
“We can’t have you acting the tab
leau of the ‘Long, Long, Weary Day,’
behind that curtain all to yourself,”
she said, playfully.
Amy laughed as she drew her to the
fire.
“What is the tableau of the ‘Long,
Long, Weary Day?”’ she asked.
“Don’t you know? It’s a song, old
as the hills. It’s from the German,
and sad and passionate and dreamy,
like so many of their songs. Sounds
like the wind in the pines out there:
“‘When from my window’s height,
1 look out on the night,
I still am weeping,
My lone watch keeping.’
“Of course you have heard it?”
“No, I have not. Won't you sing it
for me?” Amy asked, forgetting that
the mistress of the house had locked
the piano and said sne wanted no mu
sic from the guest.
“1 will, with pleasure. I like best to
sing the ‘old songs.’ And you, I
think, John—you used to like to hear
me sing them,” said Constance,with an
upward, half-timid, half-tender look
into Doctor Olcott’s face.
“I did; and I shall like to hear them
now,” he answered.
But there was a little tone of cold
ness, or perhaps it was only restraint,
in his voice that made the blush fade
quickly from the sensitive cheek of
the woman who so evidently was re
membering with tender regret “the
days that were no more,” as she sat
down before the old piano she had of
ten sung to when John Olcott, her
young, impassioned lover, leaned over
her and caught the warm breath of her
song upon his cheek.
“Why, the piano is locked!” he said,
as he tried vainly to lift the lid.
“Mother where is the key?”
Amy expected to see her affect
ignorance of the whereabouts of the
key that should unlock one of her
rival’s most dangerous powers of
charming. But no. After an in
stant's hesitation and a little height
ening of color she stepped to the man
tel-piece and took the key from its
hiding-place in the shell and gave it
to her son.
It was a tribute to Constance Wbar-
den’s power of winning favor in spite
of prejudice.
“It is like shaking hands with an
old friend to touch these keys,” Mrs.
Wharden said, caressing the bits of
mellow ivory with her taper fingers.
Then she struck some soft chords and
sung—first, the plaintive song from
the German, so passionately sad and
yearning that it brought tears to
Amy’s eyes, then fragments of other
old songs and ballads—some merry
and arch, but most of them tender and
touched with melancholy, according
well with the autumn rain upon the
window and the low murmur of the
fire on the hearth.
Each of her three listeners felt the
charm of that rich, expressive voice
but it touched one more deeply tbaD
the others.
Continued on Fourth;Page.
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