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SIXTH TAGE
r 7HE SUNNY SOUTH
The Time of Remebrance
By John Strange Winter
Author of "BootU* Babr.” “BwtatUU Jim.*' “Tha Othor Man'i Wtfo,**K«e
N the cosy sitting room
of an apartment house
In New York, a young
woman was sitting
thinking. Her thoughts
bitter-sweet. In her
hand she held an open
letter, hut she was not
reading It; no, she rest
ed her head upon her
hand, and her eyes
were looking through
the wall, out of that
quiet room and over her
past life.
"It Is of no use,” she
said to herself; "it Is
the one thing I cannot
do. I suppose I shall never make him un
derstand. It Is natural, In a way, that
he should feel as he does; but, oh! how
I wish he felt any other way. He Is sp
gcod, such a brick, such a chum; he has
been my very salvation, and the one
thing he asked I cannot give.”
Presently she roused herself and read
ihe letter once again. It was manly,
frank, open, honest, breathing of love
such as any woman might be proud of.
1» esked her, Mary Kcsteven, to become
the wife of one of the richest men In
America.
"It is no use,” said Mary Kesteven to
herself, as her hand cnce more fell to
her lap, "I cannot, I cannot. He thinks
because I am a widow that I am free.
This little ctrclet," holding up her left
hand, “was binding once, but it binds
me no longer. He doesn't know that
am waiting, wafting, waiting until Joce
lyn comes. He will be here now very
soon. I must read what his dear letter
says. Ah, It Is more than six months
since I received It.'
She tock a thin folder of Russian
leather with her monogram stamped In
one corner from her pocket. It only con
talned a photograph and three or four
letters. From among these she selected
one bearing a date of seven months pre
viously. It was written in a handwrlt
Ing that was bold and free; there was a
regimental crest on the top of the paper.
“Dear little woman,” it said, "I so much
rejoice to hear that you are at last free.
It goes against the grain to speak 111 of
the dead; but Lascelles, whom I knew
well long before you ever saw him, was
?n out-and-out brute, and it was hard
that you should have to sutler for his
brutality, as I know perfectly well you
have done. Thatk goodness, your path
is cleared, and you will be able to shape
your life afresh. The news was received
here with characteristic comment. Ev
erybody feels the same as I do; and
though they do not all feel toward you
as I do. dear little woman, you have got
n warm corner and a big corner In the
heart of the old regiment, and none of
the fellows ever forget how good and
sweet and plucky you were, and how
uncomplainingly you bore the bard lot
which was yours. Of course, you won't
stay in New York now. I understand
that Lascelles left a few hundreds a year,
and am glad that he had the decency to
leave It to you. You will come home, of
course. : would have come out to see
you, but as matters stand now In South
Africa, I could not possibly get leave.
You see, we may be wanted at any mo
ment, and therefore It is not to
worked anyhow. I know, dear, that you
have had an awful grind these last two
or three years; but it Is all over now.
You are young, and you haws all the
best part of your life before you. I long
-ic- .see-You, to look Into your dear eyes
that rued to be so troubled and
amazed with all the wickedness of life.
What a time we will have when we meet
again. Think, dear, it is more than three
years since you and I parted, and you
refused to take your life Into your own
hands and cut, with one decisive stroke,
the hateful shackles which bound you.
Well, I was very angry with you then,
but I am glad now that you were brave
and kept going until the daybreak. But,
oh! dear little woman, I was so angry
with you then.”
Yes, how angry he was! How angry!
She smiled happily- as her thoughts went
hack over that last furious scene, when
she had resolutely put behind her the
more than tempting prospect which M
had spread out before her dazzled eyes.
Dear Jocelyn! Dear, straight, faithful,
good friend and lover! Oh, how could
she give Willy Brandon one thought, one
look, while Jocelyn Musgrave was wait
ing at home, waiting with the threads
of that old love story In his hand, ready
for her to take up and weave into a
golden, perfect romance? It was impos
sible! It was preposterous!
Well, six months had gone by. Death
had been merciful when it set her free
from the greatest brute that ever blasted
a woman’s life. Her first instinct had
been to sell out everything that she pos
sessed in New York and to go straight
back to her own country. But no, fate
came in and prevented any such end to
the story.
It happened three years before that she
had fled from her nattve country out of
the reach of her husband’s iron hand,
when she had fallen upon very evil days,
and unless she had happened, as she did,
to meet with Willy Brandon, she would
probably have starved In the streets of
New York. By sheer accident, however,
had been brought in contact with &
millionaire. Nobody who every
knew Willy Brandon, as he was affec
tionately called by all sorts and condi
tions of people In all parts of the world,
would have been surprised had they
known the chivalrous way In which he
had taken up the cause of the unfortu
nate girl who had fled from her brutal
husband. He had given her no charity,
unless we call his help—Ms timely help—
by that name in the higher sense of the
word.
She had been a widow for seven months
now. Her first Instinct on hearing the
news of her husband's death, and the fact
that he had shown some sense of his
shortcomings by leaving the will which be
had made at the time of their marriage
unrevoked, had been to return with grate
ful words and a full acknowledgment of
her enormous obligation, the money
which Willy Brandon had advanced to set
her up In the business by which she had
been making her living. Then she had
received from her brother-in-law, who
had been the trustee under Major Kestev-
en's will, an Intimation that no money
pose of repaying Willy Brandon. So she
simply said In reply to his letter that
she would not be able to wind up her af
fairs in New York for some few months.
“You forget, dear old boy,” she said,
“that I am not a mere fine lady nowa
days. I am a woman of business, a wo
man of affairs; I must see matters
through here before I can venture to come
home and take up my happy, free life
again. I wish you could have come out
here to see me; It would have made you
understand better exactly how I am
placed. As it is, as soon as I am able, I
shall leave America and go home.”
Well, nearly seven months had gone by.
She had not yet received one penny from
Sir George Kesteven; she had not yet
saved nearly enough to repay the money
which Willy Brandon had poured out
lavishly and freely at her feet. It was
unfortunate for her, most unfortunate,
for two men entirely misunderstood the
plants on the other side of the room.
“He cannot come. It is impossible. He
is In the service.”
“And freer'
“Yes." .
"Then why do you stay? Why did you
mislead me by staying? (Mrs. Kesteven,
I have waited six months since I knew
that your husband had left you what
money he had. I waited that you might
have a chance of going away. If you
wanted to go, without paining you ly
having to refuse me.”
“You do not quite understand,” she
said. “You have been so good to me. You
have lent me money, you kept me going,
you saved me from starvation. I didn’t
want to go away until I had repaid you,
Mr. Brandon.”
“Repaid? Faugh! It’s horrible to talk
of money, a few pounds between a wo
man and a man who are friends—a wo
man and a man. Oh, Mrs. Kesteven, 1
was left alone. The opening of the first
wrapper disclosed a square wooden box.
Within the box was a mass of cotton
wool, then a leather case enclosed! ha a
heg of gray moleskin. Within the case
was an emu’s egg, exquisitely mounted in
silver to form a box.
“Now, who could have sent thlsT’ she
cried.
She was flushed with pleasure at the
beautiful gift She Tested herself on her
elbow the better to examine It, Not a
word! Why was this? At the bottom of
the gray bag was a card, a card bearing
the name of William Brandon. "This,”
he had written on it, "Is the time of re
membrance; before all, ihe time of new
-beginnings and of peace. I send you this
Hasten offering la token of my undying
respect, admiration and affaddon for you.
I beg of you do not wound me by refusing
Its contents—Yours, W. B.”
She hastily raised the upper half of the
Mifs Debora's Eafter House*Party
By MARION HARLAND'
egg, which, swinging back upon a silver
Inked se
could be or would be advanced until his
brother's affairs were completely wound
up. “That will certainly not loe for some
months to come,” he wrote to her. Then
added' “I am sorry If this inconveniences
you. but as you say you have had no
money from my brother since you parted,
and you write from an exceedingly good
address In New York, I conclude that you
are not In need, actual need, of funda
You need not be afraid but that I shall
fulfill my trust to the uamost farthing, hut
it would complicate matters were I to
send you money at the present Juncture;
It would. Indeed, really be advancing It
out of my own pocket, which, rentein
hering zsy own responsibilities, I am not
able or willing to do.”
After this, Mary Kesteven felt that she
would rather die than ask the smallest
favor of her husband's brother.
8he did not explain the exact state of
affaire In her subsequent letter to Joce
lyn Musgrave, because she was a very
proud woman, and even of Jocelyn she
weald not Uke to seem to be asking a
favor, gad be might feel himself bound to
offer to lend her the money for the pur-
She refled herself on her elbow the better to examine It
cause of her lingering In New York; one,
William Brandon, millionaire, and the
other Jocelyn Musgrave, the lover who
had once asked her to brave the whole
world and enu her troubles by casting
In ber lot with his. She heard from the
one and she saw the other continually.
She was not very happy at this time, al
though her time of penance had come to
an end. There was something In Bran
don’s manner which made her uneasy;
there was a something in Jocelyn Mus-
grave’s letters which made her heart pal
pitate every time that she thought about
him. It was nothing tangible, any more
than there was anything tangible in
Brandon’s manner. She read his letters
over and over again; They were long; af
fectionate and kind; what was there'that
made her so uneasy* that triads her heart
ao restless and ofttlmes like a piece of
molten lead within her breast? She could
not define It, and yet—yet it Was so.
She worked harder than ever, and al
though It brought her in money—the
money which.would make her completely
free—her work was not such as to Interest
her or carry her out of herself. There Is
nothing very exhilarating In polishing the
finger nails of a goddess, and most of
Mary Kesteven’s clients were far from
being goddesses. There Is nothing satis
fying even In the most exquisitely scented
soap, while the powders and richest per
fumes and hair washes which were her
stock in trade were no more than a means
to an end; they did not Interest- her In
the very least.
So all the time that she was working
to pay off that debt of honor which ex
isted between her and Willy Brandon,
Mary Kesteven’s thoughts were always
on the same errand, were always think
ing and cogitating, wondering and weary
ing for Jocelyn Musgrave.
Then came the letter from Willy Bran
don asking her to give up this daily toil
for a mere pittance; asking her. now that
she was a free woman and a decent in
terval had elapsed since the death of her
husband, to look upon him in a different
light to what she had done hitherto, ask
ing her to become his wife and to share
his millions.
Of course It was out of the question.
She would have to tell him. The letter
said that he was coming at 9 o'clock that
evening for an answer. Well, she must
receive him. She must be very kind, very
Oh, what was the good of going
over what she must be? She must break
It to him as gently as she could; that
there was no hope, that she was not quite
the free woman he had thought her. And
then she would not probably see him
again before that little nest-egg. to which
she added something every day, had
grown large enough to pay back. In mere
coin but never in gratitude and blessed
obligation, all that she owed him.
TWO
It was 9 o’olock in the evening. Mary
Kesteven was waiting In her sitting room
for the coming of her friend, her friend
and benefactor.
The little clock on the console had
scarcely struck the hour when Brandon
arrived. He came Into the room with
swift and eager footsteps, a very tall,
slight, dark-eyed man, with that curious
look of over-breeding which is the herit
age of most true-born Americans. There
was no doubt about Brandon’s pedigree
and the stock of which he had come. Hls
ancestry had been one of the forty-nine
survivors of the Mayflower and had come
sturdy Kentish stock. Generations
of Ufe In the most go-ahead country In
the world had done away -with all the
sturdy-stoddness of the original Bran
dons, and had left In their place in his
person the typical well born American
of today.
He came swiftly across the room holding
out both hands.
"Well'” he said, almost breathlessly,
"what Is my answer?”
Her eyes feU before hls.
“1 know,” he said. “I know every
thing you are going to say.”
“I am so sorry."
“Sorry, are you? Well, that Is some
thing. What Is it) You are free now.
Don’t you like me?*
"Oh, yes, yes. You know I have every
reason, every cause to do more than like
you.”
“But?”
There was a long pause.
“Thera to somebody else?” he asked at
last.
“Yes, there to somebody else.”
••Where to he? Why do you stay here?
Why doesn't he come? He to in England,
of course?”
"Too.” '
She bant her head, looked at the tips of
her Ungers, then away at a stand of
was able to do you a little service; you
have thanked me, you have paid me over
and over again."
“No, I have never thanked yon, never!
And as for the money, that yotr promised
me I should repay you*”
“Yes, when you had made It. I said It
to satisfy you. I said It to make you
take it; that was all.”
“Yes, -but you said it, and you must
keep to it. I haven’t made enough yet,
and that’s why I am staying.’’
“But your husband’s money?"
“No. The English law Is very strange,
or It seems ao sometimes to those who
do not quite understand it My brother
In law. Sir George Kesteven, to not
obliged to pay i_e anything from my
husband’s estate until -affairs are wound
up, and I believe every executor Is given
a year in which to wind r*> things. So
he wrote to me, knowing that I am not
starving on this side; he even went so
far as to say that I wrote from a good
address, and he does not feel Inclined
to put himself --ersonally out of the way
In order to meet my wishes. I did not
tell him just why I wanted some of
the money. It Is mfbe, and must be
mine before many months are gone by.
I only said that I wanted some money.
He says that if he were to give It to me
he would only be giving It to me out of
his own pocket and at hls own Inconve
nience. And so I felt that I must re
main here either until I have made
enough for my purpose, or until the time
comes when mine can be kept no longer
from me.”
"Otherwise you would have been gone
before this?"
"Yes.”
”1 see. Well, I promised that You
should pay the money back, and, of
course, I cannot go back from my word.
I wish,” taking hold of her hand and
looking at her with a wistful smile, “I
wish that you would let me write it off
as a bad debt.lt would be the best way
of thanking me that you could think
of."
“No, I couldn't. It would weigh on mv
conscience an my life. Why should you?
What was I to you?”
"Well, you were a great deal to me.
You were a woman that I admired—I
don't mean the woman I loved, apart
from that entirely, another feeling alto
gether—you were a woman that I ad
mired, a woman with courage and pluck,
real grit. You do not understand, per
haps, what a pleasure, what an honor
It Is for a man like me, who has never
known the want of money, to be able to
hel-> such a woman as you are. I need
not tell you that lam disappointed. I
won’t bore you with my sensations. God
bless you! You are a good woman. I
hope the other fellow will value you as I
would have done.”
He bent down and kissed her hands,
then without another word strode out of
the room, closing the door softly behind
him.
For a long time Mary Kesteven sat still
and motionless Just where he had left
her. She drew her breath In long gasps.
She had been face to face with love,
with pure love, true love, love In whlqh
passion took a secondare- part. She
felt as if she had missed something, as
If some great good had gone clean out
of her life. Even Jocelyn had never
made her feel quite as this man did.
Ah, well, it was no use thinking, it was
no use worrHn" or fretting. Her friend
was gone—ves. gone. But «he had a lover
left. And then her thoughts leaped
straight away to Jocelyn Mus*rare, and
she smiled the hanpy and tender smile
of a woman who has given her heart in
exchange for another.
The days went quickly by. It Is won
derful how hard work, continuous work,
makes the hours fly, and before Mary
Kesteven had realised that nearly a fort
night had gone by since Brandon had
received hls answer, the time of remem
brance—Eastertide—-was upon her.
She awoke on Easter day with a feel-
ircff that, after all, life was good, that
never again would she know just what it
was to feel an Ishmaellte. Yes. life was
very good; and with this Easter all her
troubles would drift Into the past, where
troubles may find a merciful end In ob
livion.
Presently the woman who waited upon
her brought ber her morning cup of choc
olate. ‘“There is a parcel for you, Mrs.
Kesteven," she said, with the curious fa
miliarity which obtains on the other side
of the Atlantic.
"A parcel? Oh!"
“I gpess it to a present,” said Die wo-
hinge, discldked several pieces of paper.
She eagerly snatched them from their re
ceptacle. They were her own I. O. U.’s
to William Brandon.
For a moment she lay there staring at
them in bewildered amassment, profound
amazement at the depth and purity of this
man’s love. So he had sent her bock those
pieces of paper; he had set her free from
all obligation to him that she might lose
no time In going back to her own country
and the man ahe loved. This waa love
indeed; true, pure, unselfish, angelic love.
She fell back among her pillows, her
eyes full of tears, her mouth quivering.
“I have been on the wrong track,” she
said to herself. "Not even Jocelyn loves
me like this. What can I do? I can’t
refuse them, I can’t accept them. Oh, If
I were only free, I nu>an heart free, that
I might pay this man as he would like
to be paid. But, there, it’s no use think
ing about that. Jocelyn is waiting for
me at home wondering why t remain out
here Shall I take advantage of this last
act of generosity and go? What am I to
do? What ought I to do?”
She lay there for a long time, thinking,
wondering, cogitating, but arriving at
no satisfactory conclusion. And then the
maid came bringing her several letters
which had Just come by the post. There
was one from Sir George Kesteren, mak
ing a technical inquiry for the purpose
of probate. There was one from her
sister, married happily but poorly In the
far north of England, and there waa one
from Jocelyn Musgrave.
"I fee/1,” he said, “that you have
some special reason for remaining so
lcng In New York after all necessity to
do so has been done away with. Dear
little woman, at first when Lascelles Kest
even was taken away I fancied that we
should go straight back on to the old
terms again, that all impediment to our
marriage was removed. I did not like to
put this very plainly, because I have al
ways been In the habit of preserving a
certain amount of the conventionalities
and the decencies of life, but your con
tinued absence has told jpe, even better
than the constrained language of your
letters, that I have been superseded.
Well, dear little woman, that makes my
way more easy. I felt myself aU along
bound to honor to you, and now that
more than six months have gone by since
yon might reasonably have been expected
to return to England, I may as well con
fess to you that I am not the same man
who asked you to cut the knot of your
troubles by leaving Kesteven for me.
I feel, therefore, that you will sympa
thise with me when I tell you that I am
going to be married next week, and that
I am under orders to go to Soyth Africa
within a week of my marriage. This has
been rather hurriedly pushed on, first, be
cause I did not feel myself free to speak
on your account, and therefore until a
few days ago the girl to whom I am
engaged bad no idea that I cared for her
at all. You win get this. I have calculat
ed, about Easter day. I am going to be
married on Easter Tuesday. My fiancee’s
people live a nille arid a half from bar
racks. ]3e my dear Jfitl^ woman onee
more, apd send me a Just to satisfy
me that all to right on *the morning of
my marriage.—Ever yptfr dtjyoted and
attached friend, Jocelgp JMusgfave.".
So that had come to aA end. Her eyes
had been full of tears When the reaid :had
put the letters Into her bbad. They were
not full of tears as she came to the end of
Jocelyn Musgrave’a explanation. Oh, no,
no! In the few minutes occupied In read
ing hls letter the scales had fallen from
her eyes. She realized that had she ever
been ’n love, really In love with Jocelyn
Musgrave, she would n<Jt now be wear
ing the mourning garments of Lascelles
HE list of guests lay on
the table before her.
While she talked she
tapped It with a gold
pencil case, keeping
time in a sort of happy
rhythm with the music
of her thoughts. The
gold pencil case had a
diamond in the top that
shot out tiny sparkles,
also a rythmic
order. Upon the
the third finger of the
hand that heat the hap
py tattoo was a larger
diamond in-an old-fash
ioned setting. The gems
were heirlooms. So was the furniture
of the room In which the two friends sat
—a long, low apartment, the celling
crossed by oaken beams. The house It
self was colonial, having been built In
1710 by Gerardus Glen, and had come
down in the direct line to Colonel Ten
Eyck Glen, the father of Miss Deborah
Glen, the present owner. She was the
only survivor of eight children horn un
der the venerable roof.
Her forty-fifth birthday would fall upon
Easter Sunday, now but five days off.
They proposed to celebrate it by a gath
ering of no mean sort. Miss Deborah was
not ashamed to tell her age. She was
wont to say that she valued every year
she had lived, and would not show dis
respect to one of the forty-odd.
The Rev. Cedi Dane—the. straight, trim,
well-groomed gentleman to whom she
was telling her plans ftir the aforesaid
celebration—was fifty years of age. Hls
eyes were clear; his clean-shaven face
had the fresh color of a healthy boy; hls
seml-clerlcal attire was invariably cor
rect; his hands and feet were small and
shapely.
Mrs. Graham. Miss Deborah’s neigh
bor and the wife of the rector, used to
say that she never saw Mr. Dane and
Miss Glen together without being remind
ed of a pair of Dresden china figures—
shepherd and shepherdess—and longing
to set one on each er-1 of her mantel.
Twenty-five years ago Cecil Dane was
engaged to marry Katey Glen, Miss De
borah's twin sister. After her death,
which occurred Just a month before what
was to be their wedding day, the young
clerygyman went as a home missionary
to the far west, and remained upon the
frontier, coming home but three times In
the interim, for fifteen years. He was
driven back to the east by ill health
threatening hls life. When western ma
laria—that curse in the blood that baf
fles time and drugs—was eliminated, from
the system, there remained a reminis
cence of overwork under unpropitious cir
cumstances In a chronio bronchial weak
ness which forbade him to take a regu
lar cure of souls. He had a. modest patri
mony that had supported him in the mis
sionary field without aid from ecclesiasti
cal societies, and It sufficed for hls bach
elor wants when he took up hls residence
In the sleejjy town of Rhynaart-on-the-
Hudson, directly across the river from
Glenwold, the ancestral abode of the sis
ter of hto dead bethrothed.
Gossips had grown tired speculating
as to “what might come” of hto regular
visits to Miss Deborah. Even rural gos
sip wearies of monotony of diet, and the
relations of the two old friends had gone
on with the regularity of clockwork
and calendar for ten years, with neither
variation nor shadow of turning to the
right or to the left.
Three times a week the shabby little
steamer that plied every other hour be
tween drowsy Rhynsart-on-the-Hudson
and the dead-and-alive hamlet, sucked,
as driftwood by an eddy, toward the
Durham station at the foot of the hill
crowned by the Glenwold house—carried
the dapper little gentleman to and from
his friend's home. If Miss Deborah were
absent for a day or a week the ferry
hands found it out by hls failure to take
passage with them. As methodical was
the order of proceedings within doors
after hto arrival. On Tuesday evenings
the two played chess, in the library'in
winter, because It was smaller than the
drawing room and more cozy; on sum-
Mr Dane thrust the telegrams Into the burning cinders 4* turned
to her and held out both hands
’’Perhaps. I will tell you later on If
It la”
She did not open the package until she
Kesteven’s widow. She realized that
neither he nor she had ever been truly in
love one with another. Her mind, her
heart, her thoughts were filled and brim
ming with William Brandon.
Some words which she had been accus
tomed to hear Sunday after Sunday In her
old country home In England kept ringing
through her brain.
*1 will arise and gp to Father.
I am no more worthy to, be called Thy
son.”
Yes, she would arise. She would go
direct to William Brandon, she would say
to him: “I am not fit to touch the latchet
of your shoes, but 'if you want me, take
me.”
*
The Volts* of Tact
STORY of the wonderful tact, kind
ness and hospitality of one of the
leaders of Baltimore society, who died
recently, to told in The Baltimore Sun.
At one of her famous receptions a
rather awkward young man, with little
social experience, accidentally knocked
over and smashed one of a pair of beau
tiful and costly vases. Seeing his chagrin
an dembarrassment, the hostess Imme
diately put him at hls ease by declaring:
Oh, Mr. , I am so much obliged to
you for breaking that vase,
like It, and I have been huyiue um* *
could get rid If it somehow. Now that
you have given me the excuse, I am go
ing to give myself the pleasure of smash
ing the other one,” which she accordingly
proceeded to do, although she prized the
vases highly. . . . „
It la said that to a shop girl or a theater
ticket seller or anyone else who did her
some favor or met of courage, her thanks
were so charming that the pereoa thanked
fairly worshiped her thereafter.
mer nights In the great parlor where
the windows looked upon the river and
the breeze had more room to wander.
On Fridays an hour was given to back
gammon, another hour to reading aloud.
Miss Deborah was the reader always,
Mr. Dane’s throat being weak and his
breath uncertain. She had her own
chair, he hls, unless there Were others
present Both chairs had high, straight
backs, and neither occupant ever availed
himself or herself of the prim su^oort
they offered. All summer Ion*', and often
when the weather was cold. Miss Debo
rah wore white gowns, muslin, trimmed
with delicate hand-wrought embroidery
or fine, soft, real lace that had descend
ed to her along with the house, furni
ture and family jewelry. She had a pure,
bell-like voice, somewhat slender, but
never sharp, and she read as well in
structed young ladles were taught to
read fifty years ago. In a genteel, unaf
fected way, with Just as much and no
more emphasis than they would use in
every day conversation with their social
equals. To be elocutionary was to be
theatrical and in poor taste. When the
reading was done they talked It over,
exchanging views and suggesting theo
ries.
There was also reading on Sunday even
ings, of a more serious cast, of course,
and longer, more discursive dialogue;
dialogue that was always brotherly, sis
terly. and frankly friendly. Gosslo
would have died a natural death in lis
tening to it. The grave they never
forgot held, more than the dost ao pre
cious to both. Youthful dreams and
hopes were there decently^interred, with
out the sure and certain‘hope 'if resur
rection that gilded the memory of the
beloved twin sister.
At the Christmas before the Easter
which is the date of my story, Miss
Deborah had paid a long visit (for her)
to the widow of her favorite brother In
New York. Her pretty young nieces.
Helen and Margarita Glen, had fallen
In love with the dainty spinster whom
they had scarcely known until then, ana
were moved by her sprightly chat of
their common forebears and their home,
to entreat that they might come to her
before long and see the enchanting old
place for themselves.
“I dare you to let us make up A house
party for you. next. Easter!” bantered
Helen.
“With all my heart!” exclaimed the
aunt, flushing so rosily that she dropped
ten years from her real age. By the way,
she never looked It, honestly, at her palest
and gravest. “I shall be forty-five years
old Easter Sunday, April 7th. It would be
a Celebration worth talking about If you
would - venture Into the country at that
season. I know the ways of city butter
flies!”
A clamour of protest drowned her voice.
Nothing would be more fascinating.
Easter In town would be as dull as ditch-
water by comparison. The more the
scheme was pulled over and skaken about
and held np to the l%ht. the more allur-»
ing It was to the blase fashionlsts. By the
time Miss Deborah left the hospitable
abode one and another had prayed to be
Included In the scheme, and all were pos
itively pledged to alight at the Durham
station on the evening of Saturday, April
6th, and to remain at Glenwold until
Tuesday morning.
On her way home Miss Deborah stopped
over night In Albany to renew her inti
macy with some cousins once removed.
Emma Van Wyck, the fun-loving daugh
ter of the house, caught eagerly at the
novel Idea of a gathering of the younger
members of the Glen clan In the manorial
homestead, and begged leave to bring
with her the young man she was to marry
in May.
Thus stood the list as rehearsed by Miss
Deborah to the rhythmical tapping of tho
jeweled pencil case.
"There will be Just a doxen of us. all
told. Helen, Margarita and Alexander
Glen, with Helen's ‘bright particular’
friend, Mr. Corwin (such a nice fellow!).
Then there are Belle and John Sanders
and Mary Willis and her most devoted
admirer, Mr. Elmendorf. That makes up
the New York contingent. From Albany
ffifere are Emma Van Wyck and Charley
Depue. another engaged couple. Cupid
will have hls hands full while they are all
here. You and I are to chaperone the
gay crew, play propriety and be make
weights generally,” smiling with cordial
slsterliness Into the kind blue eyes bent
■upon her.
A pink mist rolled gently over Mr.
Dane’s face until it lost itself In the fair
hair that was growing thin on the top of
his head. It might well happen that a
well-preserved man of fifty would be more
sensitive as to hls age than an Indepen
dent spinster who had voluntarily entered
the old maid ranks at thirty-five.
Miss Deborah ran on, ber Joyous excite
ment blinding her to the possibility of
Jarring her friend’s sensibilities.
I pride myself upon the igenulty that
has devised comfortable quarters for one
and all In this dear old rookery. You
will come over on Saturday afternoon,
prepared to stay until Tuesday?”
“Would that be best?” demurred the
other. “I had thought. Instead, of offer
ing to take a couple of men home with
me Saturday night, engaging to return
them at breakfast time Sunday. To re
lieve the pressure upon the rookery and
your Ingenuity, you know. One of my
brotherly prerogatives Is to he of service
to you whenever I can. It Is a privilege
I seldom enjoy.”
"You are mistaken there.” She brought
the jeweled top of the pencil case down
upon the table with a ringing rap. "You
are my prime minister, my secretary of
state—my everything that Is kind and
helpful. To nobody else would I con
fess what an event In my quiet life this
house party—and on my birthday—will
be. It Is like renewing my youth to find
that really young people, with the ball
of society at their feet, want to come to
see me; are willing to take me Into their
charmed circle and make me one of them
selves. It Is a beautiful thing to be young.
A beautiful thing,” she repeated, musing
ly, a tender smile upon Ups that today had
taken on their youthful curves.
“Maturity, mellow and sweet—an early
autumn, such as yours—to fairer, and
enduring,” said Mr. Dane, in gentle sin
cerity.
"Don’t try to reconcile me to the Inev
itable, Cecil. I am well content with
my age, my world and my life. And the
thought of those blessed children leaving
the gaieties of Easter in the city to en
liven the existence of a sober, settled body
like myself—coming, as Helen puts it, ’a
seven hours’ Journey into.'the wilderness’
to see me—is enough to make me In love
with human nature. Now”—putting out
her hand to a bell rope—“I mean to have
all the rooms lighted and take you from
the bottom of fhe house to the top to see—
and admire—my’arrangements and to sug
gest alterations.”
Hls one suggestion was not ottered until
the tour of Inspection was concluded, and
they were back In the library, the until
now neglected chess board between them.
“It does not accord with my ideas of
right and fitness that you should tuck
yourself away In a mere closet under the
eaves when everybody else to so luxu
riously lodged.”
Tone and visage were expressive of such
discontent that she laughed outright In
setting out the white chessmen at her end
of the board.
"How odd it seems to see you cross. 1
shall be as snug and happy as a bouse
wren. They used to call me ‘Jenny’ when
I was a girl. But”—flushing while she
laughed In a shame-faced way that was
very bewitching—"I shall not be content,
like priggish Jenny, to ‘wear my russet
gown and never look too fine.’ To take
you Into another secret I had a new white
frock made ’all on a-purpose’ In New
York. A marvellous ‘confection’ of crepon
and chiffon, and half a dozen other
French ‘ons’ that would be all Greek to
you. I shall walk in silk attire and look
my very best. I cannot do the occasion
too much honor."
On Friday afternoon Mr. Dane pleased
himself by sending to Glenwold a great
box of loses he had ordered from Al
bany. and another that had been filled
In Boston v-ith trailing arbutus.
You forget nothing that could bring
happiness to your friends,” said tbe note
he received in acknowledgment of the
gift. “Do you recollect that Katey and
I always wore arbutus on Easter Sunday,
when there was a sprig to be had?
The weather bureau predicts foul
weather for Easter. I refuse to believe
It. Yet what will that matter when ray
house party is once safely within my
doors? The sunshine within will defy
the windy storm and tempest.”
Saturday roornii g dawned under a veil
of drifting tain that stiffened into slant
ing sleet by 9 o’clock. At 4 in the after
noon the shabby ferryboat tossed Uke a
chip upon waves that chopped and
pitched and foamed as in mid-ocean.
There were but three passengers besides
the trim little gentleman who wore a
.mackintosh and carried a dress suit
core as he stepped ashore. Not a con
veyance was in sight. Nobody in hto dry
and sober senses would be calling for a
hack at 'be lonely landing overs wept by
the swirling waters and' as slippery as
glass. Mr. Dane settled hls hat firmly
down to hls ears, where the collar of his
waterproof met it, and prudently fore
bore to raise hto umbrella. The blast
would have turned It Inside out and
Jerked It out of hls hand before It was
fairly unfurled.
Hewu encased In an icy shell when he
paused tor a long breath In the deep
porch of the colonial homestead. Every
window was aglow, every shutter was
wide open. Bcarlet spear* of light hurtled
against the angry lines of sleet and brake
Into prismatic haloes upon tho blackness
of the outer night. The Wind was Shrill,
threatening. Insistent.
“A brutal night!" muttered tho Vis
itor, taking off and shaking Ills mackin
tosh.
Icy scales tinkled from it upon the
flagged floor. Ae he rang tho bell some
thing white glanced across the-Illumi
nated sidelights of the door.. Miss Debo
rah stood In the doorway, a flood of per
fumed warmth flowing out over her.
“Oh, Is It you?” she ejaculated. “Come
In! Come In I I hardly dared hope you
would risk crossing In this storm. Yet I
might have known I could depend upon
you! I hope you have not taken cold.
Are your feet wet 9 You would Mke to
go to your room at onoe, wouldn't you?”
They were standing under the hall chan
delier. She wore the white “confection,”
and It became her rarely. Her hair,
dark and abundant, with never a trace
of silver In It, was plied high upon the
small head and fastened with a Jeweled
comb. A feverish glow was in her
cheeks; her eyes gleamed and flashed;
she talked fast and animatedly. Her
gala attire and air of suppressed excite
ment had a strange contrast In the
profound stillness of a house Mr. Dana
had expected to find reverberant with
merry voices.
He removed his overcoat, hung It on
the hatrack and sat down to pull off
his rubber gaiters in the deliberate, me
thodical fashion of a celibate man of
leisure. Miss Deborah walked to the
sidelights of the door and peered out, a
hand on each side of her face.
“I thought you were the carriages,”
^ she said, looking around. "I sent both
of them to the station to meet the 5:t0
train from New York. A part of tho
New York contingent Is coming In that.
Before they arrive you muBt come Into
the dining room and see how lovely your
flowers have made the table.”
She led the way. still talking fast, ah oc
casional gasp that was foreign to her
manner separating how sentences, now
syllables.
-An oblong bed of moss In the center of
the table embedded the arbutus. A
cluster of the samp was at each plate. A
knot of the pale, sweet firstlings of the
spring nestled in tho laces of Mias De
borah’s corsage. Roses, In harmonious
shades of pink, were the setting of the
oval central ornament. The Glen silver,
cutglass and china glittered In rich pro
fusion on buffet and table.
While thanking Mr. Dane for hto praises
of tho fair array, Miss Deborah seemed
hardly td have heard them.
"The table was laid for twelva an hour
* ho on, giving here a touch,
there a pull, to the rose-setting, with
unsteady fingers. "The afternoon mall
brought two letters, both ‘special de-
liverles. Mary Willis’s mother was tak
en 111 yesterday and her daughter cannot
leave her. Of course, Mr. Elmendorf
would not come without her. Belle San
ders a sister writes that both BeUe and
John are down with the grip. It to a
scourge In New York Just now. You’ll
and rtlljr but 14 nearly
brought the tears to be obliged to take
two leaves out of the table and alter the
disposition of the rooms. Belle and Mary
were to have my room. It gives me no
pleasure to move down Into it from my
cubby under the eaves.” 7
“I can quite understand It,” said Mr
Dane, with real feeling. “Everything is
^ a . ut ;[ ul s* m ‘ 1 am wicked enough to
wish that the absentees may know what
they are missing. But It would not be
safe for one with so much as a touch
or grippe to be abroad tonight,” he add.
ed, tactfully.
“Thank you,” she said. In her gentlest
tone. “Now, wouldn’t you like to go
upstairs? Your valise has gone to your
room.
A single glorious rose was In an antique
vase on hls dressing table. The odor
of others In the lower rooms wandered
in the halls and up the staircase down
which he ran as lightly as he had moved
twenty-five years ago.
The house was very still. Later arri
vals were doubtless busy with their
toilets. The door of the dining room
was closed, and servants were bustling
and talking on the other side of it, mak
ing ready for the banquet prepared for
twelve, to which eight would sit down.
A heavy portiere was drawn across tha
door of the drawing room. Mr. Dans
pulled It aside. Miss Deborah sat In a
low chair at one corner of the hearth, her
-face burled In her hands. The slight
rattle of a ring upon the pole support
ing the portiere brought her to her feet.
She turned aside abruptly, but not until
he had seen that she was crying- He
made a hurried step toward her.
"Deborah! What is It?”
For a second she kept her back toward
him; her handkerchief brushed hastily
at her eyes. Then she wheeled about
and laughed—a forced, broken feint of
merriment that cut at hto heart-strings.
"Nothing worth talking about; that to.
nothing I might not have expected. Read
'She flirted a couple of telegrams to hls
feet. He picked them up, gravely courte
ous, and opened one.
“Afraid to set out lest ws should be
storm-bound en route. Awfully sorry.—
Margarita Sanders."
The other was signed “Emma Van
Wyck.”
“Bad sore throat; impossible to travel
In storm. Mr. Depue sends regrets with
mine.”
“And I believed they meant what they
said,” she sobbed. ’’O Cecil, to nobody
true?”
Two more leaves had been taken from
the table when the house party sat down
to an 8 o’clock dinner. The mossy bank,
even when shorn of the rose-border, al
most encroached upon the plates of the
four revellers. The trained servants
moved with noiseless alacrity about the
board, a solemn gladness in their mien
they were too well bred to express other
wise.
At half-past 6 o'clock the Glenwold car
riage had driven to the rectory, less than
half a mile from the Manor house, and
Mr. Dane leaped lightly out. At ? o’clock
the carriage set down at Miss Deborah's
door the Rev. Mr. Graham, his wife and
Cecil Dane.
The servants and Mrs. Graham were the
witnesses of the ceremony In the rose-
scented drawing-room. The rector and
hto wife remained to tha belated dinner.
Not a lisp of telegrams and special deliv
ery letters shadowed the gentle hilarity of
the feast.
"Mrs. Dane had expected several young
relatives to be with her this Easter," the
bridegroom observed lightly, during the
meal. “They were detained at home by
grip and other casualties. We will drink
to their better health."
Nothing could have been more graceful,
said the grateful eyes of hto vis-a-vls.
They lifted their glasses to one another
beamingly.
"More like the Dresden china shepherd
and shepherdess than ever,” said Mrs.
Graham, In talking over the affair with
her husband. “And to think they are
upon the same shell at last, and tor good
and all! Wa# there ever a prettier Easter
pastoraI7“*