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Walton’s PHilosopHy
By J. GERALD HILYER.
Written for The SUNNY SOUTH.
OME years ago, a thin,
black haired little Shi,
with a sallow skin and
large, solemn, dark eyes,
used to curl herself into
a cavernous leather chair
in the quiet library, and
pore, by the hour, over
dutsy books.
Tlie house wherein the
child lived was an old
mansion, situated on a big
farm. It was a bleak,
lonely, motherless sort of
a house, and the library, where so much
of the child's time was spent, was the
bleakest and loneliest of all the lonely
and bleak rooms.
The book shelves, indeed, all the -wood
work, had been dark in the beginning,
and the progress of time had rendered
it positively dusky. The books, which
crowded the dark shelves, were quite
grimy and dusty, for none but the small
hands of the child ever touched them.
The room was usually wrapped in shad
ows, for it was lighted by only one
window, a tall, deepset window, that
reached from the floor almost to the
ceiling. Altogether, the library was not
a very cheerful place.
On bright days, however, a stream of
sunshine used to enter through the lone
window and paint a golden circle round
the big leather chair. And the child
loved this patch of sunlight.
Outside, the fields stretched away,
purple in the early spring, when tiie
moist earth ihad been newly turned by
the plows: vividly green later on, when
the infant crops had woven a soft car; t(
pet for the soil, and golden, when the
summer’s glory was at its height. They
wind billowed tlie grain fields, till they
looked like wavey seas; the birds whis
tled; the brooks gurgled pretry poems of
outdoor land; the clouds cast wonderful
purple shadows; but none of these things
could tempt tlie child away from her
big chair and her books.
She steeped her little mind in the mys
ticism of St. John, the dreamer, in "The
Imitation of Christ." in the «pdrd verses
of Dante, in the abstruse philosophy of
bock and Kant, Descartes and Schlegel.
Her thoughts took on an odd garb. She
created, in her musings, a fanciful or
ganon, half childish, half a blending of
curious theories culled on many a jour
ney through the winding labyrinth of
books.
Her thoughts dwelt much on the mas
ter theme of all philosophies, that mys
tery of mysteries we call love; and. by
some means, she bad reached the con
clusion that the very essence of all love
is sacrifice. Perhaps, in her own way,
she had a clearer comprehension of Cal
vary than many a profound thinker
whose life had been devoted to the con
templation of that sublimest of all sacri
fices. The child had a poet’s marvelous
intuition. She possessed a sort of spirit
ual clairvoyance that revealed subtle
truths to 'her, which intellect alone could
never have laid bare.
The first time Horace Gilmore ever
saw her, she was huddled in the big
leather chair, absorbed in the reading ol
Swedenborg’s “Heaven and Hell.”
“Why don’t you run and play outdoors,
where the flowers nod in the breez and
the sun shines so brightly?’’ asked the
big man. pointing through the tall win
dow at tlie bright scene visible out
side.
"I love the library better," replied the
child, simply.
"But you ought' to read children’s
books.” remonstrated the stranger, "and
not these heavy, gloomy ones.”
The child's glance turned instantly to
the picture of a sweet-faced young wo
man .which hung above the massive
mantel.
“I read books about heaven because
mother is there," said the child solemnly.
The big man, moved by a sudden ten
der Impulse, stooped and kissed the
child upon the forehead, and she noticed
that tears wore gleaming In his eyes.
From that moment, she loved him, and,
in her mystic visions, he was tlie com
panion of Israfacl and Gabriel, and tiie
angels of the Lord.
Horace Gilmore had left his law of
fice in New York that day, and come
to the child's home on a sad mission. An
old friend, tlie child’s father, was a vic
tim of consumption, and his life was
(fast ebbing. Realizing this, he had sent
tor his legal “tend that his will might
be drawn.
“Horace,” said John Walton, the dy
ing man, “when the end comes, I want
you to be Annie's guardian. She is an
odd, old-fashioned little thing, as full of
fancies as the day is long, and, unless
closely watched, is likely to become mor
bid and miserable, but, if encouraged,
she will be cheerful and normal. See to
lit, my friend, that her surroundings
are, at all times, as bright and happy
as possible. Be gentle and kind to her.
The God of the fatherless will bless
you.”
In less than six weeks from that day
John Walton passed away, and was lai 1
beside his wife in the little cemetery,
alongside a quiet country church. Hor-
,ve Gilmore, when he returned to New
York after the funeral, took little Annie
with him. Tlie big. bleak house was no
longer the child’s home. She wrs to
live, henceforth, in the home of Gilmore's
widowed sister Mrs. Westbrook, whom
little Annie early learned to call “Aunt
Laura.”
In more ways than one. the life of tfto
child was revolutionized by these events.
Tlu>-e was no more reading of somber
books and her restless mind had to con
tent itself with the studies usual for
girls of her ago. She wont regularly to
school, and. outwardly, became quite
like other children. But the influen e
of her days in the dusky old libraiy
never entirely lost its hold upon her.
She still was givei^to weaving fantastic,
day dreams; her thoughts still dwelt
upon love and unselfish obliteration of
self, which is the supreme expression of
love's glory.
Tlie years followed one another peace
fully and happily. Her “Aunt Laura"
and "Fncle Morace’’ were very dear to
her. and they were wonderfully fond of
their gentle, 'pretty ward. She grew to
be beautiful and. in the autumn of her
sixteenth year, a few days prior to her
return to boarding school. Horace Gil
more noticed for the first time that the
child was almost developed into a woman.
He was 38 years of age at that time,
and lrad been a very busy man always.
Incessant work had 'eft him no leisure
for society, and he had known few wom
en. Yet. down in his heart was a deep
and abiding love of the feminine, and
lie had for many a year. cherished vague
hopes of some time having a real home
■with a sweet wife to preside over It
and make it beautiful.
Annie was at the piano. She played
exceptionally well, and had a rich, pleas
ing voice. Now she was singing “Ben
Bolt,” and Gilmore watched her as she
sang. Before the song was ended he
had made a resolution.
“Annie.” he said, as he stood at her
side by the piano, “I have a favor to ask
of you.” %
“What is that, Uncle, dear?” asked
the girl, her delicate fingers roving over
the keys. A soft, delicious melody stole
from the depths of the piano.
“When you air, out of school I want
to make you my wife.” he said, "so that
yuo may remain here always, and he
"the sunshine of this home all our lives.
I don’t want you to act hastily. 1 am
many years older than you are. I am
afraid I’m not very romantic and, per
haps, it wouldn't be right to rob you of
so much of your girlhood. But. if you
think an acceptance of my proposal
would insure your happiness, it will be a
source of great joy to me."
The girl rose. The light of love shone
in her eyes, and the lialo o' perfect in
nocence and Infinite trust illumined her
fair young face.
"In all the world besides there could
be no sweeter joy for me.” she said qui
etly. "than to be your companion. l
love you. dear, and have loved you ever
since the day you kissed me in the old
library. Apaujj from you life holds noth
ing for me. I would lay down my life
for you, or I would give you my life, to
do with as you might see fit The f il-
fillmont of your wjshes is my supremi'St
happiness."
When she went away to school it
seemed to her as though God had been
overly generous witli 31' r. Now that she
knew her life was to be linked forever
to tiie man she loved, there was nottrng
left to tusk. Her cup of happiness was
without alloy, and was full, and running
over.
The months of that school year went
by as though on wings, and before she
realized how much time had slipped
away, the summer was at hand again,
the 'last summer of her girlhood, for i
year hence she and Gilmore were to
marry. Soon after she came back from
school a trip to the mountains was sug
gested. and Annie and Aunt Laura be
gan the preparations for departure. Dur-
ing this vacation outing. Gilmore, wh i
had not laid aside his business for a
whole week at a time in many years,
was to come and spend that long a tim-
with them. Tlie pleasure of the trip was
to be still further enhanced by tlie pres
ence at the mountain hotel, win re tiler
were going, of Miss Landers, who taught
music in the seminary that Annie in
tended. A peculiar intimacy and friend
ship existed between the teacher and
pupil.
The situation of the hotel was pic tur
esque. The building stood upon lhe woo l
od slopp of a |>eak of the Adrrond.ick'e
One could look across 'he country ror
many miles and sec nothing in the hazy
distance but other forest covered moun
tains. The forest was solemn and cool
and still, full of mysteries. There was
innumerable mountain streams in tli.
vicinity, dashing and leaping downward
to tlie plain, always in a great hurry to
seek the sea. There were wild, ileiigm-
ful glens and hollows, where one might
almost
face to
were thes,
Annie a:
liirip time
primeval :
and glen,
raid-cap si
and ferns.
spirits of the forest
, so secluded and private
shaded spots.
’ Miss Landers spent most of
wandering up and down thi3
•gion, exploring the valleys
tracing the courses of the
•earns, gathering wild flowers
ib coins they spoke often of the ex
pected visitor, Gilmore, for though Miss
l.anders had never seen him, her pupil
bad taken her into confidence and had
fevealei to this deaf friend all the pure
F'crcts her girlish breast. Indeed,
h r love was no secret at all. but, being
s sacred thing, she would not talk of it
•except t.. those few with whom she was
yosi intimate, and of whom she was
f J.indest.
On day that Gilmore was to arrive
loth women, the young girl and her older
( fiend, arrayed themselves with great
•ire. wishing to look as charming as pos
it ible for the greater pleasure of the for.
, tinnt,. fellow, who was coming on the
) fieri.o,in stage. It was 10 miles to tlie
i ailro.-n! and the trip to the hotel was
I nade in a stage.
’’You will like him very much.” Annie
ji aid. "he is just the kind of a man that
H'vould appeal to you. so handscome ana
M irayo and brilliant, but with all that, the
Bl.ncarnation of gentleness and kindness.
J. know he will like you, too, and, as this
i s * lie first rest lie's had in such a long,
■ long time, 1 want him to enjoy it to the
■utmost, so I won’t monopolize him. ±
jjknow he will take pleasure in your com-
Ipanionship—and I am glad of that—so 1
■want you to be with him as much as pos
sible.”
In the afternoon, when Gilmore alighted
| from the stage, the two women greeted
bn together. Annie presented him to
;'T friend, and Miss Landers and Gilmore
shook hands. There was a startled look
m the eyes of both when their glances
net, but Annie, in her perfect happiness,
.uU',1 to notice that.
I “Welcome, stranger—most welcome—”
■ ried Aunt Laura heartily, when the trio
ltepped upon the hotel piazza, where she
■it waiting for (hem.
■ “It is delightful up here," remarked Gil
more, enthusiastically, his eyes sweeping
‘-Jte broad panorama of mountains. "I
uri glad that I came.”
jiVnd then he looked for an instant at
Landers, who averted her eyes, and
called attention quickly to th e tint of
the clouds, already tinged with the pur
ple of sunset.
On the following morning Gilmore and
the two young women went for a long
ramble in the woods, on which occasion
the lawyer was inducted, for the first
time, into the mysteries of botany, i ms
lead him to converse much with Miss
Landers, who wag more familiar than
Annie with this delightful science. Ana
this pleased Annie, for she was glad to
see two persons so dear to her find such
pleasure in each other's society. So. for
the most part, she was silent, and hoppy.
But, when a few more days had gone
by, a. change took place. Gilmore ana
Miss Landers both seemed strangely pre
occupied. They were together a great
deal, sometimes strolling for hours along
in the woods, seemingly forgetful of an-
nie. who was left to her own devices. A
stifling sense of uneasiness, a premoni
tion of sinister things to come, took pos
session of tlie girl.
Several times she had seen Gilmore
look at Miss Landers in a way he had
never looked at her—not even when tie
stood by her side and asked her to mar
ry him. That look frightened her.
So the days wore on, until tlie week
which Gilmore was to spend in the moun
tains was almost at an end. The last
day had come. In tlie morning, before
daylight, he was to take the stage for
the journey back to the city. On that
afternoon—the afternoon of this last, day
—he and Miss Landers were off in the
woods together. They walked slowly,
and in silence along a winding mountain
road, over which the branches of the
trees were arched and interlaced. At
last they seated themselves on a log,
that long ago had fallen by the road
side and was now covered with moss
and lichens.
“Miss lenders,” said Gilmore gravely,
”1 have promised to marry my ward.
That promise was made a year ago.
Whatever happens. I must fulfill it. But
there are several tilings that I must say
to you. I have tried to bring myself
to leave here without saying them, but
1 cannot. 1 mistook what I felt toward
Annie for love. I know now that it was
not the love a husband gives a wife. It
was paternal in its nature. Neverthe
less, she loves me. t feel, without being
Motherhoodto/ Beechy Daw
r T i
IN TWO PARTS—PART II.
By PHILLIP V. MIGHELS.
Copyright liy HARPER & BROS.
I HE sight was unmistable—
a town! True, it was shown
but dimly in the twilight.
yet houses there were,
dispelling doubt by their
own upstanding forms.
In her impulse of jov
the wanderer kissed the
slumbering little chieftain
and crooned a murmur of
hope.
Pausing only to trace out
a course by rocks, trees,
and promontories of the
range, she hastened as fast as h--.-
weariness and her lameness wc-uld per
mit. down the slope, in the flush of
her rallied strength and courage.
The night came down, it seemed with
haste unnecessary. The way that had
seemed all smooth and down an easy
grade when seen from the eminence, was
rough with rocks, obstructed by bushes,
steep and corrugated everywhere with
gullies. Her back was aching till it
seemed all divided with intercrossing
lines of pain. Her arms were numb and
heavier than lead; her feet were blis
tered and swollen; her legs trembled,
either as she stood or went ahead.
"Soon,” she thought, with anxious hope
fulness. “Oh, it must he soon we shall
see the lights of the windows.’’
“I’ve missed the way,” she nearly sob
bed. “I liave missed the way.” And
still she labored slowly on.
A low, broad ridge rose up ahead to
be climber. She halted.
“You poor baby!” she crooned to the
sleeping child, astir in her arms. “I’ll
climb this last pitiless hill, and then—
wo’ll—rest.”
Painfully halting at every step, she
1 oiled to the top. It was level there,
and she limped along for several rods.
“Oh.” she cried, "the town!—the town!
Now we'll get milk lor the baby! Now
we'll be warm and happy!” and sobbing
and laughing hysterically she almost ran
to gain the haven of human habitations.
She stopped to the front of the firsc
house she came to on the hill. It was
dark and silent: the door was open and
conking dully on its hinges in the breeze
of night.
“Oh,” moaned the girl, and she fled to
another.
Tile town was deserted—streets, houses,
all. abandoned. Not a living thing re
sided here in a.ny of the ghostly huts
■*nd cabins—nothing hut wraiths of mem
ory—echoes of shouts, songs, and groans
of the miners who had lived here and
gone—nothing now but mystic whisper
ings. dusty shadows, and walls of the
wind, of darkness.
“Oh—let me go—a.way from here—away
—anywhere!’’ cried the girl; and she
started back into the merciless hills
But she fell headlong in the brush, and
when at length her swoon was gone, she
slept and shivered.
In the gilding light of morning the
houses of the deserted town presented an
aspect, not inspiring dread, but. rather
compelling pity. The girl was drawn
into something akin to sympathy with
these, the abandoned things that once
had been shelters and bright homes for
women, men, and children.
No longer restlessly striving, but calm
now. weary with effort and pain, the
girl limped patiently bac-k to tlie houses
and entered them, one by one. or sat
in till' doorways idly, caressinj and coo
ing to the child. She noted with tire i
Indifference the abandoned mines an 1
tunnels on the hill, the time-attritioned
trail that led—the Lord knew whither,
in some of the houses there were chairs,
tables, stoves. In the windows of ir.e
a faded and dusty curtain swung an i
shredded its fabric away in the breeze.
In the dust that covered the floors there
were tracWs of rabbits that romped ia
the empty places by moonlight.
“Nothing to eat, no nice milk—I’m
sorry, little man." »aid Beechy to th-
bronze paiioose. The child looked at her
with his ever-wlsiful query in his eyes.
Beec-he’s pains were being dulled; she
-was listless; sho could hardly walk.
Yet she dragged herself along to the
houses, paying a visit to each, as if in
recognition of the right of these old
places to the mournful formality.
In on.e. at ; length, when the day was
nearly done, she found a number of
chairs with ghosts of tidies still upon
their backs. A carpet still adorned the
floor, and a small, old-fashioned organ
stood against, the wooden partition.
As one in a dream, she placed tiie
small Shoshone in a chair.
“We’re home." she said, and she seat
ed herself wearily.
The silent little chap, in his seat, felt
about as he watched the girl for the
dead snake, which had been the "ac
quaintance" with which lie had parted
last. Beechy felt her (heart sank at
this. She thad been needlessly heartless.
She felt poignantly guilty. She. gazed
at the child longingly.
“Baby," she said, “why, or why don’t
you cry?”
At minight she awoke with a start. A
■horrid chorus of yelping coyotes
brought her suddenly to her feet. Slab
ber with pains, she reeled to the win
dow. Tlie waning moon was shining on
the deserted town. From one of the
houses "there was a 'sudden exodus of
rabbits. The scream of one that was
captured came shrilly on the air. Then
two coyotes fought and snarled ana
vended the furry, warm bit to shreds
as they led upon it.
Shrinking away. Beechy crept to the
sleeping child. Sho gathered him close
to her bosom, and. crooning and patting
him gently and hovering the tiny form,
she glared towards the door with a new
ierocity of maternity.
By morning hunger had taught the
child to suck its fingers. Bc.coliy
knew what the symptoms meant. She
"groaned as she cuddled the wistful lit
tle rogue against Ti“r bosom, but there
was nothing she could do. Her shoes
had become tatters before sho arrived
at tlie town of empty houses. Her feet
hied if slie walked a hundred yards.
She was fearfully weak. The effort to
carry the child to a spring on the hill
near by, taxed her utmost strength.
In the morning she walked, crawled,
staggered about among the houses
searching for something to feed the
child. It seemed impossible there could
be nothing to eat in the town. A frenzy
was on her to keep the baby from
starving. At times she sat in front of
one of the houses by the hour, rocking
the little fellow in her arms. She be
gan to wish most fervently he would
cry or moan—do something that would
nd in the night—coyote
d'ffithe rabbits. ETTte a cr;
eoH-ii on tne ground an
th-fitness she fancied
caftut she could see
th'# ’unningly she made
n like an appeal to be mothered.
e was no sound from tlie dumb lit-
ps.
wee Shoshone looked wan. He
oo frequently. tic seemed like a
wild bird too long held in an
fist—crushed and drooping. Beechy
d anguish after* anguish. She
wild, desperate. Something must
Lired for the little man to eat! She
1 -herself; she was like a mother
atilt for prey for its eaglet.
Ber searching mind came an abrupt
I'lfipnce of the scene she had wit-
.•otes hunting
ized crea-
lie staggered forward on her
feet to carry the child to the
she had originally adopted. In
ning, when she liad sung him
she wrapped him up, laid him
air, and went forth, shutting the
bind her.
g her way to the house in which
bit had lost its life, she stretch-
lf on the ground and waited. In
tlie rabbits
nothing ot
no sound.
late when at length the moon
ari £A graveyard stillness was over
vli.ifcerted village. Now and then
tie it wind creaked a swinging door.
At itli tlie crouching girl beheld
so. Ruble-footed creatures approach
the fce, hop in at the door, come
torilnter again, and patter with
gh"*read upon the floor.
V> held breath and a heart that
st-eito turn completely over in Her
breafthe crawled stealthily, silently,
near®cl nearer. Suddenly springing
for vis slie clutched the door and
slainSjt violently behind her.
P- * l l she crawled about on the
1'looiv-hing out her hand in quick
grad he hoard a patter of cushioned
l'eet. the hot blood of natural sav-
agersed in her veins. In the dark
ness le place she was powerless to
see kptivc rabbit, but guided by its
audicamperiug, hither and yon, she
dartitn corner to corner ferociously.
Hotter hour she panted, crept
abnutlands and knees, snatched at
nolsetttered her knuckles, and fol-
loweilfcad of those pattering feet.
Then came at last. The hag-
grad wikl-eyed, hair disheveled and
graye i cobwebs, clothing torn and
dusty.le grimy and bleeding, beheld
her powering in a corner, its eyes
as umtl as her own. She laughed.
Arisiiu.her feet, she picked up a
stick .'.lie floor, and slowly advanc
ed up" quivering rabbit.
WheiJ was .almost unon it, the
ereatuwted madly to escape. She
struck missed, and suddenly pounc
ed. Tale beast cried out as her
eager s fairly sank into its nec-K
and boijje screamed in triumph. A.-
ready atceness of her clutch had
killed tghtenod creature.
"My ’ she cried, and, nobbling
■on herided feet, she made for
“home" n mad woman, savagely
tearing biting at the game a s she
entered oor.
It wa.’jhurr of a tigress over its
whelp tkp sounded as she pressed
the rableeding neck to the lips ot
tlie littlAonc.
He m^ e received some of the
nourislmSit j,e was far too listless
to nursefast-congealing fluid. He
put his iand on the soft fur and
patted it gently. He seemed more to
like the feeling of the bunny against his
face than he did to taste the hot elixir
of life so closely pressed to his mouth.
When he moved his lips away, Beechy iet
the rabbit fall limply to the floor.
The brown little man of the sage brush
could no longer sit up in the dust on
the floor. As he lay there, winking slow
ly and watching Beechy with his great
appealing eyes, his hand rested on the
rabbit’s little, rumpled body. The fur
of the animal was pushed the wrong
way; the once nimble legs were crossed
crookedly; on the open eye a dull flint
of dust had settled.
Beechy took him up in her arms again
and loved him against her bosom. She
rocked herself to and fro and sang him
a lullaby. She called him her baby
times without number. At last site
Thought of the little, old organ against
the wall. Placing the uncomplaining
child, with his rabbit, in a chair beside
herself, she opened the dusty instrument
and Jet her fingers wander slowly over
the keys. It was a plaintive wail that
camp from the old. decaying instrument.
Some of the notes were less than whis
pers. To the ghost of a tune she was
able to play, Beechy sang,
“I’m a pilgrim and I’m a stranger;
1 can tarry. I can tarry but a night. ’
Looking down yearningly on the Httle
Indian, she saw that at iast he smiled.
Bursting into tears, she kissed him and
kissed him. Then, sobbing, she caught
the child U P iti her arms and pressed him
wildly jo her bosom. She held him in
one arm. fondly, while she played with
her one free hand, and sang once more.
“Home, home, home—sweet—home,
Be it ever so—so—humble.
There is—no place—like—like—like—home.”
Perhaps as she sang, perhaps as she
mothered the silent little chap, with ms
•rabbit, against her breast, lie passed from
her ken. Slie knew nothing about it till
he began to grow cold. Then her anguish
made her mute, motionless, tearless.
She sat. with the little form across her
knees, till late in the afternoon. At
length she laid him out upon the floor,
the rabbit on his breast, and Ills two
tiny hands crossed in the rumpled fur.
She went out in the sage-brush and gath
ered the dull gray tips of the branches
for flowers. These she laid all about the
little chieftain on the floor. She sat on
the carpet and looked on the wan. brown
face, so still and small. From time to
time she patted the cold, little checks.
“My baby,” she said, “why didn't you
ever, ever cry?’’
Far in the night she dreamed of two
men. and one was an Indian trailer. They
eame through the brush, a lantern swing
ing and bobbing as they walked. Down
the street of the echoing house they has
tened, the Indian leading.
She waked once, and was dimly con
scious of the swaying motion of a
stretcher. By lantern light a face bent
down above her own—a face whereon a
tender love and a great anxiety were
written large.
"Oh. Hiram!" she said, and weakly she
placed her arms about his neck. Then
she moved uneasily and felt about.
“Hiram." she added in a whisper, “the
baby—did you bring the baby?”
And Hiram answered. “Y'es.”
(The End.)
able to explain why, with ‘he love that
comes to a woman only once In a life
time. So, it would be doubly criminal
to break my faith with her.”
He held a twig in his hands and broke
it, nervously, into small pieces as bo
spoke.
"Since I met you my eyes have been
opened. My whole self has undergone
a change. Everywhere I look, I see
your image. i think of nothing else
but you. I love you. I am miserable
beyond all description. The hopelessness
of the situation is almosL unbearable.
“I must go away now and try to for
get you. But, before I go, even though
it be a breach of (faith. I must tell you
that there has been more joy—aye, and
pain, too—crowded into this week, than
in all the rest of my life put together.
I want you to know this. J think it is
due you, for if destiny ever designed
two persons for each other, I am sure
you and I are face to face with such a
fate.”
Both had risen. They were looking
steadily into each other's eyes, with all
disguise thrown away. The love that
both tfelt was written in their mutual
glance.
"1 understand,” she said in low tones.
Neither one knew just how it happen
ed, but the next instant Miss Landers
was 'folded in Gilmore’s arms, but only
for an instant. Then they turned, as
silently as before, and retraced thfr
way to the hotel.
As they walked, hand in hand, down
the windng road, they passed wthn a
few f ee t of a little hollow, sheltered by
a heavy thicket, where Annie Walton
lay. prone on the ground, sobbing as if
her heart were breaking. She had been
an unintentional witness of that incident
between the lovers.
Though she suspected before how mat
ters stood, the revelation, coming as it
did. was none the less terrible. The
young girl, sorely troulbled, had gone out
to think matter.- over, striving to decide
what course washest to pursue. In such
a frame of min'd she looked up the road
just as Gilmore held Miss Landers to his
breast for that fleeting instant.
Reeling like one who had been dealt a
blow, the girl entered the thicket and
fell to earth. It seemed as though the
whole universe had suddenly been turned
topsy-turvy. The hopes of a life were
utterly destroyed In that one shock. She
would have suffered less f a steel blade
had been plunged into her bosom. She
cried out in an agony of pain.
Then there came to her, like a breath
out of heaven, the old philosophy osf love,
evolved long ago in the dusky library.
The old glory of the sacrifice presented
itself to her anew. The supreme test of
love had been put upon her. Once again
she was the little priestess of a faith
exquisitely beautiful and tender.
And she prayed an earnest, fervent
prayer for strength.
That evening there was a dance at the
hotel, and no one who saw the young
girl, though her face was grave and
pale, would have suspected that her soul
had just passed through a withering tor
ture.
"Love is sacrifice,” she said to her
self, and the smile that shone in her
face was the transcendan.. smile of an
angel.
She came to Gilmore during the even
ing, as he sat with Miss Landers and
some others, watching tlie dancers, and
asked him to stroll with her on the moon
lit lawn. He offered her his arm.
“This has been a happy week, for you.
has it not?” slie asked him, and he re
plied that it had been so.
"i have something to say to you wfiich
I fear will sadden you,” she continued.
It was the first time in her life she had
ever done or said anything even border-
ng upon decepton. "I have thought
much of our affars, and Of our engage
ment. It is hard 10 say this, but 1 feel
that I must ask you to l-elease mei from
an obligation that already is growing
burdensome. I do not think we could
be happy, dear. I could not, 'but if I
give you pain in saying tills, forgive me.
I have tried to love you as a wife should
love a husband, but I cannot.”
He looked at her with a strange, doubt
ful expression in his eyes.
"Is this true, Annie?” he asked,
slowly.
"Yes, forgive me. dear, it is true,” she
answered.
They stood stll and he took her lttle
hand in his.
"Perhaps it is better so, after all,” he
said.
A ifew minutes later, Annie, as she
danced with a laughing young college
boy, saw Gilmore and Miss Landers
leave the big hotel hall, where the danc
ing was in progress. The waltz came to
an end.
“I’m going to my room,” she said to
Aunt Laura, “I've told Horace goodbye,
and I’m very tired. Good night, aunty.”
How long she crouched by the open
window. looking out dully at the stars,
she never knew. After some time had
elapsed,' the door of her room opened
softly, and Miss Landers, tears swim
ming’ in her eyes, came and slipped an
arm lovingly around the waist of the lit
tle saint.
Even now, the child was the comforter.
“Don’t cry dear,” she said tenderly to
the woman who sobbed on her shoulder,
"I might have been selfishly happy, if
all had gone as I planned, but now I
have made two hearts happy—two hearts
that are pricelessly dear to me. god
knows better than we do what is best.”
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