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THE FLOWERS COLLECTION fJ 50c PER YEAR—SINGLE COPY 5c. K\ 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.” XXBUmOBgCBBC