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; WHISPERING SANDS
p By Walter James Delaney.
! (Copyright by W. G. Chapman.)
"I wouldn't go out tonight, Eliza
beth, if I were you," spoke querulous,
rheumatic old Grandma Danby.
"I must, grandma," was the reply,
Brm yet pained, and the old woman
glanced keenly at the young face
wearing care and sorrow, and
sighed, and then was silent, gazing
Her Pulses Stirred at me Cry of
sadly, dreamily into tfie flickering
"Dear child," crooned the old
woman, as Elizabeth threw a cape
across her shoulders and flitted from
the room. "Dear, poor child I
know! I know."
Yes, indeed, the old dame knew,
for when the fires of youth were hers
she had loved and lost. There was
rude comfort at the little cottage, a
pension and enough to make her
grandchild independent, but love
that -had cheered the lonely life of
the fair young girl had seared her
heart with a cruel blow and had left
her what she was a cheerless, soli
tary being, living in one fond mem
ory of the past.
That past, how golden it had been
and only a year agone! Just a
year this very night, not chill and
sere, although September-like now,
but a star-spangled evening of sweet
sounds, a stroll along the whispering
sands, and troth plighted under the
great, stately elm that had shaded
the old brook for over a century.
Those strange, sinuous whispering
sands, ever moving, ever singing a
siren-like dirge but on that night of
nights they had seemed to weave a
sweet melody of hope, and promise,
and love. Then under the great elm
where each had promised, no matter
how widely parted, no matter what
might happen, to return there upon
each anniversary as to a shrine de
voted to a love undying, eternal.
"It was all my fault," moaned Eliz
abeth, as slowly, sadly she started
down the edge of the sand reach, a
watery moon casting vdim, weird
shadows across her path. "Oh, why
was I jealous, why was I so impul
sive and cruel!"
She recalled the May day festival
at "the village where she had been so
proud of her lover, Randal Grey, and
then so irrationally jealous of him.
In a fit of pique, incited by a false
friend, a scheming girl companion,
she had tried to punish her lover, en
tirely innocent of any real purpose
to pain her, and she had lost him.
For he had gone away from Mer
ton and she had heard of him among
newer scenes, the gayest of the gay.
He had forgotten her long since, her
aching heart told her.
"And I can never forget!" she wail
ed to the sighing night winds, and
pursued her lonely path on a pilgrim
age of sorrow and penitence.
She faltered as she came in sight
of the old elm. Its nodding branches
seemed to beckon and then repel.