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The Western news. (Stevensville, Mont.) 1890-1977, January 03, 1906, Image 2

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Persistent link: https://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/lccn/sn84036207/1906-01-03/ed-1/seq-2/

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]he Wife's ^ccrct,
CHAPTER III.—(Continued.)
Forget her! As Jack turned into the
house, after watching the carriage down
the drive, his head and heart were on
fire with the memory of her last linger
ing look, and the blood danced in his fin
gers as he recalled the warm, clinging
pressure of her hand tt parting.
"I think I must be mad when she is
near me, for somehow I always manage
to believe in the possibility of her love
for me when in her presence," he mut
tered, remorsefully. "And, if she did
love, what then? Could I throw Ethel
over? My sweet, pure little Ethel, It
would break her heart! 1 must get rid
of this folly. I'll finish Ethel's letter at
once, and send It off by the morning post.
I'll write a long, loving letter to the poor
little girl; It will do me as much good to
write it as it will her to receive it."
This time he commenced with "My
dear Ethel," and then, before proceeding
further, he made a close examination of
the beautifully executed address and
crest on the paper.
The crest of "Mallyngs"—as the name
was originally spelled—a tiger's head and
front paws in repose, with the motto.
"Let the sleeping lie," particularly in
terested him. He had stood for many a
minute during the past week in front
of one of these emblems of the family
circle—fierce, ungovernable—and ponder
ed the probable events that had caused
it to be bestowed on them as their
"I wonder why she never married?"
he mused. "I wonder if mine is the true
reason, and there really is some poor
beggar in the background awaiting her
twenty-fifth birthday? I shall have a
chance of finding out if I accept her in
vitation for the partridge shooting in
September, for Lord Summers told me
she would be twenty-five in that month.
Ought I, in justice to Ethel, to place my
self in the way of such temptation?
Bosh! 1 must be a weak fool indeed if 1
cannot live in the society of a beautiful
woman without making an idiot of my
self! Besides if I come and s*e for my',
self that she is really 'gone' on some
lucky fellow, it will be the most complete
cure I could find for my own folly."
But Jack knew this to be false rea
soning; nevertheless he would not listen
to conscience, and, with a gloomy brow
and tightly compressed lips, sat glaring
moodily at the blank sheet of paper be
fore him.
I "Will you take your luncheon in here,
sir? It will seem less lonely than In the
dining room, 1 think."
I Jack looked up in surprise at the
housekeeper. •
"I must have been sitting here nearly
three hours. I don't mind where I lunch
Mrs. Perkins."
"Then I'll put it in here, sir; it's
brighter and more cheerful than the din
ing room."
Mrs. Perkins walked to a sideboard
and flicked away an imaginary speck of
"Were you here in Sir Paul's time?"
he asked, more because the old Indy
wanted toMalk than from any interest he
took in the matter.
"Bless you, sir, I've been a servant in
this house for turned fifty years! I
began as under housemaid at sixteen,
and here I've been ever since; so I'm
what you may call an old servant."
"Of course you remember Miss Mail
ing's mother? She must have been a
beautiful woman."
"Sometimes she was and sometimes
she wasn't. She was handsome enough
naturally; but she had such au awful
temper that it unite disfigured her at
times. I've known her lo sulk about
the house for a month at a time because
her brother, the late Sir Paul, had re
fused her some trifling thing. We were
quite relieved when she got married,
and went away on the Continent with
her husband. You see she was many
years younger than her brothers, Sir
Paul and the present baronet, Sir Geof
frey, and was a bit spoiled in conse
quence—though there is au old saying
in the family that a Mailing's daughter
is always a fiend, asking your pardon
for the word, sir; so it's lucky Miss
Pauline is only n Mailing by adoption."
"Then you think she has eccaped the
failing usual to the ladies of the fam
"1 should not like to give an opinion
of my mistress' disposition. It would be
very bad taste on my part, sir. Miss
Mailing, during the six years she has
been mistress here, has been everything
ono could desire."
"I beg your pardon," he said, politely.
"I did not wish to betray you into dis
respect for Miss Mailing. My question
was the natural outcome of your remark
ss to Miss Mailing's being only a Mail
ing by adoption."
"To be sure, sir; and that takes me
back to what I was saying. Miss Paul
ine's mother was away on the Continent
with her husband directly after they
were married, and roamed about for
years from ono country to another with
him; she never came home again, poor
dear! She died when Miss Pauline was
fifteen years eld; and then Sir Paul was
anxious to have the child with him in
England, as he had made her his heiress,
in consequence of the other brother,
Geoffrey, having married without his
consent. But Major Lufton would not
part with his daughter, and refused even
to let her come on a visit; so we none
of us ever saw Miss Pauline until she
came here, a grown woman, to take her
place as mistress of Mallingford."
"I suppose you knew her at once by
her likeness to her mother?"
"Strange to sny, we didn't, sir! To be
sure she was very ill, for her father had
been dead six months before she heard
a word about being heiress to this prop
erty, and all that time, to keep herself
from starving, had been teaching iu some
Spanish convent. But even as she re
covered her looks we watched in vain for
aomething in the voice or the expression
of the face that should remind us of her
mother. There are the same beautiful
hair and eyes, and there the likeness
"Do you say she never knew about
her heiress-ship until after her father's
death ?"
"Yes, sir. She says he would not tell
her because he was afraid she might be
tempted to leave him. I believe they
were in dreadful straits sometimes."
"It must have been a wonderful
change for her when she came here."
"It was indeed, sir—so great that she
can never to this day bear to recall that
dreadful time, and refuses to talk about
it to any one.
Ethel Mallet knelt on a chair, her
bonny face pressing closely against the
window pane. The room being on the
second floor, it was only by so doing
that she could see the steps that led up
to the front door. It was a quarter past
eight, and she was watching anxiously,
as she had done for several mornings
past, for the coming of the postman. She
ieft her position presently, and bustled
about, putting little finishing touches to
the breakfast table.
"It is hard on poor dear dad to have
to put up with petty inconveniences,"
she said, affectionately, as she laid the
morning newspaper next the roses, and
looked to see if she could do anything
further to beautify the unlovely lodging
house brenkfust table. "I know the sight
of a stain on the tablecloth takes away
hiB appetite. With the very next few
shillings I make by my copying I'll buy
a couple of tablecloths, and then we cun
have nu extra one without asking Mrs.
Philpott for it and risking black looks
for the reBt of the week. Oh, here you
are, papa! I thought you were going
to be late—nnd it is your Kensington
day, too. Ah, there's the postman! I
wonder if he has a letter for me? Isn't
it strange that Jack has written only
once in a whole week?"
"Young fellow r s always find plenty of
occupation in the country; you must not
worry about it, my child." This remark
was rather uncalled for, as Ethel, the
wholo week through, had scrupulously
avoided mentioning the subject of Jack's
neglect. "The country round Mallingford
is particularly attractive, and I can quite
understand that Jack is feasting his soul
on its beauties."
"Oh, papa, do you know' Mallingford?
You never said so before!"—and Ethel
was just about to launch out into a
string of questions when her thoughts
were diverted by the appearance of the
servant with the fish for breakfast, and
a letter.
"For me, and from Jack!" she ex
claimed, breathlessly; but she did not
attempt to read it until she had attended
to every little want of her father's, and
seen him comfortably settled for his
morning glance over the leaders iu the
Then she took up the letter and be
gan rending it. As she read, the sweet
anticipation of pleasure faded slowly
from her face, and she laid the epistle
down, looking perplexed and troubled.
She went on pretending to eat, filled her
father's cup when he pushed it toward
her, nnd resolutely kept silence until he
had laid down his newspaper and caught
her wistful look.
"Well, what are you waiting to say?"
he asked.
"I don't know; Jack has written a
nice, long letter, and yet I am disap
pointed. I'm never satisfi
He tells me here that In
and a line or two lower
that Miss Mailing, of w ho
a glowing description in
has left for London. 1
row minded, but I can't
that it's more her nbse
that makes him lonely,
know Jack to Vie one of
orable men iu the world!
a few hard names, dad,
ashamed of myself."
But Mr. Mallet did nothing of the sort.
"1 think it extremely bad taste on
Jack's part to fill his letters to you with
descriptions of another woman's beau
"Now, there you are wrong! It's just
that that satisfies me as to Jack's good
faith. If there was one scrap of unfair
ness to me in his admiration for Miss
Mailing he would not write so openly
about it. It was only my nonsense about
being jealous, you know."
"Y'ou are a veritable little bee, suck
ing the honey and leaving the poison
I'll not say one word against your hero,
my dear. But 1 don't like to hear of
any slight being put upon you. You
know 1 don't think him worthy of my
little girl."
"You conceited old dad," Ethel said
with a smile, "to think your girl bettei
than any one else's! Why, Jack is much
too good for me! Even you admit lie's
"Granted. But who is he? He has a
straight nose and a good pair of shoul
ders; but what was his grandfather?
Have you ever asked him?"
"Papa! What an extraordinary ques
tion that would be for me to ask him!
1 dare say his grandfather was as good
a man ns mine."
"My dear, your grandfather was one
of the oldest commoners in England. The
Mailings of Mallingford hold themselves
among the best people in Exbridgeshire."
Ethel looked at her fetter a» if she
feared his reason had given way.
"1 dare say you are very asti.Va.hed.
You have always known me as a vtsTd
working drawing master, and of course
concluded I had never been anytitlug
else. My dear, that Mallingford Park,
of which*Jack writes so enthusiastically,
is mine by all just laws of succession.
But my elder brother, the late owner, cut
me off with a shilling because I annoyed
him about a trilling matter, and left the
whole property to my niece, your cousin,
Pauline Lufton."
"And I am eighteen, and this is the
first word 1 have ever heard of it!"
"Yes, and most likely the last, for it
Is a subject 1 don't care to talk about.
I don't think 1 should have spoken of it
now if 1 had not felt extremely annoyed
with Jack for his uugentleman-like neg
"'s V<
ry h
i he
111 lie
As if
1 ili
so ca
lect during the past week. You are as
well born as this cousin of yours of
whom he raves, and I will not allow him
to slight you in any way."
"Daddy, will you let me manage this
matter myself? Y'ou have so surprised
me by what you have just said that I
am almost bewildered, and can hardly
think of anything else. But I am sure
that I am too self-conceited to let Jack
really slight me. If I thought he want
ed me to give him his freedom I would
do it at once. I think it would almost
break my heart, but I would do it. I
would not bestow myself where I was
lightly thought of."
"Heaven bless my child! I can trnst
you to support the family reputation
for self-respect; and, Ethel, if you aro
writing to Jack to-day, don't touch on
that subject. 1 have reasonus for not
wishing him to know anything about th*
matter until I tell him myself."
Ethel looked disappointed. She hand
ed her father his hat and gloves, and
kissed her hand to him from th#» window
as he turned the corner of the street,
and then went back to her letter. She
read it through more than once, her face
wearing a thoughtful expression. Then
she sat down with loosely clasped hands,
thinking over the letter even when she
had returned it to her pocket.
"I am sure of it—he loves this Miss
Mailing! Papa did not call her by that
name. I forget now what lie called her;
but it was not Mailing. I thought my
dislike to parting with Jack was all
nonsensical fancy at the time; but I
know now it was a real forewarning of
this sorrow. He will never come back
just the same as he went, even if lie
gets over this fancy for her. Jack
dear old Jack—why—why did you speak
of your love for me until you were quite
—quite certain you could never care for
any one else? Oh, Jack, I can't let you
go, dear!"
With a heart-broken little cry she
threw herself upon the cushion.
Babette's arms and back ached almost
beyond endurance, yet the brush con
tinued to play over Pauline Mailing's
hair as it hung in luxuriant profusion
(town her back. Pauline was deep in
thought, for the Duke of Bennoir had
just sent her the exquisite bunch of
roses she held in her hand, with the lit
tle note lying open on the table, and she
was making up her mind as to whether
she should accept or reject the offer she
knew he would make when lie called by
and by.
"Did I look really well last night,
Babette?" she asked.
"Mademoiselle is irresistible when she
chooses," murmured the French woman.
M iss Mailing again relapsed into deep
"If I could only be sure of the past
remaining the past, if I were only cer
tain that ugly facts would not turn up
unexpectedly to face me, I would marry
this poor creature with a title—I would,
if only to save me from myself. Surely,
after six years of safety and prosperity, I
am never going to he such an utter idiot
as to risk loss of everything, because this
poor painter is good looking and charm
ingly candid. I hate myself for my
weakness. Only ten days ago I began
this flirtation for my own amusement j
and to annoy that big-eyed, pale-faced
child, to give her a few unhappy hours
ns a set-off against the perpetual anxiety i
her mere existence causes me, nnd, before
I am certain thnt either of these purposes
is accomplished, I wake up to the humil
iating knowledge that I am caught iu my
own trap, that for the first time iu my
life I have fallen in love!"
She burst into scornful laughter, so
startling Babette that the ivory-backed
brush flew out of lier hand, and she
stood with round eyes and open mouth
egarding her mistress' face in the glass.
"What is the matter with you? Why
are you staring at me like that?"
By an effort Babette recovered her
usual subdued, respectful expression.
I feared mademoiselle was not well,"
i rm ur
a poh

m with
your b
ni <ln
t taki
of what
o is a
ry cat
!" Baht
tte said
the hi
usli, as
she piel
ed it
I shouh
like t
) know
what wi
ness s
111! IS
i niiig
is no
to he
d at.
is so
nt fn
the in
en one
i !
. so br:
ght and
so sensitively honorable. 1 believe he
would marry that chit in spite of me if
the release did not come from lier. It
shall! If I cannot have him, she never
shall ! On that one point my mind is
fully made up!"
(To ha continued.)
A Niiiht of It.
"Popley's got an awful big family.
It must be awful to feed all of them."
"1 guess so. 1 realized last night
what it meant to have about a hundred
mouths to feed."
"Goodness! did you have to -enter
tain that many people?"
"No mosquitoes." — Philadelphia
Important, if True.
"Have you ever attempted to play
'Hamlet?'" asked the manager.
"No, sir. 1 do not consider myself 1
fitted by nature to impersonate the
melancholy Dane."
"Then you are indeed, as you have
said, an exceptional actor. I will give j
you a job."—Chicago Tribune.
The New Girl.
Dolly was out for a walk and met an
old friend of lier father.
"And how old are you, little one?"
asked tlie old gentleman.
But Dolly was indignant.
"I'm hardly old at ail; I'm nearly
new." she answered, tossing her head, j
—Chicago Journal.
- Highest Office.
The Foreigner—The presidency, I be
lieve, is the highest office within the
gift of the American people, is It not?
The Native—No; the highest office Is
the weather signal station on Bike's
Sure Sign.
Edyth—I think Stella is beginnin,
to get uneasy about the future.
May me—Because why?
Edyth—She has begun to
spiusters us maiden ladies.
speak of
A Member of His Lyceum Company
Tells of Hts Great Kindness.
Writing of Irving, while she was a
member of the London Lyceum com
pany, Gertrude Norman, iu the Thea
ter Magazine, says:
"Sir Henry always impressed one,
despite his capabilities for long hours ^
and days of vigorous work, as being
a fragile and delicate man, one who
had suffered great physical pain in
the earnest battle of life. When he
appeared In the early morning to his
already gathered company, coming
quietly and unobtrusively around the
corner of some jutting wing, the most
prosaic of us all felt a change and
stimulus In the atmosphere. It was
as if some grave and gentle sage or
philosopher had come to speak to his
waiting followers.
"Immediately one was aware that
here was a man of the profoundesl
intellectual attainments, containing in
that lofty brain so many brilliant qual
ities and gifts thnt there was little
doubt that whatever branch of art,
literature, science or politics he had
chosen for his medium of expression,
in any one of them he muet have poig
nantly succeeded. When at rehearsal he
was alert, tense, all-seeing and com
prehensive, but in private life usually
grave, dreamy, absent-minded. But he
could be, as many have attested, the
most animated and genial of talkers,
the best and wittiest of story tellers,
Nevertheless, one could never In hit
presence lose sight of the fact that his
art was to him an all-absorbing monu
mental and worshiped passion.
The many unforgetable productions
which evolved from under his master
hand were rehearsed by himself and
Miss Terry with the utmost ardent
love. The rehearsals attendant on
these lasted many weeks, but the enor
dous Interest attached to them was
so enthralling that one never grew
weary, even though one often found
the day nnd night had passed and
dawn was flooding the London sky and
"Irving was benignly gentle, espe
cially to the younger folk; he seemed
to comprehend sympathetically the
great awe in which we all held him.
Occasionally lie was a trifle shy, as
if not quite suie what to say to us.
To all he continually showed the
sweetest tact and consideration, ever
striving to And as topics of conversa
tion the subjects most interesting to
his colleague, friend or visitor.
"His sense of humor was both sly
and delicious, and his criticisms of
faults In one's work were so delicately
made that one felt more as If receiv
ing a compliment than a correction.
Each and all worked for him with
love, not fear, so it is little to be won
dered that he attained harmonious re
I have seen him go over a
BU j^ s
' , „ _
tin y scene or an inflection from eight
een to twenty times, never losing his
patience nor that wonderful sense of
courtesy which haloes the whole man.
"There are many stories told of Sir
Henry's little eccentricities, and all
are too well known to bear repetition
here, but one quaint little habit I do
not recall having seen mentioned In
print—that of his wearing different
liats at rehearsal. By these hats we
couid usually tell the mood of our
great chie. and the length of the re
hearsal before us. ,
"When he appeared in a smart, tall,
silk hat, we knew it meant a brief
hour or so's work. If he wore a high,
stiff hat, such as Mr. Daly used to
wear, it meant several hours of earn
, , , „ , , .
est labor, but: If he appeared or called j
for a battered shapeless, soft and very ;
old brown hat we knew that .t meant j
an intense and arduous day. If tliia
last adornment were flung off alto
gether, then we knew irrevocably it
was a sign of ail day and almost ail
the night within the walls of the the
ater." '
In India Animal* Arc Reverenced,
Not Used ns lleiiHt.N of llurden.
Edmund Russell, who writes enter
tainingly of "The Sacred Animals of
India" in Everybody's, thus describes
tlie bullocks that draw state carriages;
"Even a foreigner can almost feel
this affection for the royal bullocks
that draw the gold and silver carriages
of state, can respond to the sweetness
In their forest-glances which Invite
caress of white velvet flanks and ad
miration of gold-tipped horns nnd gold
shod feet. The jeweled harness with
trailing cloths stiff with precious ban
dlwork completes the richness of
carved metal, inlaid teak and ivory,
nnd wind-swept curtains from which
1 glnnce dawn-flashing, dawn-reflecting
eyes, their pupils black bees caught in
white jade lotus-prisons. The cart
may be red lacquer, with peacocks
j glided on the poles and Burma rubles
seeded In its diapers. Wreathed with
scarlet flowers, the cattle look indeed
of celestial origin and like no animals
we know.
"There is an old legend that the Dra
per, r Hoomayon, when taking his fa
vorite begum to drive, used to act as
charioteer In a carriage drawn by
beautiful white oxen. Most of the or-|
j thodox wealthy natives still prefer this
curtained vehicle with great carved
hubs and rough-hewn spokes, and all
royal ladles, excepting, perhaps, the
ranis of Gondal and Cooch-Behar who
are thoroughly Europeanized, still see
the world through gold nets fringed
■with pearls. In Kashmir It Is the
shawl-bearing goat that plays the role
of sacred cow. The Kashmiris told
me that Adam came to their Vale,
after being driven out of paradise, to
buy shawls for Eve."
I If a man owns street-railway stock
he never recommends walking as an
Started out one summer day
For Rainbowville not far away.
Fine location, we were told,
Where you just picked up your gold;
Never saying, "if you please;"
Always living at your ease,
Just beyond the maple hill
Fortune smiled, in Rainbowville.
Past the fieIds> where ripeuing grala
Glistened with the recent rain;
Following still the prismed light
Till it faded from our sight;
VVhere the willow bough inclines,
VVhere the poison ivy twines;
through the orchard, past the mill
We kept oa toward Rainbowville
Weary, footsore, cold and wet,
Hunger, mingling with regret,
Bade us turn to childish rest—
Next day we'd renew the quest.
And we did. Ambition fond
Ever lures to the beyond.
Years have passed, and we are still
On our way to Rainbowville.
—Washington Star.
1 Mus oi he fire.
H MUST confess I stood at the door
with some trepidation. I had not
seen Yluriel for a year; she had
been abroad. Once, Indeed, 1 had
heard from her wtien there came a
gift a week after Christmas with her
card: "Please accept—even though I
am a little late''—if Muriel had only
been speaking of—ah! Muriel!—Mu
A year! Perhaps she was engaged.
It was not a pleasant thought, for af
ter all I fear I love Muriel. Still, ev
ery one did. But we were only good
comrades, a stage reached after many
interesting periods.
First a flirtation, then acquaintance,
something stronger on my side, then
easy Intimacy, friendship, and Anally
good comrades—-comrades as far as
she was concerned; lover on my part,
but she did not know. It would have
been so useless. I a scribbler, she—
ah! who would give the girl lie loves
economy for luxury, but perhaps I
hoped. Perhaps I should write a
novel, the great pliantasmic novel—
and perhaps platonies would prove the
entrance way to love.
Perhaps—perhaps! And that was
why I stood there in trepidation—-a
year is a long time.
In the hall I sat by the Are. The
snapping flames builded a palace of
dreams—the Riviera with blue skies,
. the green of the grass, the gold of the
j Buushine< the 8ong tlie birds> tbe
; Boft stri ngs of a mandolin, our villa!
j Am , Ml ir'le,, daiutVt fri , K , le> innocent,
brllliaut , a rose> soft perfumed, splen
nilml, that 1 should see you again, and
tb a t you would be just the same dear
°'A Jarvis! '
did, God's handiwork, leaning over my
shoulder reading the great novel; sure
ly a palace of dreams—Tantalus of the
She put her slim hand In mine.
"Jarvis, it's good to see you."
In friendship she let her hand rest
there in welcoming. It was hard, but
we were—friends, and so 1 said;
"It's good to see you, too."
And we sat down.
"Muriel," I said, reproachfully, "you
never wrote me."
"But, Jarvis, dear, we're such good
friends. I knew that you wouldn't
And she smiled. That smile was
worth all the letters in the world, ex
cept, perhaps, the one that contained
| "Yes."
"I am still the same Jarvis—-dear,
I hope; old, I hope not. And are you
j still the same Muriel?"
| "Yes," she said, very softly, "except
that I am the happiest girl In the
world. Oh! Jarvis, you shall know
first of all—I'm engaged!"
"Engaged?" I asked, quietly, so
quietly that I wonder now.
The Tantalus of the Fire smiled as
I leaned forward, grasping the vanish
ing Muriel. A log snapped, the blaze
died away. Something In me snapped,
^ too—tho fire of my life went out.
"Yes," she said, very slowly, "he has
come—the knight of my heart. Oh!
Jarvis, wish me happiness," she beg
ged a i 1U0 st sadly.
( "Happiness!" I said. "I wish you
t be grea t es t happiness In the world,
We have been 8Ucb friends> 8Uch com .
rad that x lad ,
have entrance to the land of the
Heart's Desire, to keep you, to guard
you, to save you from sadness and
"Jarvis, dear," she was almost whis
pering, "you are a friend—and now
that I am to be married I shall need
I I started.
1 "You are the only real man friend
I have. Tbe others—ah! they will
desert then. But you won't?" she end
ed, half positive, half questioning.
"Muriel," I said, just a bit brokenly,
try as I would not to, "all my life I
shall be your friend, ever at your ser
vice to do what you will. Your mar
riage will make no difference in our
friendship," I finished, quite gravely.
"Will it?" I asked in trembling tones.
"No, indeed," she said honestly,
"Jack's a dear. I have told him about
you; he wants to know you; he's up
stairs; shall I bring him down?"
"No," I said, "if you don't mind
we'll postpone that. I'm just In town
for an hour, and I must rush In a
moment to catch my train; It goes at
"Oh! I'm sorry; can't you stay with
us for a time at least; you can chum
with Jack."
"I fear not."
I could not explain. I wanted only
to sob. She talked about Jack as a
woman can talk only about the man
she loves. To be that man—but I
scarcely heard.
"I'm sure you'll lise him," she con
"l'es," said I, but though he were
the prince of men I could not.
"When I'm married," she said, tim
idly almost, "you must come and spend
a month with us."
"Yes," said I.
How could I? How could I not?
Then suddenly the clock began to
chime—one, two, three, four, five.
''Oh! you've missed your train," she
"There was no train," I said—heav
en forgive me.
"Then you don't want to meet him?"
she asked, all sad.
"I could not yet. Good-by!" I said
quickly, and I took her hand and kiss
ed it gently, very, very gently.
She drew back half frightened,
"Oh! Jarvis, how could you?"
"How could I not?" I said brokenly;
"but, Muriel, dear, I shall be your
friend always—always. I pledge you
JLlodspeed for your future. You shall
be my guardian angel, ever guiding me
in spirit, and I—for you—will ever do
all that one man may do for the wom
an he loves beyond all the great prizes
of the earth—the woman he loves, but
may not have. Forget me, forget that
1 loved you, because it Is my sorrow
deep down in my heart that I was not
strong enough to be strong."
"Forget you!" she said, and there
were tears in her eyes. "Forget my
Jarvis, my best friend, tbe best friend
a woman ever had, faithful, honest,
strong, true, always unselfish— forget
my Jarvis!" and she leaned forward
and kissed me on tue forehead.
Ah! the touch of her lips, that subtle
aroma of a good woman, dainty, frag
ile, innocent, a rose, soft perfumed—
Ah! Tantalus!
As I walked away I looked back and
saw the tears sparkling in her eyes.
And the memory of her was so strong
upon me that I bowed my head and
sobbed and sobbed.
The great novel is still unwritten,
though my hair is streaked with gray,
Muriel is still dainty, fragile, innocent,
and Jack is a splendid man. I see
them both a good deal, and Muriel still
calls me dear Jarvis.
I have given up smoking and I have
not been to the theater for many a
day, but at least little Muriel and lit
tle Jarvis have all manner of wonder
ful toys and love their Uncle Jarvis.
They climb on my knee and ask me
to tell them of my wonderful palace
across the sea. And I tell them of the
Riviera with blue skies, blue seas, the
green grass, tlie gold of the sunshine,
the song of the birds, the soft tremolo
of a mandolin, my villa witli a lady—
dainty, fragile, Innocent, brilliant, a
rose, soft perfumed, splendid, leaning
over my shoulder reading Uncle Jarvis'
great novel. Ah! the Tantalus of the
Fire.— R. C. M., In Illustrated Bits.
"And Don't Go Near the Water."
There lives in Washington a physi
cian who has a ten-year-old son, a boy
of great spirit, but with no over
abundance of strength. Not long ago
the boy secured his father's permission
to join a camping party organiz-ad by
boys In the neighborhood; but in the
parting Instructions there was one re
"Now, my boy," said the father, "I
don't wish you to go out in our cousin
Bob's canoe. He and those other lads
are quite used to the water, but you
are not; and you haven't as yet learn
ed to sit still anywhere. Y'ou'll bo
with them but a short time, and with
the other amusements you'll have, you
can afford to let the canoe alone this
visit, so that your mother wil^not be
worrying all the white you're away."
The boy promptly gave the des* red
promise. On his return he was most
enthusiastic with regard to the pleas
ures he had enjoyed.
"Didn't mind not canoeing a bit,
father," said he. "The only time they
used the canoe, anyway, was the last
day, to go over to the other shore.
But I remembered my promise, und
I wasn't going to break It at the last
minute. So I swam across."
Her Opinion of Him.
"Yaas," said Choliy, "I was Intro
duced to Miss Peppry lawst evening,
and I fawncy she confused me with
some one else. She seemed puzzled."
"Yes," replied Miss Sharpe, "she
told me afterward that you did im
press her like the average puzzle. "So
simple when you know It " Catholic
Standard and Times.
Cemetery for Doga.
London has a cemetery for dogi
which has been In existence for more
than twenty years and has several
hundred graves.

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