THE STORY-TELLER.

Evening Post, Volume LXVI, Issue 136, 5 December 1903, Page 10

THE STORY-TELLER.

SJie T7nhappin#Bß of Miss Jfarquhar, m Frances Farquhtu- whs a beauty, and ■was sometimes called a society butterfly by people who didn't know very much about it. Her father was wealthy and hor mother came of on extremely blueblooded family. Frances had been out for three years, and was a hocial favourite. Consequently, it may bo wondered why she was unhappy. In 'plain English, Frances Farquhor had .been jilted — just a commonplace, everyday jilting! She bad been eugaged to Paul Holcomb ; he was a very handsome fellow, somewhat too evidently aware of the fact, and Frances was very deeply in love with him— or thought herself so, which at the time comes to pretty much the same thing. Everybody in her set knew of her engagement, and all her girl friends envied her, for Holcomb was a matrimonial catch. Then the crash came. Nobody outside the family, knew exactly what did happen, but everybody knew that tho Hol-comb-Farquhar match was off, and everybody had a difforent story to account for it. The simple truth was that Holcomb ■was fickle and had fallen in love with another girl. There was nothing of (he man about him, and it did not matter to hid tmblimoly gelfhh enddiskness whether he broke Frances Farqubar's heart or not. He got his freedom and he married Maud Carroll in six montus time. % The Farquhars, especially Ned, who was Frances's older brother, and seldom concerned himself about her except when the family honour was invplved, were furious at the whole affair. Mr. Farquhar stormed, and Ned swore, and Delia lamented her vitnished role of bridesmaid. As for Mrs. Fnrquhor, she cried and said it would ruin Frances's future prospects. The girl herself took no part in the family indignation meetings. But she believed that hor heart was broken. Her love and her pride- hod suffered equally, and the effect seemed disastrous. After ,n. while tho Farquhars calmed down and devoted themselves to tho task of cheering Frances up. This they did not accomplish. Sho sot through the rest of tho season somehow and showed & proud front to the world, not even flinching when Holcomb himself crossed her patuS To be sure, she waa pale and thin, and had about as much animation as a mask, but the same might Do said of a scoro of other girls who were not suspected of having broken hearts. When the summer came Frances asserted herself. Tho Farquhars went to Green Harbour overy summer. But this time Frances said she would not go, and stuck to it. The whole family took turns coaodng her, tind had nothing to show for their paint*. " I'm going up to Windy Meadows to stay with Aunt Eleanor while you are at the Harbour," she declared, " She has invited me often* enough." Ned whistled. " Jolly time you'll have of it, Sis. Windy Meadows is about as festive as a funeral. And Aunt Eleanor isn't lively, to put it in the mildest possible way." "I don't care if she isn't. I wont to get somewhere where people won't look at me and talk about — that," said Frances, looking ready to cry. Ned went out and swore at Holcomb again, and then advised his mother to humour Frances. Accordingly, Frances went to Windy Meadows. ' Windy Meadows was, as Ned had said, the reverse of lively. It was a pretty country place, with a 'sort of fag-end by >way of a little fishing village, huddled on a wind-swept bit of beach, locally known as tho " Cove." Aunt Eleanor was one of t those delightful people, so few nnd far between in this world, who have perfootly mastered the art of minding their own business exclusively. She left Frances in peace. She knew that her niece had had "some love trouble or other," and hadn't got • over it rightly. " It's '■ always best to let these things take their course," said this philosophical lady to her " help " and confidant, Margaret Ann Peabody. "She'll get over it in time — though ehe doesn't think so now, blent you." For the first fortnight Frances revelled in. a luxury of unhindered sorrow. She could cry all night— and all day, too, if she wished — without haying to stop because people might notice that her eyes were red. She could mope in her room all sho liked. And there were no men who demanded civility. When the fortnight was over Aunt Eleanor took crafty counsel with herself. The letting-alono policy was ulUvery well, but it would not do to have the girl die on her hands. Frances was getting paler and thinner every day — and she was spoiling her eyelashes by crying. " I wish," said Aunt Eleanor one morn- ■ ing at breakfast, while Frances pretended to eat, " that I could go and tate Corona Sherwood out for a drive to-day. I premised her last week that I would, but I've never had time yet. And to-day is baking and churning day. It's a shame. Poor Corona!" "Who is ehe?" asked Frances, trying to realise that there wae actually some one in the world beside)* herself who was to bo pitied. • " She is our minister's sister. She has been ill with rheumatic fever. She is better now, but doesn't seem to get strong very fast. She ought to go out moro, but she isn't able to walk. I really must try and got around to-morrow. She keeps house for her brother at tlio manse. He isn't married, you know." Frances didn't know, nor did she in the least degree care. But even, the luxury rof unlimited grief palls, and Frances was beginning to feel this vaguely. She offered to go and take- Miss Sherwood out driving. ' "I've never «oen her," she said, "but I suppose that doesn't matter. I can drive Grey Tom in the phaeton, if you like." It was ju«t what Aunt Eleanor intended, and she saw Frances drive off that afternoon with a great deal of 'satis-* faction. "Give my love to Corona," she told her, "and say for me that sho isn't to go messing about among' those shore people until she's perfectly well. The .mans* is the fourth Louie after, you turn the third corner." * Frances kept count of the corners and the houses and found tho manse. Corona Sherwood henolf cams to the door. Frances had been expecting an elderly peraonago with spectacles and gray crimps ; •he. was surprised to find that the minister's sister was a girl gl about her own o.ge and possessed of a distinct worldly Jrrefctiness. Corona was dark, with a diferent darkness from ' that of Frances, who had ivory outlines and blue-black hair, while Corona was du«ky and piquant. Her eyes brightened with delight when Frances told her errand. "How good of you and Miss Eleanor t I am not strong enough to walk far yot— or do anything useful, in fact ; and Elliott so seldom has time to take me out." "Where shall we go?" asked Frances when they started. '1 don't know muoh about .this locality." , ' "Ovj.we drive to the Cove first? I want to c poor 1 "t>tlo Jacky Hart. He has been so sick — " "Aunt Eleanor positively forbade that," said Frances dubiously. "Will it be safe to disobey her?" Coronc laughed. "Mils Eleanor blames my poor shore-

people for making me sick at first, but it was roally not that at all. And I want to goo Jacky Hart ho much, lie has beeu ill for some time with aonio disease of the Hpiue and h« is worse latoly. I'm bine Miss Eleanor won't mind my calling just to »ac him." Frances turned Gray Tom down the shore road that ra-D to the "Cove" and past it to silvery, wind-swept sands, rimming sea expansos oryatai clear. Jaeky Hart's home proved to be a tiny little place ovortlowiug with children. Mrs. Hint was a pale, tired-looking woman with tho patient, far-seoing eyott bo often found among the women who watch «ea and shore every day and night of their lives for those who sometimes nevor return. Sho spoke of Jacky with the apathy of hopelessness. The doctor said ho would not last much longer. She told all her troubles unreservedly to Corona in her monotonous yoke. Her "man" was drinking again, and the mackerel catph was poor. When Mrs. Hart asked Corona to go in and see Jacky, Frances went, too. The (ick. boy, a child with a delicate, wasted face and large bright eyes, lay in a tiny bedroom off tho kitchen. The air was hot and heavy, Mrs. Hart stood at the foot of the bed with her tragic face. "We have to sit up nights with him now," oho said. "It's awful hard on me and my man. The neighbours aro kind enough and como Bomotimon, but most of them have enough to do. His medicine has to be given every half hour. I've been up for three nights running now. I Jabez woa off to tho tavorn for two. I'm just about played out." She suddenly broke down and began to j cry, or rather whimper, in a heart-broken way. Corona, looked troubled. "I wish I could come to-night, Mn. Hart, but I'm afraid I'ui really not strong enough yet." "1 don't know much about sickness," spoko up Frances firmly, "but if to sit by tho child and givo him his medicine regularly is All that is necessary, I am sure I can do that. I'll como and sit up with Jacky to-night if you care to have me." Afterwards whon she and Corona wero driving away, she wondered a good deal at herself. But Corona was to evidently pleased with her offer, and took it all so much as a matter of course, that Frances had not the courage to display her wonder. They had their drive through the great greon bowl of the couvitry valley, brimming over with sunshine, and afterwards Corona made Frances go home with hor to tea. Rev. Elliott Sherwood had got back from his pastoral visitations, and was training his sweet peas in the way thoy should go against tbe garden fence. He was in ni« shirt sleeves, and wore a big straw hot, and seemed in nowise discqncerted thereby. Corona introduced him, and he took Gray Ton) away and put him in tho barn. Then he wont back to his sweet peas. He had hod his tea, ho said, so that Frances did not see him again until she went home. Sbo thought he was a very indifferent young man, and not half io nice as his sistor. But she went and eat up with Jacky Hart that night, getting to the Covo at dark, when tho sea was a shimmer of fairy tints and the boats were oomiug m from the fishing grounds. Jacky greeted hor with a 'wonderful smile, ana later on she found herself watching alone by his bed. The tiny lamp on the table burned dim, and outside, ou the rocks, there was loud laughing and talking until a late j hour. Afterwards a silence fell, thdough which the lop of the waves on tho sands and the far-off moon of the Atlantic surges came sonorously. Jacky was restless and wake- j | ful, but did not suffer, and liked to tafk. ; Frances listened to him with a new-born power of sympathy, which shd thought she must ha-vo caught from Corona. Ho told her all the tragedy of his short life, and how bad ho feit about dad't taking to drink and "mammy's having to work so hard. The pitiful little sentences mado Frances's heart acho. The maternal instinct v of the true woman awoke in her. Slio took a sudden liking to tho child. Ho was a spiritual little creature, and his sufferings had made him old and wiso. Onco in the night ho told Frances that ho thought the angels must look like her. "You are so Sweet pretty," ho said gravely. "I never saw any ono so pretty, not even Miss C'rona. You look like a pioturo I once saw on Mr. Sherwood's table when I was up at tho manse one day 'fore I got so bad I couldn't walk. It was a woman with a lil' baby in hor arms and a kind of rim round her head. 1 would liko something most awful much." "What is it, dear?' said Frances gently. "If I can get or do it for you I will." "You could/ 1 he said, wistfully, "but maybe you won't want to. But I do wish you'd come here just once every day and sit here five minutes and lot me look at you— just that. Will it be too much trouble?" Francos stooped and kissed him. "I will como evory day, Jacky," she said, and a look of ineffable content came ovor the thin little face. He put up his hand and touched her check. "I know you were good — as good as Miss C'rona, and sho is an angel. I lovo you." When morning come Frances went home. It was raining, and the sea was bidden in mist. As she walked along tho wot road Elliott Sherwood come sploshing along in a. little two-whoeled gig and picked her up. Ho wore a rain coat and a small cap, and did not look at all like a minister — or at least Frances's conception of one. Not that she knew much about ministore. Her own minister at horne — that is to say, tho minister of the fashionable uptown church whioh sho attended — was a portly, dignified old man wih silvery hair and gold-rimmed glares, who preached scholarly, cultured sermons and was aa far removed from Frances's personal life as a star in tho Milky Wny. But a minister who wore rubber coats and little caps and drove about in a twowheeled gig, very much mud bespattered, and who talked about the shore people fts if they wer« household intimates of his, wu absolutely new to Frances. She could not help seeing, however, that the crisp brown hair undor the edges of the unolencal looking cap curled around a remarkably well shaped forehead, boneath whioh flashed out a pair of very fine dark gray eyes ; he hod likewise a good mouth, which was resolute and looked as if it might be stubborn on occasion, and, altkough he was not exactly handsome, Frances decided that she liked his . face. Ho tucked the wet, »lippery rubber apron of his conveyance about her and thon proceeded to ask questiona Jacky Hart's caao had to be reported on, and then Mr. Sherwood took out a. note-book and looked over iU entries intently. "Do you want any more work of that sort to do?" he asked her abruptly. Frances felt faintly amused. He talked to her as he might nave done to Corona, and seemed utterly oblivious of the foot that her profile w»b cJassio and her eyes delicious. His indifference piqued Frances a little in spite of her murdered heart. Well, if there was anything she could do she might as well do it, she told him briefly, and ho, with equal brevity, gave hor directions for finding some old lady who lived on tho Elm Creek road and to whom Corona had read tracts. "Tracts aro a mild dissipation of Aunt Clorinda's," he said, "She fairly revels in them. She is half blind and has missed Corona very much." There were other matters also — a dozen or so factory girls who needed to be looked after and a family of ragged children to bo clothed. Frances, in some dismay, found herself pledged to help in all directions, and then ways and means hod to be discussed. Th» long,

wet road, sprinkled with houses, from whose windows people wero peering to see "what girl the minister was driving," eeemed very short. Frances did not. know il. bub Elliott Sherwood drovo a full . vile out ot hi» way that morning to take her homo, and risked being lute for a very important appointment^ — Irom which it may be interred that he was nob quite no bund to the beautitul as ho had t>eemed. Frances went through tho rain that ulteuioou and read trooia to Aunt Clormda. blie wua co dreadtully tired that night tlwit she lorgot to cry, and slept Weil and souudiy. in the morning she went to church for the firtjb tune . emoe coining to Windy Aieadows. It did not seem civil not to go to hear a mau preach, when she had gone slumirung witm his sister and expected to assist him with his dimculties over lactory girls. She waa surprised ab jbluott Sherwood's sermon, and menuuiy wondered wuy tmch v, man had becu allowed to remain 4pr tour years in a litt»e country pulpit.' 'Later ou Aunt Eleanor told her it was for ills health. "Ho was not strong wiien he left collego, so lie oune here. But lie ib us well as eyer now, and 1 expect he will soon be gobb.ed up by euue of your city churcucs. He preached in Castle-street chiucn last winier, and I believe they uere delighted with him." This wus all a month, later. During that time Frances thought that she must iiavo been re-created, so iur waa .her old self leib behind. Bhe (seldom had an idle moment ; whon »h* had sue spent it with (Jorona. The two girls had become Cioue iriend*, . loving each other with the intensity of exceptional tuid Bomowhab exclusive natures. Corona grew strong slowly, and could do little ior her brother's people ; bub Frances was an excellent proxy, and Elliott Uhurwood kept her employed. Incidentally Frances hod come to know the youug minister, with his lolty ideals and earnest efforts, very well. He hod got into a ridiculous habit of going to her — her, Frances Farquhar! — lor advice in many perplexities, Frances hud nursed Jack Hart and talked temperance tv his father and read tracts to Aunt Clorindu, and started a reading circle among the factory girls and fitted oub all the little Jurbues with I dresses aud coaxed tho shore children to go to school, and patched up a i«ud between two longshore families, and done a hundred other things of a similar nature. Aunt Eleanor said nothing, ax wus her wise wont, but eho talked it ovor with I Margaret Ann Peabody, and agreed with that model domestic when she said : — "Work'll keep fo.ka out of trouble and help 'em out of ib when they are in. Just as long as that girl brooded over her own worries and didn't thiuk of any one bub hcrtsolf she was miserable. But as soou a* eJjq found other folks wero uuhappi too, and tried to help 'em out a bit sho helped herself most of all. Sho's getting fat and rosy, and it is plain to be oeen that tho minister thinks there isn't the liko of her on this planet." One night Frances told Corona all about Holcomb. Elliott Sherwood was away, and Frances had gono up to stay all night with Corona at the inanne. They were sitting in the moonlight gloom of Corona's room, and Frances Felt confidential. She had expected to feel badly and cry a little while she told it. But she did not, and before sho was half through it did not seem as if it were worth telling, after all. Corona waa dearly sympathetic. Sho did not say a groat deal, but what sbo did say put Frances on better' terms with herself. "Oh, I shall get over it," tho latter ! declared finally. "Once I thought I never would— but tho truth is I'm getting over it now. I'm very glad— but I'm horribly ashamed, too, to find myeeW so fickle." ■ > . "I don't think you are fickle, Frances," said Corona gravely, "because I don't think you ever roally loved that man at all. You only imagined you did. And ho was not worthy of you. You are so good, dear ; thoso shore people just worship you. Elliott sayt you con do anything you like with them." Frances laughed and «ald sho was not at all good. Yet sho was pleased. Later on, when she was brushing her hair before tho mirror and smiling absently at her refleo'tion, Corona said : — "Francos, what is it liko to be as pretty a* you are?" "jNonsensol" said F/ances by way of answer. "It is not nonsense at all. You must know you are very Iqvoly, Frances. Elliott says you are the' most beautiful girl ho has ever seen."' For a girl who has told hecself a dozen times that »ho would never care again for masculine admiration Frances experienced a very odd thrill of delight on hearing that the minister of Windy Meadows thought her beautiful. Sho knew he admired her intellect and bad immense respect for what ho called her "genius for influencing people," but she had really believed all along that, if Elliott Sherwood had boon asked, he could not have told whether she was a whit better looking than Kitty Martin of the Cove, who taught, & class in Sun-day-school and had round rosy cheeks ana a snub nose. Tho summer went very quickly. One day Jacky Hart died — drifted ,out with the ebb tide, holding Frances's hand. She had loved the patient, sweet-fouled little creature and missed him greatly. When the time to go homo came Francos felt' dull. Stye hated to leave Windy Meadows and Corona and her dear shore people and Aunt Eleanor and —and — well, Margaret Ann Poabody. Elliott Sherwood came up tho night before she went away. When Margaret Ann showed him reverentially in, Francos was sitting in a halo of sunset light, and the pale, golden chrysanthemums in her hair shone liko stars in tho blueblack coils. Elliott Sherwood had been absent from Windy Meadows for several days. There was a subdued jubilance in his manner. "You think I have come to say goodbye, but I haven't," ho told her. "I shall see you again very soon, I hope. I have junt received a- call to Castlestreet church, and it is my intention to accept. So Corona and I will bo in town this winter." Frances tried to tell him how glad she was, but only stammered. Elliott Sherwood came close up to her as sho stood by tho window in the fading light, and •aidBut on second thoughts I shall not record what he said — or what she said either. Somo things should be left to the imagination.— L. M. Montgomery in tho Springfield Republican.