Between Two Loves

North Otago Times, 6 August 1903, Page 1 (Supplement)

Between Two Loves

. CHAPTER XVI. ' ! ' f "TO WAIT I'POS YOU." They were sitting under the apple-' bl' ssonis; the southern wind h;id stirred them, and they were falling all around; Komp of them, pink and, while lay on Daisy's dress; she held them in her hfcitd, She was looking up with laughing eyes into Sir Clinton's face. "Tel! you the history of my life, Mr. 'CiiiWf die said. "Why, there is no history in it." "Kvery one has a story," .said Sir Clinton. "1 have none," replied Daisy; "my big aphy could be written in very few words," "Have you ever lived iu any otlior place but this?" lie asked, "Xo; my father was 'head keeper in (lie woods here when he married my lm.ther. She lived in the county town close by—Womlburii, He brought Jut home here, and she never left the house .'inc'.'," "Then you have not seen much of the world, Daisy?" f "Xo; but I have not missed it—l have hei'u very happy without it." "I have read of. a man without a Bhadoiv," said Sir Clinton; "now I know « girl without a story." "I may have a story some day," said Daisy, laughingly. "If ever I do, I will tell it to you. Was there ever a man. without a shadow, Mr. Clifton?" "I cannot say. Daisy, I should like to change places wish yon just for one-.'; I should like to have Jived as you have dour—in the world, but not of it. So jcu were born here?"

"l'es; I was born and have lived bore; I suppose that I shall die here, I see no prospect of any change. My father died when I was quite a little girl, He bad ken sucli a faithful servant to the owner of this estate, Sir Henry Wo,idley, that he gave rny mother n pension, mid told her she might live here for the n maimler of her life. I went to Woodbiu n to a young Mies' school, for four years; but I do not think," continued Daisy, with charming candor, "that I have learned very much. That is all my story."

"It is sweet and simple as a pastoral story, Daisy, How old are you,"

"Oh," replied Daisy, witli conscious l>r.de, "I am older than I. look; I am nearly nineteen." "And have you no companions—no friends?' 1 he continued.

"None that I care for," .she replied. "I know some girls at Woodburn; but their fathers kept shops," said innocent Daisy, "and they considered thmselvw very muck above me,"

Which view of social position anmssd Sir Clinton so that lie laughed a hearty, genuine iaujdi-thc first she had ever heard from his lips, Daisy looked at l.im with a grave reproach in her tender eyoa.

"How cruel of you lo laugh, Mr. Clifton! I assure you it was a trouble to mc,"

"So the shopkeepers' daughter* would Hot associate with you?' 1 he said, looking down at the lovely face mid gra:efill figure with a strange smile. "No,' 1 replied Daisy, frankly; "and I, in my turn, did not care to know the girls in a class below my own-that is, if woodkeepers' daughters hove a d iss —have they, Mr. Clifton?"

.She spoke s*j seriously Sir Clint jit landed again, "A very charming class," he said; "ami, Daisy, as you know so few, toll me, has one ever told you you were very pretty?"

"No," she replied, with a pleased, bright blush; "110 one ever told nn lhat," "Bill," he persisted.'"do yon know it V "Well," said D.tisy, "I have tliouehi Hcmriimes that my face was pleasant—nice to look al; but I did not know I hat it was really what people call pre:ly." "It is very pretty, Daisy. If yon were in what people call the world, you would find Ijiat it was thought a great deal of." "J do not think I should care much alwut that," replied Daisy; "bill nil |:ho fame, I am glad that I am pretty. Do you like people that are pretty, Mr. Clifton "Without doubt I did like them on:e upon a time," he replied, "And why not now?" asked Daisy, j with a look of great disappointment— s» ! (Treat that he could not help seeing it, "Why do children tire of sweets? Why do all men tire, in time, of every- ! thing?" "Do men tire of everything?" asked Daisy, solemnly; "even of their own ffisters and their mothers?" "I never had a sister, and my mother did so long ago I cannot answer the question; but I know they tire of everything else." "That is a great pily," said Daisy; "wis are not like that. I should never tire of my mother, my home, or you." "You arc different to most girls, Daisy—at least to the girls I haVe known." She looked up at him with eager eyes. "I have oiten. thought," she said, "that I should Ilk' to ask you if von ever liked any one very much. My mother said one day that you gave her the impression of 11 man who had loved feme one very dearly, who died." ''Did your mother say that, Daisy? She is right. I did love some one once, with all my heart and soul-better than my life and all that it held—some one who died." Daisy listened reverently. This, then, was the sorrow which had driven him mad, whiiJi nmde him always sad and thoughtful. Ah, well, for such n sorrow as this there was no cure. ' "And did the one whom you loved so much love you, Mr, Clifton?" "We will not talk about it now," he replied. "What are you going to do Willi all (be rest of your life, Daisy?" She laughed—a happy little laugh of perfect content, "I shall wait upon you," she replied; "1 shall read to you, and watch your face to see when you grow sad; I sftail get all you want, and always have everything ready for you." "But. Daisy, I shall not always -be an invalid," he said. The perfect content of her face changed ever so little. "No, you will not alwtys be an invalid; but you will always want some one to wait on you," said Daisy. Sir Clinton looked earnestly at her. "I know all your wants now," she .said, "and I understand your tastes so well; no one could ever wait 011 you to well as I can." "I know that, Daisy," he said; "but you see there ig a gir.it difference between us. A strong man like me.do?s not need waiting on;, and. then, even if I did require if, it would not be from such delicate, gentle hands as yo.ni:s. ,? Da'sy began to look ■alarmed. ■. "I—l thought' you would always: like me to wait on you,' 1 sire said, "My dear Daisy, you ■ are iei ; y"simple ai'd very sweet; you do not understand, I .can see; the ways of the worldare ail news to you; there is a certain thing wiled etiquette—you know nothing of that," .. ■: "No," replied Daisy, undauntedly; • "I ■ I do not." : ; . '% ■■■"'J '"A«] etiquette will prevent you' from waiting, on'ime, when..l get strong';, and. well," he said; "although it: does not prevent it now." "Then etiquette is very cruel," said Daisy; "and I do not like it." "Few pernio. do.■■That cannot be the of the story, Daisy; we must find i ifteicnt termination. Now, for in-ki.-nce, If some benevolent fairy gave p a uici fertilise,'Md ottkijWJßg

fnimera round here asked you to marrv him, would not that do?" • : "No; I should not like that at all. I should not like to be mamed, 1 Mr, OlftciiJ'c

"Then what would , you like to do? 1 ' he asked.

"To wait upon you," she replied; and he smiled again,- .•. .

''We are arguing in a circle," he said; "tlwt cannot be.". --K

"I shall think of soinctfiinij else, then,.",said Daisy; "hut whatever it is must be for you. Now you have been out long enough, mid my mother has some famous soup'; you must come in and have it."

_ "We will finish our argument' another lime, then, Daisy; you shall tlilpk it o\er aiid find out .what yon-would like best. Imagine that some fairy is- coming to ask you what you' like best—what you would prefer out of all the World-then tell me, as though I wetc a fairy." ' " .

She had been so good to liim, sO kind to luii, timt lie had pleased himself by •thinking he would give her not a huge fortune, but a suflleicnt one. to make.her; a desimWo wife for any of the youngi fanners of the neighborhood, lint, almost lo liis wonder, Daisy looked up'at him again and said: "1 know well enough what I should prefer from all the world-it would lie to wait upon you." This time Sir Clinton did not smile. There was to liim something almost' painful in this devoted attachment to himself. He never dreamed that it was anything more than a girlish liking, sueh as she must naturally feel for anything she had tended, cured for, and nursed'as she had do<no liim. Yet lie felt sorry, too, that she liked hiui so well. In Hie scheme of life which he had laid down foi' himself iio woimin bore any part; he Would -have none of them. He said to himself that he bad. learned his bitter lesson, learned it well, and was not to suffer again. Of course it was only a pretty, romantic idillie kind of idea that Daisy had of always waiting on him, but it disturbed him a little—he wished it had not been so; and when Daisy, an hour afterward, caine as usual to offer her services with book and pen, he looked gravely abstracted. The next scene in the tragedy was that lie grew tired of the dull, quiet monotony of the cottage. At first it had been-like paradise—a peaceful refuge from trouble, a haven of rest and peace. He had been content to watelt the sky, to listen to the birds, to note the growth of the flowers, to make nature his book, and to read it with at' te-ntion, That was when his strength failed him ,and he felt, ill, weak, spiritless, Now he was able to walk—the pure country air invigorated him; he was able to walk without pain, the strength of his manhood was returning to liim, and he could not rest much longer, He had no desire to go back into the world—the great, cruel world of fashion -but he wanted change; he would go abroad and seek it there. He would fain have traveled through deserts where human faces and human voices would never pursue him, He had no longing for his kind, no wish for society; but the desires of life, its vague wishes, dreams, and hopes, were all awakening within him. The time had come when lie could no longer content himself at Woodsido.

He made many pleasing pictures to himself how he would make Mrs. Erne happy for life; he would settle an annuity on her that should place her above all want; and to Daisy—gentle, graceful Daisy-he would give a fortune; then in the years to come, if ever, he should return from his travels, he would cotne to visit them, A pleasant picture, but it was never to be realized. CHAPTER XVII. SAD XEWS FOR DAISY. Daisy Erne had never known what life meant until now. The course of a Itc-acefitl brook in the depUis of a shady nook had not been more calm or more serene. As she told Sir Clinton, she had no story. She had been born in that simple cottage at Woodside; her happy, innocent childhood had been spnit in the woods; her friends and playmates were the flowers and birds; she bad known no others, Il'er father had been kind and indulgent. While he lived, Daisy made little expeditions to different woods and forests, He taught her ail this little lore—tiie names of the trees, the different habits o£ different birds, the"names and the nature of flowers. He taught her after his; own fashion, to read the changing face of the skies; she knew where the birds built; she knew what flowers caine out at the different season, l ;. Then, when lie died, even those little pleasures ceased, and Daisy grew up pure as an angel by her mother's side, Nothing could be more simple than (bat life, Mrs, Erne had the pension. Sir Henry Woodley allowed her. She increased her income by the washing of luce, in which Daisy also excelled; they had a garden and an orchard, the "proceeds of wlikh were hold at Woodbtirn, They .worked hard and paid their way, which Mrs. Brae thought the grandest thing in life, In summer they rose with the sun and worked until it set. Theni when Daisy was ten, her mother sent her to whit she proudly called "it lady's school," where she went for four yearn. There she learned all there was to be taught, but she made no fciwids, She. came home contented enough, williug to believe with her mother that she knew all that was needful.

The pretty, quiet home life began then. Daisy made her Own "world at home. She grew up beautiful, pure, and good; innocent as 'a child, utterly ignorant of the world and its ways; reverent pious and simple, Into this dull gray life the coming of Sir Clinton had teen like a flash of glorious sunlight—how many worlds did he open to her? He taught hor poe'tV and romance; ho changed the whole 1 face of the world for her. She saw the meaning of a thousand things she had never known before; she saw new beauty everywhere; she had no idea that she loved him with the love that was her doom, Slic f-nly knew that there was no life away from him; that all the light and glory of the worid was centered in' Mm, He .was so handsome, so unlike every one she had steo, flo wonder Daisy loved him. She did so, after a 1 fashion, the first moment she saw him. She called him bounie, and talked .of him' in her child-like fashion. It had ended in ,n love that was pitiful in its intensity. If he had spent the remainder of his life there, all would Lave been well-.' Ihtisy would have been quite content to wait upon him;' she desired nothing more. It was the mention of his going that changed,, as it. were,, the worshiping attention of the child into the |.<issionatc love -of .the woman, .;Ifor' sir Clinton's mind vviis. made up at'last, Ho was well, strong enough to go. and. ho ■must, He had formed his plans, He would go to France—to the southern coast-,ind live hv.th'e laiid of tlie.oliyes. and the vine. He would.go to Paris first, ; as he wanted, a large sum of money, and his .bankers , could so easily send it there, Then he would choosj his future residence in some almost unknown place. /Wticn. he: quite decided he never forgot the,day; it was m the middle of June, a warm, sunny, fragrant day, when the birds were ' singing, and tihe roses in bloom, Mrs, Erne, was busied,in gathering: -strawberries.; for hinr : to eat. with the rich, sweet cream, ''Daisy-'.sat'-in ■..the pretty •little 1 porch,' . gathering together the falling leaves of : the;red roses to make a pot-pourri after the true country fashion. - Sir Clinton saw her (here, and went'to hc-r in.the preoccupation of iiis thoughts. Dating the last few days he.had' quite forgotten Daisy's declaration of wanting always to waft upon him. He was attached to her in a grateful, kindly fashion*:'hfl thought het one of tN puresUoVflfat,'' $H# it M m net, (ju (■ > TA} t**

above- her station; he hud the klndewt iiitMirions fownrd her; ;he meant to dower her, to .be her friend for life; As .for. flirting Willi her, he hud never even dreamed-of audi n thing; lie. iiail, never 'Spoken, to her or looked at her in a way that lie would not have' done'-io a sister of his own. He looked, upnii her as a kindf good girl, who had amused him thiough a long, tiresunie sh/knc-n. He had no thuught of her which ho wqu.ld : not toe. told to. ihe.whol" werld, and lie no mure! dreamed of Daisy's deep love lha'.i did hi;r own mother.

He' went In her, thinking how; fair a.iuf graceful -she looked, hor pure, sweet face, bonding' over the roses. He took up some of the leaves in his linms. /.'■■

"What iiire. ymi doing' this for, Daisy?" he asked. ■

"For you," she replied, quickly, "For me! What aiu I to do with all these rose-leaves?" .

She laughed, and Sir Clinton always J.ikcd Daisy's.laugh; it was so clear, so s'dvery, so sWeet.

"You know thi> two pink vases in your worn .that' haVeiids to them-I shall fill' them. with.' rose-leaves, and fliey will make a pleasant perfume for you all the year." ■ "But, Daisy,". lief said, quietly, "I shall not" be.iiei'c ali the year. I liave: been idle long enough; I must work" "You can wovk here," she said, quickly. ' He shook his head gravely.

"This is merely olot'iis-eatiiig, Daisy; there is hothing here for me to do." "Why need you work?" asked Daisy, "You are very happy as you am." "Why did (Jo.d give hie 'brains but to Use 'them? ."If any one had prophesied' to 'me two years ago that 1 could live, as I lvave liVcd for the last ten months, I could not have believed it," He saw the .laughter die from her face, the light from her eyes. Shu laid' the roses dawn. on.the sent beside her, ■

"Von do not mean, Mr. Ciifton, that you are really going away?"

He did not understand tlie expression of her face; it wits ns one who waits a sentence of life or death! "I must go, Daisy," he said. "I shall ask you to spend.to-morrow.in helping me arrange niy hooks tinil papers." She stood: up then, the rcsn.-leave3 fulling nil round her, "You are goini:," she said, "and you wish me to help you. I cannot,'l can 1 nnM could sooner die!"

"Why, Daisy?" he asked, wonderi»Riy. "Because I—l never thought you would go, I do not know what to dolife ia uot the same aa it was, Yon niiist not go, Mr. Olifton." He thought it the child-like sorrow of a child for one who had been kind to her,

"I know you will miss me, Daisy," he said; "I shall piss you very much, but I sjmil see you again." l/ove for the proud lady who had slighted him blinded him to all signs of love in another woman's face, He saw that she grew very pale and hor lips, sprang apart with a long, quivering sigh, "I shall gee you again, Daisy," ihe said. "I am going abroad, and shall be absent mnny years. When I return,, you will be one of the first I shall come to see."

No word or sound cyiio from the white, parted lips. "I shall hope to find you very happy, Daisy," he said, "You will he married then, without doubt, hut you will air ways find room for me by the firoSid 1 *, will you not?" '

There was something tragie in the look she turned upon him, "I shall not be lutppy; I shall not marry-I do not want to marry; bn't if you go, I shall die."

And, without wither word, Daisy* left the porch, Sir Clinton looking after her with wonder in his face.

"Poor child! poor Daisy! she will lie sure to miss me, I have been here so long." ;

He did not that Daisy went to her room and had fallen there, white and senseless on the floor. CHAPTER XVIII. " SO KING 60 Gil AND A3 Hi:." He dreamed so little of the truth, that, before lie saw her again, lis had forgotten fill that ltad imsswl. lie did not remember what she said; the only imprcs-ion left upon his mind was that lie Lad told Daisy Jie was going, and she ms to, help him in his nucldiig. lie saw hOr aicak, smug hours afta" ward; she was standing in the kitchen then, busy with some ripe red frtity and as lie went to spa); to lier. lie skirted back in wonder and amaze. AV;ts this Daisy? The girl looked up at him with a white, wan face, devoid of all light and all coloV, with large, shadowed eyes, full' of pain, with rniivenhiy lips that would not be still. What had happened to her? Sir Clinton felt qrite concerned. ■

"Daisy, are you ill?" he nsked, "Yes, I am ill," she relied,, quitting the kitchen as she spoke, Mrs. Erne tumid to Sir Clinton..

"I cannot think what has come ove,r lior, Mr, Clifton," she said. "I am frightened to look at her, I did hair that the fever was very bad at Woodbiim; surely it cannot be that Daisy is taking it; she looks awfully ill," "You must nurse her up; I will send some good port wine for her. Poor Daisy, how well she nursed me!"

Mi's. Enie thanked him with her oldfashioned courtesy, so little did they understand the kind of fever that was burning the girl's heart away. Sir Clinton was to know r : though, lie went to Woodbtirn, haying several matter to arrange. He had. not settled any time, for returning, and, having many little commissions to execute, the twilight had faded into night before h'e relumed.

There was never aaiy fear of robbers a( Woodside-the cottage door was ilos' cd, not. locked; he opened it sentlv.: lest/ Daisy should ,be .asleep and. he .should disturb her. The .sOund of violent,. .sionate weeping struck him With wonder; it came from his own room, too, and the door that led to if was half open. He had 110' thought of -likening, but he drew near silently, and he never forgot the picture, Daisy;' sat by the window, her head', 'laid on the window-sill, in the very abandonment of wzrow; her 'rich brown hair): nil unfostsaad, My like a veilaround her,- She was weeping with ■such-.-violent,- passionate sobs, it seemed as though each one -would rend the delicate frame. Mrs. Erne stood by her. ■■ ■."

. "Come, Daisy " .she. was saying, ''We must not stay here. This room Is ready .for-. Mr, Clifton. ,now;. he. may return at any moment—we must not stay here."

Daisy only answered with lior sobs; then lie saw her flbig her anna:' up with ''' a great cry, ; VOh, : miltier, mother!" slie said;"l stall die if he goes: What am I to do} I'oamiot bear it!" ; ■ ; "He ■ must/ go some time, : child; as wdl acrw as another,", was tie calm reply, , ■: . ,"I Shall' die," moaned Daisy. • "Oh, motherj life will never fob sririxb!' 1 ' "I shall "begin to wish ho', had'nevei 1 Come,' if you grieve in this way, ,Daisy, though he r has been a kind friend ■ to TIS." "His kindness'has killed me," said Daisy, I can' never, iive when he has gone away.":, She ait silent for some minutes; then, with a laugh' far more', pitiful 'than' her tears,'she said: "Mother, diryou l remember, the song you usedlto efog, (and I Wrought it so foolish? It,-begins— . r . ■ 'Oh, mother, mother, moie my bed, And spread the milk-white sheets,' It was not so foolish, after all, I could wy juat the'earoo/wrds now, <1 'feel if wot RQtiittg J?ft fti J - / "fe* 3 J I VI P J r-V

me but lo lav me down and die." "But that girl hi the song was mourning ■. for lit r lovef," said simple Mrs, Kmc, "and Mr. Clifton is no lover of yours," ...

"No;"..said Daisy; ''but, nil the s:\ine, 1 love him, mother. I lovo him ■ with nil. my heart,. I love : hiiii so dearly that,. when , lie lias gone away, I shall turn my face to the wail and die." "lint, Daisy, my dear, that is not light, you know," ' ' - .

, "lOglit or.wrong, I cannot help it, nmihf.T. My heart: hus*. gouo out of me, i:i:d gone to liini; My heart, my soul, my iisind, «11 love him; and, when lie : ;shul);.'die." ; ' : .v : W.' ■ Mrs, Enio was horroMtricken, "Why, Daisy,", she cried, "iliat it lover's love;, and a modest girl should never be first to speak of it. Has ,Mr i; Clifton ever talked to you :about love?"

"No, never, I do not. know what lover's love is. I only know that my life seems to have grown into his life;; but he will iiever know it. He will go away, and iiever know that I broke my heart for lo.ve of him',.. Oh, mother, mother! you are a woman grown, ami I am a child-tell me how to bear it." lint simple, Mrs. lOrne was paralyzed wllh fear, This passionate. outburst from her quiet, Simple, playful Daisy alarmed her.

"He is so handsome, ' so bounic, .so. kind.. 1 ncyer. saw -a king; luit uo. king could be so fuyaij.tio' grand as he is. llow am. 1 to live tu look at these rooms that, will lie haunted by his face'; I eiin-' not. Pe;o:u lie has been gone cue week, mother, 1 shall lie in. niy grave," "Daisy, it is too drendful; you must not say sueh tilings. Why, child, I never even talked to your father in that fashion."

"IVrh;.i|)s yoii .did not love hiui so much. Sec, mother, if I could, i would be like the girl in the poem; I woiiid disguise, myself as a page, Mid go all over litS world with him, consent never to be knowii, if I might only look lit Iris, fuce and listen to his voice. I have never thought of any life without liim,"

"I lim .sure, _ Daisy, that if I had dreamed of this, the poor gentleman should never have entered these doors; But, whatever you do, child, you niiist net let him know i.t-~you must not see liim again," And Daisy sobbed again., "Ttae is no one like him in'the wide world, mother, ai.id he is going going abroad. lie says he tjlutll.ceme to see us when he returns; but he Avii'l never see me."

. "Why, Daisy, if he were your lover j'oii could' not take it more to heart."

"I do not want a lover; but, oh, if he would let me go with him, to Wait on him, to be near him--I would sooner that then, be crowned a queen," "B|w.s the child!" cried Mrs, Erne, finite aghast; and then she did not knew what else to say—this 'kind of tlrliig ; wa'B beyond her, "It is a most tinfor-. tuiiute thing, Daisy, 1 ought to have known better, perhaps, than to. have left a,vopng girl like you so much with any: gentlomnni. hiit I never thought yon would be 30 foolish,"

"Why am I foolish? Who could help it? I am not foolish; lam wise. It is true wisdom to love what is highest and best, Oh, mother, do not scold not say one cross word! I shall not be the first one who has died for ioVe."

Then agsiin she wept,.so bitterly; and he :Siiw the moon shining 'oil her fair baiv and white neck;

"Coino, Daisy," said Mrs; Erne, weeping for sympathy; "you must hot e-hy ljejFe. Mr, Clifton will soon he back now; come to your own room," Then sudden}}' waldng to a sense o£ what to passing around -him. Sir win? ton turned away, He would not for the whole world that they should find him tLere. He. went away silently as lie had enteroJ, and stood out in the garden under the stars nlonfr-aloiie, with a dazed, bewildered confusion, in iiis breast. Daisy-sweet, gon'tle Daisy—' was going to die for him! She loved him so well tM she only' eared to die when he should be gone,

lie stood bewildered at first by the. shock, hardly able to believe it, Why, lie had never looked on the girl with a lover's eye at nll-sudi a thing had been farthest from his thoughts; nui] she had grown so devoted to him, "At least," lie thought to himself, "that is a s'neL'rc love; it is neither for my rimk' nor my title-die .knows nothing of 11-, em—it is for myself that she loves .me."

Was there a man living who would I'flt lie- lii'oiul of such a lhing-to ha loved for himself? Who would net be torn-lied by it, the pure, deep, sweet love of a young girl's heart'; He ■ w.m touched; hi? remembered his own jfr!ef and iwi'.i, Jiifj own tori lire and despair—how he had -suffered because lie loved even -to madness one wlin did not lovi' him; and now, Daisy, sweet Dni.sy, with her lovely, dimpled face am! pure, tender heart, had the sanic to endure, lie could not bear to think of It. Daisy itatl been so good lo him, so kind to ltiin; through dreary days' and nights she had nursed him with such unwearied dev.v tion. • Ho she had learned to love him.; to heart, had., gone, out to liini, in her words, Who was lie that this pure, guilelesss girl should give him. the. wealth Of her Jove? His eyes grew dini. with tears—4ic, who had been duped, decayed, driven niad by the light falsehood of a woman. What difference between theiii—this daughter of the people, so fair and gentle, and the daughter of a dozen earls! The one loved him so dearly tiiat she declared she must die when the light of his presence was withdrawn; llic other had toyed with him while it suited Iter purpose,, then had driven hiiii away in despair. If Lady May had for him but a tithe of the love that Da'sy had, then indeed would his life have been, blessed to him, He must go—it was very sad, very pitiful, but, all. the same, he must go. Then he tried to picture to himself lww lie s'riouM feel if, far away in simay France, hevlicard the news, of Daisy's dealh-Daisy dead for love of him! .Why did. love always go by the juie of contrary? He had loved Lady May —she had no love, to give him; now Daisy, loved him, and Ynat had' he to give ■ her?".: 'l'lieiH-he could'not te'l how or why—■an idea rame to him; perhaps the stars or the uight wind inspired him, perhaps, the sound of Dainy'e sobbing; touched him; one thing was quite clear, the idv'a came—why not marry Daisy? His life,: so far AS nil its prospects were concerned, had ended; Lady/May was, by tlio' time, anofher inan'a wife. In the 'wide: time, another man's wife. In the, woihl no .one ...cared . for him except Daisy; cou.ld.he.iet Daisy die because she loved him?: Marriage would, briug him no happiness; he did not look for it, did not want it; but it would save Daisy's life,

He: could tell her frankly, he had no love to give her, that his heart was , dfeatl; but if it would make her happy ■ to-.spend ..her. life with him, it should be so, Theti again he recoiled" from It; his wiio-le hemt and love had been Lad; May's; could he call another woman wife?—could he bear to say kind words, to hold a womWs hand in his? No. He ' revolted from the idea. He had 'ncvei loved any,, wouiau: except Lady Miy, and she alone could be his wife! ; So Daisy, with her foolish, wild, impulsive love, must die. Poor child! he could see her in (he moonlight; sobbing her hisirt out for him. - The only woman he had ever loved gave him up to be a ducih«ss. The only woman who had ever loved.him died of her love!": i, The contrast struck him; it must not Daisy die. • She was not what , the world would call a fitting wife for him; she had neither money, title, connecor: ihny, sibgle: advantage, "except: that she loved him—loved him with all her sinipltytfuqer, laaooent life,; - Oli, w| 4i«,v §i\s '•m, \ ' 4- fk h, y AvMlk

ohonlil spend .tta wnmlpdor gf her llfo with him, and, whntever happiness his kindness could give her, she should have. - He would*make" uo pretense of loving her; he would frankly tell her (.hat; but she should, be Id's wife, if that would make her' happy. ' • lie .opened the door ns though he had just .returned,; and Mrs, -.Erne ''came (iiutkly into the room. He looked up at her with a smile. ; .

"I hajrc altered niy inind,!' he : said; "1 do not think that f shall -go to nioi ,; row, after all,"

(to be continued,)