FIRST AND LAST.

New Zealand Times, Volume LXXI, Issue 4330, 13 April 1901, Page 2 (Supplement)

FIRST AND LAST.

A WORK GIRO’S STORY. It was a cold winter's night, and the gaaw foil thick and fast as I walked up the Edgoware Road, on my way to the Metropolitan Music Hall. I was hard at work at tho time writing a story of Suburban Music Hall Life, arid doing my-, best to make acquaintance with certain phases of that life. The manager hud allowed tno to go behind tho scenes, and had-introduced mo to several of the artists, arid on the night in question I had taken it into my head to walk tc the Hall after I had finished dinner with my sister.and mother at homo. Before me, just after tTiad ''turned' ‘info the road, .1 ' tlie ; . davk figure,. ;qf a girl walking oil a-.H.fctieqpairiiuiiy in front of me, and;;ak she held up no, umbrella she was,becoming .wet,through, with the falling snow,.- Passing, she. just, glanced up ab mo, rand heriaco. made an .instant and appealing. Impression on. me. “ton have no umbrellai?” -I asked, uso, sit),”- W as. the reply.. “And far to- go ?” “To ; oricklowood, sir-”. “Ofardeiir!’’T extlaimcd; “that’s dread-,, fall' All the way to-CVicklowood, and no’-’buflses are running owing to the roads being so*'slippery. ”

“I didn’t mcan„to complain, sir,”'she murmured.' and’was ‘about to hurry off, when I foliow’cjd her quickly. , JtHJerp,. lo€ .me,.hold my' umbrella over you,”. ~ , ... nu*r-: ■■(fti, thank you, very much', sir,' hut don’t iftt,mb .take.yo.it out. of your way.” The .girl ;»poko wvith g.cqripns accent; half countrified, half cockney, but hdr tone was. almost like',a lady’s- I looked down : .fit .the .slight. figure neatly eribughddfcoased dn . black, and at . the “picture'hat,”'. a.. rather , largo one, , adorned with, sweeping: feathers,; which . hung, . snowdaden, round tljo fringo .ofidark hair.'and pale face of my companion. A string... of .common pearls was fastened ‘ round her, throat. Her ' qccitpa&ion ■it ' was. impossible to gyesa, but I-felt certain she .was pot a inuaic hall singer, l .Stolidly,; quietly,,she teatnped along with - m.e under the, umbrella. Presently,- when tho limteilight dashed, out from a big-linondraper’s anop window, she looked up with animation. What'lovely sequins!” she exclaimed, 'finder her breath’. . . , ... -“What are sequins?” 1 askedv : ui- , c -.raeßfiT pointed"them put. - “They’re very ’fashionable," ■ she added, .and! tak,ing hVhenlcii find &' piece of paper from her ’nockot W’rnt.e'down tho nartio : and ’ad'dres^of, tho ;feho'p/iH a business-like manner, 1 v ’ 1 ■ ’.“So ypq are interested in sequins ?” ',As- the’, strong- £lare fell Upon her, 1 nbtfid that hefc- tape, otherwise.’ ordinary, -wfis*lighted up. with the. sweetest- .eyes ever -’s;qefi, greyi .sensitive,’ arid., shaded with.’the thick, black,lashes Which clung rtogether; here! and therfi; .' .. ’ ' 04“ fiery.” sfie answered,.. rather’ shortly, and; then began to' walk oh, 1 After a few moments,, as,; if-repenting her “shoiltn^sn, ,y ; she' ; hold moj '"Yam ie? % eit) I’m ifiitfia dressmaking-way., ~l’m head wo. mail da g ;lady as lives'in’ Hyde,Park.” .; “ You.head’woman! "Why, you’re surely top young for,-that!” - :

vYes /. siri• f ii/a lyery- seldom anyone,, .is B*ad!‘wfcrtiftttNWWtotyv and I’m, only Jiftt/ ■■-Bttb-.drassimaking comes natjihaWlka : to 1 -tome .people, It comes itfatfral to, ' * ~ 11 r,i -■'■■■• ~ ■

■’ 1-11 And is-thd p’efsont you* work for; kind and good to youP” •■ - j - s * "Person I’’ echoed the girl, indigUant- • .dF'couifse.'il moan the'lady you wprk'lor,” L put in hastily, seeing-that 1 %|d jraado .a faux, pas,." . - ir ‘.'Personl,i’Xadywent on tlio funny little -thingi,as, her damp feathers quivpjipji; with; ]her. • ,‘“She's a. real lady! A ,lady^-dressmaker, suv ithe. daughter of in the arrpy-i Her name is Mrs ,'Nutfeing, .and : she's t, ..widow. jShe's loyeiy!! Somebody you’d be pjoudiof to takhi out, 'sir... ~t job? often dines 'at the jßfmtyi with,' friends..-.. She’s as ..kind as fsanabeJ’.f—s'; v-i. ... - ,n; r’.;ii‘.‘She unudt. indeed, bo" a-pice woman.”

■ /'Wioflfreiterated my little' companion .‘.‘She's lovely;’’ ; ■; ■i /«Ybu'' ; gd /Backwards "• and forwards ■every day -to Crick) owoocl ?” ' . ; '‘Yes, every night and morning. I live with, mother.—We used to live in the country. . But , dressmaking homes even more natural to her'than me, and she’got work in London;' But it do seem Unfair, sir, I'm earning twenty-five shillings, a ;wgek end., .mother.’; only peven, though she has mffre "talent ;-|hanj I.” “I"wonder- if you would tell me yohr name ?”<■• .u hat/;; : ' h ’''

.i'‘‘‘My. ; Wa.tisoni”rwasc the ifeply-. - '“But you should tell me your name aa you faair’e hsked;ino thh question,:”'.* !; ’ h* “Miner is Henry Baring.” ~-, . ! ■ “And you walk this way: ©very ’ evening?” asked; the girl, rather roguishly, ha'Tf '§bo was niy turn'fo Whonfidohtiiil. :J

"Oh, no. , 1 only came hero tct-night rfprx onc^ 7 iii ! ;fi>AW^/..-..^ ( vliY e nM I ■st^eofe~ yon, X live - "Do yon care for your' work like me, eiyj? ; E /(Jf work. .X .ntas'anterided for tpa .Navy,.‘hut. fate -intervened; anyhow, I was disqualified"'by aif accident.-,; Bof I manage 'to anSase' myself-a little every now and .again with' writing-” t,: J ~ ■■-Latorature/’ corrected Lily, solemnly. ‘‘That; must ;h©' intensely interesting.” •-Xrhidi a'; smile. Every .now And then the child: spoke !iii !a way which; showed mo she had caught up tones and expressions ifrdm tho';“lady:dressmakcr.”; ■ '■ ' • t , NQw tell"mo. more abont yourself,” I asked". . . The .winning-.faco and. voice of the little work-girl made :mo wish the walk might last a good while yet. A. ■ % otlinhuver-yrnhappy,' sir ; the girls" as, Wqjfcsj under mevare all so nice, add Mrs Nutting’s'very kind. ■ She takes me to a play-sometimes; for .she’s not a bit proud-” ;

“YouTtkA The play ?-”* - - : ■ ‘‘When’ Mf’ForhesXtohertson acts.,Oh! heb'lovely ■ and gentlemanly. He's •got'k like, a winrch, saint. I like Shakespeare’very much,-too. The bodice hand .and me we go to Tpnybee. H'all n sqmetimes; , n They’re awfully fond of Shakespearo at Tonybee Hall.” j ‘ “And 'your mother, ‘do you . ever take her to the play?"- ' r - 1 • “Only when s r'gd Mi-h >: a r ’gentleman. ■Mother’s pl3-rfashi,op,e<d.,,.. She wouldn’t wishmO ,W'go'>slohe with a gentleman.” “IhenJth' no' good my 'asking yoti to Mlowmb'td have the pleasure of escort* • ing 'you ;to a play?”' > '‘’■No, sir; and'besides which, Mr Malstan' The. gent)email ,1 ' walk, out: with; wouldn’t'Bo pleased at that;’’ ; ■ 1

: “So'.'yQU' aje engaged; tohemarried ?’• ‘‘Not exactly, but there's a friend" who .is very kind. to.mo. ‘ Mother; don’t-mind his taking me for walks .oa .-Sundays over by Hampstead way-: Shu likes Mr Ha;stanv’Miy., 5 ,•>'oav.. t : -■"■fra

-The - aitlessDesa.nf ■ the -girl and, her simple chatter pleased-mo: : " ’ f‘‘X?wish ”I~migntl) think-.your mother wopld like me and.let mo take you for "» ■kalk :i if you would care to join mo. J ’ ' she qaid quickly. ; ... • Halstanwoftldnr.nd moi" t asii ixratbac ,;

“Well, sir,” demurely, “if you really think that—But here’s home, and there’s mother looking for me at the window! Good night, sir, and tha.uc you.” J • » • • •

’ For many days after I had seen Lilv Watson for the first- time I thought conHandy of her. Nay, 1 every evening when’ I imagined it would bn time for hcrf.to sally forth on her homeward walk, 1 hastened'to the, Edgwaro Road, and lofiked.but for her. At last I-.met her agqin; and yet again and asa’n- _ Her company noon became ind:-peti.sa.hle to me, and the more I knew, the more she attracted me. Soon I-learnt, to Jo.-o hc-f. ' Do not be surprised that she won my heart so easily. I vow she was the most lovable creature on earth. After •rwshilo she lost all .feeling of gene when with mo and prattled away in the most unconcerned fashion. She neither encouraged mo nor discouraged me. < could not tell if the faint blush . : h overspread her face when she saw me coming along the road foretold whether sho was pleased to see me or no. ,w miicix’raote amusingly did she talk ,i.-■ the 'smart ladies-who, came to- see m; mother!. Often her remarks s’.nved J. she had observed very keenly ]n Jmr pi'o way and had thought much, ■ “When do yon think all these 1 kings ? ’I orico asked her. “Oh, it’s when I’m sewing, an wf/.hig opt. :! And Mrs Nutting, she’s so . rfiiqded, and tells mo things. , ..Ob,,Mr Bering, .do’com©’on® day to Mrs ;«/,• thjg’j},. , I don't think, she - ca-’ I -i/iri dx.oq yoked with mq for asking. If you ,)md .only,■socn, hor,"!wo-:conid.’talk. abeut ,lmr together. „ Every! gentleman Ihiß.ts. fiejr. very fascinating!” I One day it happened that a met walking with a tall, distinguished-look-ing woman near Park Lane. My poor child started when she saw me. and blushed' to’, tho roots : of her hair, : I raiskl my hat and was passing, when Mrs Nutting—for it was she—stopped and with a frank smilo asked, “Mr Baring? I have heard of you from Lily.. lam Mrs' cutting.” ;■ : ’’ I walked along oy tho side of Mrs Nutting, but found conversation with her- a,little difficult, under .the circumstances. . Suddenly, lily said, - yh, ma’am, -I think I’ve forgotten that lining for Lady Marshall’s dress. - I had better see about it,” and sho loft ns quickly with a shy good-bye,

■^ r b ; : Watched her as she ran after a bij.%, had climbed up to the top. After ESTlong pause— - ' ■“ ,' ’• w Shc’s a good girl,’ 7 Mrs Nutting d&d'. “I v know that/.’ I' aiiswered. .‘/Stall see her very often,” wont on my companion. “Lily* has told mo so. Thai was why I introduced myself to you. I fished jto. asspre..you tkht Lily is no cmnjmonVwork-girl; hers*.is,a. very rare HudActeir—and. I might, eyep. say, is a very rare mind. Pray do. not unsettle l|er>’ pid. make her discontented with her ft\ojf.v-day life!” protest, , ; I’jkpew you, would, ask you to think, seriously what you are about. You .walk .with her a!most f every evening.- In her own class the-plan. she fwalks.'out with” does not mean; a- , man to, whom she .may-,engage jherself. ■ -An. honest/good ielidw.- js; I know, in love with her, but she ;is mot actually .to him. i do no't imagine you .mean -to make her an.ioffer of marriage... Try to realise .that you may bo thomeains of her, finding your., society so charmihg/thatj another mani.her equal; in; station, might become dreary and distasteful in her eyes,, ' All that I say. is very obyious, yet I say it;; nYou must‘forgiye iny priggisbness—ihy^'-outspokenness.” 5 “i'-appreciato - pour kind- thought far Lily,” - was, my answer. ‘ At that iuojfaerit wo hadoomo totheobmer of j Park -Lane.;/ : ’'” J ; . i

; - “Good-bye,' then !”, said’ Mrs Nutting. “ThenT may'trust ybu?" * “Yes. 'l'moan that.you 4 shall trust tpe,?. ,

. : ■» • • * At seven 1 o!clock that night I found myself once more.in : the Edgc\varo Road, Presently, .among- a ;cvpwd of sordid hloes, X saw the,little!one that had become so dear to nie. ■“‘Oh, sir,” panted Lily, as she, hurried '.tb'rayr side,. “I didn’t think, somehow to see you to-night.?’.--.- to ■ ‘Are, you glad to see nfe, Lily?’’ X Asked-. 'My tone! must: have,-beeg seri-‘imsjMnd-my fpr her ■'faofe blanched,- as I had not scon it do •ISeforef. -

•f -Mrs Nutting ain’t’angry, "is she, ■Mr -Baring? I haven’t seen her; since tlm'morning. 1 ’ Ifelt sort of shy, and so ■ left-you .together. ’ You’ll never want to rf ge ! ont with me’again ’now you’re Seen heri 'Oh! Don’t'-fitio look a smart lady! : Buch a.walk , "Lily spoke hurriedly, ito if to draw-at-trition from herself. l/iil hailed a han’lblit that was-possnfg.toh I 'Got- in, dear,” Sj’begghd. • to‘l’ll driirp ; ypu: : .to“ Regent's k fbt’a little fresh- ’air! t It’s a .cold, !spring' nighty but.-it wdii’t- harm you.’’ ‘ y Tilly,’ pale/'got'.into: the hanr spm-. . ..Oh, the way,A •^ l ; 'a.nd ;got. hcr’ a ■glass' of'.' wind, andha “biscuit 'at a cohfectioA'ePs.ishdp.;,'- ’lShe would j touch, nothing else;” r When” wo reached Re* she, begged, to, got put of ,we wafted; along |n ; the half-* •.;iw&',boaut^r.Jh-me;.gna'Sust;.Rke the don t.-you? -.LpokL It’s nearly; dark, hut oqp mst tafos looking, ’like lf®e' the sky. r And'. thOVOo that: haven’t yet 'begun to- show ■their ItaveS; are the. loveliest—one:might ; oim'agine the. branches --were .Witha!Jlighh po' Pf;pink or ■ yellow; Idi&ei-.fchera' host 'of all so. " One feels their promisbi/dOesn’t oriej sir ? ; : When the leaves are out one knows'.phe’S joy is.there, and may one day bo over.” ' ’ ;*. 3 df-Y6u' should-hot caU me. Air, lily,” I as 1 took .her thin, tirpd. hkiid -in nrinVf.: “Call ‘mo Henry/ or- Harry,- if you’will.” ’ '' . ; '“1 could, not .call you Harry. It would ,Seeih, a ' liberty. And ■ you are pot like a. Harry-V .. .. , :

■ “Then'call met Henry, if you like that better. ’ seat under the trees; ■ Yoti may See’ the new moon peeping at us through the - dart; green lace. Are you happy to-night, dearest?” The hand 1 ’ I held thrilled gently in ■mihhF’— ‘.‘Wonderfully 1 happy; sir—Heiify.''lo f Xh'e’ name' 'cam© out > timidly. £’■ ! i ‘Lpok ‘gp at ;m©" 1 Lily.”' ’ She jlooked im, as X TfegfSed Kef, But half' in fear. lA'hfp yon Know thaf -'ybu. have ' become iheriressibly' dear to mo?” M'■‘if didn’t qmte’know that.” you not guess how I had learnt 'Mrioye you?”’ ; .’ i' . , J “Lbvo me?” ..

li “Bbyond all words, my, dearest 1 love!’/ 'ilShb'turned rf-radiant facet to mine. h‘Afi!”: sho sighed, and-her smiles melted inth tears. i, -.-

r“Could you ever love mo? Tell me, » t;-- ~ v ■ ‘ _ - ‘‘the. best in ;‘all the.world.’’ Vj sSay; you will.-,bo my' wife.'’.... ■ :r“Y<>ur .wife, sir! A common; girl l ; ke me! .-Qhl No!,- Only let,me always love you. That would be happiness enough.” "■ ' ’ !‘¥oU Cannot car© form© as I-fot* yob, "if' you, think wd; could -find-happiness ! Spart.” ■ : •' : ' i i Am in yptur. mot&ot, Henry. Why!

You are her only son, and so young! Quite a boy! .She would say you didn’t know your own mind. And, oh, she would be ashamed of me.” “Never! Never! She tvouid care for yon fondly, one day. I >mro thought of everything. ~ - could live abroad. W© should he nappy as the day is long at Florence nr Venice.” “Happy! Oh! ids i Irt’t I’m happy to love you from morning to night. But your wife! Think of dm long years in which yon would . c.-,’ i v-a, not your equal. .And ;-.U j • L.ould always care for you, II I .h chi fret—oh! everlasting I < hid u: for par •.•.ant of faith in mo. Love id'* 1 be idaqiiout when love :s young, it;:.- idler a while I prevailed, and i’ll:.- on:;’_ .-; doubts which Pad chadoive.j_t,er jv'i- gave way to a contcnt?d ’ he;! iuing i'.',l:: ■ Only once, she. put up her n-.c.'.'. .1 o mino and gave a little shiter.

‘ ’Heiiiy/' sfie murmured, “there is Savh ,Sam Halsiaa. So faithful hind goed—him .that has l loved, me so much lor.ge-.'* f 1 an 7/011.- I’m a wickc-d girl, i or l.n thinks I’ve sort of promised-my-self. 1.0 loin. And- he’d work for years and years in tho hopes of winning mo as Ins wfc. Oh, I’m a .wicked girl. Yon see; I .don't feci sorry as I ought, this wonderful, day. Ydti loving me and all! I knew there was no- ono over like you the first time I saw you. But, oh! I never dreamt of this!”

Tho weeks went by. It had gone hardly ‘with my mother when I broke the news of my .engagement to her. and at first she refrise’d to seo Lily. ' When at - length sho did seo her, the forgave her, but mother-like,, only a very little. As for Lily herself, every day revealed rariro' of her rare nature to mo, and of her original mind. Mrs Nutting, with whom, I was : now fast friends, was right in speaking of Lily as remarkably clever. By my mother's wish, and at her expense, 1 she attended a number of classes, and l the progress sho made, according to her masters, was surprising. Together we went to picture galleries, to plays,’ and concerts and bow appreciatively she would look and listen! Sometimes, turning her dear eyes with a smile to mine, “That was lovely! Wasn’t it, Henry?” As a rule, sho seemed happy, and would delight me by tho hour with her gay-conversation. i/or cockney expressions, her work-girl lingo, were becoming things of the past. Even my mother admitted her rare natural refinement.

There were days, however, when I felt ill at-ease about Lily. Whenever I beiAged 1 , her to ’ become my wife, “Not yet. Not yet.” she would murmur, and a'curious expression of fear would sharpen her face. , If T reproached her sho would make some idle excuse. “By-and-by,’Henry. Let us marry—when I’ve learnt French. When I’m more fit for, you.”

“French,” I .would- groan. “When you’re mors fit, for me! Oh! how you torture mo, and make me doubt your affection.” ■

,“Don’t say you doubt my affection. Pm tortured, too, ■ sometimes. If you behave wrongly to others, you deserve to suffer. I’vo behaved cruelly to Mr Halstan. : If. you could see the letters he writes to me,.you would not wonder that I grieve.,' although I care for you so dearlv.”

• “To grieve about another when you’ve be my wife is to be untrue tb'ine; , Cannot you’.geo'that?”' ''.‘/‘l'tan/soe‘that/*: '.But I was untrue' first, in a way, Henry, to Sam Halstan. He took it for granted, as I walked out so'often with..Him,' and accepted the locket ho,gave me; that-1 would be his wife. . He doesn’t reproach me badly. No, hols too noble for that. But ho says i. was the light of his eyes, and as long as life will last he can : love uo other g/rk” * “I will not release you, Lily; I cannot!” '•

! : ‘Tcould not'be released, Henry.: That is the hard part.. To break off . with you-—it would mean misery too great to bear. ’ IVe not the courage for that. I must five’loving, you too much, and reproaching. myself for not having loved him, enough.” : ' ■ • “One day, as he's a. good fellow, he will write to you no more. . Believe me, in dime, he may carp for another.” , Lily would, shakp. her head- . And then her youth, would! assert itself. Putting, up her face,-to mine for a kiss, she would smile brightly again, and beg to be forgiven. *

■ When' the-.winter days came, I at length prevailed upon Lily to fix' upon our wedding, Reluctantly she consen-ted-—“ln three months’ time from now.” Sho ovon b ega n to make her modest pre■parationgi, and my mother, who was becoming There reconciled to her, lent her a helping hand every now and again. I had no fenfs-for the future, and I can truly say there-lived no more contented man than I. .True, Lily was sometimes ■ fearful', 'sometimes distraite, but I promised myself that once she was ■ ffiy wifPTi should bo able, to banish’every thought’of misgiving from her. It chanced that I had to leave London for a week for'Djtrham' at that .time, on sonie'importhnt private bufeinosa of my mother’s. r LHy had seemed sad and l ill 'at ease for some days, and as I hade her' gOod-rbyo her usual smile was a bsent . “Write to me, sweetheart deaf,! every dfly,”.l bogged. Her .lips trepihlert, 5 ' f dhd''the ; wdrd l '?,«ii'cc'ly issued "from; .thcTp. ; 1 'Half apprehensive, half boiifidbnt,' rl. ,'wrate taher day after dhy. She replied ; only'bnce.-.ahd her lines: were of the : .shortest.; Fully alive to the fact that something' must be, wrong, 1. returned to London at •the end of the week. At the station she , was.iibt thefe-to>.,meet me. And when I went .to heijh.ouse that night the doors a’ere .locked,’ tlie windows in total dark-: ness.’, i I .passed .a ,night of feverish .anxiety. ./Thenext! morning, very early,, a note;was; brought tome,.,. . ' ‘‘HENRY —I -am down below, walkiugTh :the! street. • Come and see me for. pity’s sake.-—LILY. ’’ - I hurried down, my heart beating like a sledge hammer. There stood my poor cold,child, not in. the pretty clothes jhe had worn lately, but in her shabby working frock and hat with the nodding feathers.' Her gloveless hands were tightly clasped together. When she be-. gan to speak, her old way of talking had. reasserted itself. • - “-tlenry! Sir!” she faltered. ' “Come, darling, come.” I drew her indoors and put a chair for her by the . neivly-lit fire in my own den at the back ; of the house. “Tell me all. dearest heart,” I begged. ' 1 “Just after you went ,away,” she be;gah, “Mr Halstah—Sam—fell ill. His mother, sent for mo. I’ve-sat.,up all night with him for more than ia week. ! ■ And now he’s dead! My Sam,’ whom I j loved first and was faithless to-Mho died j .this, morning. ’ They said it wasn’t me.v as" killed him. ' They said it'was brdn- 1 chitis—-his illness; But no, nib, no; it- ; was mo!” She wrung her hands in her ’ intolerable anguish;" ' i \ ' “No-, my poor' love, you musn’t rcproach yourself.” I put my arms.round ! •her. " She did not yield - to me, hut ; drew ooldly awoy. -’"j-j

I can never be your love again, -he said. “That is over for ever. Sam’s dying like this nas been sent me for a warning. I was a cruel girl, and lam punished. If I was to marry you worse things would come to me—and to you.”

“It is your first grief,-and the shook which has* come to you, which makes you feel like this, sweetheart. In a little time you will seo all clearljn You '.v : !l not wrong mo by giving me up.” “I would wrong you, sir, by marrying you. I wasn’t what one calls engaged to Sam. But I was his, as far as he believed, as fully as if he’d given me the ring. Dear a.s he loved me. ho never took a kiss, for ho said; T ain’t get the right yet. But next year when I've-got my move up :a tho business I’ll have the means to ask you to many m'o.’ Oh’. He loved mo true and deep. And I never said no. Wo had cared for one another for live years. . .- r Then you came by ... and your lovely talk, and’ your gentleman’s face ana clothes bewitched me, sir, and I was blinded

She stopped for a moment. Then : ’n a burst of passionate weeping, she rarer/ up her'arms. . “J was wicked to my true love, my poor Sam.”

In vain I caressed her. “Don’t touch mb’!.' -pon't-.. Don’t. If I go away, it will be ail the best for you and your mother. You’ve both been too good to me. But in the end we would have been unhappy and unstated, and you ashamed of me and my ways. It was all unsuitable like. . .

So I took the vow by Sun's bedside—just now a? bo fay dead—as I -.had wronged him, I’d never-wrong you. Him and me was of the same class, talked the same way, and thought the same way. But you and me! Somehow now no’s lying dead, all my feelin’s is gone gwa.v from you and gone back to him again.” She straggled up from her chair. “Forgive me, hut don’t speak to me. : No. . . . lam going to watch by Sam. Just his mother and me. Just to look at Sam again. . . . Good-bye.”

Sho did not give me her hand. And as I watched her little figure hurrying up tho street my heart sank heavy as lead within me. I know I could fievar win her back to aiy sia© again.