The Treacherous Reporter.

Otago Witness, Issue 1582, 18 March 1882, Page 29

The Treacherous Reporter.

'Do you love me Reginald?' The supper given by Stuyvesant M'Guire in honour of the. nineteenth birthday of his only child was over, and the spacious parlours were lined with the younger portion of the assemblage. Reginald Mulcahey and Aphrodite M'Guire had been gliding through the soft sensuous measures of a Strauss waltz, and, as the music ceased, they had strolled into the dimly lighted .'conservatory, where, as they sat with clasped hands, her pure sweet face looking lovingly .into his, the question with which our story opens had been asked. 'Do I love you, my little' one?' responded Reginald. 'Your heart, that unerring and ever-vigilant monitor of the soul, must tell you, in words far plainer than any utterance of mine, that without the inspiration of your love my life would be as dreary and aimless as the editorials in a Cleveland paper, and the days drift wearily by without one gleam of light to brighten the horizon of my existence. You surely cannot but know, Aphrodite, that before I knew you I was a wild reckless man, and, when your love burst upon my sin-seared soul, a sweet joy stole over my being. With your bright smile as a beacon light, my course shall be as unswerving as that of the majestic and eternal sun, whose fervid rays are now kissing the limpid waters of the Pacific' 'Say no more,' interrupted Aphrodite; 'I believe you fully.'

An hour later Reginald had just finished a polka with Juliet Mahaffey, and is standing near the conservatory, when the sound of voices reaches his ear. Glancing carelessly into the conservatory he sees Adelbert Kelly leaning over Aphrodite M'Guire. Adelbert is speaking very earnestly, and as Reginald listens he hears him say : •Your heart, that unerring and ever- vigilant monitor of the soul, must tefl you, in words far plainer than any utterance of mine, that without the inspiration of your love my life would be as dreary and aimless aa the editorials in a Cleveland paper, and the days drift wearily by without one gleam of hope to brighten the dreary horizon of my existence. You surely cannot but ' . * Curses on that reporter !' said Reginald, in hoarse passionate tones; 'he has sold us both the same speech.' — Chicago Tribune.