Untitled

Otago Witness, Issue 2691, 11 October 1905, Page 81

SHORT STORIES.

IH£ FINGER OF FATE.

By Maud Njswmaut.

(For the Witness.)

It wps Saturday afternoon, and Salisbury street was full of babies in perambulators, children concocting Christmas mud pies out of the dust in the gutters and the green slime that had collected in a choked drain-pipe before Mrs Taylor's gate ; mongrel dogs lying in the sunshine, dust bins, and a yellow cat.

The yellow cat came into prominence in the heated discussion between the Taylor twins and Bill Jones of No. 15. Through the open window Julian Hindemarsh could distinguish little Dick's treble running as a melody to tks deeper voice of the boy in the street ; but his head felt too heavy and his senses too numbed to enable him to hear what they were saying. There were other sounds in the house that would have been almost as absorbing had he not been confined to bad with- pneumonia, and longing to sleep. Martha Taylor was 16, and the pianist of the family. Certainly, if not quite a Paderewski, she was a model of perseverance. " The Blue Alsatian Mountains" came from Lhe wheezy piano with undying persistence. Julian covered his ears with the bed-ql.othes, and swore aloud.

Away in the rear of the house dishes were being washed up, and the Taylor baby, uttering delighted sqnsaks at having escaped from maternal control, was crawling down the passage. For a treat, Sirs Tajjor had given her boarders cauliflower for dinner, and its fragrance was loth to leave the house. It mingled with that of stale tobacco. The passage was full of flies, that beat against the grimy ceiling exasperatingly. Julian lay watching the sun shining through the dusty Venetians and longed for health.

j During the past week lie had been in bed under doctor's orders, and to his energetic nature it had seemed an eternity ; for the Taylor domestic life was not of the quietest, and the walls were thin. Mrs Taylor was a bony, over-worked woman, with a quiverful of children, and consequently too many cares to be able to find time to attend her sick boarder in the way he required. She would come in with the jejly or arrowroot he had been I ordered, and having done her best to smooth his pillows — which usually meant shaking oni their comfort— she would go | away again and bang the door. She was j kineMiearted enough, but the doors were j huug loose.

It was early December, and an unusual spell of lieat held the city in a fiery grasp, from which the churches were pi ay ing to be delivered.

The native bush that encircled the suburbs was a dingy grey ; across the liar*bour the Peninsula was slowly turning terracotta and brown. The city horses trotted languidly through life, and the watercarts came to stay. Electric car conductors blossomed forth in linen suits, and "business men brought out their last summer's straws and helmet hats. The fruiterers did a roaring trade, and the gutter children lived ell day in the streets. One or two cases of heat apoplexy were recorded, and diphtheria was rife. The doctors worked night and day. The wealthy drove in landaus, and breakfasted off strawberries and hothouse grapes ; their children wore dainty silks and cambrics, and carried lacs sunshades. The poor became Stoics, and endured the discomforts a .scanty purse brings. -

Dust swept up Salisbury street- in blinding clouds, and filtered through windowsills and und,?r thresholds, filling housewives' hearts with disniay In J:heir struggle with dirt. No picturesque "vieAv of harbour or city could be obtained from the row of dingy houses in Salisbury street — only dusty hedges and brokenhearted lowers, a brewery and a bakehouse, and children, children, everywhere and always.

The junior clerks in Julian's mercantile house joined their elders in anathematising the atmosphere, and sought every opportunity of slacking their thirst at a corner shop, where lemon drinks were mixed for the modest sum of twopence.

Julian thought of his rowing club, and groaned. How he wished he had been mor.e careful a week ago and not caught cold after bathing. He would now be put out of fll chance of being in the Fours. No young full-blooded man is- a. good patient. Just when all his cares were beginning to darken his horizon, the gate swung back on its hinges, and Charlie Graham crunched the gravel path under his feet.

He was of medium height, with a fresh face that wrinkled up like a withered appV? when he laughed ; the hair that appeared under his straw hat was dashed with grey — grey that is the price of care and sorrow and responsibility — but the bUie eyes that looked out upon the woild vr.ere full of hope and joy and purpose. Although 42, he was boy enough to enjoy all of energy and exercise and pursuit pertaining to j'outh. Small wonder he was beloved of his fellow bankers and those lie claimed as fiiende.

Three months before, -when Julian had come to the city from New Zealand's capital in the north, circumstances threw them together, and they became frieuds. A stretch of some 20 years lay between them, but it only served to bind them closer. They discovered they had mutual friends in the North Island : they belonged to the same tennis club, and fell in. with the same people.

Graham's heart went cut to the boy — • away from home for the first time. Ho had a vivid recollection, when only little more than a junior, of having been sent to relieve at a branch of his bank iip ttie

coast, and how the manager's wife had mad-? life tolerable for him during the three weeks he had been there.

Dam,'; Fortune dowered him with a big lisart : as regards otl*er gifts she was not so libei il. When he was 29, his father died jnd left to his caie a delicate ■widow and a family of girls, of whom only two possessed ability enough to undertake any work to lessen the household expenses. One sister was too much of an invalid — so she and her mother thought — to do more than a little house work, and the remaining one was blind. His only brother had gone off to the Australian goldfields, and afforded no help at any time, ho the bulk of the responsibility fell upon him. He had inherited his mother's sunny disposition and his father's keen sense of duty. His father had been a retired colonel ; perhaps that had something to do with it. For years marrying; was out ox the question for him, and although he had come m contact with one or two girls who would have suited him. and whom he distinctly liked, a rapid survey of the y.ear's household expenditure was an effectual means of smothering the flame that might have become a conflagration. 'But the years flew by, and three of his sisters &°ttled in homes of then-

- own/- and the strain- on the purse-strings * was considerably lightened. Two hundred- a year is little enough to keep a delicate mother in comfort and give sight to tha blind, and Graham bitterly realised it. There are times when the yoke of duty cuts into the soul. During the past year he had been stifling > voice of rebellion against his lot. For love — tbft only love that could satisfy his mature years; the only love that could be a. true helpmeet all along the journey and tiever tire ; the great love that is born of the Eternal Good acd finds its life in its (3eath of self — had suddenly, without a moment's warning, stepped into his life, and flooded it with happiness. Butevevy sunset must fade. Every joy is shadowed ; with pain. Graham grappkd with his jNeinesis until it became intolerable ; then he laid the facts before his old friend, the banker's wife. "Tell her/ was all she Said. "How, can I?" he expostulated, "when tin no nearer to riches than ever I was, and the only prospects I have are a possible managership in a country district, fend a little money an old aunt may leave." "Biches ,do not make happiness," sh.e Imswered, with the gladness of conviction in '■•her ' tone, "and it is the dreariest out-. - Jook for a girl when a" man has made her love him and class not ask her to marry Bim. I have seen so many lives spoilt, "all 3>ecaiise .of some foolish pride that keeps • a man-ifrom speaking.- A man I knew marred his life and another's through this .v,ery mistake. He "' wae silent," and she thought he was- not in -earnest; pride stepped into her heart, and in a moment of bitterness she accepted and married an old friend who had been plaguing her for years. He turned- out a drunkard, and made her wretched, and she made the agonising discovery that after all the other man really lov/?d her. % -Her life is a .perfect purgatory. Now/ do you think it right to keep silence V" " j Graham looked thoughtful. Then he^ • jmiled. ' - ~ * "After all," he said, "it would not say much for the depth of love if it could not "stand the- test of time." " Certainly not," laughed the- banker's wiie. " ' A wistful look came into the man's eyes, and a shadow fell upon his sunny face for •, moment. "It seems a caddish thing tb-do," he said, "when she is young, and we might have to .wait years." . ''- - "Tell hier that," laughed the lady, remembering her girlhood's 1 romance. ' j . Graham looked at; hea- dancing grey ] eves, and the" thought struck Mm like; a jfiash that after' all she. was still only a ' girl.' It' was he who had grown, old and 1 j staid- and wovjdly wise. - With'-a^udden . ■ pang of regret 'for his' departed youth, he stood* 'over to the windewfand looked out upon th* ocean, thereby avoiding has cony- -- j^raon's frankly- curious eyes. ■,'.-. : And as fate would have-it^ his mind was made up theia. TJpon the beach lie caught a vision of a Bailor taking leave of his sweetheart . . • a common enough occurrence', but- full of" suggestion to him at" the moment. He turned with a whimsical laugh 1 . j "PU try my hick," he- said. Perhaps it was ,the happiest time, he had spent in -his life away aip in the mountairis, when, taking bis courage , in liis hands, he Sound his way to Oaldands: Certainly it was the- shortest. He need not have entertained fears regarding his ■ Buit, for Pauline's uncle, who was also her guardian, had known and liked him for 15 years— long before Paulince, came to the mountains. To be sure of John Douglas was one thing — to be sure of his niece quite another.- Pauline was- what might be termed "wilful." She had kniown Graham seven years, and frequent intercourse at the old" homestead brought them within the pale oE love/That is what Pauline thought it was; and many before her have entered ; into ' marriage vows with a smaller knowledge of "the real thing." Graham returned to town 10 years - younger. - f -' For a year he toiled at his desk with " the' glad 'consciousness that, every penny ■ saved meant the lessening of- the gulf f ■ tween - them. Once s>be. came to town '• for a week to act as bridesmaid for an old/ school chum, and. life to' Graham was all " sunshine.- Pince he had had to' live on the crumbs of a bi-weekly; correspondence. As ho. stepped up Mrs" Taylor's garden 1 path ~hs> was thinking of the snow-capped-moun- , tains, the green river running clear" and smooth in its deep gravel bed, th© stretch | of valley, red with sorrel weed' — and of j Pauline: Pauline in cool holland^and blue Ibelt; Pauline, with nut-browxT'hair and violet eyes; Pauline, trilling a light little ( song as she fed her geese and ducks and j spring chickens ; Pauline, demure and wist- I iul, with shadows, in her- eyes; Pauline, gay and coquettish ; Pauline, tearful and . repentant; Pauline, full of love azid sym- " „- jiathy and joy and hope ; Pauline, wilful, only to b9 coaxed and petted. Graham entered Mrs Taylor's boarding bouse, and the dream faded. "You are thin," he remarked to Julian, who welcomed him with glad eyes ; "you'll have to get out of here.'" Julian's' white face ,was framed with a shock of uncut black itour that accentuated the hollowness of his cheeks. His cough ■shook the bed Graham placed a basket ■of grape 3on the countsipane, and sat down upon the only chair. His quick eyes , swept in every detail of the untidy room. Julian read his thoughts'. "Yes," he said, with a half-smile, "it" • tihe mater were to walk in she would take ,s. blue fit. . it takes an illness to let a ' fellow know what his lodgings are like, end to know what his home was. . Ji'Jl this week it has been, noise, noise, noise all ■'day — in fact, all night as well. Baby Tay3br is engaged in cutting teejth at present, and thinks it" his duty to leb- everyone !know it. Tho twins are always in hot watet, and Alartha imagines 'The cottage -%y the sea ' a soothing melody — ' so-near-.ard-yet-so-far' sort of thing I can tell •you'i*- f»i\ loses its effect after a while."- •

Graham nodded. "You must get away to the mountains," he said. "I've been in tc sea the doctor, and he says it is absolutely necessary. I've squared up the H'anager, and he is quite -willing to let j r ou go off next "week if you are fit." Julian started. Comprehension dawned upon him. "Not in your place !" he cried. Graliain looked out of the window ; he was ashamed to show how very attractive the mountains seemed. Then be turned a smiling mnsk to Oiis companion. "I can't get away yet, I find, and shall go at Easter." Truly man disposes. "You're a brick," said Julian, huskily. Graham smiled cheerfully. "The only drawback about it is the doctor says you must afc all costs get away from the coast, so> that means not to trip up to your Ijeo'ple. I have some friends inland Vvdio vould take you in at a moment's notice, and I can guarantee you a good time." For the phade of a moment Graham's eyes wore -wistful. But Julian, knowing nothing, saw netting. "You're a brick," he said again, and his face repaid Graham fourfold. Then ho v. ent away — out into the suushire. The old dining room at Oaldands was cool and -dark, -and filled with the scent of roses. Upon the walk hung the of 'thr&o succeeding generations — Douglas ladies in satin and lace, with sweet, gentle fac?s and commanding eyes: Douglas men of strong, florid fibre' with starched ruffles and waistcoats, who had given their lives for Bonnie Scotland. Through tUie small, diamond-paned windows that opened to the si.n could be seen the snow-capped^ mountains and rocky hills. Willows hung fn graceful grief over tlie babbling water-race that ran through the grass below the rose garden ; the "Lombardy poplars and 1 old oaks stood in straight, even rows along the- short avenue irom the 'white gate, and on the east of the house was a group of larches, soft and delicate in their mantle' of green. From the garden, in front rose the perfume of flowers — migronette and stocks and sweet'williams, summer chrysanthemums and peonies, and roses — roses -everywhere. They climbed the steoie walls sucA peeped over the trellisw'ork, nodding their blooms in the wind like children at play; they graced the lawn, and scattered thedr incense up to Heaven; they ran* up the poplars and trailed over the paling fence, and brought glory and ■beauty and gladness in their • trash. . ; jOaklands possessed a gardener who knew •hi* business. • ' * . -A wave of homesickness came over Julian wiheri .'he entered the white ; gate. He fbought'of his home in i'heO North Island, arid sighed;' then, remembering has sisters, hp'shriigged 'his- shoulders. His father was 'a 'wool"and^§rain merchant" who "had prospered exceedingly. He had a wife who knew how to spend his money to the best advantage . (according "to the . ethics of society), and their town housa and their country homestead furnished abundant proof of her skill and ■ artistic talent Julian's two sisters had tflie best educational- advantages an English, bearding school, could give them. They 'had toiircd Europe and studied painting and music m Dresden; ■they had spent six months in India, and visited Japan, and after an absence of four 1 years cam*} home "finished," but with a supreme discontent with the narrowness of their old surroundings, and with ideas that jarred upon their father's homely nature. He thought of the hundreds that had been spent upon them, and solemnly registered a vow that his only son should not have his life made soft with luxury. With the characteristic power of an Englishman! whoi always had his own way, he sent Julian south to a good! mercantile house, without considering his wishes regarding a career. Julian had been somewhat wild at college — perhaps that had something to do with it. "He must begin where I began," he said, when his wife tried to shake his iron will; "the young man knows that some day, when.' I have done with, figures and this 'wicked but delightful world,' he will find his nest. as well feathered 1 as many — better "feathered, indeed." And his wife, seeing that expostulation was useless, said no more. Julian had his oirn, ideas concerning his path' in J life. He found himself confiding them to Pauline an hour after they had' met. ' "It's no use trying to ram a square plug into a round hole," he said, with a force concentrated into an overwhelming power through long thought upon the matter; "I am only cut out for the army." Pauline was looking very sweet and girlish, and her open faco and inquiring blue eyes looked up at Julian in the frankest manner possible. He was 6ft 3in in his socks, and she- wasi what is: called "petite.''" <. Julian, suddenly found it absorbing to watch the shades of expression that flitted ever her face and through her eyes. She had 1 % little stand-offish air that drew men on. At the end of the first dayJulian was head over ears in. love with her. "The mater would not mind seeing me in a regiment, but the old man is dead against it, and as in the army one has. to sp,?ll cash with a capital letter, I've had to knuckle imder." Pauline refilled his cup with a thoughtful look. "The pin-pricks of life keep one on the .move, don't you think?" she said in a eweet little way that made Julian suddenly feel she was worlds above him, and he must get to her — somehow. Then Pauline's uncle returned from his horses, and conversation became general. Julian was somewhat of a society man, and had seen many girls in his day ; certainly he had been in lov.e. before, but never like this, he told himself at- least 20 times during the first week. The world went very well that first week. Julian made the discovery that

' Pauline sang — not like other girls did, in a thin transparent way that suggested a comb and paper, but with deep, r'ch notes that came from the heart. He found also she could paint a little, and having picked up scraps of information upon the subject from, his sisters, he lowered another line into the unexplored depths of her soul. His success surprised him She was artistic to the core, and thirsted for a comrade in the dreamland of art. Her uncle had inherited none of their ancestors' love of the beautitful, and to her | affianced lover a sunrise or a waterfall held nothing but -superficial beauty. Long hours were spent under the willows and in the rose garden. Julian was not conskleivxl strong enough yet to ride off to the hills with John Douglas. It is to be feared Julian played the hypocrite. He grew restless when the morning hours kept her busy with h.er cook" or when a stray , visitor claimed her attention. And Pau- ! line's eyes were holden. Sometimes they would drive out in the gig. Pauline was known and loved for miles around, and she took her guest to several of the homesteads in the district. Julian was in his element. He had a happy way of setting people at tb,?ir ease — a manner born of blue blood. His great-grandfather had been an earl. Pauline coloured with pleasure when she saw his popularity. The old house rang with laughter. Pauline's uncle would lie back in his armchair and laugh heartily at Julian's imitation of the country's eccentrics. Then he orould relapse into his newspaper when Pauline began to sing. Sometimes a little snore would come from his corner, and the young people would be practically alone. And all this time Graham's name was seldom mentioned. Not, that Pauline did not think of him. She wrote her two letters a week as before, but something crept into them that hurt Graham. He bore it for three letters, then he mentioned it. Pauline's face flamed when she read it. "I can't help thinking/ he wrote, "that something is on your mind, little girl — something you are afraid to tell me. Afraid of me?— my God! I hope not. .. . There is a chance that I may be able to get up your way, after all, at Christmas time, and if so, Hindemarsh and I can go down together. He seems to be getting the good time I promised him." For an hour Pauline sat in her room and watched the sunset fade and twilight darken the weird mountains. A horrib'e presentiment of evil held her. Was it that she did not ■ wish" Charlie to come while Julian was here? , . . Was he the right sort .of man for her to marry? . . . How' could she face- poverty — poverty in conjunction with his relatives? At first, perhaps, but afterwards — when the r glamour was off. Would it not be better to write and ask him to release her —perhaps for' six months, to see if she really' knew her own mind? A mistake "Would be" ghastly/ A bat flew against the window pane, and then wheeled out into the twilight. Down the gorge the shadows lay deep and grey. The wind moaned in the trees ; the sheep dogs bayed to the rising moon. Pauline shuddered. The night seemed full of mystery and foreboding, and a gloom weighed down her buoyant spirits. She leant her face against the pane. She might Have posed as Mariana in the South. She , sighed ; Night draw in her curtain ; Pauline was lost in r&verie. ' ' Suddenly her lover's face rose before ; her — not smiling, as Was its wont, but with an expression of entreaty that terrified her. Then th.? eyes smiled. " She threw herself upon her bed in an agony of weeping. i The following day was Sunday. John Douglas belonged to the school that considered it duty to attend church under any circumstances." The day was^ bright, with t a cool breeze, blowing off the mountains. All was peace and happy calm. Only , within Pauline's breast was there any J iinrest. She pleaded a headache, and < watched her uncl.-e. set off with Julian for the little schoolhouse, where Divine service was held twice a month. Julian had wished .to stay at home with Pauline, but her uncl.e. had taken it as a matter of course that he would accompany him, and , Pauline had not been encouraging. He could not understand her this morning, and he felt hurt at something foreign in her manner. So he. went to church. Paulina fed her chickens . anjl young j turkeys, and then retired indoors' to write to Graham. The sooner her mind was unburdened the better. This bond seemed intolerable : she would be happier free ; i she never wanted to marry. Yet what of i Charlie? Her heart "smote her. She threw down her pcn — it would be time I .enough when he came at Christmas. She j could explain better. But what was there to explain? She sat in a dr.eam ; then the others came home. Pauline went out into the garden to meet them. Her soft hair caught the ' sunbeams and held them fast : her violet , eyes weive smiling, and tender curves lived ' in her mouth. Julian grew happy again. They were standing by the low verandah where the wisteria hid the windows. John Douglas had gone to the stables. Julian was toying with a rose leaf, his eyes 1 bent on the ground. The girl was watch- j ing the white billowy clouds drift across the mountains. "Don't look like that,' 1 he said suddenly ; " I can't bear it." Pauline's teyes swept his in a frightened way. Her knees trembled, for she knew her hour had come. She turned to go in, but his quick hand detained her era she had gone two paces. "You've got to think about it," he said, with masterful audacity. "Do you imagine I can go back to town and not know if you love me or not? Do you not know that ever since I've seen you I've loved you? I can see you are taken aback ; , but you'll try to love me — you'll give me . hope?" Pauline's eyes were w.et. Her lips quivered, Julian was watching her thoughts as they flitted over her flower-like face in each varying expression. Her eyes flutteraL droojoecl, thea the over whelming

power of his brought them up to his. For a brief moment they were in Paradise. Julian caught her" face in hie hands and kissed her — not once, but often. Then her uncle's step was heard, and Pauline wrenched heiself away, and in a blind delirium of happiness rushed indoors.

The following day the blow fell.

The shearers had come to Oaklands, and th.c homely old farmer Had. his hands full. " I shall have to ask j'ou to go for the mail, Pauline," he said. " The men are a week late, and I want all tfcie hands on the place." Then he looked at Julian. " You w-erc wanting to see the whole process, weren't you? I'll hav.e. time thio morning to explain it all to you."

Julian's eyes sought Pauline for an answer. It did not escape the old man. His keen look read her toul ; something of reproach cam.c into his honest old face, but he said nothing. Pauline's colour rose as she met the frankness of his inquiring gaze. Christmas suddenly seemed very far way. She would have to write after all. How could she continue to hold Julian at arm's length, when he understood her mind without a word from her, and when she knew it also. If she could only tell him of Graham. But -flesh shrinks at the. Clip of bitterness. Pauline was not perfect. "Mr Hindemarsh has promised to drive me out in the gig," she said, with a calm strength born of a sudden resolve to tell him all. Her uncle turned away. Graham had been his Mend for 15 years. He was loyal to the core. A heavy sense of depression burdened Pauline as she tied on her gossamer veil and. slipped into h>?r driving coat. A little voice was telling her she had not acted quite equarely with her two lovers, but she banished it with the promise that Julian should know all. There was onlyone; course open. The finger of fate pointed to it. She must be true to Charlie. To strengthen her resolve she stood for a few moments before his portrait on the wall ; but the sight of the smiling ejes hurt her. She went out into the sunshine where Julian was waiting in the £I°'. The post office and schoolhouse shared the same, building three miles down the road, that wound round a steep decline to the grey river bed. The valley -was reft with the omnipresent sorrel weed ; above, the mountains were softened in a light rain, but sunshine dwelt in the lowlands. The first 10 minutes passed in eilen.ee. Julian was wondering if his father would take Him into bis firm when he heard of Pauline. Visions of a possible partnership floated before, his mind. She Avas trying to find aix opening for her story. When they had. at last reached tflio valley and a ,two-mil,& stretch lay before them, he turned his atteast'iM from the mare, and looked at the girl beside him. "I had a letter fronn Graham th© other day — he is a. good : old sort. I'll never ba able to thank him enough for sending

Paulino grew white, and her eyes were drawn with pain. Now was her opportunity, and, coming of a fighting stock, sh.3 foced the battle bravely. _ - "I have been very unhappy since Sunday," she said mi a- choked little way ; "you should never have spoken, or, rather, I should never hare let yon say anything.

, . . I should have told you." ■ Pauline was actually crying. Julian slipped his arm round her.

"Yes?" he asked quietly.

Pauline took courage again. "I shall always reproach, myself for it. I meant all along to say something, but it did not seem to come into conversation. Mr Graham and I have been engaged for a year."

Site covered her eyea. The arm around her shook. There was an appalling silence. Then Julian spoke, and his voice had the deliberation and strength of manhcod. Its new ton© of authority, of conliotion, of conflicting fears and hopes and desires startled her. All at once she knew that he was the one man to whom obedience would be Love and Love obedience.

"If you love him, Pauline, I'll go away. I only wish to see you happy — but, dear. So you love him?"

He peered round' at her with anxious eyes. "Do you?"' he repeated.

She dropped like a flower, and he could scarcely hear her answer.

"1 must be faithful to him," she said, not dai'ing to meet, his gaze; then passionately, and throwing honour to the winds, "but you know I don't iovs him as I ought." "Then you can't many him," he said sturdily, .and set his lips.

"I must," she ans-wered. Julian gave a little laugh. "Do you imagine I am going* to let three people's lives be spoilt? That's what it will mean, if, loving me, you marry Graham. For he will find it out. A man always knows if a woman is sincere or not — after they are mairied."

Pauline did not answer

"It just seems like the finger of Fate, my ill and coining up here, and meeting j-ou. It's no use beating about the bush, Pauline; we- two could never be happy with anyone else — we two art meant far one another."

His smile broke her heart, for she saw he was trying to believe it would not be the spoiling of Graham's life. She turned away her face to hide her tears.

Then. Julian spoke again, and a hopeless ring sounded in his voice.

"I ought not to be jealous of Graham, but I am. I hate to think of the hours he has spent with you — of the happiness ho has had Avhich should have been mine. I feel as if I'd like to order pistols and coffe9 for two. But your happiness comes first, and if you really want to many him, th'en all I cam do> is to Tvishi you good luck."

His face turned grey. He was tasting th s first gall of the cup of sacrifice. It is not till later the sweetness comes.

Paulinie's voice, low and wistful, firm though tinder, angered, him. "Let me

1 sso Charlie again, first, and then TO knov, ' But even as she spoke she knew her heart. 'J'ney drew up at the schoolhouse, and Pauline got down. "I shan't be long," 1 she said, and went to meet what was to bc-fall her. Qhe school was having a spelling ksson, and through the open' window come the monotonous chant of " B — i — d," " Bid" ; "B— a— d," "Bad"; " B— e—d," "Bed."

Several men gathered at the dcor. They nedded to Julian, couratiy-wise, and one came, to speak to him. Ten minutes parsed— twonty — there was no sign of Pauline. Julian grew tired 1 of switching flies from his face, so, tying up the reins, he "ot down. At the same moment Pauline came out into the sunshine. Julian naught his breath. She stood locking round her with a dazed expression. He strode over to hei and caught her arm. ''What is it?" his eyes asked. She put her hands out to him as if to feel if he were really there. "Oh, Julian, Julian, there has been a dieadful tram accident ca Saturday evening. . . . Three people wer.e. killed, and Charlie was one of them." She moved over to the gig and slowly mounted. Julian watched hei' in horrorstricken amazement. Then he too got up. And away among this mountains, alone in the silence o>f the gorge, she told him the story. "It is a merciful thing his old aunt ias just left them money / h? said quietly. Pauline's luand tightened convulsively over a letter to her — full of his good fortune and their possible marriage. A long silence fell upon them— breathing of sorrow and love and the forces that go to the growr.h of the heart. Julian spoke at last. "It seems the finger of Fate that he never knew what you were going to tell him." His voice was very low. Pauline glanced at him shyly, with tears on her lashes. "Yes," slue said, so softly he scarcely caught it. Their eyes met — dizzily; Pauline's cheek flamed, and Hope lived again in Juliana face He drew her towards him, and, with the hearts of children., they entered their Paradise.