SHORT STORIES.

Otago Witness, Issue 3515, 26 July 1921, Page 57

SHORT STORIES.

A CLEVER ADVf KTISEWEM.

By

Tom Halt.

[Coi’xlilOUT.] I had edited iny last copy, and van preparing to leave the dingy office of the “Daily Planet,’’ with my weekly “day off” in prospect on the morrow when 1 was called back to receive a personal telegram. It was dated Sky Beach and read as follows : “Come here to-morrow. A good time and a good item for you. “Archie Travers.’' 1 at oiice concluded to go. Sky was as good a place as any other for a newspaper man to spend a day off, and if Archie Travers had an item it was sure to be a good one. More important still, if he promised a good time it needed no endorser. He was the King of New York’s ‘‘jeunesse doree,” with no heir apparent or presumptive in his royal perspective. Nevertheless the item was the prime attraction to me. I liked Archie, perhaps b dter than I did any of the other dudes with whom I was occasionally thrown in contact, but I had little except professional u.-e for any of the tribe. Archie’s family was all right, hie fortune was great, lie had b ains in a fair state of preservation even though they were not in a condition that- evidenced much cultivation. But 1 disliked his conceit and his attitude toward women. lie was patronising with men whenever they permitted it (which I distinctly did not), but women he merely permitted to err t. there was not even in New York society a gill.quite up to his ideal, and according to him he had broken several hearts that though feminine were royal. Still he was a generous fellow, and 1 have known him to toss a, handful of gold coins among a group of factor v situs—a proceeding which prompted one of them to ask me if 1 were taking him to the asylum. In fact he acted like a callow patriarch. Consequently he was not particularly popular with sensible, men. At ten the next morning I met him on the verandah of the Sky Beach Hotel. “Ah, Johnson, my good fellow, glad to see vou. I knew you’d come, ’ said he. From the moment of that greeting I was angry with mvself for coming. Tt was only when he felt particularly “large ' that he was patronising with me. However, I was in for it. and T proceeded at once to question him concerning the promised news item. “All, yes. dear boy,” eaid lie in response to my question, “I am working up a news item for you. hn.it not wholly on your own account. O dear no. The fact its T am doing a little favour for Qr.eenie Thornton “Ah. an actress in it. eli ’ ’ 1 interjected. “Yos, an old friend of mine. Nice girl —but only a girl you know. Mere woman. Helping her out a« a matter of duty you know —general duty to mankind especially to weak womankind, you know.” “What is the partiou’ar lay?” T asked. “TtA this way.” he answered. “Qucenie has been staying here at the Sky this summer, end we've become pretty good friends. Find her rather more interesting than the pink and white hud® of propriety, in society—all satiety, you know. And besides one can have a jolly good time with her without being too monotonously correct on the one hand, and without breaking her heart when you forget her at the end of the person on the oilier. Don’t like to break heart®. Tt pall-, on a fellow after a wlii'e, vou know but, of con roc vou don’t know. And of course she real ices that I’m too knowing to Vie cn ught matrimoniall y. “Well, vou see. she came down here with a bosom friend, Mi-'s C’i .sv ManderVille. They were in the nine company la.-t vear. Friendship lasted until they d’scovevcd that they were i ivnb? for the same cart next season, with their mumager in a deuce of a mtandarv as to which one to give it to. Then cf «our<e they became deadly enemies. But Ouemie was terribly tip.ict about it. Feared ( is=v would beat her. M f ii’.dn’t have that happen for the world. Worried herself half si<k. bsenfually <anie to me 'a* she should have done before), told me the whole story, and. of course f promised to heln her out.’’ “Well, how are you going to do it?” I asked, impatiently. “T'vo worked up a mighty clever advertisement for her. old man.” Archie answered, fi, a low. confidential tone. “Ah !” “Yes. I’ve fixed it this wav. I am going to propose to her. Pretend to he head over heels in love with her and all that. And make no secret of it either. You ean imagine the sensation.’’ “Oh. that’s nl’ right, She ; a going to refuse we. I will he broken-hearted, mope armnd. send flowers haunt st® e door and all that. The advertisement will win with the manager, and eventn-dlv I’ll trot over to Uari.H and laugh mv fill.” “And T?” “Vou are to " rite it un.” “When is all tin’s • ning to ham-ien?’’ “This very evening, mv bov.” said Archie gai!v. “And we’re coin*' to kill two birds with one -tone. Yon have the preeioivi honour to 1 aenoninted with Mi-e fi-sv Mandervillo T believe?” “Vps.” “You see. Qneeuie remembered that fortunate fact. Now -he wants +o humhle her rival point, blank. So this evening yo” will take Afiss ri.-,« v out for a stroll while j escort Queoni.-." “ T s that, tlie w av -he is to he liuP'blod ?” “Oh. of course not. vou know Have a Hit. of natje’ice. Now listen. Yon are to take fh’.uw fa a, certain ,-eat. in that grove out, on the point,. T* hemvms that, a few foof. from that -eat but hidden fro 1 ' 1 it bv tbiek lilac bushes, i another. Onoenie ■ and T will go there. And there, in the

hearing of Cissy and yourself, I will speak tlse iatal words that will raise Queenie to the pinnacle of happiness and sink Cissy to the depths of des|»air. See?" 1 diun t have a w'osd to say. It is a way newspaper men have. 1 was not at all averse to witnessing the idiotic farce that this fool dude had planned, but I made no promi.-es as to what I would publish concerning it, if anything. I hardly expected that it would be carried out, in fact. Nevertheless I sent my card up to Miss Cissy Manderville at the appointed time, and invited her to take a stroll. She accepted willingly enough, and we repaired to the rendezvous on the point. Archie was as prompt as we were and he acted his part well. As for Queenie I must cay that she acted much better than she usually did in the glare of the footlights. Archie led i-p to the love scene prettily. He referred to the beauty of the evening, of the moon, the stars, and eventually of his fair companion, who-e beauty he declared, eclipsed the fairest work of Nature. Finally, in a burst of eestacy he almost shouted : “I love you, 1 love you, Queenie! Oh, darling, will you marry me?’’ “I will,” answered Queenie. And when I realised the full force and effect of that answer you could have knocked me down with a feather. You can imagine my feelings also Archie’s. But before anyone could say a word my fair partner Miss Cissy Manderville rushed around the shrubbery and threw herself into the arms of the extremely unperturbed Miss Queenie Thornton. “Oh, my dear, dear girl,” cried Cissy. “I congratulate you from the bottom of my heart. We heard it all, Mr Johnson, and I —we heard it all.” “Oh, but it wasn’t in earnest,’’ pleaded Archie. "She was to decline me. Really, it doesn't count at all.” “Sir !” said Miss Cissy. “Sir!” shrieked Queenie. “There’s no uso squealing, Archie,” I said to that young man." “You’ve been bitten, and you’ve got to grin and bear it.” “I guess that’s so,” he answered, dolefully. “How much Queenie?’’ “Ten thousand,” she answered, soulfully. “Suppose I refuse?” “Breach of promise suit, plenty of witnesses”—she pointed to Cissy and myself—“verdict for more or less of the long green, and a cleverer advertisement than you fixed U" for me. And, after I’ve got my money, I’ll tell the real story.” “I give in,” groaned Archie. “Meet me at Blow and Brummel’s law office at noon to-morrow with a full release, and I’ll hand you a certified check for the amount. ” mount.” “I prefer cash,” said Queenie, sweetly. “All right, rash it shall be,” said Archie. We offered to escort the two young ladies back to the hotel, but they said they were quite able to take care of themselves. I guess they were. On the way ba-clc Archie spoke hut once. “Jonrisen,” said he, “I brought you down here for a good time.” “I have had it,” I answered. “And a news item.” “I also have that-.’’ “But you won’t publish it, will you, Johnson?” “On condition that, whenever I demand it, you will acknowledge publicly that you are an infernal fool.” And he agreed. [All Rights Reserved.] Sit PHAftih's LEIiER.

By

Brenda Elizabeth Spender.

Stepname Dowry yawned, yawned very preuuiy, out looked round guiltily to see wue tiler or no tier yawn luul inn ted tne utter boreuom wmcii engulied her to tne man who leaned against the window frame; but he was looking at the ram heating down on the fading lilac bowers. Perhaps it was not a dire offence to feel bored and dull halfway through a tong morning indoors which she, excepting tor the ram, had intended to spend out m the woods gathering bluebells; but then Stephanie Uevery’s case was a little peculiar. The tali, dark man who, as she sat on the low window-seat, seemed to tower above her little figure was going to marry her in the autumn, and it had a morning spent alone with him—for Stephanie's aunts prided themselves oa their consideration ior the lovers —hung so heavily on her hands, what was a whole lifetime likely to prove? Tne thought flashed through her as her eyes assured her that he was watching the rain splashing up in the puddles in the gravel walk, and that he had not noticed her litt.e lapse from conventional behaviour. She had wondered before whether, alter all, she was quite the right sort of girl to be a clergyman’s wife; now as she looked again at his thin young face with its curious hint of some power not often given to the sons of men the thought grew, li Frank Soatai had been a more ordinary man his fiancee would have understood him better and appreciated him more. Somehow his attitude to life tired her, and yet they had known and loved each other from childhood, and the idea of marrying any ether man, and even less the idea of his marrying any other woman, had never occurred to her.' Perhaps, she told herself, it was because she had known him so long that she did not find him very amusing. She yawned again, and at that Sou tar turned, and the warmth of a smile shone in his serious, deep set. dark eyes—a particular smile that they only wore for her. “It’s the rain,” she raid apologetically. “It makes me feel depressed. Doesn’t it bother you?” He shook his head and smiled, and a little colour crept into his dark tace. “As a matter of fact, I was day dreaming. The ran made me think of next winter when we shall have settled down —together.”

“Settled down.” The words sounded gloomily in Stephanie’s ears. She was eemcious of no uesire to settle down ; she was 3-cung, she wanted to be happy, to see the beautiful, gay side of life, not to settle down. “Well, I hope it won’t rain Loo often then,” she said almost petulantly. “Will it matter very much to as?” Soutar held out his hand, intending to touch her cheek, but Stephanie was not in the mood for the caress, slight as it was ; she affected not to see the outstrteched hand, and sprang to her feet. “Oh, what shall we do now?” she asked him. “I’m tired of everything.” She broke off and .went on with a sudden accession of eagerness, her mood changing. “Oh, I remember something splendid ! I’ve been waiting ages to ask you to help me to write a letter to the French people. It’s fo silly to be related to counts and countesses and all sorts of nice things, and for them not even to know that you’re alive. Poor old dears!” Frank laughed, and agreed that Stephanie’s French relations were much to be pitied. He was well acquainted with the family traditions that Stephanie’s great-grandfather had been a cadet of the illustrious French family of the De Vrie and an “emigre” at the'time of the Revolution, and they spent a happy hour concocting a letter in French, which was not one of Stephanie’s strong points, and in which she made a dozen delicious mistakes which her lover could scarcely correct for laughing. Then when it was safeiv signed and sealed and addressed to “Madame la Comtesse de Vrie,” Stephanie must needs insist upon opening it again because it had ,occurred to her that the “poor old near ought to have her photograph, and at last Frank was permitted to trudge down to the village in the rain and despatch it upon its way, so all unwittingly launc ning tno bolt that was presently to ruin the happiness of his life. After that one evening when they laughed over it together, Frank hardly recalled the letter to France again for some time. He went back next day to his parish and his work, and it came to him as a- thing most unexpected when he received a few lines from Stephanie almost incoherent from excitement and haste, ohe had dreamed and dreamed and built a thousand plans on what her French relations might do for her, but not «e of them had touched the reality. “The Countess do Vrie has written to me the sweetest letter,” scrawled Stephanie. “I am to call her ’ cousine ' ; of course we are, only a bit removed—or a.t least- her husband was. She is a widow with no children and immensely rich, and she is longing to see me. I am to spend a month with her at her chateau; she is impatient for me to come at once. The aunts are willing, though fearfully scared at the idea of such a visit for me, and I am beginning to pack already. She says I must get my new frocks over there. I suppose you won’t be able to come and say good-bye; but a month isn’t very long, and I may just as well he ia France as here if you are not coming to see me, so just write me a nice letter and wish rne a good time.” Frank read her messages through with a curious sense of pain. He repeated to himself many times, “A month isn’t very long, and wrote her the required approval of her p’ans; but the pain would not quite be shaken off even then. A month passed and another; Stephanie was in Paris—Stephanie was here, there, and everywhere. She wrote that French people were delicious, “particularly the men,” and signed her letters “Stephanie- de Vrie.” For Soutar the days dragged drearily. He ventured to ask at last when she would return, as there were vet many things to settle and decide as to their future home, and then the bolt fell. It seemed that the Comtesse had arranged to adopt Stephanie and to make her her heiress. “She is so much alone,” wrote Stephanie. Apparently she had forgotten two lonely old ladies in a dull English vilH with neither wealth nor great connections to cheer their lot. It anpeared further that the Comtesse was anxious that her little “cousine” should make a great marriage, but at this the Eno-lish girl had cavilled. “1 told her that I "was engaged to the dearest man in the world, and couldn’t give him up for anythin? ” she went on, ‘but she was very vexed that 3011 are only what she calls £ a village pnest, and in England. I can quite see her point that it would be ridiculous for the owner of Chateau de Vrie and half a dozen other places to live in a shabby little English parsonage, so she suggests that vou shall give up the Church and come to live here. Looking after the estates will be amnle work for you. Now be quick, decide and come, and make your Stephanie the happiest girl in France.” Frank Soutar is an elderly man now, and all this happened before he was thirty, yet the memory of the days after Stephanie’s letter came is still a terrible thing to him ; he looks back to them with shuddering pity for the bov who was so sorely tempted, so sorely torn between his duty and his lore, and the worst dream that ever comes to him is that he is back again in that agonising struggle. For his work was not merely a career, a path lo fame or competence; it was the answer his soul had made to the solemn cal! of human life and sorrow, and lie had freehand willingly given In’s every energy towards the healing of the world’s great sores of ignorance and sin. But he was only human, an essentially manly man, with all a- man’s hopes and longings, all i’.is aspirations for personal happiness aim delight had. as it were, crystallised around Stephanie, and, standing alone in the dark snub r the trees, whose yellowing leaves rained down upon him as the fierce wind tore them away, he stretched out quhering arms to the unresponsive sky, and cried that he could not yield up Stephanie. L< 1 liim be an unfaithful servant, let him withdraw his hand from the plough, lint let him he Stephanie’s husband and ho should be content. So he cried, so he struggled, now praying, now jerking away fiercely from prayer because it drew him towards the loss of half his

life. >So for a week he stayed nis hand torn, swayed hither and thither, miser

able; then at length he wrote her a reply. He tcld her that, unspeakably dear as she was to him, and gladly as he- would have died to serve her, he was not free to leave the work to which he had vowed himself and come to her side. He had won the battle for the moment, but it began again and again in weary, discouraged moments when his heart spoke in the silence, and mocked him with the eternal “cui bono” of its doubt. There were days when he took pen in hand and almost wrote to tell her that he had changed his mind, day's when he looked eagerly for a letter from her to say that riches were nothing without him; days when any figure, faintly like hers, in the far distance filled with the wild hope that she had returned to him; but all these days went bj' and the months and years passed on. At first to keep his resolution from day to day required all his courage; but gradually, very gradually, having now no hopes or expectations of his own on which to spend itself, his strength increased and grew and overflowed in blessing upon other lives. Never man less sought for preferment nor cared for exalted dignities, yet all unwished for they came to him. His sermons with their wonderful mingling of simplicity and power became a feature of English Church life, and at thirty-nine he was the youngest and best-known bi.-hon suffragan of his day. Yet" he was still the same, earnest, unaffected Frank ,Soutar, with the same deep-set dark eyes, pathetic in thenpatient strength and sweetness; nor did he ever seem to realise that he had become a great man, a factor in the nation’s life, and he was honestly and unaffectedly astonished when on the old Bishop of Wichester’s retirement he found himself called upon to rule over things spiritual in that important See. It was as far from his idea of right and wrong to shirk responsibilities as it was to seek honours, and he took up his new work with the same quiet, unflagging energy. At fortyfive his dark hair had become very nearly while, but he was still in his primestalwart, and “every inch the Bishop,” as Americans who had seen him would describe the most famous clergyman of the Anglican Church, “and going strong.” But the position certainly had its drawbacks. The Palace was a somewhat desolate building for a lonely man, and his lack of anyone who could lighten the social side of his work —for be was singularly devoid of relations—was frequently deplored. People who liked the Bishop, and they were not a few, often remarked that it was a pity he did not marry. “It’s not as though he were an elderly man.” they would add, but then nobody in Wichester knew anything of an old wound in the Bishop’s heart, and nothing at all of that Stephanie Devery, the thought of whom still had power to make that strong heart quiver with a pain never to be wholly stilled while life lasted, and a memory recalling dark, exquisite eyes and a tender m-outh, and a love that had promised so much, and ending had left him desolate. Now, of all the dear ladies in the diocese whose souls were fretted by the Bishop’s lonely state, none were more vehement in declaring that he must marry than a certain Lady Skeighly, wife of the Lord Lieutenant of the county, and so determined was she that, instead of selecting one likely lady and presenting her to the Bishop’s notice, she made quite a collection among her frineds of ladies young and old, grave and gay, and invited them to Bkei.gh.3y Castle, when he was staying there, feeling that among so many one would surley find her way to the Bishop’s tender heart. All in vain ! The Bishop was gravely courteous to them all, to every woman, and nothing more to any woman in particular, and Lady Skeighly confided to her dearest friend that, so far as she could see, the Bishop was quite a hopeless case. “He’s not even careless, he’s fatherly!” she said, and there perforce the matter had to rest. Skeighly Castle, a great, grey, comfortable house with fine park lands, stood some twenty miles from Wichester, and Lady Skeighly and the Lord Lieutenant, still cherishing a great affection for the Bishop, despite his matrimonial intractableness, he frequently stayed there when his duties called him to that part of the diocese. It was on one such occasion that Lady Skeighly claimed the Bishop’s escort down to the village. It was a bright, crisp frosty day, and Soutar. who found the hardest thing forced on him by Society was that he must sometimes do nothing and do it gracefully, was only too glad to swing away at a brisk walk beside his hostess down the long drive between the famous elms which were the Lord Lieutenant’s pride. The Bishop was sufficiently penetrating to appreciate the goodness of Dora Skeighly’s heart, in spite of its limitations, and in spite of the weakness of head by which it was sometimes obscured, and be was sorry to see on this particular morning that her generally merry little face was considerably over-clouded. He was not long left to wonder at her deices ion, for to her, in common with the generality of not very intelligent people, a confidant was a necessity, and in common with most people, intelligent or otherwise, it seemed to her that the Bishop would lie a very desirable one. and she turned her head and looked at him as he tramped -along beside her, an erect and string black figure against the frosty landscape. “I know it sounds perfectly brutal of me, Bishop,” she said, “but don’t vou sometimes wish that other people’s troubles needn’t affect you at all?" Soutar smiled. “I don’t think so. No. T feel sure that only as we increase our feeling with and for others will our universal brotherhood become more apparent. 1 fancy that you wouldn’t really care to gain your personal happiness at the expense of your sympathy !” “1 suppose not, but sometimes things are so cruel, and just as one feels quite hannv one’s self someone else rets into

trouble, and one has to go about on tiptoe and wear- a long tace, and even although one ts quite sorry one doesn't feel as bad as one has to pretend. Now, look at to-day. The whole world is simply lovely, and I'm feeling as gay as a robin, and yet Frau von Lent is in such trouble over her boy. I suppose you never met her, did you, when you were staying with us'; She is the giris’ German governess, or, rather, she is English, but ,ived and married in Germany.’' The Bishop was of the opinion that he had never met the lady, and Dora Skeighly proceeded to detail her misfortunes. It seemed that the Frau was a widow with one child, a boy of thirteen or fourteen, and she had bean delighted to come to the Skeighly’s, because it was possible to place her boy with the Vicar of Skeighly, who took a few pupils to augment his income, and the Castle being within walking distance of the village, mother and eon could often be together. And now,’’ said the Bishop’s hostess in lachrymose tones, “that poor, dear Hermon, liar boy, such a- bright little fellow, got knocked down on the level crossing early this morning, and I suppose"—with that appropriate hushing of the voice j with which it is customary to mention the soul s release—“and now I suppose he s dying. He was taking the Vicar’s dog out—it’s a little Aberdeen, and the | bo . v devoted to it. Well, the dog got j 111 the way of a train, and the boy rushed on the line to save it, and—there .you are. - Of course, his mother went down to the Vicarage at once when the news came—-I sent her off in the little car, hut I m afraid there’s nothing more to be done. Still, 1 felt that 1 must ?o down and inquire, but isn’t it awful oil a day like this?” 'lho Bishop agreed with her. The kindest of men in his judgment upon others, yet ho could not suppress the thought that Lady Skeighlv need not have complained of feeling to deeply with the woes of others. For him the day had lost its beauty the very sky seemed darkened by the thought of" that anguished mother watch in." beside her dying bov and Dora Skeighly found him but a pool companion for the remainder of the way. Arrived at, their destination, the Vicar came to them. He was an old man and leeble, and _ obviously so much affected by his pupil’s sufferings that he was able to treat as quite -an 'everyday affair the presence or Lady Skeighly and his Bishop in the little dark drawing room at the V icarage. “He is worse. There is, no hope, I tear, he said m answer to their inquiries "or, rather there is one hope, but we a-ie afraid that it cannot be used in time iiermon is dying of exhaustion. Dr Bell says tnat transfusion of blood within the next quarter of an hour or so might sac© him. but it seems impossible to find a subject for the operation. He will not use me on account of my age : the mother is willing, poor soul, but much to delicate, and almost on the verge of collapse rom . Ine shock of the accident; and Bell cannot operate and use himself. I have been trying to persuade the gardener, but lie is frightened and won’t understand, and his wife has gone into hysterics at He bare idea, and all the while the boy’s chance is slipping away. A dear bov, my lord, my favourite pupil and the mother’s only son.” “How ghastly !" Dora ejaculated. “Isn’t it, awful Bishop ? But Soutar made no reply. He had never been called upon to endure physical pain, and consequently had come, to overrate its terrors. He doubted ins own courage under suffm inland yet he felt that his duty would lead him to it now. He turned to the Vicar" and his voice was a little strained "Would you mind taking me to the doctor. Me mu:t let him see if I should be of an use.” “But, my lord !” protested the Vicar, tnen thought of his pupil, and added “If you only could!” Dora Skeighly broke into indignant protest. 0 1 “I’ve never heard of such a thing! Till, Bishop! Lou, when you’re wanted here, there, and everywhere. You’]! be j ill for weeks, and it will quite spoil* my I house-party!” Before her diatribe was well concluded --outar had taken the Vicar by the arm and had led him from the room, and it j was the elder man who came hack to her soon afterwards with a message from the Bishop that he was accepted for the operation, and would .she kindly send down his man with some of his 'brings. The Bishop lay back among the soft chintz-covered cushions of the best armchair in the snare room at the Vicarage, and sighed softly, with a sense of great weakness and yet of utter rest. °The operation which had loomed so terribly before Ins highly-strung nerves had passed very, differently from how he had imagined it. He had suggested, a little diffidently, that the mother should not be in the room. The suggestion arose from his own feeling of strangeness in a woman’s presence at anv but the most formal moments, and Dr Bell, at first unwilling to dispense with her help, bad yielded with a sudden comprehension of th--' Bishop’s mind, and a little smile at the thought of a man who could give his own blood to save a. child and vet shrink abashed from the presence of the child’s mother at such a scene. However, he had yielded to the Bishop’s whim, and the quiet, darkened room and the little bandaged figure in the bed had moved Son tar’s heart with an overwhelming pitv. which had lifted him away from nil personal considerations. He watched the fair little face on (he pillow, with its closed, blank-fringed eyes, its waxen cheeks, and knew vaguely that it was somehow familiar. TTo only faintly felttile “jerk, jerk, jerk” of the blood flowing from the wound in his arm till his heartseemed to heat so loudly that it shook him from head to foot, and he closed his eves, an 1 everything grew confused and dim. Tie remembered being led down a short passage anl placed gently among

soft cushions, and then by degrees events and things recovered their right proportion, and he knew that the operation was over, and tell to praying for its success, thinking of another widow whose son had been given back to her longing arms years ago at a place called Nam. lime passed, and while he sat, his lips moving 111 prayer, only conscious of a great weakness and weariness, and yet utterly at peace, a light hand touched the door. Soutar did not move. Dr Bell and the Vicar had come in to see him frequently, and he supposed that it was one or tile other of them come again, until the rustle of a skirt made him look up suddenly. A woman stood there before him. Her face was pale, her dark eyes red with recent tears; but yet she smiled, and the Bishop, looking at her with wonder, joy, and pain commingled, cried witn a voice that came from the very depths of his soul, “Stephanie!” in a moment she was down at his side, on her knees, and had taken his weak hand in her own, and was covering it with mingled tears and kisses. “i’es, .Stephanie-—Stephanie come to tell you that you were right and sh© was wrong. Stephanie corn© to thank you. But, ah, mon Dieu ! there are no words—for you have sayed my boy!” Too weak to reason, too weak to puzzle anything out for himself, only conscious that this was Stephanie—altered, and yet tlie same in all that mattered —he repeated after her wondering H’, “Your boy? Your boy?” “My boy, my little liermon. Oh. don’t you understand?” Still holding the hand that was not in the sling and pressing it against her heart, she spoke softly, socretely, and when I told her the dischild. ‘‘Don’t you realise now that I am that Frau von Echt, the governess at the Castle? I have seen you there many times, but I kept always out of your sight. I used to watch you from the window, and wonder what would Frank say if someone whispered, ‘There is Stephanie—poor Stephanie, who used you so badly—watching above you, and she cries.” For I have cried very often. I cried when 1 saw your grey hair, and knew whose hand had brought yo-u snow and coldness instead of joy. I have cried before, very often, to remember all that I threw away. Within a year I was sick of the riches, and wanting you. 1 would not marry as my cousine wished, for I said to myself that it was for her whim that I had spoilt my life, and at first I favoured Herr von Echt merely to vex her, for she hated him and all Germans. We were married secretely, and when I told her she disowned mo utterly. I never thought she could Have been so hard; but when she died two years later every sou of her estate went to the Church. Then, when my hopes of being an heiress were over, I found out that it was for them alone that my husband had married me. H© was cruel—it is bad to think of even when it is all over!” .She remained silent for a while, her face drawn into old lines of pain, and Soutar sat watching her, and in t-hat content. His h-and clung to hers, and the grief faded from her face, and she went on more quietly. “He died three years ago. He had gambled, and left us nothing. I came to England. The dear okl aunts have lost nearly all their money, and have moved away from the old village. They could not keep us, but they took us in and made their little house our horn© until I came to Skeighly and the boy came here.” “Poor little woman!” said the Bishop softly. She had released his hand, and now he passed the back of it with a soft, weak movement up to his cheek. Stephanie trembled at the old, wellremembered caress, and the tears drew again to her eyes, but she struggled with herself, and was calm. “I must go,” she said. “I have wearied you, and you are very weak. Only I had to thank you. I had to tell you—l wanted j-ou to know —that in giving Hcrmon back to me you have given m© the only being in the world who is all my own—who loves me still.” The Bishop interrupted her. “Little woman, my Stephanie,” he whispered, “I have done nothing else but love 3*oll all these years.” And ho drew her head down again until it rested on his heart. It is a very unfortunate thing that frequently when we get our own way we are not at all pleased with the result. The Bishop of Winchester is married, and yet Lady Skeighlv is not pleased. She lias confided to her dearest friend that “it might have been anyone else, but not the German governess!” Happity, the Bishop is in no wise troubled, and neither— perhaps because he has fully' learned his lesson, and now can never forget it—has the healing of Iris broken heart mitigated his life's devotion and usefulness. As for Stephanie Soutar, it would be hard to find a happier woman than she when she walks in the Palace gardens between her tall son —who, by the bye, is doing great things at Sandhurst —and her taller husband, and whispers to herself, watching them together, that, though liermon is not Frank’s son, the affection between them is yet all that could be hoped or longed for between those, of the same blood.