CHAPTER III.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 8104, 1 September 1904, Page 4

CHAPTER 111.

Two or three days passed uneventfully enough. The rift between Eunice and George widened perceptibly, although he was quite unconscious of its existence, j Eunice, on h«r part, did her best to in- ; terest herself in what concerned him, but the effort told upon her terribly, and the kind little sisters marked with concern her pak face and languid mein. " My dear, you're not looking said Miss Priscilla at last, anxiously. "Is — — " " I think I'd better go uome," interrupt- ) ed Eunice nervously. "I love being with you, but— bub— l feel as if I needed the bill j a,ir again to wake me up a little." j Mips Priscilla looked at 'heT sadly as she j stifled a sigh. So Eunice packed her bag, j and that afternoon George drove her back * along the white road nnd up tie winding hillside to the Grange Farm. She drew a long, silent breath-/ of relief, as the familiar gable? came in eight. George j eyed the place critically. I " Not at all a bad house in its wav " he saad; "it should fetch- a tidy price as a going concern. Debby's butter as good as ever?" Eunice made no answer, for they had just reached the door, and Deborah, who had seen them coming, was waiting to greet them. Her reception of Geoi-ge- was curt and characteristic, but not inhospitable. "Eh, Mr how you've grown!" she exclaimed. "A slip of a lad you was, when you went away, and now " Her sentence ended in an expressive pause, as her quick glance took, in his solid proportions. "If Miss Eunice'U take you into the parlour." she went on, "I'll see you have your tea in double quick time." Then they had their tea, and afteT it was ovor George started on a tour of inspection. "I'll just take a look round the place," he said, " and give you an idea as to what it should fetch, when you put it up to auction, Eunice. You won't want to be saddled with it, once we're out in Australia." She watched tho door close behind him ; then a fierce, bunted expression came into her eyes, and she clenched her hands on her lap. " I won't bear it— l won't !" she said to hc-rself. Half an hour later George re-entered the ic-om. H© had a note-book and pencil in his hand, and his expression was cheerful and businesslike. "I've been totting it all up," he said, " and it ought to fetch a good round sum ; you and Debby have managed things amazingly well, between you. Debby'll make a fine housekeeper if she'll come with you. So that's all settled," and he rubbed his hainds complacently, .and bent forward to give Eunice an approving kiss. Evading it, she stood up and faced him. " I was 'bom here, George," she said, " and I love every stick and stone of the old place. And — and— it's no use trying to keep it up amy longer; I can't marry you." He gave a great start, and his florid face became crimson. " You can't marry me?" he echoed. "Here I've waited ten years for you, and toiled and slaved till I've made myself a rich '

man — aJI for you, and now you turn round and say you can't marry me. Why not, I should like to know? Aren't I good enough for you?" Justly aggrieved, and swelling with conscious worthiness, he waited for her answer. It was long in coming. "The fact is, George," she said at lost, slowly ; " you're too good. I could never be the kind of wif« you would expect — " (" You need someone to match the yellow silk \" was her unspoken thought)—" I'm too small, aaid quiet, and dowdy. I should never reflect credit on you, nor increase your social standing." Her tone was faintly, unintentionally, sarcastic, but he was oblivious of it. " You'd soon learn," he said, eagerly. "You're pretty and ladylike enough, and Mrs Larking would soon put you up to a thing or two about dressing, and entertaining, and cutting a dash." He waited hopefully. Eunice shook her head. " You're very good, George," she said again, "and I don't want to seem ungrateful — but it's no use. We have drifted so far aipart, that our paths can never meet again. I shall always wish you well, but I cannot be your wife." His eyes wandered over the pretty, slight figure, as she stood fefore him with clasped hands and slightly contracted brows ; for a moment be become dimly conscious of her charm, and regretful for his loss. " You meam it?" he questioned sullenly. "Indeed I mean it," she answered. "You will soon find a more suitable wife, who will give you all you require, and make you happy." He rose and held out his hand. "Well, Eunice, I think you are making a mistake," he paid, "and I'm sorry for it. But if you think better of it, you've only to let me know." For the moment he had land aside his air of pompous self-sufficiency, and had become once more the George of old time. " Good-bye," she said. " You may think I am treating you badly, but you'll thank me some day for having refused to spoil your life." " Good-bye !" he said brusquely, and was gone. When Eunice told the news to. Deborah she haid to submit to be kiss-ed and cried over by her faithful companion, whose mingled feelings of delight and disappointment were beyond her own understanding. "You'll be dull and quiet enough this winter, Miss Eunice, I reckon," she said at lengfch, wiping away her tears, "with Mr George away for good and all, and schoolmaster gone to foreign parts. There'll be no more readings for you. " Eunice's heart gave a great leap, and she flushed hotly, and looked away. The astute Deborah made no comment. " Mr Marchant gone abroad 1" "Ay," nodded Debby, "he's given up the house, and they're saying he's taken the lads to Germany for a year or two. He's weary of the place, I reckon ; it's dull enough for a young man." And she returned to her kitchen, while Eunice, a dull pain at her heart, ascended the stair to her own room. She pulled herself together, and slipped on her hat and cape. " I'll go up to the camp for a breath of air,!' she said ; "up on the height once more, and then — back to the humdrum round of everyday life." The afternoon was very chill and grey, and a wet mist hung in the wind that blew over the hill. She drew her cloak around her, and shivered, as she made her way upward, a little lonely figure on the bleak hillside. There 4 was no play of light and shade over the surface of the plain below ; all was hid in deep, rolling mist. The grassy mound felt dank and clammy as she leant against it, forlorn and depressed. A moment) later she started from her reverie with a litle cry, for out of the dimness a man's figure loomed darkly. He drew nearer and nearer, and •as he approached her Eunice shrank in surprise and terror, for surely Gabriel Marchant's wraith was before her. Dim, grey and sorrowful the apparition stood there on the lonely hill, and as she feared it, mute and awe-struck, it spoke, and the voice was the living voice of the man she loved. "Forgive me," he said, huskily. "I saw you come up here, and— and I had to follow yon— to say good-bye." 'Then you are going aw*ay?" she said, in faltering tones He bowed his heaa, in assent. There was a look of dumb anguish in the blue eves. %" I cant be here at the time of your marriage. When it is all over, and you are far away, perhaps I may come back." " There — there has been a change," said Eunice, very low.^ "I am not going to be married; I " The sentence remained unfinished, for in ! another second, Gabriel had her in hia arms, held close against his breast, and, as their lips met in one long passionate kiss; she knew that her loneliness was at an end for ever. j They were married in the early spring, and the Grange Farm has since become a happy home for successive, generations of lone-legged boys, who vote Gabriel the jolliest of tutors, and uniformly adore his vife. Mrs beorsre Goocb is reputed the belle of Melbourne. It is said that she looks he? best in yellow silk.