Storyteller.

White Ribbon, Volume 27, Issue 313, 18 July 1921, Page 7

Storyteller.

THE LAST WEAPON.

((’ontlnued.)

CHAPTER X. “lie gave liis people over to the sword, and was wroth with his inheritance. Tin* fire consumed their young men, and their maidens were not given in marriage.” Dorothy walked across the lawn. The tennis poles leaned towards each other disconsolately, reaching out for the net which was not there?, and the* daisies twinkled triumphantly through the* heavy gnu*. But the state of the lawn did not really matter. The* girl passed into the- shrubbery. The weeds flourished amidst the luxurious wilderness of herhaeeous colouring. She walked slowly, and a perky terrier trotted solrerly hy her side. "I might weed!” she thought, then shook her head. “Weeding doesn’t natter either.” Presently she reached the old garden house. She pulled open the door with a jerk. The place smelt musty. Some warped tennis rackets leaned against the wall. A dirty Kill had rolled away from its companions in the broken cardboard box. The terrier sniffed the ball, and looked up expectantly, lor an old l>all was surely his perquisite*. But Dorothy shook her head. A faded college cap was lying on a canvas chair. Some snapshots, damped and curled, lay on the dusty table. She pulled the snapshots straight, and looked at them one hy one. There were small groups, big groups, pictures of laughter, fun and youth-time nonsense. Dorothy did not smile, but laid them down reverently, where she had found them. “Come. Gip!“ she said peremptorily, and the terrier left the hall and followed her. t On her way baek*to the house, she passed through the stable yard. She knew what she must see. and yet she unbolted the stable door. Only the old familiar scent greeted her. What she missed was the eager drawing of chains. The dog sprang at a startled mouse, which escaped behind the corn bin. “Come, Dip!” she said once more. • • •

The evening was closing in as she wandered inlo the drawing-room—the "(Jlory room.” as they used to call it, when the western sun was shining. She threw open the piAno, and leaning over towards the music cabinet, she pulled out an old song book, opened it at random, and began to play softly. She did not sing. Why should she, when the tune was enough? “Oft in the stilly night. Ere slumber’s chain bis bound me, Fond memory brings the light Of other days around me. The smiles, the tears of boyhood’s years. The words of love then spoken. The ayes that shone, now dimmed and gone. The cheerful hearts now broken. “When I remember all The friends so linked together. I’ve seen around me fall Like leaves in wintry weather. I feel like one who travels alone Some banquet hall deserted, Whose lights are fled, whose garlands dead, And all but he departed." Tears welled up into her eyes, and she brushed them away violently. “What nonsense to play a sentimental thing like that!" So Dorothy mocked it herself. “Let me find something cheerful,” and she turned Kick the pages: “Forty years on. when afar and asunder, Parted are those wbo are singing to-day. When you look Kick and regretfully wonder What you were like in your work and your play. Then it may be there will often come o’er you (1 limpses of notes, like the catch of a song; Visions of boyhood shall float them before you. Echoes of dreamland shall bear (hem along! t “Follow up! Follow up! Follow up! Follow up! Follow up! Till the fields ring again and again With the tramp of the twenty-two men! Follow up! Follow up!” Louder and louder, and yet louder the girl played, until finishing with a stumbling crash, she leaned her head

down on the piano and burst into a passion of tears. The door opened. “Oh— beg pardon. Miss Dorothy!” said the maid. “What is it, Margery?” “Only Nellie Loveday, from the village, has called. She heard you were home, Miss Dorothy; but 1 will tell her to come another time.” “No, no:” said the girl quickly. "Let her come in.” In a few moments a dark-eyed girl came shyly into the room to seek some comfort from her late Sunday School teacher. • Dorothy put out her hand and smiled a sad welcome. “That’s right, Nellie, come in.” Nellie glanced into her young teacher’s face. Disguise was impossible. “Oh. Miss Dorothy! The boys have all gone!” Dorothy put her arm al>out the heartbroken village girl, and having kissed her. she drew her gently to a seat. It was later in the evening that, as Dorothy’s mother wished her goodnight. she said yearningly: “Dearest, it is nice to think that you s*-e able to get this little holiday. You will i gaily try to rest yourself as much as possible, won't you” The girl kissed her mother without replying. Then she went to the window. and drawing aside the blind, she looked out into the moonlight. All was very still, but Dorothy did not see the dim shrubs, nor the outlines of the distant trees. “Mother! What does the moon see to-night?” She turned and faced her mother passionately. “My darling ’’ “It’s no use, mother! I can t bear it! I must get back to the haspital to-morrow. It is awful there, but here ” Her mother rose and put her arm about her daughter “My darling, I know what it is here!” “I'm sorr;., mother! Come and kiss me when I'm in bed!" and Dorothy broke away. •, • • The Child went out under the moonlight, and stood there with trembling mouth and bedimmed eyes. He was startled as a cold hand was laid upon his shoulder.

“Beautiful Messenger from Heaven, you cannot rob us of our harvest of tears?’ mocked a dark-visaged Son of Fear, as he glided away. (To bo Continued.)