Juniata sentinel and Republican. [volume] (Mifflintown, Juniata County, Pa.) 1873-1955, 1876-09-13


Madeleine's cheeks; but not tinge oi
color passed over the quiet face turned
out toward the dying daylight. Yet
an indescribable change vas visible
the pallor seemed to increase, and tis<
calmness was like that Of death.
He too was different. The last week
or two had left its mark upon him
There were incipient lines upon his
forehead; his eyes had the harassed,
hunted look of a man pursued remorse-
lessly by troublesome thoughts.
''Cecile." he cried, bending down to
take her hand-"Cecile, how ill you
must have been! And you have said
nothing to me! 1 could not come be-
fore. have been kept away; l have
been busy"
81 am not i'll, Philip" said Cecile,
Withdrawing her hand quietly. ''To-
day l have suffered with a headache,
but it is gone now. l am very glad you
have come. have been wanting you"
"And you did not let me knowi i
would have permitted nothing to detain
me, Cecile."
"Philip, have something to tell
you," she said.-"No, Madeleine, don't
90, please. 1 had rather you would
hear it too" She stopped minute to
gather calm and strength; but her tone
was very soft and natural and emotion
less when she spoke again. 81 want to
ask you Philip, if you do not think it
would be-better If our engagement
should end. l am not saying, you see,
that it must be so, but only do you not
think it would be better?"
"You are the best judge" he said,
hoarsely, at last. And strange as it
may seem, a sense of injury, sudden
anger, caused the color in his cheeks to
deepen, and warded OF both shame and
pity. sit is rather singular that you
have not in timated such a wish before.
Was it for this that you wished to see
me-"
''Do not be angry, Philip" pleaded
the girl. 81 was in the room the day
the day that you and Madeleine were
walking, Philip. was here when you
came home. Neither of you saw me,
for the room was dark. ought to have
spoken, but-but / could not speak. /
heard-what you said. 1 tried to tell
Madeleine then-oh! why could not !?
But, Madeleine, you were not quite
ignorant?"
There was no answer, nor did any
sound disturb the silence for five long
minutes. They had called her a child
in their hearts, and comforted them
selves with thinking that if she felt
grief, it would be but light and easily
forgotten. In simplicity, in truthful
ness, in sweet and trusting confidence,
she seemed indeed a child. But not in
the shallow-natured insensibility that
refuses to suffer, or in the elasticity
that rebounds from pain-not In these
things, If this white face might be taken
in evidence, whose ashen pallor con-
trasted so pitifully with its yet round
contour. and more strangely still with
the glowing red-gold hair, that caught
the last CLEANS of daylight, deepening
them into sparkles with Its own living
hue. Philip buried his face in his
hands.
"Cecile, am not worthy to speak to
you," he said at last, brokenly. "You
will not believe what am going to say
and can't blame you. 1t does not ex-
cuse me either; but as God is my wit
ness l meant to be faithful to you.
Until that evening, if Madeleine knew
1 loved her, had not told her so. But
but you heard everything. l strug-
gled against it-forgive me Cecile-and
l meant to tell you, but how could Il?
I cannot ask you to pardon me, but
don't blame Madeleine. 1t was not her
fault, nor mine, God knows. l could
not help it,"
She held out her hand at this; but
Just then the dim forms in the room
swan round her. dazzling agOnizing
light struck across her aching eyeballs,
and all the world vanished suddenly,
as one blows out a candle, into dark
nothingness.
They lifted her up and laid her on
the sofa, Madeleine's hot tears falling
on her head. "And they saw her face,
as it had been the face of an angel"
Philip bent down and kissed her brow.
bis bosom thrilling with strange an
guish, and oh h!-inconsequent heart
with blind regret.
"It is FAREWELL" said he.
What remains is easily imagined.
There were yet many hours of pain
before the safe calm of sacrifice could
be attained, many supplications for
pardon, many fearful assurances of re-
gret and remorse, before the sacrifice
was made perfect by acceptance.
But the bridal dress was worn at last.
And none who looked at the fair wreath.
adding beauty to the pale full brow be-
meath it, guessed that sting was hid
den in every white heart of the blossoms,
or imagined the troubled memory lying
in the depths Of the brides calm, shin
ing eyes.
Cecile stood beside her sister that day.
There is such glory in self-abnegation
that dare not say the bride was the
happier of the two. Cecile looked down
the fair path she pictured for her sis
ter, and saw the passionate-hearted
rose of life, that should have been her
own, yielding its sweets to her, saw her
own sunshine gliding her sisters bright
days, and her own heart-music leading
her along the way that should have
been smOothed for other treading; but
the light on the bridemaid's wistful
brow was crossed by no shadow of re-
gret. dare not say the bride was the
happier of the two. She also had
visions: sweet eyes made sadder for
all their lifetime, fair face paled by
her doing, low voice sapped of its
ringing happiness.
Ready Made ClOihing Grown on .