The Columbian. [volume] (Bloomsburg, Pa.) 1866-1910, 1876-03-17

moment that he uttered the signal which IN
the first emotion of pleasure he forgot she
sprang up to meet him.
mo more of these wild nights for you"
he said, presently "My friends are all
going away till the end of the week. You
shall have your rest in peace. A faithful
Waterman will be stationed just outside your
curtain at your feet. Yes, truly, | have
come to stay--for good are you gladY'
"Oh. so glad - said the girl. "And last
night did not die Of fright"
"Why not"
because a mask is being drawn over the
cruel face. And it is your hand, my bene-
factor-can | ever.be grateful to you enough
that has done this. begin to see afar off
oh but very far on--that life is or
may be, might be, perhaps, sweet"
"My dear child" said Hayward, depend
upon it. life is treat. The past-your past
mean-is simply bad dream. Consider
it so and now awake. Come and show me
where / shall put some of these things which
found dropped down for you at my
gate" ,.,r,
All, the strange, unworld-like, child-like,
devout happiness of that night Hayward
actually beguied his guest into the extrava-
ganza of smiles, the unknown rarity of her
young lips.
Had the whole aspect of her place OF
refuge been less strange, less unreal, and
like dream had her rescuer been less,
debonair and boyish by kind and good less
inherently chivalric, and so apart from any
being she had known, the mental shock
which had left her nothing in life of hope,
and the physical exhaustion incident to the
excitement of the rough mode of her adj
vent to the cave, would not have been so
readily counteracted. This place of rest was
to her complete new world. She had been
dead, and come to life. Her experience was
a realization of Gan opening paradise" until
memory should be re-established, and life,
that never loses itself in more than mo-
mentary dreams, should catch up its lost
links.
Reaction came. One day when Hayward
had been absent many hours, he returned
with something like an expression of
care, and "to have" he said, "a serious
talk"
He had thrown himself into an arm chair
with a weary air, and his guest drew
cushion near and seated herself at his feet.
1t was the nearest attitude of affection she.
had assumed it expressed gratitude, the
trusting subservence of her heart.
81 will not ask you," he said-"you know
l have not asked you for days-to tell me
anything of the history of your past. 1t is
enough for me to know that this woman
here is you. l trust you perfectly, as you
trust me but can no longer shelter you
here. ! knew this could be but brief
haven for you from the. first and l have
been studiously making arrangements for
you, such as seem for the present best. l
want you, tomorrow morning. to arrange
your little wardrobe, awkwardly chosen,
fear it is, am such novice and at noon
that is the time when we are most deserted
here-I shall have a carriage waiting for you
at the brow of this cliff"
The girl, while he was speaking, had
turned deadly pale; she leaned her head,
with n sigh of pain, against his knee. Il
made solemn vow," said Hayward-"a
resolution, | mean, to myself-that while
you remained my guest in this cave would
not speak to you of anything that has bear
ings upon the outside life. But tomorrow
| shall be released from this voluntary re-
strant. shall visit you tomorrow in the
house where have arranged to have you
| brought, and then you will find how blunt,
downright fellow like myself is ready with
good advice. And always"-for she looked
grief-stricken beyond power of words to
express-"a always, forever-you know this
forever your friend"
1t was O. clock by his watch when
Hayward left his cave. He returned at IL.
He was priding himself as he descended
the steps, that, impressible as he had been
to the charms ofhis guest-compiete, incom-
parable they seemed to him, in form and
voice and mind-and clearly as he had seen
that gratitude in her was the quick key oflove,
the key that hand his held-he had never,
in tenderness for her isolation, conveyed to
her, by word or look, the passionate thought
which had assured him by day and night
| that this waf of the wild sea was the wo-
man among all woman destined to be nearest
his heart.
He prided himself upon the silence that
was to wreak upon him from that hour forth
the ceaseless Staying of regret.
| Unlocking the gate, he gave the signal of
return he entered the enshrining space with
the joyous pulse of expectation. The silence
at first did not shock him, the emptiness of
the dimly illuminated corridor opening up
on the wide sea did not at once alarm. He
waited for the tremulous uplifting Of that
curtain which mad become to him deliciously
mysterious, like the veil of bride.
He waited, but she came not He sought
her at last with the wild impulse of one
stricken with the remorse-like dread of an
inevitable fate. What storms swept through
his breast as he tore each curtain from it,
place, as he stretched his cropping hand.
into each darkling niche, as he knew step
by step the growing knowledge that she hat
left him, that she was gone--gone back for
ever into the breast of the dark wave upol
, whose crest she had been one moment lif
ted to see that life may be, might be, per
haps, sweet what storms swept his breast
the widest leap and most despairing wall
ing of the sea, that year and year dashe
up beside the lonely cavern to teach it III
woes of the vast abyss, were in compariso
but fairy ripple and whispered laugh.
Every heart hides its own Avernus. Bu
strange it seems that man like Tom Ha,
f ward, the joval boon companion of careles
fortunate young men, the bright-hearte
hyorite of the girls, the generous, the ga
the smiling, hOnored guest at the feast
life, should have learned that fatal descer