The Morning herald., 1876-11-01

city square that their window opened on.
All day long they sat together, and
scarcely monosyllable broke the silence
until theshadows Of twilight gave Madeline
leave to raise her heau from her weary
task. She said nothing for long time
leaning her head upon her hand, and look
ed at her sister for almost the first time
that day. .t,ots ll..
The awfnl suffering in the quiet face
reused her conscience, and with desperate
impulse she cried out "Cecile, why are
you 30 silent? What is it you are thinking
Of? Tell me the truth, Cecile ?'
Cecile turned her face slowly toward the
speaker, without even sigh, her pale lips
metioning for sort Of smile more distress
iul than any tears could have been.
:, ~ was thinking Of something ought to
|havs told you before, Madde;" she said,
quietly: "Do you remember the story OF
the poor princess-it's On only foo lish
fairy story-who lost all her happiness for
ever, because she was mot content with the
! gift Of her godmother, and tried to crown
herself with the sweet noon sun-rays, when
she was told to choose only the morning
dew? 1t was foolish, but very sad. II is
! 30 Natural to wish for sunshine. And so
| hard, ah ! so hard, to lose It'll"
Then there was long silence; but pres
emily she spoke again: 49,,
Il am thinking, Maddie," she said, in a
soft, wistful tone, II am thinking thatatter
all, it is not, perhaps, either the sunshine
or dew-drops that make one happiest, and
that could give up BOTH"
Still Madeline made no answer.
"You will not understand me, Madeline" J"
said Cecile. She laid her hand on her
throat, as if to press back the physical pain
Of 5 ;eech, and her next word came with
effort. II have been thinking of it for"
oh, what voice was this Ia long, long
time, Maddie, and--and, l can give hilip
up."
Along pause followed. /,
His love was the sunshine and dew and
all the bloom and glow Of life to me. 1t
is dead. He does not love me any longer.
He is not mine now, Maddie"
"Give him up" said Madeline, when she
must speak, in voice unnatural and cold.
"You do it very easily, it seems. Why
should you give Philip up? Cecile, you
are ILL.,"
Cecile did not answer. She did not even
turn her eyes upon her siater.
Now happened one Of those chances that
occur often enough in life, but seem unnat-
ural in fiction. Philips sep sounded on
the staircase. A red, surging blush, hot
and painful, stained Madeline's cheeks !;
but not tinge of color passed over the
Quiet face turned out toward the dying day
light. Yet an indescriba BILE change was
visible; the pallor seemed to increase, and
the calmness was that Of death.
He was diferent, too. The last week or
two had left its mark upon him. There
were incipient lines upon his forehead; his
ewes had The harrassed, hunted look Of a
man pursued remorselessly by unhappy
thoughts.
"Cecilsw he cried, bending down to
take her hand-"Cecile, how i'll you must
have been. And you have said nothing to
me. l could not come before. have
Il am moi ill, Philip" said Cecile, with
drawing her hand quietly. '"To-day | have
suffered with headache, but i: is gone
now. am very glad YOU have come. l
have been wanting you"
"And you did not let me know | would
have permitted nothing to detain me, c.
cile" I y.
"Philip, have something to tell you,"
she said. "No, Madeline, don't 60 please.
I had rather you would hear it, too" She
stopped a minute to gather calm and
strength; but her tone was very soft and
natural and emotionless when she spoke
again. II want to ask you, Philip, if you
do not think it would be-better it our en-
gagement should end. 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 hoarse-
ly. at last. And, strange as it may seem, i
sense ofinjury, sudden anger, caused the
color in his cheeks to deepen, and warded
off both pity and shame. ut is rather
singular that you have not intimated such
a wish before. Was it for this you wished
to see me?"
"Do not be angry, Philip" pleaded the
girl IL Was in the room the day-the day
that you and Madeline were walking, Phil
ip. l was here when you came home.
Neither of you saw me, for the room was
dark. / ought to have spoken, but-but
l could not speak. l heard-what you
said. l tried to tell Madeline then--oh,
why could l not? But, Madeline, you
were not quite ignorant?
There was no answer, nor did any sound
disturb the stiffness for five long minutes.
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 I am going to say, and
can't blame you. 1t does not excuse me,
either, but, as God is my witness, | meant
to be faithful to you. Until that evening,