The Abbeville press and banner. [volume] (Abbeville, S.C.) 1869-1924, 1880-01-21

the head, and two large tears roll slowly
down her cheeks.
Ada makes no remark, but busies
herself in arranging the bed-clothes and
smoothing the pillows.
Presently Lille takes her plump,
white hand between her two wasted
ones.
You have been so good and kind to
me-" she murmurs. "Oh! what should
l do without you?"
Hush! hush" interrupted Ada. I
am not good and kind at all. only dc
it because it pleases me to-"
Then it is proof that you must be
naturally good and kind, or it would
not please you to wait upon trouble
some invalid"
Troublesome! why it would be i'm
possible anywhere to find anyone SO
uncomplaining as you are. And tell
you like doing things for YOU"
Light as the falling of rose-petal
drops kiss upon Ada's hand.
A fortnight later Lille dies. They
think her peacefully sleeping, till Ada,
vaguely alarmed, endeavors to waken
her. Then they find that she is indeed
asleep, but it is that last long sleep
from which there is no awakening till
the judgment morn.
Mr.. Beauchamp gives way to no pas
sionate outbursts of sorrow. His grief
is quiet and undemonstrative. He
thanks Mrs Chantry and Ada with warm
gratitude for their kindness to his wife,
and directly after the funeral leaves
Fairshore.
Ada finds now terrible blank in her
small world. Other lodgers come and
70, but she cares nothing for them,
Life seems to have become intolerably
same and monotonous. Her mother
gets anxious about her, and at length
insists upon her having change.
So she goes and stops with some
friends, and certainly the visit does her
q little good; but still Mrs. Chantry's
mind is not quite ut ease. She is more
interested in the daily business of her
life-or feigns to be; but then she has
grown so much thinner and paler.
She is not so self-willed, but there is
often such wistful, far-away express
sion in her eyes, that Mrs. Chantry tells
herself she would rather have the old
impatience than this new gentlenesS.
She does not understand the change
it worries and perplexes her.
"Are you not well, darling?" she
willask, smoothing the girls dark hair
with her loving fingers:
me well, mother dear!". Ada will
answer; yes, quite" and with a kiss
she will sit down and play or sing, or
else propose 4 walk.
1t is year and somewhat more since
Lille Beauchamp died. 1t was sultry
July weather when she was carried to
her grave. 1t is glowing August this
to-day when Ada puts on her hat, and
tucking a volume of Shakespeare under
her arm, sets out for a saunter on the
beach.
A short distance along the shore rises
aloft huge rock, bleak, grim and mac
cessible to the most daring of climbers.
Under it's shadow Ada loves to sit, and
thither she bends her steps now
Somehow, though she is in literary
mood, the book remains unopened, and
she sits and muses. instead.
The sea is calm and tranquil. Far of
a fleet of fishhing-boats lie at anchor.
Above the sea-birds float slowly across
the cloudless blue sky. There is nc
wind. No sound disturbs the dreamy
silence beyond the soothing murmur Of
the ripping waves,
GAS they touch the sands
With soft, monotonous cadence"
By-and-bye she opens the book and
begins to read. Twelfth Night" j,
the play, and so absorbing are the ad-
ventures of Viola, that she reads on, all
unconscious of anyone's proXimity,.till
voice says:
"How do you do, Miss Chantry?"
She looks up, and the start she gives
causes the book to slip from her lap.
She replaces it before she extends her
hand. or says, in steady voice:
"How do you do, Mr.. Beaucllamp?'
you are not looking well. l hope
you have not been ill?"
"Oh no; lam quite we'll, thank you, ,
returns Ada, hurriedly. :
Mrs. Chantry is well, Hannah says
"Yes, she is very we'll, thank YOU"
Il have been to your house, and
Hannah told me where you were; SO
came to find YOU"
Yes"
He glances away from her out at the
glittering, gently-heaving sea.
II sought you to-day with a purpose
But before I tell you the purpose, want
to tell you something of my marriage
with Lille"
Ada's face expresses her wonderment
but she offers no objection to his conf.
dence.
"My father ruined himself in specula
ti1ns, and |, to earn my own living, be.
came tutor to Lilies brother. There
were but those two, Lille and Harold
They were both delicate-consumpti
it was feared. After awhile Lille de-
sired to take lessons in German from
me. She was an apt and ready pupil
and took pleasure in teaching her, til
accidentally becam aware that-that
she-that her feelings toward me were
of a warmer nature than had any wisl
they should be.
"Of course. when made this discov.
cry there was but one thing for me t,
do; left my situation. made enougl
to satisfy my wants by article-writin!
for the magazines. About six months
after my leaving Ihad letter from Mr.
Lester, asking me to come to them a
once.
Invent. When I got to Beechhurs
, found house of mourning. Harol'
was dead, and Lille, they feared, dying
; There was not much hope for her, bu
still there was faint. faint flicker; ant
her parents, with streaming eyes, toll
me that upon me that hope rested: Sh
was wasting and pining away, and wa
the only person who could cure her.
"Their meaning began to dawn upol
. me, and I must have made some gestur
of denial, for the mother, old and gray
haired, sank upon her knees and seizet
, my hands. ;,
"'She has confessed 10 us that sh
; loves YOU, she cried; and she has said
too, that you love her not. and that
is this knowledge that has bereft her Q
all desire to live. Sse,' she continued
2 her tears scalding my hands-'see,
t beg; I implore you on my knees to say
. us our child She is our one ewe-lam