The Republican. [volume] (Oakland, Md.) 1877-current, 1880-11-13

81 won't bring any more, of course, If II
troubles you, and thank you very much LOT
letting me come. Good morning, Miss
Pinckney." He bowed and walked away.
Putnam availed himself discreetly OF the
permission given. He came occasionally OF
an afternoon, and sat for an hour at time.
| Usually she said little. Her silence APP
peared to proceed not from reserve, but
from detection. Sometimes she spoke OF her
brother. Putnam learned that he had been
her only near relative. Their parents had
| died in her childhood, and she had come
North with her brother when he entered the
medical school. From something that she
once said Putnam inferred that her brother
had owned an annuity which died with him,
and that she had been left with little or
nothing. They had few acquaintances in
| the North, almost none in the city. An aunt
in the South had offered her a home, and
she was going there in the fall. She looked
! forward with dread to the time of her de-
parture.
One day the two were sitting, as usual, in
silence or speaking but rarely. 1t was day
in the very core of summer, and the life OF
Nature was at its flood. The shadows of the
trees rested so heavy and motionless on the
grass that they appeared to sink into it and
weigh it down like palpable substances.
81 feel, said Putnam, suddenly, as
though should live for ever"
''Did you ever doubt it," she asked.
! Ouy Il6du utTt-tCt UUS-lu lIiC pOAJ .
/ can't conceive Of death or Of spiritual eX-
istence on such day as this"
''There is nothing here to live for, - she
said YEARLY. Presently she added, ''Thls
hot glare makes me sick; wish those men
would stop hammering on the bridge. L
wish | could die and get away into the
81 hope he began anxiously, "that
you are not feeling sick; you spoke just now
of being oppressed by the heat. Excuse me
for staying so long,"
''Oh no. she answered, "I'm not sick.
| reckon need little rest. Good even
ing"
Putnam fingered after she was gone. He
found his way to his old bench under the
cedars and sat there for while. He had not
occupied this seat since his first meeting
with Miss Pinckney in the summer-hous
and the initials which he had whitfield on its
edge impressed him as belonging to some by
gone stage of his history. This was the first
time that she had questioned him about him
self. His sympathy had won her confidence,
| but she had treated him hitherto in an i'm
| personal way, as something tributary to her
| brothers. memory, like the tombstone or the
| flowers on his grave. The suspicion that he
was seeking her for own sake had not, so
far as Putnam could discover, ever entered
her thoughts.
But in the course of their next few inter-
views there came change in her behavior.
| The simplicity and Inconsistencies Of her
sorrow had become complicated with some
other feeling. He caught her looking at him
narrowly once or twice, and when he looked
hard at her there was visible in her manner
a soft agitation-something which in girl
of more sanguine complexion might have
| been interpreted as blush. She sometimes
| suffered herself to be coaXed little way into
| talking of things remote from the subject of
her sorrow. Occasionally she questioned
| Putnam shyly about himself, and he needed
| but slight encouragement to wax conf
dental. She listened quietly to his expert
ences, and even smiled now and then at
something that he said. His heart beat high
with triumph; he fancied that he was lead
ing her slowly up out of the Valley of the
Shadow of Death.
But the upward path was a steep one.
She had many sudden reapses and changes
of mood. Putnam OWNED that she felt her
grief oosening its tight hold on her and slip
ping away, and that she chung to it as a con-
secrated thing with q morbid fear of losing
it altogether There were days when her
demeanor betokcned a passionate self-re-
proach, as though she accused herself secret
ly of wronging her brother and profaning his
| tomb in allowing more cheerful thoughts to
blunt the edge of her bereavement. He re-
marked also that her eyes were often red
from weeping. There sometimes mingled
with her remOrSe plain resentment toward
himself. AT such times she would hardly
speak to him, and the slightest gayety or
even cheerfuMess on his part was received
as downright heartlessness. He made a
practice, therefore, of Withdrawing at once
whenever he found her in this frame of
mind.
One day they had been sitting long to-
gether. She had appeared unusually con-
tent, but had spoken little. The struggle in
| her heart had perhaps worn itself out for the
| and sha had yioldad 10 bo
current of life and hope which was bearing
her back into the sunshine.
Putnam stopped talking abruptly, but
presently said, 6 You have not asked me for
your fuchsias.'
She stood still and held out her hand for
them.
81 thought you might be meaning to let
me keep them," said Putnam. His heart
beat fast and his voice trembled as he con-
tinued: Perhaps you thought that what |
said while ago was said in joke, but l
mean it in real earnest"
"Mean WHAT" she asked, family.
"Don't you know what mesn?' he said,
| coming nearer and taking her hand. "Shall
tell you, darlingr'
"Oh, please don't! oh, think know
| Not here-not now. Give me the flowers, -
she said, disengaging her hand, sand will
put them on Henry's grave.'
He handed them to her and said, 81 won't
20 on now IL IL troubles you, Dub Tell me
tirst-I am going away to morrow, land shan't
be back till October-shall l find you here
then, and may | speak them"
81 shall be here till winter.'
"And may speak them?
eyes"
"And will you listen?"
"Yes.'
"Then 1 can waltz
They moved on again along the cemetery
walks. Putnam felt an eXultation that he
could not suppress. In spite of her lam
guage, her face and the tone of her voice
had betrayed her. He knew that she cared
for him.
On the morrow he was to start for the
mountains. He visited the cemetery in the
morning, but Miss Pinckney was not there.
He did not know her address, nor could the
gatekeeper inform him; and in the afternoon
he set out on his journey with many misgiv-
ings.
II was early October when Putnam re-
turned to the city. He went at once to the
cemetery, but on reaching the grave his
heart sank at the sight Of bunch OF wither-
ed flowers which must have lain many days
upon the mound. The blossoms were black
and the stalks brittle and dry. Scan she
have changed her mind and gone South al
readyy" he asked himself.
There was new sexton In the gatehouse,
who could tell him nothing about her. He
wandered through the grounds, looking for
the old woman with the watering pot, but
the season had grown cold, and she had
probably ceased her gardening operations