The Russellville Democrat., 1880-09-23
cd on her, as he said, in low, harsl


 Prom your lips that question is an insult"
 "Of which you need not fear the repe- tition," she rejoined promptly, with cut ting formalitv.
 "No, it can't end like this" he went on. Do you know, ever since you have been here have bitten my lips through and through to keep them from speak ing of the past? This meeting was not of your seeking and it seems to me un- manly to take advantage of this oppor- tunity."
 "We are sometimes so mistaken" she said, hurriedly, but her words were hardly audible, and he continued
 Alice, you have treated me very i'll. On that day, now three years ago, when 1 gave you my love, and believed in yours, was frank with you. I told you h,w wild and irregular my life had been l and how full of faults I was. You re- claImed me-you transformed my days you made life, all at once, pure and fair; and then, because some thorn in I my love hurt you, you threw it all away and left me to perish miserably.' She | would have interrupted him, but he silenced her with gesture and went on: land now when we meet, after three years, you ask me if l am happy. If loved you once, shall love you forever. Do look happy?" 1 q think there were faults on both sides," sine said quickly.
 "Yes, perhaps there were," he replied, "but l was reading your last letter over only to-day. Oh how terribly bitter it wasp
 And have you forgotten your answer to that letter." she sad, pationately, her voice quivering, and her breast | heaving.
 q don't remember it word for word" :" he returned, quickly; "I know it was written on the impulse of the moment"
 But I have it by heart;" then, very slowly. "you said if your love, in it's heart and strength, wa little exacting, mine was cold and tideless; in fact, no love, only slow, sluggish affection. You almost thought was right, and we could not be happy. am naturally with less pride than l could not have acted differently. Only one course was left me--to be silent"
 "Well, it is ali over now; we shall never, never meet again"
 "You won't take my friendship, then?"
 "No, thank you, you are very generous but do not want that gift" | He threw himself wearily into chair l and fol a time there was complete silence. Hope is so subtitle, so intangi- ble, that we are only aware of it exist ence whon 1t has ceased to be. Arthur Seton looked upon himself as a man quite without hope. It seemed to him that his life could not be more desolate than it was, yet who shall say what feel ing of which he was not directly con- scious, may have sustained him through the last three years. Now everything seemed gone-there was nothing for him but death.
 Presently carriage wheels came down the road; carriage lamps flashed through the dusk, and grew stationary opposite the window. MT. Hunter hustled in and announced in tone of triumph, that the carnage had come for the young lady, and had done the dist ance wonderfully quick. Then the door shut and they were alone together again.
 Very sottlv and distinctly Seton heard her say his name, Arthur" but he did not move. It seemed to him that he would keep back all his love, clinch fast his heart till she was gone, and then die swiftly of the pain.
 Arthur, l am waiting dear. Won't you come! Are you not going to forgive me?"
 Now he rose and groped his way to- ward her like blind man. She stretched ont her hand and drew him to her. Then he bent down. She raised her face, and the hearts and lips. so long dis united, came together in prolonged, passionate kiss He knelt down by her, her head sank upon his shoulder, and for several minutes they remained thus, lost in love's profound peace and mys- tery. And the ale corks continued to pop, and the wagoners on their way to London tramped in and out of the bar, and warm good-nights were exchanged between. customer and landlord, and as Arthur folded Alice's mantle round her, she said, half shyly-
 "You are coming back with me to see mamma, are you not?"
 "May I?' he answered, great joy evi- dent in his face and voice.
 So the bed room which Mrs. Hunter had been preparing all the afternoon, and of which she was not little proud, remained unoccupied but the payment was lavish, and the days labor was not regretted.
 Oh! that ver-to-be-forgotten ride to Chislehurst through the wild, windy evening. Between it and the last three years lay all the pains of hell. And the rain ceased, and strange voices were abroad in the wind, singing jubilantly over love re-risen and redeeming. And the clouds drifted away, and the pure sweet moonlight quiyered over wet fields and trees, and seemed loves bene- diction.
 1 leave you to imagine the arrival home. Arthur had always been favor. ite with Mrs. Clarefield, and in the old days of quarrels she used always to take his part When dinner had at last been disposed ot, Mrs. Clarefield pleaded household duties, and went to her bed room. There she sat down before the bright fire and wept profusely, dear soul over the happiness of her children. And down stairs these two were very quiet. To them love was a very solemn thing, and they were solemn lovers And the wonderful, priceless, moments went silently and swiftly by.
 Presently Alice said, as she looked ur in Arthur's face
 "You are not going to continue youl walk to Hastings this week?"
 And he answered with smile
 "But have pledged my word of hon or to do SO"
 "And command you to break it."
 "Yes, and he did break 1t; but nons | l, ia rt..