Staunton vindicator. [volume] (Staunton, Va.) 1860-1896, 1880-11-12

herself, ard finally spoke to me about it.
I could make but one answer:
"Tell me nothing that you do not wish
to Miss Kingdom, but in my opinion yours
is more of a mental than bodily ill, a
trouble which no physician can heal or
cure. ~ :
She grew very pale as I spoke, but with
the frankness which was one of her great
est charms, replied without moments
hesitation:
''You are probably right, DR.. jerks
AS your patient have no right to deceive
you. have no wish to do so. 1 am do
ing my best, however, y
She tried hard to smile. The white lips
| quivered, the delicate face never looked
patient or heroic. Instinctively 1 caught
her hands.
"Iou have my sympathy exclaimed
II wish l gould help you, wish"
do not know what else I might have
said had she not turned away from me,
and before she saw what 1 felt was in my
face.
Il believe you; thank you," she said,
simply; and without another word, went
out of the room.
| 1t was five months before her brother
came for her. It was plain that he ex-
pected TO find her much better than she
really was. ,
s'Her letters have given us no idea that
she was so delicate he said to me, ''yet it
would not be like her to complain
| ''Of course, as her brother" I began,
with some embarrassment, ''you under
stand that what is troubling her mentally
has much to do with her physical condition
She has so far honored me with her conf
dence that l know"
course him!'' he muttered under his
breath, springing up and pacing the floor,
not realizing in his excitement that he
might be saying too much, che has been
killing her byNinches for years. He would
be more merciful-''
"Stop!'' I cried, checking him by my
grasp upon his shoulder. 'You are telling
me more than have right to know.'
| He looked at me keenly.
81 thought you knew already"
shook my head silently.
"And you,' he added, after long and
the same fixed look, s'you have not told
her either.''
| He did not say what; there was no need.
In that moment he read my heart as she
had never done.
eff she could have loved man worthy
of her," he went on; eff she could love
you, jerks" but he mercifully forebore
to add another word.
Something went out of my life with their
departure something that the years could
never restore. But it had never been
mine-never could be; and that conscious
ness helped me somewhat to bear its loss.
Two years later was thankful for an OPP
portunity to set my face eastward once
more, thinking less, however, of the
friends was to meet than of her whom in
all probability 1 should never see again.
SydneyMeredith, my old college chum,
had changed more in the ten years that had
elapsed since our last meeting than any
member of our class, whose reunion we
| had met to celebrate. 1t seemed natural
to be sitting again in No. 80 of the Old
North Middle, looking at each through
curling smoke across the table, covered
with books and papers, pipes and cigars.
The literature belonged to a younger gene
ration of students, in whose apartments
we were temporarily located. The pipes
and cigars we had added to give little
present life to the room, haunted by count
less ghosts of dead and gone past.
| Sydney was as handsome fellow as six
feet of height, a corresponding breadth of
chest, fine complexion and mass of coal
black, curly hair could make him. We
agreed that he was the ornament of our
class in a physical sense as truly as in an
intellectual one. He was good natured
| fellow, too; easy-going, full Of fun, prone
to see the best in everybody and everything
and his popularity was immense. He grad
uated with high honors, and was lawyer
with successful and growing practice
when we met four years later; but here, at
the end of ten more he was the mere sugges-
ton of his old self. The brilliant eyes and
teeth were there, though the lips smiled
less often, the hair was thinner and
straighter than in the old college days.
But it was not the physical change that
was so plainly marked. The spiritual was
transformed, and not for the better. He
had become cynical, skeptical, reserved,
and at times even morose-a disappoint-
ment and a puzzle to all his friends, He
spoke of it himself; had hoped he would
grow confidential, as our talk wore on to-
ward midnight. That had been the old
| fashion.
"You ought to make some allowances
for fellow, jerks"
] I laughed. TT is something new to
have to make allowances for you, Mere
dith.'
''There is need enough nowadays. [
have to be init oduced to myself every six
months and even then find it hard work to
| keep up the acquaintance.
''I'm not going to beat about the bush,
Meredith. Tell me straight what is the
matter with you. I've right to know,
and 1 believe it will be blessing to you to
tell me-"
Everything has gone wrong with me,
jerks. and the exasperating thing about it
is that I cannot for the life of me see how
or in what way have been to blame.''
"Not business, surely" began.
s'Oh, bother business!' he interrupted;
business isn't everything in life.''
IA man has lived to little purpose if he
has not learned that before he is thirty
fve," assented.
II have tine onice,n he went on,