The daily Cairo bulletin. (Cairo, Ill.) 1878-1???, 1881-12-23

clever, | knew. Was 1t possible that
Ned cared for me as | now knew |
cared for him, beyond all the world be-
sidep Was love, his love, to be mine
some dayP Life grew to be quite an
other thing with that hope to brighten
it-a thing as sweet, and beautiful, and
fair as these red roses.
He planted the rose tree--a little slip
only--on the evening when he babe me
goodbye,
"Nurse it carefully" he said, "for
my sake, Milly In three or four sea-
sons when it climbs up to your bedroom
window, and is laden with flowers, /
shall be back again. And, Milly, dear,
for old acquaintance sake, promise me
one thing-don't get married till come
back"
And with heart strangely torn by
love and grief promised him.
Ten years ago!
The red roses had climbed to my bed
room window long ago, and for the first
few years my hopes had budded and
died, just like the flowers.
The only difference was that the red
roses bloomed to sweet perfection ere
they died, while my hopes-on which
the blight of absence and forgetfulness
had fallen withered and persisted in
the bud.
After the first two years heard no
more of Ned. and gradually | learned
to submit, as time went on, to the inev-
liable fiat of fate. Ned's liking for me
had been liking only-not love.
My life was to be lonely one.
1t would have been lonely indeed
but for bright May, my pretty, darling
sister. She was my junior by twelve
years, and mother, dying, had given
her to my care.
The cottage was ours, and more than
enough to live upon very cozily so that
life was easy and peaceful enough
very peaceful.
Ihad almost forgotten that dear old
love dreamer at least | had outlived
the pain of it--and in Mays young
beauty of eighteen was living my own
| youth over again.
Iseldom gave tear to the lost hopes
of ten years ago; but, if | did, such
tears we're apt to fall on my red roses.
The roses often made me sad. Often
est in the autumn days, when real
lied that the reign of their beauty, like
that Of my hopes was ending.
At such times | was often weak
enough to give them kisses as well as
tears-what matterp No one in the
wide world knew the reason.
May came dancing merrily up tho
lane and in at the garden gate, calling
to me all the time:
Let those beloved red roses CO." she
cried; somebody wants you, Milly."
And / turned, quite leisurely, rs a
mans step sounded beside me-and
there stood my dear old friend, Ned
Hilton.
The shock stunned me. don't know
how welcomed him, or if l welcomed
him at all, or if it seemed to him that
Twas glad to see him. There was q
certain constraint upon him, / saw, and
when May left us he spoke more of her
of her beauty and grace, than of him
self or me; that was what made me sud-
denly and sternly remind myself that
he was only my dear old friend, and
that while May was beauty and eight
cen, / was what he had long since fore
told for mean old maid indeed. for |
was thirty.
Ii was well that / remembered it in
time. The old fond love woke up in
my heart with such overpowering an
guish of longing that had it not been
for that thought, at the very first, he
might have seen how much loved him.
Oh, how much my pride rejoiced that l
had not betrayed myself, when-before
he had been in the village week-he
spoke TO me about his wife.
He had opened branch of his uncles
house in the city near by, he told me,
and the old Hilton homestead being his
own, he desired to make it his residence.
"He was quite sure his wife would like
il better than the city," he added quiet
| ly, as quietly as if his words had
not dealt me a heart-stab worse than
death.
1t seemed so cruel, so hard. had
loved him so well in the by-gone days,
had built (and seen ruinedD such hopes
upon his truth, had suffered such long
heart-sickness and pain, and had set
tied down at last into cold, monoto-
nous contentment. as far removed from
love and bliss as it was from passion
and pain. Why couldn't he have left
me to this cold peacefulnessp Why
should he come back into my life once
more, to make duty and peace impossi-
bleP The home Of love which once |
hoped to share with him could never be
now; but need he have come here to
drive me out OF this dull homer For |
felt that TO live in the same place with
his wiie--a little village, where we must
often meet--would be impossible.
fretted and brooded over my grief,
and avoided him, but he would not DO
avoided. 1t never seemed to occur TO
him that could suffer or care.
He had forgotten the love Of which,
when he went away, he was so sure.
All, | knew now how sure he had
been Of me. and it maddenod me to
think that, knowing how | once had
loved him, he should dare TO speak TO
me of her.
He had the homestead put into OK.
quisite order. Men came from the city
for the purpose. People said 1t looked
like d palace.