The daily Cairo bulletin., 1881-12-23

to smile cheerfully and talk of his pros
poets in my usual tone, although at the
thought that in a few days the ocean
would roll between us, my heart seemed
really breaking.
My composure deceived even him,
and surprised him too. He looked at
me keenly.
Don't you care, Millyp" he said re-
proachfully. "Such old and true friends
as we have been, and don't you care
for parting from meP"
But when tried to smile up at him
and say quietly, "Why, of course shall
miss you, Ned"-when | tried to say
this he saw the tears that would come
into my eyes, and smiled and took my
hand and kissed it, without my saying
even word.
at won't be for long," he said cheer
fully and confidently. "That's one
comfort. Don't forget me, Milly."
And then he fell into deep thought,
still holding my hand, and never seemed
to think about an answer. And |,
watching him, and thrilling because he
had kissed my hand-I began to dream
my dream.
/ wasn't handsome nor particularly
clever / knew. Was it possible that
Ned cared for me as | now knew /
cared for him, beyond all the world be-
side? Was love, his love, to be mine
some dayp Life grew to bo 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 bade me
goodbye.
"Nurse 1t 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 Icome
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 aud
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 perished 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 lone ly 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. \
had almost forgotten that dear old
love dream-or at least | had outliyed
the pain of it-and in Mays young
beauty of eighteen was living my own
youth over again.
| seldom 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 the
lane and in at the garden gate, calling
TO me all the time:
"Let those beloved red roses GO" she
cried; "somebody wants you, Milly."
And / turned, quite leisurely, as 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 | welcomed
him at all, or if it seemed to him that
| was 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.
1t was well that | remembered it in
time. The old fond love woke up In
my heart with such ovcrpowering 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 |
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 uncle's
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
| 1t better than the city," he added quiet
ly, as quietly as if his words had
not dealt me a heartstab worse than
death.
1t seemed so cruel, so hard. j had
loved him so well in the by-gone days,
had built (and seen runed) such hopes
upon his truth, had suffered such long
heart t-sicjyness md main. and had set