Gloucester County Democrat. (Woodbury, N.J.) 1878-1932, 1882-09-14

rooms in them are let in summer to
visitors with good walking powers.
It's only inn is a temple of bric-a -brac,
and in summer is crowded with pilgrims
visiting one of the shrines Of nature.
In this sequestered solitude the father
and daughter and DR.. John Enderby
were at present the only strangers, and
the young doctor, after two or three
days, limped into Margaret's sunlit
sitting-room, into which thelight filtered
through network of budding apple
boughs. Here he would sit and watch
Margaret at work, OF listen to her as
she read some Old World book to her
father, her fresh young voice contrast
ing with the oft-times Grabbed style
and as he thus watched her she grew
inexpressibly pleasant to him. Pleasant,
and that was all.
But to Margaret? Without one word
of warning had come the crowning
affection of her life.
John was free to come and go as he
liked in the blossom-screened room,
holding learned converse with Mr..
Townsend, meeting his daughter in
the woods, now fully leafed, sometimes
helping her over the rocks in search of
anemones. On fine evenings the three
would sit on the little semi-circular pier
that inclosed the "quay pule /" and
watch the sunset fading and the dark
ness nesting down among the wooded
headlands, and the great evening star
suddenly appearing in the blue above the
paling primrose that touched the water.
After that the sky would swiftly fill
with stars and the moon would spring
into the airy silence, and her light would
penetrate sky and sea and cliff-hung vii
lage, the lights would appear one by one
in the windows above, and they would
climb homeward.
AL this fed the warm friendliness he
felt for her, which is often mistaken
for love. The fragrance of her life
filed his imagination, and he deter
mined to make her his wife. But of
that delicious agony, that glorious fear
that makes pallid the face Of the lover,
the void in the life that must be filled
by the presence Of a beloved woman
what did he know? Nothing.
His nature was as yet cold, hers was
all laglow. She was one Of those women
passionate, yet sweet and pure, with
sensitive bodies that quiver with pain
at any strong emotion. If she had
never seen him again it is improbable
that she would ever have cared for an
other; perhaps she would have waited
in eternity for the sequence of that first
glance of his.
They fingered on till the honeysuckle
wooed the meadow-sweet in the deep
lanes above the village, and the young
summer was in its beauty. Then there
came moment when, the two being
alone in the woodland path oyerhanging
the sea, John asked Margaret to be his
wife. 1t was the sweetest time of the
afternoon, Just before sunset, when the
day has lost its WEAKNESS and the sky
is calm and the sunshine is dimmed by
a soft haze.
Mr.. Townsend had left them in order
to write letter which he had forgotten,
and the others had sauntered toward
the village in dreamy silence. Then she
became aware that he was asking her to
be his wife, telling her that she was the
sweetest woman he had ever seen.
Whence then her sudden shrinking
from him, as in fear?
"I am not good enough" " she cried.
She was afraid of her joy, for she was a
timid woman, but in the midst of his
wooing he was vexed at her humility,
not understanding it, for he was only
offering her scanty armful of first
fruits, and she was returning him the
full harvest of her soul, though she did
not know it's value. He drew her to
him and kissed the brown head and laid
it on his breast. She began to cry-she
had been SO greedy of joy lately, and here
was its perfection.
And he?-well it was the sweetest
hour he had ever passed in all his life.
This girl, with her simple dress and
manner, and her serious brown eyes and
undertone of joyfulness about her, sat
isfied the more spiritual side of his
nature. And yetshe was not the ideal
of his past, which ideal had been COM
pounded Of soft-voiced Cordelia, passion
ate Juliet, bright Rosalind, witty Bea-
trice, and dear Desdemona- fact, of
all Jne sweets OF many natures COM
pounded into one.
She was not his heroine, but he was
her hero, and her gladness inclined
toward sadness; for true woman sees
herself valueless at the moment she
believes that the Aman Of men sees in
her precious jewel.
"Are you sorry2' he asked, half
jestingly.
"Sorry r shesaid, and, with frank
yet coy gesture, she nestled close to his
heart.
III.
marlborough is a country town,