The times. (Owosso, Mich.) 1882-1897, 1882-04-14

an instant paralyzed-an instant too
long; for 1t was her husbands voice
that answered it. SO
''Muriel," he said, 'for Heavens sake,
calm yourself, or you will break my
heart! Why did you come herep Why
did you impose this ordeal ON us bothP'
"Why did l come herep" she answer
ed. "You can ask me whyp Did you
not heartlessly invite mep / thought my
pride equal to your hardness. If he
has SO forgotten the past that he can ask
me to live under one roof with him and
the woman he has married, l will prove
that am equal to the proof J. could
have borne it to the end, but that when
you held my hands and looked into my
eyes tonight all the past rushed over
me, and buried me beneath its ruins"
"The past, when heard the little
whispered, Yes from your lips, Muriel.
and thought it the sweetest sound in all
the universe. 1t is not for you to recall
the past, who so ruthlessly destroyed
| it, '''
at was my pride, Gerald. When the
crash came, which ruined my father and
left me an orphan and penniless, Iwrote
you your release. knew that poor
wife would drag you down where you
should rise. Your uncle wrote that un-
less your wife brought you dowry
equal to his inheritance, he would dis
inherit you. 1t was cruel, mercenary,
and unjust in him. l grant you that;
but L was so sore and bitter in tho
realisation of my poverty that 1 released
you. You believed it sprung from other
reasons as WELL For little time l fos-
tered your jealousy, thinking it would be
easier for you thus to give me up; but
after you had left me, Gerald, l knew
then to what had condemned myself,
and my heart cried out against its tor
ment, until one day sat down and
wrote you, asking, nay, imploring you
to forgive and return to me; that we
would defy fortune and the world to-
gether. The day read your marriage
IN the paper, that note was returned to
me through the dead letter Office.
Through some mistake it had never
reached YOU"
A deep groan burst from Gerald Ons-
lows white lips.
"You drove me madr' he said. II
met my wife, and read in her eyes pure
and innocent love. knew that she was
rich, that all the conditions my uncle
had imposed would be fulfilled. was
desperate. Six weeks from the day
met her carried off my prize. had
almost learned to be happy in her smile.
The knowledge that l was not so would
break the child's heart"
"And we will not break it, Gerald"
answered the sweet, low voice. "She
must never know the truth. Tomorrow
will go away. We shall see each other
never again, but Clare shall know no
shadow on her sun. Only, in your
thoughts, Gerald, remember that my
burden is heavier than yours, and so
think kindly of me-"
"Muriel, l cannot let you gor' he
said.
For Clare's saker' she whispered.
go, go! quickly, thenr' he said.
Quickly she obeyed him; but when
she drew aside the portiere to pass out,
the room beyond was empty.
A half-hour later, when Gerald re-
turned to the drawing-room, he found
that his wife had made her excuses and
retired. The excitement of the evening
had brought on severe headache, she
had said; but few minutes after, when
he tiptoed into her chamber, he thought
her sleeping. she lay so quiet upon her
pillows. She was still ill the next day,
when Muriel sought her to say farewell.
81 must leave you to-day" she said,
"but want you to know that have
learned to loveyou very dearly, and when
you think of me, will you give me little
corner in your hearth"
A moment Clare hesitated before she
answered.; but she looked into the pale,
beautiful face bending over her, and
dared lay no blame to her. 1t was the
cruel sport of destiny, not that she had
been to blame, so she kissed her and
whispered "Yes''; but in her heart she
knew that her burden was heavier to
bear than the woman who had laid it on
her.
Yet that she carried it she gave no
outward sign. That she was more
gentle, more tender, though perhaps less
demonstrative, was the only change that
half-hour's eavesdropping had wrought
in her. Only she asked her husband no
questions now when she saw him absent
minded or gloomy.
At such times she would steal beside
him, bathing his head with cologne, or
reading aloud some favorite poem, until
the gloom cleared and the lines upon
the handsome face relaxed.
1t was three years before the seed
bore fruit, and then she knew her bur-
den was lifted. She had been very ill.
Day and night Gerald had watched over
her, and with his love and care helped
to bring her back from Deaths longing
embrace, when, one evening, lying calm
and contented in his arms, he bent to
kiss her as he whispered:
"Clare, want to tell you story you
should never hear, were not my love to-
day more entirely yours than it has ever
been another's."
And then he told her all the story
through, sparing not himself, but giving
all honor to the noble girl whose love
had been as blameless as it had been
sad.
"Three years ago, Clare, he said, 81
fancied 1 loved her still. though you had
/