Alpena weekly argus. [volume] (Alpena, Mich.) 1871-1893, 1884-04-16

Phil; I've tried hard enough, God
knows, to make you forget. The sun
was sinking over yonder in the west,
and sky and sea were all ailame. Some
fleccy clouds dropped low over the old
shed where we had ordered some clans.
| remember when | saw Polly that
night. The dress she wore was like a
stab to me; il was of some soft floating
material that reminded me of the wool
ly clouds over the old shed. You didn't
eat the clans, Phil. You dallicd with
the shells, and turned them over with
the queer old fork they had given you.
And all at once you put them aside, and
lighted cigar, and turned your face TO
the sea, and began TO talk of woman
you secretly loved. Now give me some
wine, Phil :"
Phil put the glass again to Joe's lips.
''Don't talk any more, joe" he said.
LET me go for Polly"
mot YETI said Joe. "You were a
handsome fellow, Phil, twenty-five years
ago. AS you went on to talk of the
woman yon secretly loved, some sort of
light shone upon your face from the
splendor in the west that made it like
that of anarchangel. II seemed to me
that no woman Gould withstand you.
My heart grew like lump of ice. My
first thought was to walk out in the wa
ter and strangle myself; my next was
worthy of Judas Iscariot. Ii was II re-
solve to betray you. | must have been
tempted by the devil, for, as God is my
Judge in this awful moment of my life,
l never dreamed before that night that
/ in. xuifh ha
woman. / got upon my feet and
shouted, She is miner glaring upon You
with q logged, resolute stare. Have
you, then, asked her to marry you?' you
said, and your face still looked like an
archangers, while mine must have been
inilamed with the passions that beset
man beyond his strength. As repeated:
She is my promised wife, the words
seemed TO leap from throat of fire; il
was the first downright, hideous, mali
cious lie ever uttered, for I had not
yet asked her-I had not yet asked her;
but when did ask her, upon that very
night, the next lie slipped easily from
my perjured throat, though it was a
worse one by far. For | told, Polly,
Phil told her before / asked her to
marry me-that you had confessed to me
your love for her friend, the poor little
girl that afterward became our bride
maid. Whether it wos my guilty con-
science, that makes hell enough for any
man, | fancied | saw something in
Polly's eyes that told me, had it not
been for my treachery, your chance
would have been better than mine.
Now take your arm away from my neck,
Phil, and curse me if you will-my story
is done.
The pulse at Joe's ear leaped and
tugged as if it would burst an artery,
but Pills voice had the old tender
ring.
''You might have spared yourself all
this" he said IL think Polly has
proved who it was she loved"
"Ah, after that night, Phil, yes
Polly is not the kind of n woman to
make the misery of men. But cheated
you of your chance cheated you of
your chancen'
"Be it so, Joe. l forgive you, and
love you all the same. Now throw off
the burden, and live for Polly's sake
and mine
TOO late, too late" faltered the fail
luS llpos iHcy itluSVu W louCh lhc
glass. The limp body fell back almost
lifeless in Pills arms. Then Joe
aroused himself once more, and called
for Polly in harsh, strained voice that
reached her despite the roar of the sea.
She flew to his side, but was only in
time to catch a few indstinct, disjointed
sentences. With last effort the dying
man lifted the hands of his wife and his
friend, joined them together. clasped
his own about them, and so the three re-
manned till the soul of Joe Barrett fled.
"And if there could be such thing
as witchcraft,n said Miss Mortimer TO
some friends, the other day, Joe Bar
rett's widow would have been burned at
the stake long ago. She was pretty
well on in wears when Joe died, and IN
leave it to anybody if she don't look like
a blonde mummy now. Phil Somers
has that air of distinction and elegance
about him that he might marry almost
anybody; Joe Barrett's widow is old and
ugly and sick and poor, but | shouldn't
be at all surprised If Phil Somers would
marry her yet. Mrs Frank Nc Cartby,
IN Harper's Weekly.