Juniata sentinel and Republican. [volume] (Mifflintown, Juniata County, Pa.) 1873-1955, 1884-08-20
that binds her and Paul, one to the

:
with grave blue eyes, stands once more
by the marble fountain. The roses
bloom around as they bloomed on that
day i've years ago when she promised
to wait for Paul Tempest and she is
waiting still-waiting with strong low
ing heart that never doubts nor waverS
for one second, though she is little
weary sometimes. Some day she will
see him coming with Outstretched arms
| through the rose-trees, and the long
weary years will be forgotten in mo-
ment.
1t is two years and more since old
Mrs. Verschoyle died. and Dorothy has
an elderly maiden lady to keep her CON-
pany. She is lonely enough sometimes
but Paul will come back to her soon,
and then
A mans step sounds on the gravel,
and over Dorothy Verschoyle's far
face comes sudden red blush, for a
wild improbable hope is surging at her
heart. ''Paul !" is on her lips and
Nv elcome ~ in her eyes as the strong
firm steps come nearer and nearer.
1t is not Paul (; and a great blank
disappointment blanches Dorothy's
face. She looks up at Sir Percival
Montague and tries to smile ; but the
smile is failure.
You did not expect to see me, Dor
othy," he says, as he takes her hand.
"No; )" and, in spite of herself, a
sudden mist of tears rushes to her eyes.
She is timid and nervous, not the
smiling fearless Dorothy of old, and Sir
Perclval notices the change. He has
come to say something, and he says it
Immediately.
Dorothy, L have come to ask you
the same question that 1 asked five
years ago."
True and steadfast, the blue eyes he
loves are raised to his as she gives him
the same answer that she gave then,
slowly and sadly, her heart full of sor-
row for him, her tears falling fast.
Must it be always 50 ?" he asks.
And Dorothy answers, Yes"
It'll death, Paul." she said. her
white arms around his neck, and It'll
death, Paul" she says still, for she
knows he will come back TO her some
day, strong, true, and loving.
Sir Percival goes away, a sorely-
stricken disappointed man. And Dor
othy waits and longs and hopes year by
year, and the blue eyes get very sad and
weary.
The seasons come and go, buds swell
and bloom and fade, the ivy creeps inch
by inch up the gray stone walls, and
Paul Tempest has not come home. Dor
othy is eight-and-twenty, fair and sweet
IN her womanhood, when a great hope
leaps to life by freak of fortune. Paul
Tempest has become rich man Dor
othy hears it in her quiet home, and she
tells herself that the time is coming at
last. But the roses bloom and fade
again, and he comes not.
she has forgotten me I" she cries,
with an exceeding bitter CRY, and so
takes her sorrow to her heart to live
there evermore.
A sad fair woman, whose life is spent
for others, whose eyes weep for the
sorrows OF Others. whose lips never
smile for any JOY of her own, but only
when some pleasure makes another face
happy-such Is Dorothy Verschoyle ten
years later; and by her side is one
pleading as he pleaded fifteen years ago.
"Percival," she says, 81 plighted my
faith once till death. We are too old,
you and l., for much happiness now let
us be friends always"
Dorothy, love yos STILL"
Sweet and sad are the blue eyes which
are raised to his.
''He wasted my life; but l love him
still. l am only woman, Percival. l
can be happier with my dead hopes than
in the love of any living man. Can you
understand that ?''
81 can," he says. and so leaves her
once more.
And when, a few weeks later, little
knot of relocated men are gathered
round a PROSTATE figure lying dead in
the hunting-feld, sOrrowfully looking
down at the still face of Sir Percival
Montague, they cannot but think he is
happier now, lying dead by that one
false slip of his horse /; for well they
know the story OF his disappointed life
that he has lived and loved in vain.
They carry him home, and on the way
pass a woman with sweet sad face and
weary eyes.
Somebody tells her what has happen
ed. Quietly she comes forward, lifts
the covering off his face, and looks
long and intently at him.
Goodbye, Percival ~ she whispers;
and on his quiet upturned face her
tears are falling, the tears Of the only
woman he ever loved.
Then she looks into the grave faces
of the gentlemen around.
''He is happy" she says-"Heaven
has taken him ~ and so passes on and
they carry him to his lonely home that
he left in health and strength that
morning.
"Oh, lore for a Ceek, a gear, a day,
But alas for the lore that LOUeS dtcdy'"
The song is over, the last notes die
away /; and Dorothy Verschoyle looks
up to see the lovers walking away, out
at the long open window, as she and
Paul Tempest walked so many years
ago.
s'I am fool l'' she says, and dashes
an unbidden tear away.
The long modern fashionable draw
ing room is full of guests. The goodly
young man is singing ''Sweethearts"
again for the benefit of the company.
A strange scene is being enacted on
a distant sofa. A tall whlte-haired man
Is bending and talking to Miss Yer
schoyle, whose strange face is strangely
agitated-and we'll it may be, for she
has met Paul Tempest again, and the
scene in the rose-garden is fresh in the
minds of both.
"Forgiye me-" he is saying and she
answers
81 forgave you long ago, Paul"
"Oh, lore FOR q reek. q year, day,
But alas for the lore that lores al'cdy !"
They have met again in life's jour-
ney. Paul Tempest knows now Of the
years of hopeless waiting. He reads
the story in the sad patient face, and
thinks of the fair sweet Dorothy he
loved once-ay, and well too-till other
fair faces came between him and her
memory, and the love died out. He
remembers throwing away the rose Dor
othy gave him-not indeed before its
petals fell. but long before the blue
eyes wearied from waiting for his re-