Springfield globe-republic. (Springfield, Ohio) 1884-1887, 1885-04-26

| 10 neT HOuO huu plUCou III Ueu'
She revived under the restoratives
administered, but was In such pain AS
to take no notice of her surroundings.
Together they bore her to a carriage
and conveyed her home.
Once there, the stranger remained
until the shot had been extracted and
she was pronounced out Of immediate
danger.
Sylvia's home was a very simple one.
She and her mother had always lived
by themselves in small cottage since
the death of Mr.. Devine
1t was two days before Sylvia was
able to speak of the accident, and her
mother had briefly informed her that
the lad whose gun had worked such
mischief was the nephew Of the gentle
man owning Lyndermcre Lodge.
But as the days passed, and Sylvia,
becoming convalescent, received bask-
cts of fruit and flowers, and numerous
books, always emanating from the
Lodge, and having always for their
conveyor the culprit Jem, she grew in
terested to learn the name of Jcm's
uncle.
Really | cannot tell you," replied
her mother. "You know, l was in such
/, frenzy over you the night they
brought you home that really forgot
to enquire, and he has only sent these
things since with enquiries for your
state of health, without having called
| himself"
"He is most kind. and has evidently
been very anxious, feeling, l suppose,
responsible for the accident. Mother,
you must ask him to call.
So note was dispatched to the
Lodge, and Sylvia, in graceful invalid's
toilet, sat awaiting their visitor that
| evening.
1.-The servant tells me his name is
Mr., Holcamp," said the mother, enter
ing.
Mrs. Devine had been absent during
the time of young Holcamp's stay in
the town of the previous summer, and
her daughter, through feeling of shy
ness, had not mentioned the episode
which had entered into her life during
the period of her absence; nor had VAL
entine Holcamp stopped at the Lodge,
or even mentioned his connection with
his uncle, consequently Sylvia grew
suddenly pale at the mention OF the
name so familiar to her, and Mrs. De-
vine was entirely unprcpared for the
| startling change in her daughter at
,, this period.
What is it. child-why did you
start?"
"Oh-nothing." murmured Sylvia,
looking away quickly.
| But when, shortly after. Valentine
Holcamp appeared before her she found
herself trem bling from head to foot. In
a normal state of health this would
not have been the case. But the sur
prise had been too much for her in her
weakened condition.
| In her effort to appear controlled she
received him in a manner seemingly
cold.
The interview was very brief and
formal, though her mothers cordiality
| made up for it in part.
Without urging second visit from
the occupant of Lyndermere Lodge,
Sylvia asked him to send Jem. who,
she said, was in no manner to blame,
as he had not seen her when he took
his position in the tree.
Jem came-once, twice. At the
second visit to say goodbye. They
were going away again, he said; his
uncle was to join some friends on a
trip of travel in Europe; he, Jem.
meanwhile to be sent to school.
Six months have passed away.
Sylvia, in mourning garb, sta nds
alone in the house that for so many
years has smiled upon her in peace and
pleasantness.
Her mother is dead.
Tomorrow the furniture and books,
which they have together used and pc
rused, are to be stored and packed
away, and Sylvia will seek her abode
among distant relatives in a faraway
city.
Gently she lifts one and another of
soucenlr albums and pretty gifts one
had bestowed upon the other at differ
ent birthdays and holidays.
She is looking at book of poems
she had been reading aloud to her
mother during the summer evenings
preceding the arrival OF Valentine Hol-
camp.
When her mother left home to make
her visit, the book had remained where
she had left it, upon the stting-room
table; for after her departure Sylvia
had dipped into another poem, which
absorbed her for the time quite beyond
any she had ever read.
Now she lifted it tenderly-tears
rushed to her eyes. This was linked
with love that would never die-the
sweet fidelity of a mothers love. How
the other poem had died, shrivelled in
to bitter dregs.
The one she wept over; the other she
thought of with cold sneer.
Slowly, softly, she turns the leaves.
A book-mark falls into her lap. then
thin soft envelope, delicate flower
doubtless pressed within tit was a
habit Of her mothers to press her IA
vorite blooms thus-but no, this is
directed note, and moreover, one d.
rected to herself
The paper is flattened and somewhat
yellowed-it has evidently lain there
long.
1t is sealed-has never been opened.
She wonderingly tears it open and
reads:
DEAR FRIEND,-Can you forgive my
departing thus suddenly without a word OF
explaanastion9 | am OBLIGED to leave in des.
lieye me- 1t Is best for you that it should be
so II we do meet in the future (and still
family hope IL Is your wish as we'll as my
own that we shouldl, may hope, also, you
Will meet me with the smile Of our present
ffrieaad,shiip.-Yours' fsa In regret, and yet In
VALENTINE HoLcAMP"
She looked at the date.
1t had been written the day before