The Manitowoc pilot. [volume] (Manitowoc, Wis.) 1859-1932, 1885-04-30

glimpse of the small riante face and
| curling. close-cut tlaxen hair.
Meanwhile Sylvia was borne by the
| stranger into the warm freight of the
| cosy library of Lyndermere Lodge.
| She opened her eyes before the arri-
val of the doctor, but she appeared be-
wildered and hardly conscious.
When the surgeon had examined the
wound, he said nothing could be done
| further until the young lady was taken
to her home and placed in bed.
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.
SylVla's home was very simple one.
| She and her mother had always lived
| by themselves in a 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 Lyndermere 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
couveyor the culprit Jem, she grew in
terested to learn the name of Jem's
uncle.
"Rsally 1 cannot tell you," replied
her mother. ''You know, | was in such
a 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, | suppose,
responsible for the accident. Mother,
you must ask him to call
SO a note was dispatched to the
Lodge, and Sylvia, in graceful invalid's
toilet, sat awaiting their visitor that
evening.
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 unprepared for the
startling change in her daughter at
this period.
What is it, child-why did you
start?"
''Oh-nothing,' murmured Sylvia,
'oqEiipp Eip wFoanv away gapRdiGIkIlly,
Holcamp appeared before her she found
herself tremb bling from head to foot. In
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 a 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
trips of travel in Europe; he, Jem,
meanwhile to be sent to school.
Six months have passed away.
Sylvia, in mourning garb, stands
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 faraway
city.
Gently she lifts one and another of
sOuUenir albums and pretty gifts one
had bestowed upon the other at differ
ent birthdays and holidays.
She is looking at a book of poems
she had been reading aloud to her
mother during the summer evenings
preceding the arrival of Valentine Hol-
camp.
Nhn,, Ior +ba,- lor+ hD,,,o ~, Oh
her visit, the book had remained where
she had left it, upon the sitting-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 q 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 a
thin soft envelope, delicate flower
doubtless pressed within tit was a
habit of her mother 5 TO press her IA
vorite blooms thus-but no, this is a
directed note. and moreover, one di-
rected to herself.
The paper is hattened 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 word of
| explanation? | am OBLIGED TO leave in des-
! perate haste. If we never meet again, be-
| lieve me, it is best for you that it should be
| So. f we do meet in the future (and [ still
! family hope ii is your wish as well as my
own that we should), may l hope, also, you
will meet me with the smile of our present
| friendship.-Yours, III regret. and yet in
| fond faith,