The Penn's Grove record., 1885-08-22

down amongst US IOI gOOu ana aye. he
is occupied by some mysterious BUSH
ness which takes him up to London
three days each week; for our village is
at a convenient distance from London
only twenty miles.
1t is certainly provoking that he
should select the very spot on this wide
earth which we inhabit. What car be
more awkward than to be continually
meeting a person in society for whom
one entertains a deadly amnesty. and
yet whose position demands for him a
certain amount of civility2 / suppose
it is no great wonder that my father
develops a liking for my enemy, he is
certainly far superior to the ordinary
run of men-in fact, were it not for his
brutal treatment of poor Bonnie, l
should doubtless think him delightful.
As ii is, L have occasionally to yea a
few flowers from BOnnie's grave when
| am likely to meet him. They always
act as a reminder. and quite prevent
me from Overstepping the ''frigidly po-
lite" in my manner towards him. Aunt
Ellen, papa's sister, fortunately comes
on a long visit, 50 that there Is no need
of nv exertlng myself in any way for
| NIL. Il tilfJuSu y CllbGl ldlillNcuGt
In October we give our first large din
ner-paTty. For my W part | think
dinner parties a dreadful nuisance; but
both papa and Aunt Ellen approve of
them, and doubtless they are amongst
the necessary evils of this life.
Of course Mr.. Fairlough isOne of the
guests. No matter what entertain
ment we give, 1t seems to me be is first
on the list. l gather the last forget-me-
nOts on BOnnie's grave, and very puny,
withered specimens they are. What
matter? l fasten them in with their
dollhouse brethren. as a talisman, and
then l face the enemy, feeling safely.
faro you going to sing for us2'' Mr..
Fairlough asks, coming over to my
side, shortly after he leaves the dining
room.
81 really don't know; l may" l an
swer coldly.
81 suppose there would not be the
slightest use of my asking you?"
This he says int~errogatiyely, and
with a certain amount of indifference
in his tone.
make no direct answer, but remark
mildly ON the heat of the drawing
room.
''Do you find il warm? You seem as
cool as usual, " he replies, with just the
slightest meaning in his voice. Then
he looks at me for a few moments cu-
riously, and adds half smilingly, 81
wonder will you eve forgive me that
unlucky shotp"
"Poor Bonniei'' l murmur.
He turns aside his head for a sec
ond, and L catch, or fancy I catch, the
words ''llttle brutei" muttered from
under his m~oustache.
You planted his grave with forget
me-nots, didn't your" he continues in
a bantering tone, and with a lurking
smile on the corners of his mouth.
81 did, though there was little need
to do so. | am not likely to forget the
parting present of poor cousin Tom"
He turns round sharply, without the
| ghost of a smile on his face now.
81 beg your pardOn-your cousin.
my cousin Toni" / reiterate hotly.
"He brought me Bonnie all the way
from India, at immense Inconvenience
and great expense; no wonder that [
valued him!''
"True; no wonder that you valued
himI" echoes Mr.. F%airlough; and then
he crosses the room to Aunt Helen,
and l speak no more with him that
evening.
Think it would have been only po-
lite had he asked me to sing, after men
tioning the subject.
After that dinner-party we see less
Of Mr.. Fairlough for some time, and,
when he does by chance look in, he IS
far less CHEEKY than of old. My father
declares that he is getting unsettled,
and predicts that he will shortly return
to the land where he amassed his wealth
namely South Africa.
The winter comes down swiftly upon
US, and l coax my father INTO letting
me give a dance. This being the first
entertainment given to my own liking
since my return from school, the event.
full evening finds me naturally III a
buoyant spirits. | am good-tempered
with everybody, even with Mr.. Fair
Tough. when, after a delightful valse-
his most inveterate enemies must adj
NIT that he dances well-we find our
selves alone in the hall, where a few
seats have been placed for weary dan
GERS.
81 hardly expected you would dance
with me when | asked YOU" he says,
in a low tone, glancing at me with a
half-smlle In his eyes.
81 could not refuse to dance with a
guest in my fathers house." | answer
with no thought of ungraciousness, but
merely to give him to understand that
there is nothing particular in my hav-
ing accepted him as a partner.
"Thank you" he W stifiy; aud
then he is turning away, when l
falteT-
"Mr. ~Fairloughi"
"Yes?" he questions, returning TO
my side.
81 did not mean to be rude"
He looks down at me so strangely;
aud then Well, there Is not the
slightest reason for putting down what
he said next-it cannot possibly concern
anybody. But this much l must admit
just for the sake of truth and consis.
tency-we did not leave the hall for
fully ten minutes after he came back
to my side, and, when we did, had
promised to become the wife OF Bon
MES murder T.
thought l should never lay that
little beggar's ghost" says Jack irrey-
erently, as we prepare to leave the hall.
"Yes-I feel a most dreadful traitor,
/ answer with a sigh; but you see the
snow is on the ground now, and last
summer seems so very far away" This
sounds in my w ears as a sort of APP
ology for my ickleness.
81 don't think / should have got quite
SO desperate, or have meditated South
Africa again, had known that Bon
ME was my only rival"
"Why, who else could have been |
ask in amazement.
81 dreaded a far more formidable
rival-cousln Tom"
The idea of falling in love with cous-
in Tom seems to me an excellent joke;
and | cannot help laughing as l ex-
plain to Jack that Tom has for the past
six weeks been married to an old school
fellow of mine who is now residing in
India.
So l am engaged to Jack Fairlough.