Perrysburg journal. (Perrysburg, Wood Co., O. [Ohio]) 186?-1965, 1886-02-05

come some otner day for Some-there
was plenty of time before Christmas
but to-day's in-gathoring meant to
keep oil TO myself.
AT least for this one day, told him,
when we had reached the house and
| paused together in the porch--for
this one day we would not call in any
one, however friendly, to see what IL
had brought me; but tonight, when he
was gone, then would tell Aunt Mar
garct that l was to be his wife. / said
the word in little nutter as we stood
there together, for already he had been
| asking me how long l meant to keep
his own from him. AS said it, 1
glanced up shyly at him, and il would
| have discomhtcd me TO see how his
face changed, paling at that word, if
| his hand had not closed ON mine with
q tightening grasp which made me
ashamed of dawning doubt that he
| wanted IT,
"Annie-"
The voice, full of strange pain,
startled me. Could this day have any
| pain in itP
Perhaps he read that thought-hc
was always so quick to understand
for he said: ~ have q story to tell you,
| Annie, a story that may take some of
the brightness out of this hour for you,
as it has taken all the brightness out of
the last seven years of my life until
now. Shall tell it you nowp Or can
you trust me that it is nothing which
| ought to part usp and would you rath-
or wait to hear it until tomorrow"
could trust him; ay, rather could
not distrust him; and / told him so.
| Let us live this day out without shad-
| ow; afterward. IL shadows must come,
lie should lead me safely through
| them.
"There is no danger in the shadow,
| Annie; there is only something for us
both to forget"
| Let us forget it now, then. See,
there is Aunt Margaret at the window
| signing TO me; she is afraid shall let
| her ncighbor so offend against her good
old-fashioned hospitality as to go away
to his bachelors hall, when it is three
| O'Clock and our dinner hour"
The shortest day of all the year. We
Were watching its setting from the
| library window, we two left alone, for
Madge and Fanny had driven into the
| village for the mail, and Aunt Marga-
ret was summoned to one of those
kitchcncabinet councils which in view
of Christmas cheer grew more and more
frequent under old Lethe's able admin
istration. So we two were standing
| together in the bay-window, watching
the crimson glow fade off from the
wide snow stretch of lawn that sloped
down to the lane, dotted here and there
with black-grcen pyramid of fir, be-
tween the naked oaks, when presently
l caught sight of something moving
across their shadows flung stiff and
dark against the white.
"Some one is coming said, break
ing the happy silence. "a lady, /
thought-though l wonder who it could
! be, walking"
"What boren
"Oh, she'll not be shown in here,
and unless you feel disposed to go 10
Aunt Margaret's assistance"
Here | saw the side door of the Ii
brary opening from the lawn. The
| visitor must have observed us at the
window; some one on sufficiently un-
ceremonious terms.
1t was q stranger.
She had closed the door behind her,
| and had come forward into the full
| glow of the Christmas wood fire blaz-
| ing on the hearth. A stranger, GER
tainly; if had ever seen her before, I
should never have forgotten her.
She was standing on the hearth, and
drew her slender gloved hands out of
| the folds of her cashmere shawl, hold
| ing them to the warmth, before she
| turned to us the fairest face L have ever
| seen-the fairest face one ever dreamed.
Only that would have been strange,
| Fouque-like dream in which such Wis.,
| ion should come.
1t could not have been after-knowl-
| edge on my part, for before she spoke,
| while she still fronted us with that gay
smile upon her perfect lips, thought
of Undine in her soulless loveliness,
| light-hearted, glad, careless of others
| pain because she could not feel it.
| There is the Undine nature in child,
too, for whom there exists no pain that
does not bruise its own tender flesh,
and that soft hardness made itself felt
in every line and curve about this wom-
an, as she stood there, white and gold
| en-, looking at us out of those great
brilliant eyes, of which l have read
somewhere:
| the sen blue
eyes which would fain have followed,
for they fixed themselves on Brian
Only could not, that face so held me-
| "They told me at your house that
you were here, perhaps; that you were
often here; and so | came," she said,
still looking at Brian.
turned and looked at him too then;
the clear, soft, shallow, child voice
broke the spell.
But he never saw me. His eyes were
riveted on her-just as man might
look who sees ghost.
And then she smiled. She had been
beautiful before, but now her beauty
was bewildering. She stretched out
her hands to him.
Have you never word of well
come, Brian, for your wifeP"
He drew long, hard breath, and
passed his hand heavily over his eyes.
He never once glanced my way, though
l felt he saw mo all the while. He an
swered her slowly:
How is it you are not dead, Louisep
For nearly seven years you have al
lowed me to believe you We're"
She laughed mocking little laugh.
Though she did not turn toward me, /
knew she had flashed glance at me.
/" Have you been disconsolate
wldower all that time, my poor Brian
1t was very wicked of me, of course.
But then, you see, l always hated pov-
erty; and you were SO very impecuni-
GUS at that time. really thought il
better to die OFF your hands"
Here she turned suddenly to me with
sweet graciousness of manner, while
her eyes, alive with mocking spirits,
looked me through and through.
"My husband is little remiss at in
Productions, so / find must make my
self known to you, rs / see you are one
of his friends. Every one has skeleton
in his closet. you know. and / presen
you to Brian's."