The true northerner., 1886-09-30


ton between her book and pet kitten.
His business discussed with Farmer
Grant, but not SO entirely settled as TO rem
der another call unnecessary he took
Maude's book, which she had thrown aside,
apparently engrossed with her kitten. 1t
was book of travels. He spoke of places
mentioned in it, then of his own expert
ence; and speaking with the knowledge of
the scholar, the easy diction and grace of
the cultivated man of the world, no wonder
Maude listened entranced, or that Farmer
Grant started when the little clock struck
ten.
MAY have the pleasure of lending you
the book i spoke of, Miss Hammer" he
said, as he took leave.
THANK you; it will give me great pleas
ure, she said, as she raised her eyes, the
sparkle still in them which his recital had
called forth, the glow still on her cheek.
After that evening they met frequently,
Philip Annersley, the man of the world
Maude Hammer, the village teacher. The
days flew by, they heightened into weeks,
and still he fingered.
What" whispered the Annersley pride
"what would my naughty mother, my high
bred sister, say to a low-born wife? And
yet, can not-I will leave this place to-
morrow"
Yet the morrow found him ~ Maude's
side, listening to her sweet voice, gazing
into her bonnie eyes.
The sun was Fastening to his western
home, tine evening song of the birds
trembled on the air, as Maude and Philip
stood by the river. the last rays of the sun
turning its waves TO molten gold. Eloquent
ly he told the old story unto willing ear.
In earnest and passionate entreaty he ask
ed her love; he painted in glowing colors
his mothers pride, the awe in which he
held her, and besought her consent to a
secret 'rrlage, to be revealed in time,
when prepared the way; but, in the
meantime she must be "his own, his
darling, his WIFE"
Trembling. blushing, overpowered by
her great love for him, Maude yielded.
The moon had risen in silver radiance,
and the stars glistened with pale light, as
they rose to go homeward. Turning 10
Philip, while her pure face shone in the
moonlight like the face of an angel, Maude
said, 81 fear my happiness is too great TO
last. This gray stone shall be the altar Of
our betrothal; kneel and promise to love me
always"
Kneeling by the stone, one hand clasped
in hers, the other raised to heaven, he
swore, II will love you, Maude, you only of
all women, while l live"
She said, solemnly, at is a vow. Heaven
has registered it..
Not many days after, they were secretly
married.
oh, what golden days came to Maude! If
she had loved the lover, she worshiped the
handsome, manly husband; and the inter-
views were sweeter because stolen and
fraught with danger.
Autumn's golden glory was over Acton,
4, 1t.
Grants door. Maude answered his knock,
surprised to see him, as their meetings
were usually at the rendezvous by the river.
"Will YOU walk with me?" he asked.
Maude wondered at his unusual silence
and hurried steps.
Are you ill.," she asked, with a fright
ened look.
"No, dearest; do not question me now,"
he answered.
Having reached the mossy seat by the
river, he drew her to him, and folded her
closely to his arms, so he could look into
the blue eyes-those bonnie eyes-could
feel her warm breath on his cheek. Still
he spoke not.
"0h, Philip, what is it?" she cried. 81
can bear anything better than this sus-
pense. Has your mother discovered any
thing?"
letters summoning me to town. / must go
to night, and can not tell how long shall
remain
The color fled from brow, from cheek,
and lip; she lny like one dead in his arms.
He kissed her passionately, he called her
by every endearing name, and finally sue
ceeded in restoring her to consciousness.
He tried to comfort her, to persuade her TO
forget the present, and dream of a happy
future; but she said, sadly, in answer to
his earnest words, Il fear il will be long
before we meet again. / cannot think OF
the future in this present sorrow"
With many kisses, with many promises
to write, he parted from her, and his last
words were, as he kissed the golden curls,
the white eyelids, the little mouth. only
for a short time, little wife, and then, l
| trust, no more concealment."
Philip Annersley really loved his wife,
| and il was his intention at some propitious
moment to reveal the truth to his mother;
and the longer he delayed, the more for
midable appeared the task of revelation.
| Finally, as time faded the memory of
| Maudes loveliness and winning ways, he
| began to question the necessity of reveal
| ing the marriage at all; and, as he mingled
in the fashionable world, he dreaded its
comment upon his choice. Maude had
never reached his intellectual want. So,
day by day, he strove to forget the tie that
bound him, and persuaded himself that
Maude was happier in her humble obscurity
than she would be raised TO a station TO
which her attainments were not equal.
Letters at first came often-long, loving
letters; then at longer intervals, cold and
hurried-a necessary duty, not a loving one.
Maude at first excused the shortness and
coldness of his notes with the loving ex-
cuse, He is 50 busy. By-and-by he will
write more"
At last even her innocent eyes could not
| be blinded to the evident neglect. The
man of the world had now forgotten his
plaything. Grieved and quite indignant,
Maude at last ceased to answer his letters.
CHAPTER Ill
THE BELLE OF THE RECEPTION.
Time rolled on. Four years had sped
What had they brought to Philip? What
to Maude Annersley?
"Do you go to Mrs. Bells reception this
evening"" asked Mary Annersley of her