Springfield globe-republic. (Springfield, Ohio) 1884-1887, 1886-12-13

about her perfect mouth as she draw
her long satin and lace skirts acros.
| the floor to his side. She lays a sof
hand restrainingly on his coat sleeve.
Forgive me-" her low voice says
caressingly. You know l did moi
mean it. am always teasing you
| Herbert"
| She says his name with gentle hesi
fancy, and accompanies it with a glance
from her dark eyes that subdues his
pride, and leaves him again at the mercy
| of her dainty, cruel hands.
The little French clock ticks in merry
derision, and the long curtains at the
windows shake with laughter-it may bt
the autumn breeze outside that ruffleS
them, but it really seems as If they were
making merry with the little clock
which rattles out its gay, laughing refrain
| without pause for breath. The parrot
in its gilded cage by the window shrieks
"FoOlr' and as il it were not its only
word, said many times a day, the merri
ment breaks out afresh; the clock ticks
madly, and every bit of furniture and
bric-a-brac in the room seems crowned
with little laughing demons, who point
derisive fingers, and laugh and laugh,
while the parrot screeches "FOOlr'
"Only baby''-only one small baby
life; a life that is almost gone. Only
one baby, who has lived and smiled, and
brought bit Of its own heaven into
SONS work -a-day lives; who has pushed
back, with its tiny, helpless hands, all
the care clouds, and has let in the sun
shine TO lives that have been darkened.
1t is only a baby that is dying. Only
one. from all the host of smiling babies
in the world. There are so many laugh
ing, crying, pouting, teasing, cooling
babies, that one will not be missed when
the baby voice is hushed, and the rest
less, tiny feet are stilled.
Back and forth-back and forth, in a
quiet, darkened room, a woman's dark
draped figure moves slowly and softly,
the quiet movement lulling to rest the
small, uneasy head against her breast.
The little wasted arms thrown about
her neck are quiet, and the tiny fingers
droop plaintively.
The slow, regular movement, with the
darkened room and the perfect quiet, is
strangely irksome TO Herbert Macy as he
lies, outfiung, on low couch, his hands
propping his handsome head. There is a
his lips are set in an impatient discon-
tented line. He has been very proud Of
his baby daughter, who, smiling and
dimpled. has crept great way into her
fathers heart and displaced great deal
of worldly folly to make room for herself;
and the father now lies in the dimness
and follows with his eyes the slender
figure of his wife in her journeys across
H.. o,,I &c, La- ,,lt q
her and ne turns away, tired, angry and
impatient.
1t has not been so very many years
since he married for love, and he could
not tell how all this change has come
about.
How did it all come abouts' he is
thinking, as he lies there in the shadows.
How did it all come about, this change
that has taken him so far from Linda
and her love- He had never meant tina.
it should be so, he thought. He did not
choose that people should say that he
neglected his wife and his home 1t was
entirely Linda's fault. She was cold,
proud and indifferent, and he was better
contented away from her. He had never
meant to do anything wrong, but it was
so pleasant in Dora Lyle's bijou house,
and she was so charming, and bright,
and friendly. Only friendly, nothing
more-perhaps that was the charm. He
had held her small hands at parting to
day as long as he dared, and had called
her Dora" twice, and she had only
smiled and blushed. and seemed more
bewitching than ever. He did not con-
slider that he was engaged in any fiirta-
ton, and the people who said SO were
entirely in the wrong He admired Mrs.
Lyle and liked TO be with her, and did
not see that there was any danger. All
this he reasoned as he lay there in the
darkness with his hands clasped behind
his head.
As Linda was indifferent and silent,
he could not be expected to devote his
time to her. OF course he was not to
blame that she was so unlike the women
of the outside world: he could not fancy
Linda clinging TO his arm and smiling
up into his face; none of the cOquettish,
sidelong glances belonged to Linda and
she could not be imagined IN the rustling
draperies, floating ribbons and jingling
bangles that helped to make Dora Lyle
so charming. Pretty, dashing Dora! He
wondered if she would meet him as
kindly as she had parted from him. II
she did, he should kiss her hands-tlose
dear, small, warm nands! lie would KISS
them on the soft, pink palms, again and
again, and perhaps she would not care.
A cinder falls from the CRATE with a
soft crash, that startles him and sends
from his lips the half smile that his
reveries have brought.
Linda still PAGES back and forth with
Tina held close to her breast. She does
not glace at her husband, nor seem aware
of his presence. A servant comes noise
lessly in and hands him a small white
note He blushes guiltily as the scent OF
white roses reaches him, and turns the
blazing IL" on the seal hastily down
ward. But his wife does not glance at
him or give any sign that she has seen,
and he falls again into his reverie with
Dora's note between his fingers.
The hours go by-one like another.
The old physician comes in, takes Tina S
hands, and looks into her face; then
turns quickly away from the despairing
mother eyes, and goes out without a
word.
Herbert Macy watches with his gloomy,
discontented eyes, his wife's slight figure
how very slight it is, as it seems to sway
and bend beneath Tina's light weight.
With throb of pity he goes to her and
reaches out his arms for Tina; but the
/ baby clasps her mother closer and means,
| and Linda turns abruptly from him.
! Mother and child are alike" he
| thinks, bitterly returning to his couch.
''If it were only Dora"
put hs can scarcelv imaRine Dora with