The Democratic advocate. [volume] (Westminster, Md.) 1865-1972, 1886-03-06

"How shall 1 bear it ?" said poor Ann,
to herself sometimes; Kit is so wrong, S,
unwomanly! So selfish, too, when 1 thinl
of my children How much l have to b.
thankful for-wby should 1 ruin my lif
by crying for the one thing that is not 70
me? 1t is worse, far worse, than if he haC
died; had known that he had loved me,
could have borne his death, it seems II
me-"
She was sitting alone one afternoon abou
five weeks after Kenneth had left, thinking
sadly over and over the same thoughts
when tap at the door made her look up
"Come in" she said, though the taI
hardly sounded like that of her maid, and
no one else was likely to come to the dooi
of her own room, where she happened tc
be. "Come in," and, somewhat to her
surprise, the door half opened and old Am,
brose's voice replied:
off you please, ma am"-then stopped
and hesitated.
"Come in she repeated with touch
of impatience, "What is it, Ambrose ?
Where is Seton?'
eff you please, ma'am, couldn't find
her-that is to say" Ambrose went on
uervously, 81 didn't look for her thought,
ma'am, l would rather tell you myself.
You mustn't be startled, ma am, +" and Anne
at this, looking up at the old man, saw that
he was pale and startled-looking himself,
''but it's-it's Major Graham"
"Major Graham ?" repeated Anne, and
to herself her voice sounded almost like a
scream. "What about him Have you
heard anything?"
"Its him, ma am-himself p said Am
brose. "He's in the library. I'm little
afraid, ma'am, there may be something
wrong, he looked so strange and he did
not answer when spoke to him. But
he's in the library, ma am"
Anne did not wait to hear more. She
rushed past Ambrose, across the landing,
and down the two flights of steps which led
to the library half-way-house room, be-
tween the ground floor and the drawing
room-almost before his voice had stopped
At the door she hesitated moment, and
in that moment all sorts of wild supposi-
tions flashed across her brain. "What was
it? What was she going to hear? Had
Kenneth turned back half-way-way out to
India for her sake? Had some trouble
befallen him, in which he had come to seek
her sympathy? What could it be? and,
her heart beating so as almost to suffocate
her, she opened the door.
Yes-there he stood-on the hearth-rug
as she had last seen him in that room.
But he did not seem to hear her come in,
for he made no movement toward her; he
did not even turn his head in her direction.
More and more startled and pertubed,
Anne hastily went up to him.
''Kenneth!' she cried, "what is it?
What is the matter?"
She had held out her hand as she hur-
ried toward him, but he did not seem to
see it. He stood there still, without NOV
ing, his face slightly turned away, till she
was close beside him.
"Kenneth," she repeated, this time with
thrill of something very like anguish in
her tone, ''what is the matter? Are you
angry with me? Kenneth-speak"
Then, at last, he slowly turned his head
and looked at her with strange, half-wist-
ful anxiety in his eyes. He gazed at her
as if his very soul were in that gaze, and,
lifting his right hand gently, laid itaon her
shoulder as he had done the evening he
had hidden her farewell. She did not
shrink from his touch, but, strange to say,
she did not feel it, and some indefnable in
stinct made her turn her eyes away from
his and glance at her shoulder But even
as she did so she saw that his hand was no
longer there and, with thrill of fear, she
exclaimed again: "Speak, Kenneth, speak
to me
The words fell on empty air. There was
no Kenneth beside her. She was standing
on the hearth-rug alone.
Then, for the first time, there came over
her that awful chill of terror so often de-
scribed, yet so indescribable to all but the
few who have felt it for themselves. With
a terrible, though halfstifed cry, Anne
turned toward the door. 1t opened before
she reached it, and she half fell into old
Ambroses arms Fortunately for her
for her reason perhaps-his vague misgiv-
ing had made him follow her, though of
what he was afraid he could scarcely have
told.
"Oh, ma am-oh, my poor lady! y he
exclaimed, as he half led, half carried her
back to her own room, "what is it? Has
he gone? But how could he have gone
1 was close by. never saw him pass"
"He is not there; he has not been there"
said poor Anne, trembling and clinging to
her old servant. "Oh, Ambrose, what you
and have seen was no living Kenneth
Graham-no living man at all. Ambrose,
he came thus to say goodbye to me. He
is dead;" and the tears burst forth as she
spoke and Anne sobbed convulsively.
Ambrose looked at her in distress and
CONSERVATION past words; then at last he
found courage to speak.
"My poor lady," he repeated, sit must
be so. I misdoubted me and did not
know why. He did not ring, but | was
passing by the door and something, sort
Of feeling that there was some one waiting
outside, made me open it. To my aston
ishment it was he, and Ambrose himself
could not repress sort Of tremor. "He
did not speak, but seemed to pass me and
be up the stairs and in the library in an
instant. And then, not knowing what to
do, went to your room, ma am. Forgive
me if I did wrong
"No, no" said Anne, "you could not
have done otherwise. Ring the bell, Am
brose; tell Seton I have had bad news, and
that you think it has upset me. But wait