The sun. [volume] (Morris, Stevens County, Minn.) 1882-1895, 1886-01-21
glove from her passive hand. "Why
don't you ask, Bertie2"

glove from her passive hand. "Why
don't you ask, Bertie9'
"Tell ne," she said, simply:
'sOf Course you know how narrowly
/ escape the massacre of Isandlanaph
said Captain Featherstonhaugk. ssThe
First battalion 6f the second regiment
was, rs you know, cut to pieces"
Eyes," said Miss Boscowitch, me-
chemically. 40
to identify. If, possible, the slain," he
went on. "On the bare, bleak field
lay the bodies of score OF men had
known and loved. To identity them, for
the most part, was all but i'm possible.
! saw a Photograph OF Lady My
ing near wrecked train; picked up
ring"
Captain Featherstonhaugh paused;
he put his right foot meditatively on
the fender, and gazed at the logs OF
pine which were blazing inerfily and
contrasting comfortably with the chill
auttimnal light, which touched the
outside landscape with it's own pecul-
lar beauty. Miss Boscowitch had never
stirred from the position into which
she had sunk.
81 found the glove" he continued,
meditatively, "lying at the side of an
officer bathed in blood. The name OF
the officer was"
Miss Boscowitch had risen with a
despairing cry.
"Was?" she gasped.
"What does it matter to you,
Bertie?" said Captain Featherston-
haugh. "Why do you look like this?
What possesses your"
But she caught his arm, and her eyes
sought his SO wildly, whilst her lips
repeated that one word Was so en-
treatingly, that Captain Featherston-
haugh forgot his surprise and dawn
ing wrath in fear for her.
"Trelawny, he said, hastily.
"Trelawny!" AS if reiteration were
needed! 81 knew it! felt it! Oh, my
love! This was my glover" she ex
claimed, in deep emotion, and then
she fell back into therocking- chair and
sobbed as if her heart would break.
Looking at the bowed figure OF the
girl before him, Captain Featherston-
haugh felt that strange mixture Olsen
timents which spring from a sudden
shock. Love and anger fought hard
for the mastery within him. He had
told her, but a little before, it would
only make her even dearer to him.
Was it so? A surging, tempes-
tuous passion Of words came
sweeping upwards to his lips. Why
had she not told him the mystery
of this glove? He moved away from
her, and gazed out with a mighty ef-
fort, born of strong control.
On the rough, wild, solitary moor
lands which were stretching away for
miles, couple of large birds were tax
ing lazy flight in that direction. He
seemed to hear the beat OF their wings.
He was taking in each detail of the
well-known scene of his home life with
that sharpness of sense which is born
of new experience, whether OF pleas
ure or pain.
Between himself and this girl he SO
loved lay this small, white, blood
stained glove. Destiny had kept it
safely locked away in it's receptacle,
to bring forth at the moment of his
newly-found joy; to rob him of it's
sweetness, by the torture ofthis sad yet
in some sort gracious memory.
It was Miss Boscowitch who broke
the stiffness that seemed to fill the
room after the first wild paroxysm OF
her grief had passed.
"The glove is mine," she said, brok-
emily. ri gave it to Captain Trelaw
ny, to whom l was engaged, on the
eve of his departure for that terrible
campaign. He was to keep it always,
carry it into the field of battle, and,
on his happy return, it was to be an
everlasting witness and badge of our
love. l had not forgotten; but l had
let the present overlay the past, and
now, to-day, as if it were meant, / am
met on the very threshold of your
home by this strange, haunting ques-
tion-How did it come there? ask
it painfully, Hugh,-Why did it come
there?"
Still not looking at Miss Boscowitch,
Captain Understanding moved and
picked up the poor little glove, which
lay at her feet. Anger and love had
fought hard with him land love had won
the day.
"Did you really love him." he asked,
very sadly.
"Not as 1 love you-oh, not as love
you," she cried, rising and clinging to
him. II thought I loved him, Hugh;
but when l met you, then I knew that
l had never really loved Arthur Trel-
awny.
He bowed his tall form before her,
perhaps in homage, perhaps to hide
the emotion which overpowered him.
"Bertie, will you let me keep the
glove?" he whispered. "It shall be
sacred; shall bind us more closely to-
gether. Whether you loved him or
not, this must be sorrow to you.
Make this sorrow as much yours as
mine, as much mine as yours"
Miss Boscowitch could not reply
then; but after little while, in this
new, strange, subtle note ofsympathy,
she ceased to wonderfully it had come
there.-Home Journal (Boston.)