Dodge City times. [volume] (Dodge City, Kan.) 1876-1892, 1886-02-11

fore, in my confusion, I could drop
mine again, somehow my muff was on
the snow at our feet, and both my
hands were in his.
'Miss Deane-Annie-I can help you
with my whole life, Annier'
And. after that, is it any wonder it
the sun shone straight into my heart?
/ don't think our researches would
have added much to the cause of either
zoology or botany that day. On the
latter especially my lover would have
made strange confusion, insisting that
We were passing under quite number
of mistletoe boughs, if my superior
knowledge of the science had not set
him right. We did find the crow-foot.
however, and, as I had expected, not
too deep in the snow. But when he
had torn up long spray of it and
flung it trailing over my shoulder, l
stayed his hand. Madge and could
come some other day for some-there
was plenty of time before Christmas
but to-day's in-gathering l meant to
keep all to myself.
At least for this one day, l 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 it
had brought me; but tonight, when he
was gone, then would tell Aunt Mar
gar.t that | was to be his wife. said
the word in little flutter 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, l
glanced up shyly at him, and it would
have discounted me to see how his
face changed, paling at that word, if
his hand had not closed Oh mine with
a 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 it?
Perhaps he read that thought-he
was always SO quick to understand
for he said: Il have 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 now? Or can
you trust me that it is nothing which
ought to part us9 and would you rath-
CT wait to hear it until Tomorrow?
l could trust him; ay, rather, l could
not distrust him; and l told him so.
Let us live this day out without shad-
ow; aftcrward. if shadows must come,
he should lead me safely through
them.
There is no danger in the shadow,
Annie; there is onl y 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 neighbor SO offend against her good
o,dfashioned 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
kitchen-cabinct 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 biack-green 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. ga lady, 1
thought-though l wonder who it could
be, walking"
"What borer'
"Oh, she'll not be shown in here,
and unless you feel disposed to 60 to
Aunt Margarct's assistance"
Here l 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 I'M
ceremoniOus terms.
1t was 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 l had ever seen her before, l
should never have forgotten her.
She was standing on the hearth, and
drew her slender gloved hand. 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 loneliness,
light-hearted, glad, careless of others
pain because she could not feel it.
There is the Undine nature in a 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:
ALIVE in their Depths as the Kraken beneath
the sea blue
eyes which l 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 1 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 heen