The Kenosha telegraph. [volume] (Kenosha, Wis.) 1860-1888, 1886-02-05

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 us? and would you rath-
CT wait to hear it until tomorrow
could trust him; ay, rather, could
not distrust him; and I told him so.
Let us live this day out without shad-
ow; afterward, if shadows must come,
he should lead me safely through
them.
"There is no danger in the shadow,
Annie; there is only 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 I shall let
her neighbor so offend against her good
old-fashioned 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-cabinet 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
wit a n loO b - L
tween the naked oaks, when presently
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. "a lady,
thought-though ! wonder who it could
be, walking
"What a bore!n
"Oh, she'll not be shown in here,
and unless you feel disposed to go to
Aunt Margaret's assistance"
Here | saw the side door of the IL
brary opening from the lawn. The
visitor must have observed us at the
window; some one on sufficiently un-
ceremonious terms.
1t was stranger.
She had closed the door behind her,
and had come forward into the full
glow of the Chris tmas wood fire blaz-
ing on the hearth. A stranger, GER
tainly; if | had ever seen her before,
should never have forgotten her.
She was standing on the hearth, and
drew her slender gloved hands out OF
the folds of her cashmere shawl. hold
ing them to the warmth, before she
turned to us the fairest face 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 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 I have read
somewhere:
ALIVE in their depths, as the Kraken beneath
the sea blue
eyes which would fain have followed,
for they fixed themselves on Brian.
Only could not, that face so held me.
They told me at your house the
you were here, perhaps; that you were
often here; and so | 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 a man might
look who sees a ghost.
And then she smiled. She had been
beautiful before, but now her beauty
was bewildering. She stretched out
her hands to him.
g Have you never a word of well
come. Brian, for your wifepn
He drew long, hard breath, and
passed his hand heavily over his eyes.
lie never once glanced my way, though
l felt he saw me all the while. He an
swered her slowly:
How is it you are not dead, Louise?
For nearly seven years you have al
lowed me to believe YOU were.
She laughed hooking little laugh.
Though she did not turn toward me,
knew she had flashed a glance at me.
60 Have you been a disconsolate
widower all that time, my poor Brian?
ltwas very wicked of me, of course.
But then, you see, always hated pow
erty; and you were so very impecuni-
Gus at that time, l really thought il
better to die off your hands.
Here she turned suddenly to me with
a sweet graciousness of manner, while
her eyes, alive with hooking spirits,
looked me through and through.
my husband is little remiss at in
Productions, so find must make my.
self known to you, as | see you are one
OF his friends. Every one has skeleton
in his closet, you know. and I present
you to Brian's !"
She made a playful courtesy as she
spoke.
"Only he fancied it was laid away
underground" she added. perhaps
he has told you of our runaway match
when he was at college. and how angry
poor mamma was, and hushed the
matter up, and carried me away to
Europe to finish my school days there.
And there it was that mamma made
her brilliant second MARRIAGE real,
true German baron; and we went away
to Vienna to live. But first died; for
QUE must die-must not one?-to get
into paradise. Brian would never have
let me go there alive, so / sent him q
lock of my hair and little scrawlino
death-bed note inclosed in letter from
mammals maid, who had helped us to
run away the year before. You re-
member Fifine, Brian? She has come
over with me now. Such clever soul!
| can't tell how should ever, without
her, have managed to keep myself in
formed of your movements, and OF
course | had to do that, for all widowers
aren't so constant, and you mioht have