Millheim Journal. [volume] (Millheim, Pa.) 1876-1984, 1886-07-22

ing Coniston to the agreeable knowl-
edge that he was at liberty to salute
her the next time he met her on the
piazza or the corridor.
1t didn't satisfy him.
He went off and smoked cigar, and
conjured up Cicely in the fragrance of
tie Hayana.
Even Cicely did not seem to be as
completely boon as he had fancied
she ought to be.
For five days no wandered up and
down, ani round and round the hotel,
'lounging,' he called it but the more
correct term to describe these peregrin-
ations would be-politely chasing Polly
Grey.
Finally he beheld her alone. Meth,
er aunt nor Bradford nor friends -
heaven be praised were anywhere a,
bout.
He drew near the big rocker, where
she sat with q book in her lap, and
suddenly Coniston remembered that he
should have to say something beyond
good aud for the first time
in forty-one years he actually wonder.
ed what it should be.
She spared him the attempt, however
aud glancing up, said.
'Ah ! good morning you haye been
up in town, suppose, ever since the
day Mr.. Bradford presented you p
up in town p This was too much,
when he had followed her like a detect
i've the entire time.
Coniston looked feebly at her, and
then he laughed, land his fair face flush
ed as he ventured to sit down on the
piazza-step at her feet. Polly glanced
down inquiringly with steady, demure
eyes.
No. he cried. Miss Grey, I've
been most of the time about a yard
and quarter away from you ; but you
never seemed to see me y
How strange = Polly says. wonder
ingly. Most people would have seen
you, now, wouldn't they p
Women always have before he as
sented, with sigh.
Then you must have rejoiced in
change, didn't you =? Variety is so
pleasant to an appetite jAded by same
ness y
No. he answers i didn't enjoy it
at all. I'll tell you,' he says, looking
up at her with wide, clear eyes ito be
frank, I hate American women, and
you're the ouly one who ever inspired
me with the slightest -
Coniston stops short there is some
thing in his listeners face that marks
an unerring period in his reckless
speech.
well p she asks, sweetly and clear
ly, ''-the slightest'?'
The English language is Coniston's
native tongue, but it fails him now he
feels the warm blood suffusing his face
as his mind runs after an elusive wo-
man.
'Ah, ses there are some things so
much better implied than expressed.
But am so matter-of-f fact that l must
translate your mute eloquence, Lord
Coniston-' AT this moment Conis-
ton is lost in calculating how many
minutes he can stand this present tenn
perature of his dead and face-'into
words, or word-curiosity, ell ?
Come, be twice franks it not so p
You may christen it curiosity, aud
call it so, pro tenn, if you choose, Miss
Grey, but
The earl again falters.
oh y cries the girl, with little i'm
patient wave of her hand, and throw
ing back her pretty blonde head how
abhor Englshmen They are so in
terror of even their minor emotions.
A FIenchman, a German, an Italian,
any other nationality in the world is
ready and eager to put his firtatious
propensities into the most delicious Ian
guage Tut an Englishman !'-she
shudders -'he stops to wonder what he
is about to feel, and 10 the emotion
yanishes ha ha ha y
Miss Grey laughs long, musical,
ringing laugh.
Coniston looks at her, and he won
ders if he has ever really seen her until
this morning ? She looks like the
brightest part of sunshine as she sits
there in it, mocking him.
"Perhaps We do avoid putting what
you call our 'firtatious propensities'
into words but if you will permit Lme
| to say so, an Englishman is only too
ready to speak out that which he really
feels y
DO they ever feel' anything out
side the hunting field and the House
of Commons p she asks provokingly.
He smiles as he looks at her.
Il will tell you some day.
Not long after Coniston rides with
Miss Grey-a long afternoon ride on