Frostburg mining journal. [volume] (Frostburg, Md.) 1871-1913, 1886-06-12
Coniston looked fcebly at her, and

Johnston looked IccDly at uer, anu
then he laughed, and his fair face flushed
as he ventured to sit down on the piazza
step at her feet. Polly glanced down in
quiringly with steady, demure eyes.
"No," he cried. "Miss Grey, I've
been most of the time about yard and
quarter away from you; but you never
seemed to see mem
GLOW strangew Polly says, wonder
ingly. "Most people would have seen
you, now, wouldn't theyW
women always have before" he as-
sents, with sigh.
"Thcn you must have rejoicel in
change, didn't you2 Variety is so pleas
ant to an appetite jad,d by samcness"
NO, he answers; Il didn't enjoy it
at all. I'll tel you," lie says, looking up
at her with wide, cl ar eyes; 'to be
frank, l hate American women, and
you're the only one who ever inspired me
with the slightest"
Coniston stops shot; there is some
thing in his list ncr's face that marks an
uner ing period in his reckless speech.
"Wclll she ks, sweetly and clearly,
"'-the slightest'?"
Tic English language is Conistons
native ton Luc, but it fails him now; he
feels the warm blood suilusing his face
as his mind ri Is after an elusive woman.
''Ah, | sec; there are some things so
much better implied than expressed.
But | am so mattcr-of-fact that | must
translate your mute eloluence, Lord
Coniston-" At this instant Coniston
is lost in calculating how many minu cs
he can stand this present temperature of
his head and facc-''into words or o
word-curios ty, eh9 Come, be twice
frank-is it not soy'
you MY chyistcn it curiosity, and
call it so, pro tem., if you choose, Miss
GREY, buc-"
The carl again falters.
"Oh.' erie, the girl, with little i'm
patient wave of her hand, and throwing
back her pretty blonde head; chow l
abhor I'm li>hmen! They are SO in
terror of even their IN nor emotions. A
Frenchman, German, an Italian, any
other naionllity in the world is ready,
eager to put his tlirtatious propensities
into the most delicious language; but an
Englishman. '--she shuddcrs-"hc stops
to wonder what he is about to feel,
and 10. the emotion vanishes! ha! ha!
ha"
Miss Grey laughs q long, musical,
ringing laugh.
Coniston looks at her, and he Won
dcrs if he has ever really seen her until
this morning? She looks like the bright
est part of the sunshine as she sits there
in it, hooking him.
perhaps we do avoid putting what
You call our 'tlirtatious propensities'
into words; but if you will permit
me to say so, an Engl;shman is only too
ready to speak out that which he really
feelsn'
"Do they ever 'feel' anything outside
the hunting-fed and the House of Com
mons?' she asks, proyokingly.
He SIN les as he looks at her.
81 will tell you some day."
Not long after Conston rides with
Miss Grey-a long afternoon ride on the
road by the bay and through the WOO Is
and past the farms busy with their Au-
tumn fruit gathering
They chat of commonplace things
the flowers, the birds, the clouds, the
blue of sea and sky. and they come home
soberly enough, too soherly, he tn nks.
There is a ball that night, the last of
"the season." Coniston is not u dancing
man, 50 he has the satisfaction of watch
ing Miss Grey floating about the ballroom
principally with Bradford. He stalks
out on the piazza, Brilliant with lanterns
and then saunters to the other end, where
it is comparatively quiet.
| Polly sits there, and radford-Brad-
fold lis bending above her; he even
has her hand; and now he goes in and
leaves her.
Con;ston is a mailman as he rushes int,
the other mans place, and leans trem-
bling over her chair. She Is quiet, 81
lent.
at is l." he whispers, brokenlN
81 know" she replies, softly.
ooh, childn' cries he, ''you must listen
to me; am good for-nothing sort of a
fellow; hive had no religion, no any
thing, until have known you, and now
you are my shrine. 1t seems to me at
yoar feet shoald lay rare spices, per
fumes, flowers, jewels and all dare lay
there tonight is human heart-a
human life, Polly he says, lowly, stoop-
ing his blonde head to hers. "Will you
have me-"
lie sees her face as she upturns it in the
flare of the last lantern; it is as he has
never seen it-pale, stricken, awful,
calm.
"Well" she says, at lat, with that
clear, bright voice OF hers, trifle hard,
a tribe ma ter of fact.
"0h, love you, my soul! my queen