The Kenosha telegraph. [volume] (Kenosha, Wis.) 1860-1888, 1886-01-01


so far away, as if q great gulf were
fixed between them. He could scarcely
believe in her bright looks, everything
seemed so unreal, his life was so shaken
to its foundations 1t was only by
great effort that he aroused himself to
make some commonplace excuse.
Dora's first careless glance at his
pallid face changed to one of alarm.
The light from an open window fell
upon it and she saw its deadly pallor.
"Why, Fred!' she cried, "you careless
boy! You win be sick again. Come
and have some tea" And she led the
way to the dining-room. How he
longed to say: "Come, Dora, I have
something to tell you," and then, hay
ing her all to himself, pour out these
miserable doubts and fears in her ear
and so be free from them. But no;
here was this crowd of chattering girls
besides, she must not know he had
such doubts. Even if she said, II love
YOU could he be sure she was not say
ing it because she believed it to be her
duty. And so he finished the evening
as best he could, and all night long his
heart tormented him with ceaseless
questionings.
Several days passed before he found
an opportunity to speak alone with
Dora. The house was filed with a
number of young guests, and Dora
must be everywhere.
Fred Long was just now taking q
well-earned vacation. After years of
hard work and months of illness he had
come back to the home of his childhood
to regain lost health and strength. He
had called this the happiest summer he
had known, but now an untimely frost
had spoiled its beauty. Among the
friends whom Dora was entertaining
only one he had previously known.
Naturally they drifted together during
these miserable days. With Dora he
was suddenly i'll at ease and restless;
her quick eyes noted the change, and
looked about for cause. Those same
quick eyes noticed the walks and talks
with cousin Florence. "No wonder she
admires him." she said, with sharp
little pang at her heart, mentally con-
trasting tall, handsome Florence with
her own little self.
Presently the flock of merry school
girls took flight. ''Only Florence, and
you, and I, said Dora; .just as it used
to be" But for both the old charm was
destroyed.
One day they walked together along
the bank, and Dora said: "Our play
time is done"
YES" he answered: ~ must go
back to my law books and you must
have time for your paintino.n
A light came into her eyes. ''Then
| am to so on paintingP"
yes" he said, slowly. II am MAX
ing this sacrifice for you. / do not wish
you to marry me until you have finished
this work you have set your heart
upon. 1t will occupy your whole win
ter?''
Eyes; perhaps more. Give me
year," she said, eagerly, quite uncon-
scious of the pain her words inflicted,
and only anxious for time wherein to
prove whether after all these years of
devotion, Fred could be won from her.
A few weeks ago she had asked for the
length of time simply because she had
undertaken some painting which she
wished to finish, and had plans to be
carried out which she felt would be
sadly interfered with by the necessary
arrangements for wedding. Now
she had this additional motive.
Very we'll" came the answer, calm
and steady. No trembling in the quiet
tones to betray the hearts unutterable
anguish as it whispered to itself:
" How glad she is to be free even for
year.
AS for Dora, her heart was saying:
" He does not care"
And then they talked of Indifferent
matters, these two foolish ones, and the
precious hours in which they might
have understood each other slipped
away and were gone forever.
Once more apart, their letters were
exchanged at regular intervals
kind and loving. ''0f course, said
Dora, ''it is his duty" while Dora's
were curious study had her lover but
known. Each one little cooler, a
little briefer than the last, until by
the time spring had dressed the fields
and woods in green again poor Fred
had well-nigh made up his mind that
Florence was right. Dora's heart was
all in her painting; she had grown
quite weary of him.
This suspense is killing me- he
would say; .'but III wait--it is better
1T win soon be over
And Dora, working herself to a
shadow over her painting, would think:
''The end can not be far of. FL will
soon be Free
Early in the summer Fred found him.
self again in the old familiar haunts,
but, alas! the old joyous lightwas want
ing everywhere. A shade, a mist,
seemed hanging over everything, and
Dora was farther away than ever.
There were no merry guests to divide
her attention; but, so absorbed, so
silent, did she seem, he could hardly
believe it was the same Dora he had
known in other days.
A week passed by--a week of mingled
paradise and torment Sometimes he
would be on the point Of saying to her:
Dora, | will stand in your way no
longer but faint hope still fingered,
and he could not crush it so ruthlessly
At other times he could almost believe
himself mistaken-all these months a
fearful dream-when her eyes met his
so earnestly and seemed filled Cor a
moment with the old, warm light.
They sat together one day upon a
little rustic seat, chatting and resting
after q walk. Fred had taken some
letters from his pocket which he wished
TO show to Dora. A picture fell from
among them. Dora stopped to recover
it. Cousin Florry,n she murmured,
and Fred began making some commons