The Arkansaw traveler., 1888-05-12

all to each other; and his soul cried out now that she should not be his, but another's.
 The hour of midnight boomed out on the overcharged air, and still he had not moved. The thunder-stor had burst with terrific fury; the fierce lightning played upon the walls and paled the fickering lamp upon the table into insignificance; the long pent-up rain swept in at the open windows. But Kennard needed none of those things. For deadlier, fercer storm was raging in his own heart.
 Suddenly, in pause between the thunderclaps, he heard a light foot step ascending the stairs, a hand on the lock of the door He raised his head, and wearily swept the hair of his forehead. The door slowly opened and shut, and slender girlish figure, enveloped in 8 long fur cloak, ad- vanced into the room, her face deadly pale, even through the thick veil she wore, her clothes drenched and cling ing about her. Kennard rose to his feet; but sudden overpowering gid diness obliged him to lean against the table for support. Was he dreaming, or was it Gladys Raynor whom he saw? She came slowly but unwaver- ingly towards him, her hands half ex- tended, her eyes fixed on his.
 "I have come," she said, in a low monotone, as of one who talked in her sleep. "You called me. I am here. What do you want with me?"
 For few moments Kennard liter ally could not speak. He gazed at her, stupefied. Then, with mighty effort, he said hoarsely, "Gladysl What have I done-what have I done? Child, it is madness for you to be here."
 He took her hand as he spoke and placed her gently in chair, for she was trembling violently. She sub- mitted passively while he unfastened her cloak and removed her hat, but she pushed away the wine he brought her.
 "Take it," he said entreatingly; "you are faint and exhausted. It will do you good"
 She obeyed him silently.
 "Did you meet any one?" he said then in low, agitated tones. "How did you get in?"
 "I do not know how got in," she murmured. "l met no one I think not"
 "Thank heaven l" he ejaculated in disturbed kind of way.
 She looked wildly around her, sprang to her feet, and burst into hys- terical sobs.
 "Oh, what must you think of me! ]" she cried. "What have 1 done? Something made me come. Some thing compelled me. An, believe me !" "Tell me-" he said in carefully suppressed voice, "tell me how it was, and try to calm yourself. Then you must let me take you home." AS he spoke he put her gently back into her chair again, and seated himself at some distance from her.
 "I was sitting alone," she faltered with trembling lips. Bernard had just gone. had begged him to re- lease me from our engagement. I had told him I would rather die than marry him; but he refused-he said it was too late; and was very miser- able. Then-quite suddenly-I heard your voice call me. You said-ah! I cannot tell you what you said-but felt must come. could not help it."
 A fierce, ungovernable joy filled Kennard's heart; but he only said, controlling his voice with an effort:
 "And did you walk all the way in that storm, poor little child?"
 "Yes," shuddering, "all the way. did not know which way to go, but an invisible hand seemed to lead me. l only felt that you called me, that you wanted me, and that I must come."
 Kennard had grown very white.
 "Gladys," he said huskily, and without looking at her, "you say called you. Tell me-what said"
 "No, no, cannot" she replied, burning blush covering her hitherto pale cheeks.
 He turned his eyes on hers.
 ''Tell me-" he said, speaking almost in whisper.
 She wavered, then said, almost in- audibly:
 "The voice-I heard-it seemed to say-'Gladys-come to me! I-cannot live-without you'"
 Kennard's breath came thick and short; his lips, under his heavy mous- tache, were white and dry. For minute he did not speak. Then he said indistinctly and brokenly:
 "Gladys, forgive me. I did say those words-I did call you in my wretchedness-in my intolerable misery. My soul called to yours and oh 1 my darling" hoarsely, "yours ououoroI v,,a yU