Evening journal. [volume] (Wilmington, Del.) 1888-1932, 1889-02-28


her the day set FOR their wedding. Tilted
deserted, yesl That WIS why in pique and
pride she married him. the ignorant gardener
of her wealthy uncle, and had gone away
with him TO Iowa. They had not prospered
She held no communication with those at
home. This year, after their baby came, they
decided to seek fortune farther west. And
now-now the baby was gone and her new
loss had brought back the old one.
Harkl A voice speaks without
Is any one i'll hereg There was a request
on my slater--
A cry Such queer, wild cry it is that
cuts across the strangers words The man
In the "dugoutr leaps to his feet, as does the
woman without. Through the doorway,
against the patch Of sunset sky he can see her
standing with arms outhung.
"Willieln she cries again; "Williem
The doctor from town speaks hoarsely one
word only-her name There Is absolute
silence for little while. Then he bursts out
hercely, passionately:
why couldn't you have waited-I did Won
no wrongl When / left you the week before
to the city, got into trouble. | was no
saint. never pretended was This was a
drunken quarrel shot a man. was I'M
known, and gave a false name. was held
20 await the result Of his injuries-held two
months. / couldn't write you the truth Of
the affair My part in it was too disgraceful
I wouldn't lie. So was silent till / could tell
you all and ask you to forgive me. The man
recovered. was discharged l went straight
to Vanceton. heard you had married some
flod hopping idiot and gone away with him. y
He is goodr she says slowly.
The other laughs harshly. nAnd you love
him, Of courseln
Cor she cries in weak, womanish fury
"Gor'
do you love him, Corag
She is i'll, trembling. His brutal insistance
forces a reply. She slips down by the dug
out" and covers there with her face hidden.
'Oh Williel Oh, Willeln The tone SAYS
ALL 1t is full Of love, but love that is only
pathos, passion, despair. He turns, walks
slowly away across the prairie. He is me-
chanically unhitching his horse when heavy
tread comes toward him. In the clear silver
ness preceding twilight two men face each
other. One speaks calmly: 81 heard what
you said. Answer me this: II she were free
tomorrow would you marry herr'
Quick as a flash comes the reply: 'tBy
heaven, yesl"
Then Dr. Herbert, gentleman and student
drives back to town. and John Hilton goes to
the 'dugoutn-to his wife. She is still in the
same place, the same position. He gets her
hat and shawl and carefully puts them on her.
Then he leaves her while and harnesses up
the horse.
Come, Cory; I'm agoin' to drive you
into town. There's goin' to be a storm. l
seen the clouds to the north tonight. An
this place leaks dreadful You must stay at
the hotel a while, eff we have to sell the
team
without a word, stupidity It seems, she
obeys him. Through the delicious June twi-
light they drive the five miles into town.
Once he speaks. keep thisrn he says, and
gives her the canvas bag containing all their
worldly wealth. At the hotel he procures her
a comfortable bed, a soothing drink. She falls
asleep. Once, twice, thrice, he kisses her
Then he goes out, climbs up on his huge
wagon, heads the horses southwark The
storm he prophesied is blowing up. Lances
Of lightning stab the darkness. Now and then
sounds faint, distant rumble A soft, strong
wind arises. 1t flaps the loose canvas Of the
caravan On the ribbed roof the first heavy
drops Of rain begin to patter. On. Across
the state line, over the railroad track, up the
bluff, along tho level-right along. Isit here
the "dugout" standsl The lightning gives
him answer.
The night wears on. The storm increases
in volume. The prairies are rain washed.
wind swept. A terrific uproar lasts till dawn.
Then the tumult dies down. Peace comes
again upon the weary world. And the sun
rises Its radiance glitters across the wet,
green grass Warm grows the air. The hum
of insects becomes audible and sweet bird
songs are everywhere.
But what are bird songs TO one who sleepsl
And surely he is not awake, he who stirless,
silent, drenched lies by the little grave upon
tho breast Of tho prairie Clutched in his
hand is something which shines in the sun
light. Come awayi Let thrush and lark and
linnet sing never so lowly, sing till their
hearts are empty and their full throats voice
less, they cannot walSeu one quiet sleeper nor
change the peaceful current of his dreamsl-
Kate NJ. Cleary in Chicago Tribune.