Abilene weekly reflector. [volume] (Abilene, Kan.) 1888-1935, 1889-11-28
CHAPTER II.

It wasn't far to the village, just over
there beyond the little white church
where, four years ago, Muriel Trowbridge
played the Thanksgiving anthem.
And he would walk across the mead
ows; he wanted to be alone with neither
beast nor bird to see. Out there beyond
the hills the sunset burned and fiared
like huge bonfire against the Novem-
Der sky, and the winds tossed the dead
leaves about his feet with a shivering
moan. The sleepy quail piped in the
stubble in a monotonous way, but John
Anderson didn't mind.
When he came to the Stile he sat down
to dream bit Somehow Bessie's part
ing words, together with the western
cleaning, had lighted up his twilight
hour amazingly.
His eyes wandered away to the great
white farmhouse showing up through
the shadowy valley. Yes, she loved
music, Murie1 did, and sang so sweetly.
Hank! Was that a little melody she
used to sing coming up across the brown,
deserted meadows? No; it was only
memory, and he remembered that he
was sitting alone on the stile in the
gray, cold twilight of Thanksgiving
Eve.
Bessie went slowly into the house aft
er she heard the wicket shut behind
her brother and knew that he was on
his way to the village. She did not re-
turn to the sitting-room fire and the
book she had been reading, however;
no, she went directly upstairs, took
box from her secretary and, going over
to the window in the cleaning, sat
down.
MAY be Ashley is dead" she said,
sadly: may be the Indiaman went down
somewhere with all on board, as was
rumored; may be it did"
The ring CLEANED family in the dusky
light as she put it on her finger. BE
true, Bessie; be true" the bit of paper
said. Il shall always remember that
my love is waiting for me with heart
as brave as my own"
Bessie didn't read the crumpled note
tonight. There was no need; she knew
every word by heart long ago. For six
long years they had lain, the note and
the promise, waiting their verifcation.
After few minutes thought Bessie
returned her treasures to their hiding
place, and, brushing away a few tears
bravely and hopefully, went downstairs
TO wait for John and the letters.
Up the well-worn pathway leading to-
ward the valley home came q pair of
light, flying feet; but John Anderson did
not hear, SO he kept on dreaming.
BY and by a lady wanted to pass. He
rose and stepped aside, hat in hand.
For s.oment the woman paused on the
stile, and then, with glad cry of recog-
milton, fiuttered right into his arms.
80 John" and Muriel Trowbridge
buried her face on her lovers breast.
The long, desolate four years rolled
away; the fact that she had been silent
fell back, and nothing was remembered
but that she had come, his own, dainty
Muriel.
''Muriel, said he, rapturously: my
long-loSt love-"
Il have run away from guardy," she
said, in frightened tone, clinging to
him. Il was so afraid 1 shouldn't find
you. o dear!''
If there was any thing more required
to unString John Anderson's self-posses-
sion, it was Muriel's tears, as she ended
her little confession with SobS.
He was opposed to your loving me
and wouldn't let you write; and SO you ran !
away and came back to poor, faithful |
JOhn?" he said, caressing her.
Eyes" came the answer between the |
sobs. ''Guarly wishes me to marry his
nephew, and he took me off to Europe |
to make me forget you. he said But /
won't wed Tom Walton, never"
NO" said John. you'll marry plain |
John Anderson if you choose and no
man on earth dare interfere
Then he kissed the tear-stained face,
and all the pain went out of his heart |
as he whispered something in her ear
which dried the tears and prompted a
little ripping laugh, something like /
that he used TO hear, to make music in
that long-silent world of his.