The Princeton union. [volume] (Princeton, Minn.) 1876-1976, 1890-08-21
NORA'S LOVERS.

: 4
dom have any to waste, say Nora,
her rosy lip curling disdaintully.
1t is June; the hedges are gay with
pink roses and sweet with the per
fume of cream olored hone -suckle.
Slowly the girl walks through the
mingling clover, tall buttercups and
long grass, dropping sarcasms over
her shoulder to her companion, who
is compelled by the narrowness of
the path to follow behind His long
pale face is framed in fair hair, which
falls over his shoulders from under o
large hat that wants only ostrich
plumes to be veritable Gainsbor-
ough. He has large dreamy eyes,
and his face is as smooth as the
white hands which hold an open
beautifully bound volume with as-
thetic liberality of margin.
Morals tart remark is followed by
q silence which continues until the
poet clears his throat and rustles a
leaf; then she halts.
81 do hope" she says emphatical-
ly, chat you are not going to read
any more Of thatP'
ANY more Of that?" he questions,
with ominous calm. ''That what?"
Nora shrugs her shoulders and
pulls a buttercup.
eve have had our last quarrel, :"
she declares, holding the yellow petals
against her hand.
II hope SO, am sure" said he;
4'mine is nature that needs repose
and calm
ct is nature wholly unsuited to
mine-of that.I am sure! We are
entirely unsuited tor each other. I
like aman to be manly, and / could
not be content with the prospect of
having to spend my life in watching
you write Swinburne and -water
verses and hearing you read them!"
"But, says the poet, raising his
brows, 81 cannot live without you'll"
"Well, / couldn't live with you; SO
there we are Mr.. Scrope.' =
"Your aunt wishes it," he urges,
in the same low even tone.
''She is not the person most con-
cerned. No; as I have already told
you, if | ever marry at all, you are
not the man. or like the man. Why
can't you leave me alone? Why do
you 90 on prosecuting me?''
The poet folds bis arms and looks
at the lovely indignant little face.
'Do not be rash; you will find few
men as generous as -
Nora, with laughter in her eyes,
turns to look at him; but the pecu-
liarity Of his expression checks her
mockery. This time he has not
spoken in overween;ng vanity, but
with mysterious meaning Under
her steady gaze of surprise a faint
tinge of color spreads over his face.
Il should like to know exactly
what you mean, she says very
quietly, but with a danger signal in
each blue eye; will you be good
enough to explain yourself.
Scrope does not reply; he seems
extremely uncomfortable, and forces
a feeble smile. Nora uncompromis-
ing, angry, faces him still.
Il am neither old nor ugly" she
says; "my parents were poor, but
honest and well born; I am not pen
hiless, thanks to my godmother.
Pray where does your generosity
come in?"
Mr.. Scope gazes blankly into the
distance and murmurs that he did
not mean anything
$50 like you," says Nora, with a
toss of the head; and, without an
other word, she resumes her walk
through the field to the low, green
gate OF a lawn, by the side of a de-
lightful house with many wind ows
overlooking a sweet confusion OF
fragrant flowers and shrubs.
At window facing the green gate
stands a benign matron, supported
on either side by a comely, healthy,
vigorous son.
''They come in one after the other,
says Tom, the elder boy, as Nora
and the poet approach. Shall j
never cease to wish that that man
would cut his hairo9''''
He may do as he pleases," says
Fred, aif he will leave off dangling
after Nora.
What is your objection to him?''
the mother asks politely.
"Oh, / want Nora to marry aman
not feeble imitation of though
indeed don't want her to marry at
gall!''
Nora has only the very faintest
recollection of her dead parents. She
has lived with her aunt SO long thai
she does not remember any other
home; and ever since she came she
has been the pet and playmate 8
the boys-for they have no sisters
and Nora has always been a beWitch
ing little maid.
'Auntie" has resided it this quie1
little village during the last few years
she finds it suits both her health
and her finances better than town
and a few months ago Mr.. Horac,
,Scrope, poet ntrod uced by the rec