San Antonio daily light. [volume] (San Antonio, Tex.) 1886-1907, 1890-11-05

other day of rest had failed to make the
least impression on her. She persisted
in coming and doing her ordinary work.
"Why should / not?" she said. IF 1
could have held up my head would
have been here yesterday. To-day
am not i'll at all, so why should L stay
at home"
But though she said she was not i'll
to-day, yet before half the customary
time of her reading was ended her voice
had begun to grow so weak that Ca
brielle al last took the book out of her
hand with little explosion of kindly
wrath.
"You are not fit to go on reading; you
know you are not! / declare, you treat
us all as if you thought we were a
household of slave-drivers!" cried Ga
brielle with the color in her face.
And then, as the other two also took
part with Gabrielle, the widow was
beaten, and forced to give in. Nor
wonld they let her go home. They put
her in an easy chair in Helen's room,
and nursed and petted her. For there
was something about this woman, in
spite of her outward GOODNESS, that
drew people toward her,-something
more than her beauty, or her sadness,
or her widows dress, though all these
did much for her. One quality in her
that perhaps even unconsciously touch
ed them all was her instructive unset
fishness. She claimed so little that they
gave her more than she claimed by q
common generous impulse. She asked
for no sympathy, but she won it by her
very silence. She took no kindness as
her right, but she repaid every kindness
with gratitude that, quiet though it
always was, sometimes touched those
so whom she gave it almost irresistibly.
They tried to persuade her to-day to
stay with them through the evening.
but she would not stay. She rose and
put on her bonnet as usual as soon as
afternoon tea was over.
Just as she was going away Mr.. Dun
stan came into the room, and said some
thing almost sharply to her.
"Why are you here to-day? / heard
sure you look ill enough now to be In
bed" he said.
He followed her down stairs, and
opened the hall door for her.
"If you are not better don't come to-
morrow. Why should you Gomez Can
not you treat us more like friends than
thatp" he said TO her.
II will not come tomorrow unless
am better,-but L hope to be BETTER"
she replied
"Since you have come you should
have stayed. Why would you not stay
when they wanted youp' he asked her.
Because l am better at hOme," she
said quickly. And then-"Why should
l stay simply because l am less well
than uSualp / do not need nursing"
she said.
II am not so sure of that. Most peo-
pie need to be nursed when they are net
well. A little care and kindness when
you are ill is better for you than sOli-
tude. But you don't believe that9" he
said bluntly.
"Do not, do you Think" she asked
him, and lifted up her eyes suddenly to
his face.
But the next moment, as if she re-
pented what she had said, and would
not give him time to reply to it, she
held out her hand, and spoke again in.
her ordinary voice.
81 think it is going to rain. 1 must
make haste home. GOod-by," she said;
and he did not care apparently to pre-
long the discussion, for he let her go.
"How kind they are to mep-how
kind they are, each one of them!" she
said to herself as she went away; and
"Oh, if l could but dare to take their
kindness,-If / could but dare once
more to take the kindness freely of any
human creature in this world"
But how could she take it when this
black, cruel, merciless secret of hers
stood forever like stone wall between
her and every hope of a new life? Could
she ever forget her sorrow-ever escape
from it-ever dare to look forward to q
time in the years to come when she
should cease to suffer from itp Could
she ever hope for any rest till death
camep She saw George Gilbert in his
garden as she was drawing near to her
own gate, and at the sight of him the
unhappy woman flushed scarlet, ard
shrank back, and drew her veil over Lei
face. Did this man know her secret!
How could she ever find out whether he
knew IA? A hundred times already she
had nearly repented of what she had
said to him: she had cried to herself
Il am wrong, | ought never to have
spoken to him." but still, though she
could say this now that the thing was
done, had it been to do once more she
almost knew that she would have rea-
soned again as she had reasoned at the
first, and have chosen to trust to his
mercy rather than have run the risk of
keeping silence, or have endured the
pain of going away.
For how could she have borne to 60
away-to go and seek for refuge in a
new place that perhaps would give her
no refuge,-where perhaps her secret
would follow her, as it had followed her
here, and drive her out again, homeless
and desolate? Oh, better far to stay
here, and let the worst come, when and
how it would!-better that than to be
drivan from nlace To nIane till her heart