Pullman herald. [volume] (Pullman, W.T. [Wash.]) 1888-1989, 1890-07-12

almost too I2uch SO for one SO young, he
thought.
81 am infinitely obliged to you; but
a1n more than ashamed to give such
trouble" he said, bowling courteously.
"Can I not come with you, and SO save
you the return hithar?' he added, apol-
ogetically
ooh, no; please wait here, if you don't
mind" she responded, quickly. mo let
/ ters for us, Judith? Well. then 1 viii be
OF"
With light and springy steps she cross
ed the bridge and was soon lost to sight.
Harold's eager questioning was antici
pated by old Judith, who dearly loved a
gossip.
That's Miss Olive st. Maur, as hand
some d young Teddy as ever stepped, to
my thinking Her aunt, Mrs. Trevelyian,
lives yont," pointing to small white
house, lying close to a fir plantation in
the distance. Miss Olive lives along O
she and Miss Madge, that's Mrs. Trey
elyian's daughter. I've heer'd tell Miss
| Olives pa got killed out to the Injies,
and her ma, pore young thing, died of
grief or sulnmat, anyway. Miss Olive
she warnt but a chiel then-came home
to live with her aunt, who took to her
and did for her the same as her own. So
she and Miss Madge are like sisters, and
share and share alike, though, poor souls,
there amt much for any on EN- I'm
afeard. But Mrs. Trevelyian's a good,
| kind lady as ever was"
us she widow?' Harold felt strange
ly interested in old Judith's garrulous
chatter.
eyes, chiel," using the quaint Cornish
mode of address to man, woman or child.
"She's been u widow this long while.
Mr.. Trevelyian, her husband, was passon
down to St. Osyth's. He was poor,
sickly sort O chap, mostly awandering
about with his book farming and the like;
he died when Miss Madge was a baby,
afore Miss Olive came to 'em. Mrs.
Trevelyian's father wor kind O. gentle
man farmer, and lived here at Trevar-
rock; but what Wi the Land being poor,
and his fooling away lot O money,
| thinking there was tin on it, he died
wfout brass farden, except the cottage
yont. That he left to Mrs. Trevelyian,
| Miss Olives ma being dead. So when
! Passon Trevelyian died she was glad enow
! to come and live in 1t; for folks say she
amt got more thanll keep body and soul
! together. Lor' bless you, chiel! I've
known them, root and branch, these
/ years and years. They were among the
head folks about here once, but now
they'm decayed gentry. There be plenty
such in Cornwall-ruined by the mines
and the badness O the land"-
! "Hush" Harold lifted warning
finger, but as Olive St. Maur came up the
narrow garden path the ghost of a smile
Pickering at the corners of her mouth
told him that she guessed the subject of
! Judiths conversation.
my aunt, Mrs. Trevylian, says that if
you do not mind limited accommodation
and very plain fare" with rather pain
full blush, "she will be glad to take you
in herself. We do not usually let lodg-
ings, as Judith can tell you, but-but
why, after all, mince the truth? We are
poor, and glad of the chance of earning
money. Think what you will of my can
dor, now You have the facts, pure and
simple" l.
There was passionate recklessness
about the last words which gave Harold
a sensation almost Of pain.
! Old Judith had gone into her little
shop to serve two bronzed urchins with
yellow saffron cakes.
"Beheve me or not, rs you please, ]
honor you from my heart for your frank
ness" he replied earnestly. ~, too, am
a poor man; and though have never
been glad of it before, shall DO ROW, if
it gives me greater chance of becoming
your friend"
The two were walking up the heather
covered hill, side by side. Harold Car
rington felt slight twinge of conscience
as he spoke; but, after all, was he not
poor unspealzably, wretchedly SO in
Hfe's best gifts? What was money to
one alone in the world-popularity even
fame-if there was no heart to beat in
unison with his, no eye to brighten at
his joys or shed tear for his sorrows:
Yes; he was poorer in these things than
the miner who passed him and Olive Just
then ON his way home from his work,
and whose chubby children were scra1n-
bling up the hillside to meet him with
shouts of welcome.
care you poor, too? am glad of it,
though you may think me selfish. Ihate
the rich-hate them because l envy them
more than words can say. Why are
hfes fairest things so unequa1ly di-
vlded?" she went on, with sudden anger.
"lt is bitter, cruel shame"
Olive ST. Maur's dark eyes flashed fire,
and red spot burnt on each Of her pale
cheeks.
Il dare say you think l am strange
girl to talk to you, whom l have barely
known an hour, about such subjects.
Well, cannot help it. In the wilds Of
Cornwall one has not much chance OF
learning manners or acquiring the placid
sang froid of the upper ten thousand, y
she added, with g laugh which had nc
mirth in it.
Harold felt by turns attracted and re-
PEELED by his companion. A strange GIRL
Olive St. Maur had spoken truly. He
mad never seen anyone so beautiful; her
ironlcal, rather bitter words. had q
plquant fascination, though they sad
dened him.
Strange? Not at ALL" was his ready
reJoinder, made with the ease of q thor
ough man of the world, used to its light
fence as well as its more earnest com
bats. 'EWhy should l think it, Miss St.
Maur?"
"How did you know nv nance" She
turned quickly, darting searching
glance at him, then added rather petu-
iantly-"Ahi / see. I thought SIS r,9,1cb