Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1890-01-25

tlvate fathers garden.
That corner by the river is very lonely. the
most remote from the church and the yicarage
and the path by which people go to church.
have sat there for hours and no one has ever
come near me. though have heard the boats
going by and people talking as they rowed past
the little rushy waste outside the wall. Nobody
can see me from the river when am sitting
there. for fathers tree makes n great green
tent. just as my tree does on the lawn at home.
Sometimes hold the soft dropping greenery
apart and peep out at the boats going by in the
sunl ght while sit in cool shadow
Many and many an afternoon have I spent
here with my books. and my Scotch deer hound
Pompey, more solitary. more secure from in
terruptiOn than IL had been at home where
any one of the few friends with whom we are
intimate might drop in upon me. In the church
yard have my life all to myself to read or to
think, and prophesv that a good deal of this
diary will be scrubbed On the grassy bank
under the low wall BY my fathers grave There
is little hollow nook all among the ivy and
bramble and fern. which is my own particular
seat, and can study there better than any
where else,
One day Beatrice Reardon came and found
me out in my nook. came sailing up to me in
her bouncing noisy Way. fiourishing her racket
so I've found you at last, d." she said. She
is one of those girls who can never call any
thing by its right name, and she always calls
me ID. ''Sibaln told me you were out for the
whole afternoon. but thought 1 should I'M
earth YOU. Come and make up a SET"
Now you have found me. perhaps you'll be
kind enough to lose me again" l answered. II
should have thought that even you would I'M
derstand that when come to sit by my father 3
grave | like to be alone and L don't like tennis
rackcts.'
dot often lose my temper. but do think
Beatrice Reardon--though no doubt she means
WELLS a girl who would have exasperated
Job. There times when / feel that con-
tinuance of Beatrice's society would be worse
than boils.
You're a morbid. disagreeable little D." she
said. land you'll find out your mistake before
you're thirty, for by that time your moping,
solitary. cross-grained ways will make you look
forty and then you'll be sorry"
She marched off with her racket ON her
shoulder singing Gather your roses while ye
may" in her loud meZZo-soprano voice. the
voice OF Lamford and two villages beyond. and
| am happy to say she never invaded my peace
ful corner again.
Here read the sixth book of the Eneid, and
here l read Dante, until felt as if were more
familiar with the world of shadows than the
world of realities. Here L learnt those odes
which Uncle Ambrose chose for me in my little
Horace, and my favorite bits from the Georges,
and my favorite eclogues. Here | read Mil
ton and Shakespeare. The spot Is full OF lovely
images and haunting fancies.
We have very few friends. though mother is
obliged to be civil to good many acquaintance
SSeAstrACt dDOut tHc HdppN Il'CI' ptl"tcH
lev Bridge and Caversham Weir. She visits
very lIttle-Oniy in the quietest way at the
houses of her oldest friends, the people she
knew best in my fathers time. The only fami-
lies of whom we see much are the Wears and
the Doctors, for mothers charities bring her
in contact with with both, and as there are girls
In both families have been invited very often
to play tennis or to join in water picnics, any
other homely festivities. | have never gone to
parties at either house since | was q child, and
the girls laugh at me for my solitary bringing
up: but mother and / have been too happy
in our own quiet way for me to think that lose
much in staying away from Reardon's birthday
dances and hobbledeboy parties outdoors and
in.
Not hundred miles from Lamford there is a
big red house by the river called Templemead,
which once belonged to a noble family and
which is now occupied by Mr.. Copeland who
coaches young men tor the army. Some of the
young men are the sons OF noble families and
many OF them are rich, and I'm afraid
must say that most of them behave badly. The
Vicar says animal spirits, / say bad manners.
The Vicar says that as l have never had a
brother don't understand young mems WAYS,
and certainly, judging by Cyrils accounts OF
the goings on at Christ Church, young men
must be extraordinary creatures with the
oldest ideas of pleasure.
Cyril says that if Mr. Reardon had not three
daughters to marry he would not be quite SO
charitable IN his opinion of Mr. Copeland s
young men; but don't think our dear old
Vicar Is a cOntriving sort of person, and don Z
think one ought to be too hard upon Mrs. Rear
don for giving so many tends parties and CIu-
dereIla dances and blind mans buff parties and
water plcnics, for three daughters to marry
must mean hard work for any mother.
Mrs. Tysoe, the Doctors wife, has two sons
and only one daughter; so there is not nearly
so much excuse for her, and l must say she
does make rather too much of those unman-
nerly hObbledehoys from Templemead. and /
cannot conceal from my dear diary that Laura
Tys3e's conversation would be more enter
tanning if 1t were not all about Mr.. Copeland's
young men.
l am afraid my diary is going to develop all
the worst propenslties in my nature-aboye
all, the propensity for thinking too much OF
myself and looking down upon other people.
diary Is such a safe confidante, and it is such
comfort to know one can say just what one
likes without any fear of having ones silly bab-
BILE babbled about and made sillier by ones
dearest friend.
SO, dear diary, mean to scribble Just what
like In your nice. smooth white pages and
when my foolishness has all run off in pen and
INK have only to turn the key in your neat
little brass lever lock, and my secrets are az
safe as II they were shut up in the heart of the
biggest pyramid.
CHAPTER VII.
SHE ANSWERED STAY"
Seven years. Robert Hatrell had been living
in his grave seven years and day, and Ambrose
Arden was slowly pacing the river terrace which
the dead man planned in the pride of his heart
while his murderer was lying in wait for him,
somewhere in the big city yonder, far away to
the very east. where the bright blue sky changed
to dull and heavy gray. Ambrose Arden and
Clara Hatrell were walking side by side upon
the broad gravel terrace between two rows of
expresses, she with a slow and listless step. he
sultlng his pace to hers. but by no means list
less, intent rather, watching every change in
the pensiye face, every shade upon the fair
forehead
Seven years and day had he been living in
IN ms grave-seven Years and nine days had
gone by since he was found stark and cold with
CLASSY eyes staring up at the smoke-stained CELL
ing In the shabby lodging house near ST. Giles
church, wonder and mystery to all England.
For seven years his widow had mourned him,
missing him and regretting him every day OF
her Ife-albeIt calmly happy with a daughter
she adored-brooding over the tragedy OF his
death, brooding over the cruel destiny which
had sundered SO perfect an union.
Her sorrow was In no wise diminished by the
years that had come and gone-her memory of
the beloved dead was no less vivid than il was
before the first flowers had bloomed upon his