The Press., 1890-08-14

So was she held from entertaining the slightest thought of love for another. The very suggestion seemed abhorrent to her.
 Long they sat on this winter day by the library fire, the doctor and Katherine and little Star in occasional converse, quiet, subdued, happy to be together. The little French clock on the mantel disturbed tho serenity of the room more than they. The child dozed off again, his fair head pillowed on the doctors arm. Van Duyn carried him back to his little cot, and after covering him soft and warm, with touch gentle as wo- mans, he led Katherine back to her seat by the freside, where he told her the story of how his days were passed, and how he was bridging over the present. blank and comfortless-with the hope that he might some day win her; that she had grown so dear-so dear; and could she not hold out just a little rush. light of assurance that some time such thing might be possible-just a faint glimmer that would light him through the dreary present. But, no; no she could not. It must never be. He must not talk to her of marriage.
 "Oh, Dr. Van Duyn," she cried, "your coming comforted me so, but only to disturb and disquiet me again. I thought could rely upon you, my trusted physician, my friend, and I so friendless.
 Stifing sob she went on in dry, even voice:
 "Dr. Van Duyn, never again speak of %l,S A<. 1T .,04<ao ao17 11eIn an errand. Star shall not fall i'll again if I can prevent itnn
 Cruel words from those fair lips, words that cut deep. Overcome with humilia- tion and contrition, hurt to the quick, the fervor and tenderness now all gone, Van Duyn dropped Katherine's hand and left her side. Not trusting himself to speak he strode over to the window-a quaint oriel window, through whose dia- mond shaped panes he could look out on last years rose garden standing gaunt, bereft, dead from blasted hopes. When he could subdue his voice and his heart he came back to her. ''Far be it from me, Katherine Wealth erly, to presume upon any professional privilege may have in so far as to thrust personal matters unwillingly upon you. God knows I meant to help carry your burden, not to impose anything ad- ditional upon you"
 He paused moment, deathly pallor on his face, his hands firmly locked to- gether. Approaching her by one step he added in quiet tone:
 Katherine, forgive me. had hoped that perhaps this might be. I have xryop,%a1 p1,4h ha1Sax,a vry1,a T tell you will never distress you in this way again"
 Without another word or glance at her he turned to go. At the outer door he hesitated. He came back.
 ~Child," he said, in the same con- strained voice, not his own, promise me one thing. If you or the child is i'll you will call me-promise!' The tides of pity and contrition came sweeping in over her heart, but rallying with tremendous effort she replied, with an assumed Eghtness:
 "Oh, yes; will promise that. There is no other physician at North End, you know"
 He turned full upon her for one long moment those deep, unfathomable eyes. His very soul came out to her in that expression of wounded love and pride and stricken hope. She quailed before that look. She could not brook it. In another moment he was gone, and; as in the steely, cold light of the winter moon, she saw him stride down the snowy garden path, his broad hat low over his eyes, his fur coat gathered under his arm, she began to realize what she had | done. A feeling of loneliness and deso- lation, which she had not imagined pos sible when Van Duyn was present, crept over her, benumbing and chilling her heart. while her brain seemed burning as with fever.
 "Why do always treat him so! Why am reused to ever oppose that true heart for whose regard do care, oh, ] do carep'
 Dashing away the rising tears she went to her child's cot, and, throwing herself | down, buried her hot face deep in the | pillows by his side.