Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1890-07-12

thought 20. am glad you have come. very
glad"
$50 am glad to be here"
tried TO speak quietly and restrainedly,
but my lips quivered and the tears rose in spite
of me.
..Do not be so sorry for me-" she answered.
with pitiful little smile. There II nothing
very much the matter after all Long walks
| always take it out Of me and I went quite too
far today, didn't I, Hsnnah2
Hannah growied out something within her
sell, OF which l could only catch the last words:
| "Miles and miles too far"
A faint blush rose to Mrs. Ruthven's cheek.
II am much better now" she said, rising
from the couch and standing. tall and pale, be-
fore me. ..A-h! My locket!'
It had fallen at her feet, and aown open with
the force OF the fall Little women have some
advantages in life; one is that they can stoop
| quickly and easily. raised the locket in an
instant, and there it lay open in the palm of my
hand, showing me the face Of an angela child
| Of some Eve years, with the most pathetic ewes,
the bonniest curls, the sweetest smiling mouth
| ut is-your son?" said timidly, as she took
! it from me.
"Yes," she said, my boy Malcombe-many
years ago. He is now quite a young man, as
| you have seen. doubt not Most people notice
Malcolmbe'-this with . fitful smiie-.but he ia
not much at home just now; his time is not his
! own. Young men have to work very hard in
these days, if they mean to make their own
| way"
She turned away from me, and was slightly
moving the photographs on the table by the
| window; while, to my extreme CONSERVATION,
| the hatchet-faced one was making wonderful
grimsces and gestures at me from the open door.
Unfortunately for her, there was q small mir
ror in an angle of the window, and with one
glance at its surface, Mrs. Ruthven took in the
| state of affairs
1T was SO kind Of you to come-but must
NOT keep you now. l am nearly we'll again"
| The climbing sorrow" of poor old Lear
seemed ready to choke me. Had only gained
to be my first and last visit to Mrs. Ruthven2
were weeks and months of watching and wait
ing to count for nothing?
felt myself dismissed-and yet il was 30
hard to 60.
l felt that the eve of hatchet-face WAS upon
me and an encouraging eagerness in its glitter.
may come again, may not?" l began
| bravely enough; then, as Mrs. Ruthven looked
me gravely and silently in the face, STAN
mered, lamely enough, lust to ask for you,
| just to let my sister, who is so anxious about
you, know how you are"
| A sudden sweet smile stirred the pale. beau
| tiful lips. Mrs. Ruthven laid her hand q mo-
ment on my shoulder: Yes" she said, ''come
| and see me again, come some morning; I'm
| sure we like the same books-we can talk the m
over" pretty gesture of the slim, white
hand dismissed me, and turned to go-but 1
was beckoned back. ''You have been SO good
to me, she said. $50 good and kind. Thank
you-my dear"
| seemed to be in a kind of maze all the rest
OF that day. found myself turning an almost
| deaf ear to Sister Janets comments upon the
| fact that, In her alarm, she had come out into
the garden without putting on her cross-over;
and her fears as to the ultimate results. Each
| time this subject was touched upon Amelia
calculated: ..Lor, Menu lifting hands and
eyes; but all enthusiasm seemed dead in me,
all earnestness absorbed in the house next
door. Every echo and sound could catch Sc {
| my nerves a-quiver. l seemed part and parcel
sorrows. What was the secret of the mother g
sorrow? Why, oh, why! was the dark-eyed,
| gOlden-haired boy SO seldom seen? Why was
the tea 80 temptngly set out, the room made
to look its poor best-and all in vain? Why did
| hear such heavy, tagging footsteps making
faltering way up the steep stairs at hours when
all the world was sleeping? Was it fancy or
| did hear, and that more than once. a low,
wailing cry, q lamentaton, bitter and pro-
longed?
hood enough; yet within the walls of one of its
| unpretending houses a tragedy was being en-
| acted, a pitiful drama. dragging its weary
length-a human heart, passionate, loving,
! faithful, was slowly breaking.
1t will be seen by all this that shrank from
again visiting Mrs. Ruthven unasked. It would
be difficult to say why, unless it was that the
remembrance of some fancied reserve of man
ner on her part held me back. Almost daily l
saw her sitting in the window, bending over
her painting. Many times and oft 1 saw her
watching for golden locks" as Sister Janet
used to call the boy. Many nights noticed
the patch of light upon the narrow, sloping
| lawn; often had put my own gas out, and the
patch Of light, that told me she kept vigil, was
shining still. But the longing to see her nearer,
and to hold speech with her, was burning
within me; and I have great faith in longing
bringing forth opportunity.
One morning, as passed, she beckoned to
me. For q moment l thought might be mis-
| moment later she had opened the door herself
and stood waiting me. hardly know how the
| time passed. Mrs. Ruthven was one of those
| people one meets with sometimes whose COM
| panionship has q charm that sets time at de-
| fance. We talked of books, Of works of art
| of anything, in fact, except her boy. We neared
the subject once or twice, but she glanced of
from it. Yet am very sure that he was present
| in both our thoughts. Many times I saw her
| finger the locket that hung upon her breast
and knew-I knew
could not help expressing my establishment
at the amount and variety Of her reading.
| Yes" she said feverishly, II am never unoc-
cupied; am always busy. I like books that
claim ones whole thought and attention; that
must be thought about if they are to be under
not bear to be idle should go mad; constant
occupation, that is the only thing"
Then she stopped suddenly.
! Shortly after this left her, but only to re-
turn the next day. and the next and the next
after that. In spite of the sorrow that always
| felt underlay everything l can look back upon
| it now and say it was a happy time. The COM
panionship of rarely beautiful and highly
cultured mind must always be that.
| Then there came terrible episode
Going over to see Mrs. Ruthven one day
| about noon 1 found the house door Unattached
and-an indiscretion, perhaps, on my part
| pushed 1t gently open and went in. knew
that my friend had grown to be glad of my
cOmings. l loved to see the quick, sweet
smile Of welcome that was ever her greeting to
me. went along the lobby and reached the
threshold Of the parlor door, which stood halt
open There my feet seemed to become rooted
to the floor. longed to retreat the way that !
had come, yet felt powerless to move.
Mrs. Ruthven was seated in a low chair BY
the fireplace. On his knees beside her, thrown
| in all the abandonment of sorrow on her breast,
her arms encircling him, her tears streaming
down upon his upturned face, was the boy NAL
combe. Bright have called him-be autiful to
look upon? All whittier had brightness and
beauty fed now2 His eyes were sunken and
dull, his cheeks haggard and coorless; even
the curly locks that lay against his mother Q
| shoulder seemed to have lost their gloss.
His arms wore round her neck; he sobbed a.
he spoke.
"You are the only one who never fails me
| the only one-the only one!''
my darling-my darling" she answered,
| and oh, the anguish in her voice! 81 could