Weekly expositor. (Brockway Centre, Mich.) 1882-1894, 1891-07-24
WILMA'S ROMANCE.

ones sell among the heavy sweetness
of the blossoming syringa bushes and
the avenues of pink wygelia that wound
irregularly here and there.
1t was July day. A girl lay idly
In n wide, luxurious hammock, her
bright head on the soft-tinted cushions,
her deep-brown eyes appraised TO the
whispering leaves above.
Wilma Pierce, whose summers were
spent at her grandmother's quaint old
country home had come here few
brains as only young working
teacher can be.
A silvery haired, sweet-facea old
lady came out of the wide hall door
with light wrap in her hand. She
approached the hammock with anxious
solicitude in her kind old face.
Child. it is cool for thee here; thee
must be more prudent with thyself."
She wrapped the soft gray shawl
about the girls shoulders with loving,
motherly hands. Wilma looked up
and smiled protestingly.
at isn't chilly, grandmamma, dear;
but l submit.
She took the wrinkled old hand In
hers and held it gently against her
warm cheek.
The old quakeress bent her stately
form and left soft, swift kiss upon
the girls forehead.
She went in and the girl and her
dumb companion were again alone.
By and by she fell asleep. The
roses Mt her white throat rose and fell
with gentle regularity as her breath
came and Went. 1t was a pretty pic
ture. Ronald Mitchell. coming quiet
ly across the garden, thought so as he
caught sight OF it and paused involun-
tarily.
The dog raised his great shaggy
head and looked silent welcome from
his brown eyes. They were old
friends-Ronald, the young farmer,
and Rebecca Northfeld's dog Don.
The young man stood breathless a
moment looking at the sleeper then,
with softened light in his blue eyes
and a warmer tinge on his smooth
shaver cheek, he went on toward the
house He entered with the familiar
fly of we'll known and welcome friend
and sat down easily in a big, anti
quated rocking chair.
Rebecca Mortified came into the
ROOM her old face alight with well
come.
She camo and laid her small hand
on his shoulder. Ronald, she said
''my grandchild, Wilma Pierce, is
come Perhaps it is not news to theep
She Is a good girl, Wilma is, but i
fear she loves the world too we'll.
There is little of the quaker about her,
Ronald"
He smiled. IL saw her when came
through the garden just now. She is
unlike you in her dress, but her face
has likeness to yours.
They sat together in quiet room
and talked little while. All at once
shadow fell across the bare. white
floor and they both looked up. Wilma
stood in wide doorway, her face
flushed with sleep, her eyes dewy like
child's after refreshing slumber.
She had yellow rose in her hand.
conscious of strangers presence as
abe looked half-sleepily at the flower,
''grandmamma. what a lovely rose!
Just see how"
wilma" the calm, sweet voice in
terrupted her, "come here. This is
Ronald Mitchell, the son of my old
friend and schoolmate Eunice Sand. y
Wilma advanced little and held out
her hand frankly. but when she met
the intense gaze of the clear blue eyes
above her a shy look came into her
own, and she withdrew her hand.
Ronald, watching her. wondered il
her grandmothers remark about her
had implied she was a bit of Co
quette.
She leaned over the old lady's high
backed chair and fastened the rich rose
in the silvery white waves Of heI
beautiful hair. And then she went
away with murmured word of excuse,
leaving behind her scent of roses and
remembrance OF fair. fresh young
face rising hower-like above her pale
blue gown.
That was their first meeting. AL
summer the young farmer came and
went at his own will and helped 70
make the old place pleasant.
They walked together in the great
old-fashioned garden and along the
murmuring creek, and sat idly on the
rustic bridge, watching the rhythmic
flow of the water and the minnows
darling in the cool, dark depths below.
It was an idlyic summer. Both were
happy. One knew why it was; the
other only half guessed it.
Ronald Mitchell at thirty years had
for the first time felt his inmost heart
stirred and thrilled by a woman's pres
ence. He loved her with all the UNI
wasted strength of his perfect manhood
with all the tenderness Of a true
mans first love.
One evening he told her. They were
sitting together on a messy log beside
the creek.
Wilma had thrown of her wide gar
den hat, and the late rose in her dark
hair CLEANED Whitley like sofs star