Pittsburg dispatch. [volume] (Pittsburg [Pa.]) 1880-1923, 1891-02-07

tions and took the night mail to Scotland.
Christmas was nothing to him; his lite
knew no festivals. Within "a hours he was
walking on that narrow footpoth beside the
road which, when last he had seen the place,
bordered a lochen, and now skirted a brown
black peat moor. At every step his loot
crushed frost feathers from the worn grass
blades that stood boldly erect to show what
King Winter had given them to wear.
They, humble, oft trodden, lining the way
side, but not too small thing for the>white
rime TO bedeck. Oh, the light white frost of
highland winter morning. Winter, that
is grim reality elsewhere, but only joke
in the warm moist West. The redeemed
bracSen, tall and green once for two rabbits
to hide under one stem, dashed and soddened
over by wind and rain, but with light gray
sheen upon it like fairy tissue of tinsel.
The hill, bright in ruddy purples, 'cleaving
high into a gold-blue sky; in the
woods, along the streams, upon the moors,
very heyday OF crisp cold.
Latham saw none of it; he walked some
times with his head bent down, then again,
with his pale tired face upward and un-
moved; but he did not notice the glory of
the mountains or the pureness of the air,
and how much less the small cut gems that
every leaf held up in honest pride. To him
it was the place where his heart and his
life's hope had died at one moment; it was
here that the world had turned ash gray for
him, and he could see it of no other color.
He passed Pennygowan Lodge with single
glance at its shattered windows; he went
toward the fir trees with swift steps. What
if the hungry birds in the nut tree where
Tom had tied the horse at the road corner
that night, chirped OF hope and pleasure,
what joyful anticipation could come to
him? 1t was the day before Christmas, and
good people in the world were trying to
spread happiness among the smallest sad
dest creatures: though he did not know it,
those birds were twittering with i'm mpatience
to hy down into the road ana pick up some
crumbs which a kind hand, Iady's hand,
had flung for them as she passed with bas-
ket of gifts for the children in the village.
In a moment he would reach the fir trees;
why did he hesitate? Only that there was
someone standing on the crisp whitened
ground at their roots; lady, looking out
calmly over the peat moor, but pictur-
ing something very different from the
rough heaps of brown peat-bricks that rose
before her. For half moment Latham. felt
the shock of common everyday life iarring
with his sacred sorrow; he had meant to be
alone with that picture Of the past, and here,
the bit of lone ground which his eyes had,
Tom Sinclair had fallen under his hand,
was being vested by someone to whom the
story of his deed was piece of gossip, prob
ably. Perhaps if he walked slowly
by, she would go. He pursued his
way, looking with studiously polite
Indifference straight in front of him.
But as he passed, she raised her
head; and at the slight half-sound that
passed her lips, his own flashed round, and
they recognized one another; he with cry OF
Margaret quickly, nervously suppressed.
What she said he did not hear; he only saw
the lovely color stealing up her cheek as she
smiled and held out her hand. When he
last saw her she had been girl of 20; but
IL years of quiet, uneventful life had
changed very little her gentle face. She
stood before him with her hand held out and
her smile warming him TO the heart
wrapping him, as it seemed. in new sort of
sunlight. She had forgiven him.
May take your hand really?" Latham
said, wondering if she had got over the
death OF her lover, wondering why she
smiled like that.
''Surely-or-I will take yours" She
clasped the hand he held out with a touch
of difhdence. it almost seemed.
"You are very goodr' he murmured, hardly
knowing what to say.
81 have waited all this time to shake your
hand" she said, with some meaning in her
tone, because l always thought" She
stopped, and he looked upquickly. The mod
est trankness of her eyes told him every
thing; in that one glance the soul of each
lay open to the light She knew they had
quarreled about her.
tBut it was Sinclair YOU" j ohm stam-
mered with sudden beautiful uncertainty
in his voice and words, but a dawning con-
sciousness OF something good and bright
awaiting him.
"Oh mol it never, never wasl cried Marga-
ret quickly, and paused with catch in her
voice. Had she been over bold? Had she
gone too far? All no. John stood before
her. his hands hanging at his sides, and
suppressed excitement beating in his voice.
III that is so, if that is true" ne said, with
the forced calmness of high tension, "say it
all to me; don't keep it from me now.
Margaret. IL have never dreamed of
it, or hoped for it, or dared TO think- But
ii you never loved him If that is true, and
that you cared" He stopped his pIead-
ing, then resumed with quick fire: "Oh, did
you care-do you care for me, Margaret 2"
1t seemed he had caught her hands before
she replied, and that. standing with them
clasped on his breast, he received her an
swer. "Then-and now All the time,
John" was what she said.
And after that, the gold of the morning
and the sparkle of the frost was dull COM
pared to the light in his life which was lit
at her sweet eyes.
As they walked along the road to
Ardmuir she traced the wheels
OF the carriage which should
have taken her home; doubtless the man had
driven on, thinking to oyertake her.
But John, at her side, knew why the
whole world was glancing and shining that
day, he understood why the birds were
twIttering even though it was winter
weather. Something in his heart sang too.
Chambers Journal.