, 1891-05-13

Three weeks after the parting scene
she had received a letter from Jack in
Texas, purely friendly, but the closing
paragraph Of which was this, May | ex-
pect an answer, and may 1 hope that you
do regret. just a little, the ending Of our
summer idylr' So Eleanor had written
her reply warily eschewing the subject
Of regret, - however, and that was the
letter TO which she had received no re
ply.
The winter days wore on. From in
difference TO curiosity, from curiosity to
pique, and now from pique to anxiety
and htful depression her feeling had
passed. From a careless dream of Sc
curity in his regard she had awakened
TO doubt and uneasy question. Had he
never cared himself for their summer
idyly OF course she didn't, she stOutly
maintained to herself, but someway the
growing conviction of his indifference
wa extremely unwelcome to her.
II the truth must be told, her anxiety
wore on Miss Eleanor, and she even
moped a little, dismally sometimes, at
twilight in her room, and pretended she
had a headache when Fred called. She
dropped by degrees out of the duets and
petulantly declared it bored her to sing
Her friends and Mr.. Jerome Arthur i'm
plOred, but she was obdurate. Neither
passionate glances nor tender tones had
power to move her more. Then she
snubbed Lew Hunter and privately voted
him stupid.
Miss Mears noticed c-apriciousness of
appetite, and was a~nxiously solicitous.
Did Eleanor sleep well nights? Had shea
pain in her side? A dizzy head? Was her
tongue coated? And wouldn't she have
on a porous plaster or wouldn't she take
some tonic bitters? To all of which her
niece objected with laughing contempt.
What do you think about going to
Chocorua again this summer inquired
Miss Mears Of her niece one morning the
following June. They were sitting at
breakfast, and Eleanor was dallying with
her coffee spoon.
"Oh, that stupid little town, no. Any
place but there, was the quick response.
Why said her aunt, in mild sur
prise, Il thought you liked it so much
last year. | Am sure the farm house was
cool, the vegetables fresh, and you know
you thought the river scenery was de.
lightful."
AT mention Of the river scenery Flea
nor was conscious Of a pang at her heart
like pain; but she answered carelessly;
'One tires Of things sometimes. Ishould
like a change"
That evening as she took down her
long hair in her aunt's room, before re-
firing, she said suddenly. and with a
ltfla ,arr-,r, nV,4t,r ~ -. 4
Chocorua, a%untie; you know you like il,
and the kensels are going, and it's as
good as any place, after all"
Miss Jane Mears received the PROPOSE
ton without surprise, having had TWEEN
ty years experience with the nuctuating
inclinations Of her niece. So it was ar
ranged.
A month later found them settled.
There We're numerous gay young peo-
Pile, Fred Kensel, his sister and Jerome
Arthur among the rest, and Eleanor
walked and drove and sought out her
old haunts by the river. But there was
a lack, n haunting memory, and u visit
full pain which her heart sought in vain
to ignore.
One night n merry half dozen of them
were playing tennis in the field near tho
farm house which was the temporary
home of their choice, when a carriage
passing, the driver raised his hat and
drew up.
Jack Renshaw!' exclaimed two or
three, recognizing and running toward
him, raCkets i'll hand.
Eleanor felt as if stunned, but, being
possessed Of too much tact and pride to
allow herself TO seem Disconnected, she
approached with the others and offered
her hand. lie leaned from the carriage
in greeting them all, and Eleanor felt,
when he took her hand, that his eyes
We're seeking her own. But she could
scarcely look up, Her old fearless CON
hdence was gone, and she blushed half
angrily at her disadvantage.
Jack Renshaw recognized, too, the
difference, and IA something intuitive di-
rected, his reply TO the general impor-
tunity whether he would not be with
them before the season was over.
Eyes, certainly, | think l shall" was
his reply rs he drew his reins aud drove
on.
He had told them that II telegram
brought him from Texas u month ago to
the bedside of his mother, who was crit
ically i'll, and whose only son he was.
Her home was in an adjoining town.
She was now con alescent, and he was
to return south in September.
That night Eleanor pleaded WEAKNESS
and retired early TO her room. But she
could not sleep. She did not try. With
out a light, and in her flowing wrapper,
she sat long, dreaming in the wide west
window dreaming Of all things, of last
summer and of the dull, gray future.
But through every vision there moved
one central figure. All else revolved
about that. One face haunted her mem
Dry, one voice thrilled her heart.
She rose ut last and ~neryously paced
the floor. Why should she think of Jack
Renshaw? Why could she not shut him
out Of mind? She-Eleauor Armstrong
who always had sailed on the crest Of
the wave, to find herself now choppiug
dismally in the trough. 1t was too ex-
asperating.
Yet again and again the same vision
haunted her memory, and ever and ever,
against her viii, the same questions
forced an answer. Why could she not
forget him2 How well he looked! Why
had She never noticed his fine expression
What ease and self possession were his!
Why had she been so blind before? And
so, and so she vexed herself as the night
hours wore away.
Within a week Jack was back at Cho-
corua, a guest at The Elms, the village
inn. Eleanor saw him constantly, was