Lewiston teller. [volume] (Lewiston, North Idaho) 1878-1900, 1891-10-01

happier days dawned; fOr-I say it advised
". and at risk of censure-Philppa was e
me pure and innocent as on the day when
first we met. II her hands were stained
with the blood of Sir Mervyn rerrand. she
knew 1t not. Her wrongs had goaded her
to madness, and her madness was RESPONSE
bic for the act, not she herself.
The mans name never crossed her lips.
For all she spoke of him he might never
have existed. or, at the most, been but a
part OF forgotten dream. As soon as she
was well enough to rise from her bed, and
could for hours enjoy her society, we talk
ed OF many things; but never Of Sir Mervyn
Ferrand and the immediate past.
But, nevertheless there were times when
her look distressed me. Now and again
found her gazing at me with anxious, troub-
led eyes, as II trying to read something
which was hiding from her. Once she
asked me how she came to my house that
night.
"Oat Of the whiring snow" said as light
ly as could. You came in high state of
fever and delirium"
Where had been? What had l been
doing"'
You came straight from Mrs. Wilson's (
suppose. know 10 more"
Then she sighed and turned her head
away; but soon found her troubled dark
eyes again fixed on my own. l coald do
nothing but meet their gaze bravely, and
pray that my poor love might never, never
be able to fill those hours which were at
present blank to her.
At last. exactly fortnight from the fatal
day, we left my home. was now what Is
legally termed an accessory after the act,
and was making every effort to save the
poor girl from justice In order to avert
suspicion, decided 1t was better not to shut
up my house: so left the faithful William
to take care of it,and await my instructions.
At present it was advisable that any in
quirers should learn that had gone to Lon
don with my s,ster, and that the time of our
return was uncertain. BY and by, if all
went well, could get rid of my cottage in
all ordinary way. |. for one, should never
wish TO visit the place again.
Phiippa acquesced in all my arrange.
ments. She was quite willing to accompany
me to town. She trusted me with childish
simplicity. But Basil, afterward-what
afterward?' she asked.
Even in the midst of the menacng peri it
was all l could do to refrain from kneeling
at her feet and telling her that my love
would solve the question of the future.
II have surprise for You in London"
said, as cheerfully as could. Trust your
self to me; you will not regret it,"
She took my hand. "Whom else have 1
to trust?" she said simply. BASIL you have
been very good to ME. have made your
life miserable; it is too late to atone; but
shall never forget these days"
Her eyes were full of tears. kissed her
hand reverently, and told her that when
saw the old smile back upon her lips, all
had done would be thousand times repaid;
but as spoke trembled at the thought Of
what might be in store for both of us.
We drove to toding, and were perforce
obliged to take the road which passed by
Mrs. Wilson's house. Pni!ippa half rose
from her seat, and seemed to be on the point
of asking Inc some question: but she chang
cd her mind, and relapsed into silence.
felt horrible dread lest the roadside ohirc.s
and landmarks should awaken recollection,
and my heart beat violently as we neared
the white heap by the hedge, that he an
which believed held 0 secret. felt that
l grew deadly pale. l was forced to turn
my head away and look ont of the opposite
window. My state of mind was not made
easier by knowing that Philippa was gazing
at me with that troubled look in her ewes.
felt that the strain was becOm.
ing too much for me, and l began to wonder
If my life would ever again know happy
or secure moment
After long silence Philippe spoke 'sTeil
me, Basil, have you heard from that MANI"
shook my head.
Where is he? lie was coming that night.
Did he come:'
II suppose not. Why do you ask?'
Basil, a kind of horrible dream haunts
me. There was something l dreamed of
that fearful night, s0methinyI dream OF
now. Tell me what it was"
The perspiratOn rose to my brow. Dear.
est l said, mo wonder you dream. You
are well now, but that night you were quite |
out of your senses. Your fancies are but |
the remains of that deliriam. Think no
more of that wretch; he is probably living |
in Paris, after the manner of his kind. |
Think only that life is going to be cain and
happy"
Anything to keep the knowledge of her
In light, cheerful manner. TESTED at the
appearance of the few muffied.up country
people whom we passed on the road. |
out tiiC UCdutJ Vi tlS tIccS oi VIC
'vayside, each branch Of which bore foliage |
Df glSteniny snow. l did all could to turn |
her thoughts into other channels-to drive |
That strange questioning look from her eyes. |
Right glad felt when we were ut last in |
The train and the first stage Of our fight an |
accomplished fact.
Upon reaching London, I drove straight |
10 the hotel at which my mother was STAY
ing. 1t was one of those high-priced respect |
sble private hotels in Jcrmyn street. l en-
ragged rooms for my sister and myself. l |
sent Philippe to her room to rest; and then |
vent to find my mother. In another minute
was In her arms, and ere half All hour was |
'ver had told her Phillppa's story, and my |
owe for the woman on whose behalf be-
fought her protection.
Yes, had done right to trust her. knew |
Ter noble nature; her utter freedom from
he petty trammels of society. knew the
owe she bore her son. Let me here thank |
Ter once more for what she did for me that |
lay.
She seard all my outpourings in silence.
told her all, save two things-the name Of
he man who had wronged my love, and the
ate which had overtaken him. told her,
Is have dared In hOnN thnt in time tn come |