The Portland daily press., 1891-05-16

week later. Their conversation was
broken and intermittent as they came
down the grassy road.
Perhaps this ,may be our last walk
forever" spoke his. low, earnest voice.
''Should you care lift were, Eeanor?"
"Oh, don't be so ssolemn, exclaimed
she. "Of course we shall have more
dozenssnext summer"
He detained herk,cntly by the arm.
''Dut,would yomcare.if"we never did,
asked your
ously, ibid you;ever see. an owl? You
positivelymake mesthinlx of one some
times."
His facetpaled a,ittle. His mouth. had
afirmer look as he walked in silence by
her side to the gate. Hesitating mo-
ment while she coquetted with her para
sol.and shifted some wild flowers un,
easily from one hand into the other:
"Goodby, Eleanor veryrgravely.
"Goodby, jack" vixacipusly.
"Isthat all-can.y ousay nothing else?"
"Why, what should Isay?" she laugh
ed.
''Say that you care-a Ittle-for our
summer ended-if' you do" taking her
hand.
"But whatif 1 dontg' withdrawing
that.member.
He looked at her challenging face a
moment, seriously.
"Goodby," he said, and turned and
walked away. Eleanor tripped Tightly
over the thesholdsup to her room, flung
off her hat, Immediately Shutdown, and
yes, true to the !inexplicablyl contra
dictionssof girlhood. cried.
She remembereda 4now with, smile,
half of incredulity, half Of self con
tempt. Why did shescry? True again
to the inexplcabilities of girlhood she
did not know.
Three weeks after the parting scene
she had received a.letter,fpom Jacksin
Texas, purely friendly, but the. closing
paragraph. Of whfchwasfth this, HAY Tex
pect'ananswer, land may' I hope thatiyou
do,regret, just little, sthesending of Jour
summer idyll' EleanorShad written
her.reply warily eschewing the subject
offregret;" however, and thatw the
letter to'which she hadreceiyedFno re-
ply.
Tne winter days woreson. From in
differencesto curiosity, from curiosityto
pique, and now from pique to anxiety
and fitful depression her feeling had
passed. From careless dream of Sc
curity in his regard she had awakened
to.doubt and uneasyquestion. Had ihe
never cared himself for their summer
idyi9 OF course. she, didn't, she stoutly
maintained to herself, but someway tie
growing conviction of his Indifference
was extremely unwelcome to.her.
II the truth must'be told, her. anxiety
wore on Miss Eleanor, and she even
moped little, disrnally sometimes, at
twiight4in her room, and .pretendedsshe
had a headache when Fred called. She
dropped by degrees out of the duetssand
petuintly decired'its bored her tossing.
Her friends and. Mr.. Jerome, Arthursim-
plored, but she'was obdurate. Neither
passionate glances:nor tender tonesshad
power to move her more. Then she
snnbbed Lew Hunter and privately voted
AAAn sStuk1u.
Miss Mears noticed capriciousness of
appetite, and was anxiously sohcitous.
Did. Eleanor sleep we1Inights? Had.she a
pain. in her side? A dizzy head? Washer
tongue coated? And wouldn't she have
onaporous plaster or wouldn'tshe4take
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 dallyingwith
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, 81 thought you liked it SO much
last year. l 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 change"
That evening as she took down her
long hair in her aunts room, before re-
firing, she said suddenly, and with a
little nervous fiutter, eyes, let's go to
Chocorua, auntie; you know you like it,
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 twen-
ty years experience with the f1uctuating
lncllnations of her niece. So it was ar
ranged.
A month later found them settled.
There were numerous gay young peo-
pie, 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
alack, haunting memory, and visit
fulpain which her heart sought in vain
toignore.
One night merry half dozen of them
were playing tennis in the field near the
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 in 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. He leaned from the carriage
in greeting them all, and Eleanor felt,
when he took her hand, that his eyes
were seeking her own. But she could
scarcely look up. Her old fearless con-
tidence was gone, and she bl1shed half
angrily at her disadvantage.
Jack Renshaw recognized, too, the
difference, and a something intuitive di-
rected his reply to the general impor-
tunity whether he would not boswith
them before the season was over.
eyes, certainly, I think I SHALL" was
his reply as he drew his reins dsdrove
on.
He had told them that telegram
brought him from Texas a month ago to
the bedside of his mother, who was crit
lcallyil, and whose onlyson he was.
Der home was in an adjoining town.
she was now convalescent, and he was
toreturn. south in September.
Thatinight Eleanor pleaded WEAKNESS