The morning call. [volume] (San Francisco [Calif.]) 1878-1895, 1891-12-20

She sat with her pen in her hand, but she
could not write. Her heart was full of
story that she had heard recently aud could
not forget; the story of a woman who had
been happier than herself. and yet more
miserable She stared at the blank paper
before her instead of writing, and she said
TO herself: "Why are all the chances in life
given to those who az not lit to use them?
If such love had been mine once | would
never have let it go. There is no price that
would not have paid to keep it; and She
she threw it away for vanityY'
The story was very real to her because
she loved the man who had told it, and yet
she had taken the telling of it to mean that
the true history of his life was over, and
that he had no love left to give again. The
confidence he had reposed in her had been
compliment to her friendship, but destruc-
ton Of all her hopes of happiness. Before
that confidence was made she had thought
that his feeling for her was as deep as hers
for him.
She had been mari led herself; but though
she had had husband she had never known
a true love. Her marriage had been a sac
rfce, made when she was very young and
when she acted almost entirely under the
influence OF a selfish mother. Her husband
n her mothers eyes-not so prosperous as
had been imagined. Eleanor's life had been
hard one always, and now she was left
alone in the world, except for the
little two year Old baby. 1t was an
Riiing creature fretful and not pretty;
but 1t was something to hold in her
arms, if not enough to fill her heart. She
loved it the more passlOnately, perhaps, for
its infrmities; but sometimes the loneliness
Of her life oyerpOwered her ike flood of
bitter waters; she wanted some mind to
speak to. some heart TO answer hers, some
tenderness 10 lean upon and trust. She was
yet but very young, only % years old, and all
the currents of life beat strongly within
her all the imperative demands for love,
for praise, for happiness, which make so
large part Of our youth, were still alive in
her heart, and would not easily be silenced.
Her income was insufficient for herself
ana her delicate child; she added to it in
many little ways, as the opportunity was
offered to her. She had written few
short stories for a particular magazine
which could not afford to number famous
authors among its contributors, and she
had been paid for them. An accidental
meeting with another contributor had given
her friend, and Ralph Webster was at
that time. perhaps, the only person with
whom she was on terms of familiar friend
ship, and TO whom she could talk on a
moral and intellectual level. His SYM
pathies and aspirations were not unlike her
own; they always understood one another
at least even when they did not agree. To
talk TO him was, therefore, the opening OF
aew experience to her. Language had be-
tOre-at least spoken language-been only a
vehicle for the management of affairs, the
expression Of desires, the receipt of infor-
nation. Now 1t served to exchange thought,
70 bring two lives into close mental relation
with one another, to console, to suggest, to
sustain. And she had thought he loved her.
de was little more prosperous in the
world than herself, and he did not guess
mat she was so very poor; but he was not
-jch enough to make her feel that she would
AXE much more than she gave if she be-
came his wife. They would work together
as they lived together and loved together.
She had thought, with others:
cur work shall still be better for our love,
And stu our love be sweeter for our work
And both commended for the sake Of each,
by all true workers and true lovers born.
And then he had received an appoint
ment to travel as special correspondent to
great paper, and he had come to say good
by to her, and before saying gOod-by had
.old her this story She had taken it for a
final farewell Since his going, three days
before, she had thought of nothing else.
She had work to do, but she could not do t.
How could she throw herself into dream
loves and dream troubles with this pain of
loss and loneliness at her heart? And yet
the work was necessary, and she dared OF
delay it longer than that night.
She had the day before received back
lIulu HtI eullUT Il story WHICH she laQ
hoped he would accept, with the intimation
that if she would write him one half as
long, to be ready in two days, he would
almost certainly take it, as lie wished to fill
up corresponding gap in the next number
OF his magazine.
She urgently needed the money. Her
baby, little Lorna, was paler and thinner
even than usual; the doctor whom she con-
suited said that the child needed country
air. She had hoped to earn enough money
to take il away for some weeks to farm
house when she sent that story to the editor
of the magazine. She must not lose the Op-
portunitY which he had offered in its place.
She had thought of a plot-a foolish little
commonplace affar-but she could not
breathe any life into it. When she forced
her thoughts into the necessary channel
they flowed back again to another story.
She saw Ralph Webster standing before
her; she heard his voice again, telling her
the simple tragedy of his life. How graph
icaily he had told it, though not with many
words. She could fill In the details for her
sell. 1t was a story of true and patient
love, and of shameful faitbessness and