Los Angeles herald., 1891-07-01
ELEANOR IN LOVE.

Sne held IN her hand the letter. Should
she send it? That moment was one of
those wistfully critical epochs of exis-
tence upon which may swing, as upon a
hinge, the door of destiny.
Eleanor Armstrong stood in doubt.
Why? It was little thing, just friend
ly letter to Jack Renshaw out in Texas.
What matter? Why should she hesitate?
Eleanor could not tell. Still she lin
gered, dimly prescient of that swinging
door of destiny.
She had written his name across the
envelopes; should she complete the ad-
dress and let it go? Hers was quick,
positive nature, given to the obedience
of impulse. 1t was vexing to be SO puz-
zled over so slight a thing.
An accident, if such it was, decided
the question. A caller was announced.
She descended to the drawing room, and
the letter went to the box, gathered up
with the rest of her mail by the hand of
the maid.
"It was Destiny" said Eleanor to her.
self in an afterthought.
After all nothing could come of it.
She was under no obligation to Jack
Renshaw, nor to any other man, in fact.
Then she wondered idly if she ever
should care for any of them-one more
than another-for Eleanor Armstrong,
while no beauty, had grace and sparkle,
and subtle personal magnetism which
drew about her plenty of admirers.
She favored them all by turns. Last
summer it was Lew Hunter. She went
boating with him up in lovely Chocorua,
where they summered, played tennis and
climbed country roads and hills
"He was so strong and good natured,
and made such good alpen-stock," she
coolly explained to her aunt, Miss Jane
Mears, who was her careful chaperon.
This year, last past, it was Jack Rem
shaw, at the same place, Chocorua-
''dear old dreamy town." Eleanor said,
"I could never tire of it," Jack did not
dance, cared nothing for tennis, and had
no experience with oars; but he read
poetry beautifully, and could tell her
charming old idyls as they walked by
the river.
He interested her in way that others
did not; and yet he had such dreadfully
intense earnestness about him that he
positively frightened her sometimes, she
said.
i Now the summer was gone, Jack was
in Texas, and Eleanor was in her city
home with only Aunt Jane and memory.
Yes, there was always Fred Kensel. He
lived in handsome house up in the
square, with stylish mother and sisters.
He was the Oldest friend of all, and was
always at hand, sometimes more than
Eleanor wished. For in the last year
their frank, unrestrained good fellow
ship had in some way taken on a color
too strong for ordinary friendship, and
Eleanor often found herself uncomforta-
BILE and ill at ease when Fred was near.
She would declare the air was close-she
must have the window open-and where
was Aunt Jane? Or if they were on the
street she complained of his pace; why
oM he lag so? Couldn't he walk up like
an v other man? Poor Fred unwittingly
felt the smart of many thorns that
winter.
Bnt about Jack Renshaw; Eleanor
cared nothing for him-she knew she
didn't. He was a pleasant summer
friend, nothing more. He had light
hair: sheAwouldnt marry a blonde, any
way. Then he was too serious, too
"preachy' She wasn't going to marry
a guideboard. Besides he was all of ten
years older than she-night as well be
her grandfather. No, Jack Renshaw,
for anything but a friend, was out of the
question. Lew Hunter was more to her
mind, and secretly to herself, she owned
tafat Mr.. Jerome Arthur, the tenor at St.
sPsurs, was nearer to her taste than
either. But Mr.. Jerome Arthur was as
yet only vague possibility. She had
met him casually dozen times or so'
Thus she reasoned.
So the days went by, and the letter
and Jack went almost out of mind. Oc-
.casionally remark or tone of voice, OF
a marked passage in some favorite book
they had read, wonld recall him. Then
5mernory would stir, and she would idly
wonder if he got her letter, and when
and how he would write. But the spec
alation was one of indifference. II