Alma record. (Alma, Mich.) 1878-1928, 1892-03-18


wish him to Gomez thought he inter-
ested you, and he has promised to take
some sketches for me. But if L had
thought"
Dear father, do not mind me. OF
course | am glad you asked him. My
remarks were general, not particular.
Men are not, as a rule, very interest
ing"
Lorraine, with unusual persistence. "lIe
is clever, amusing, and draws well; be-
sides. he has helped me great deal i'm
way that has given him not a little
trouble"
"IIe is quite aware of his advantages"
Sydney replied, with a shade of bitter
ness in the tones that used not to be
there. sometimes, father, think peo-
pie know the value of everything be-
longing TO them, including unSelhsh-
ness and all their other virtues. Now
do not scold me for being uncharitable
and hard say that to you, but to him
| will be charming; interested and APP
preciative of everything, including
sketches and unselishness.H
Mr.. Loraine's only reply in words
was. IL am glad you judge me more
kindly than you do the words" but for
a few minutes his thoughts did not
wander away TO the subject Of the new
book which was engrossing him at pres
ent; they remained with the tall, slender
daughter, by whose side he was walk.
ing. Sometimes now, as he found him
self growing older and his hair grayer,
the thought would flash across him that
if he could have seen her proud and
happy wife, with children clinging about
her, the future would not have seemed
so gray and dull, TO which one day he
would have to leave her.
But though i used TO wish she might
not leave me / have never influenced
her, and / would always have done any
thing for her happiness. 1t is she her
self who has ever been unwilling to
quit her home. She is capable of love,
[ know it, but somehow il seems that
no man has ever been able TO touch her
heart" But his thoughts being thus
turned TO the subject he sighed, when
at tho library door he paused and enter
ed it.
what a sigh, father! That is forbid
den," kissing him. Are you going to
write tonight? You ought to be too
tired for that, but you grow two years
younger every year, and l." half smil-
ing. "two years older"
1--WE shall soon be the same age at
that rate. Come in and light my can
dies"
when does Mr.. Carteret arrive?" she
questioned, the taper i'll her hand.
Tomorrow about five. | promised
we would send TO meet him."
She made no comment on his words,
/ but, having lit the candles, returned TO
the drawing-room.
Back there, she stirred the fire into q
brighter blaze, then recommended her
walk TO and fro. noting as she walked,
now and again with satisfaction, some
/ familiar object that after the months
absence it was pleasure TO see again;
but at length pausing in her slow walk,
she sat down in the wide armchair on
the hearth-rug. and pursued her train
of thought with eyes fixed on the fire,
as if she read story there
AS she sits thus, her hands lightly
clasped on her knee, the lamplight
| above her shows the changes that time
| has brought to her. 1t is different wo-
man from the one in the white dress
who faltered out her heart-broken fare
wells in this very room. The face is
! thinner than of old, and the lamplight
shows gray hairs in the dark head; the
gray eyes are little harder, little
! colder, and the grave mouth smiles less
! often than it did. The world with its
disappointments and troubles has a
way, hardening to those who have to
| fight many of its battles, and nearly five
| years have gone by since Esmevon Lin
! denheim said in this very room, IF L
regain my freedom | will return, if not
! | will write" and he had not returned
had not even written. One little note
| had come from him to Mr.. Lorraine
| posted from Berlin, thanking him for
| his kindness, telling him of his arrival
so far
Il am arranging for leave to go home
| at once" a message of remembrance
to his daughter. and that was ali. From
! then till now silence so great. that not
one word hadreached her listening ears.
Pride, passion. bitter jealousy all war
ring in her desolate heart. all telling her
that the silence meant he had failed
! and that he could not, or would not,
write and say so.
But | would rather know it. far
! rather. though | said | should under
stand" And, mingled with the thoughts
| of her despair, would come remem-
/ ORANGES of her own words. You will re-
| tur7 to her. and then this Will seem an
! interlude. Your love for her will all
come back. What is a fortnight in a
mans life? For you it will be all as it
was before"
"What is it?" she would cry. leaning
! out into tle COlu WlnliN night from the
window where in the moonlight he had
/ told her of his love. Nv hat is 1t? Tell
me where you are, what you are doingw
! And in the pain and grief Of those win
ter nights the gray hairs were sown. the
| soft mouth forgot its smiles. Months
had passed, months of which each day
/ had seemed written in fire across her
f, life, days of which the mere. memory
now would bring back the pain. Some
times the sight Of the familiar room, or
| of some slight object therein, would
catch her eye, and, reminding her of
that vanished time, make the whole
scene so real that it was impossible to
believe that blank months and years
stretched between then now. Tonight,
returning after this short absence, the
! place was alive with memories, and,
looking into the fireglow, her story
seemed written there.
Il am glad TO be back" she said, SOFT
| "; then, rising, walked over to the I'M
suffered window, and, openingit, look
ed out into the wild night. 1t was not
I cold fIha = rnncr uraCt kyinH ttrag 1,fx-