Evening capital journal. (Salem, Or.) 1888-1893, 1892-07-21

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was Lit and they were sitting over it
and would not have the window
open. When / came down l found
them all there, and mother was tell
ing Chris about her neuralgia. He
looked flushed just then, not like a
person who could not live long, to
me, and 80 bright and resolute. l
liked his face very much; but saw
that the drawing room was giving
him a dreadful headache-and no
wonder. So / ran down stairs and
made the tea
Chris and / were friends directly.
don't know how it was, for very
seldom make friends, and all the
young men who come to the house
go straight to Milly like iron filings
to magnet. But it was different
with Chris, because the drawing
room made his head ache, just as it
did mine and when we knew each
other better we found. that we liked
the same things and people-though
he knew far more than | did, and
never grew bitter against any one,
like me. He had such a fearless,
friendly way with the world; and
yet there were only very few peo-
pie he altogether trusted and relied
on; and / was one Of them. know
he trusted me completely, or he would
never have told me about Pauline.
Partly, indeed, guessed it. For
we fell into way Of going walks to-
gether on Sunday afternoons, when
Chris had some spare time and l
made it, and l found out that he
liked this particular road-the road
running west northwest. 1t was such
stupid road. First it led through a
long street of those miserable. thin,
gray houses that look like grave
stones standing upright, and then
came streets full Of public houses
and wretched little sweet shops with
halfpenny ices and tobacconists' and
boots mended while you wait"
Then there was dismal triangular
bit Of common, with fence on one
side all over placards, and then a red
brick Primitive chapel and more re-
spectacle houses-till at last came
real fields. You could not call it
country where there were always
cabbage leaves and bits of broken
pots and clothes hung out to dry.
But generally at this stage we turned
back.
l soon concluded that it was the
way to Chris old home, but guessed
more than that. For people do not
always Like to walk in the direction
of particular place only because
they have lived most of their life
there. There must be something or
some one there now that they like to
fancy themselves nearer; and by
and bye, when Chris saw that I
guessed, he told me the whole.
There was very little of it, as he said
cheerily.
1t was just as thought. The girl
he loved had lived there, was hv-
ing there still, and her name was
Pauline. She was rich, he said, and
very beautiful. He told me what
she was Like, and l could not help
knowing that I should have loved
her, that any one must have done.
And Chris had lost everything at
once-money and health and hope.
1T wouldn't have mattered about
the money" said Chris in his quaint
way. II would have asked her to
wait for me and worked my way up.
1t would have been a very good
thing. But you can't ask a girl to
wait for you when you find you have
only one lung"
He laughed rather ruefully, and
laughed, too, though something
caught my breath.
did the doctor give no hope9"
asked.
IF l had gone abroad at once"
said Chris, "bur I couldn't do that.
So / thought, as there might be
year or two, might as we'll do some
thing for my living And this turned
up"
did she, said tentatively, "know
you liked herr"
Chris flushed little and looked
away, but not before l had seen a
sudden light in his eyes.
Il never told her." he answered
simply. "They say-women know"
And she-did you-was she-I
mean, were YOU
His flush deepened.
1T was too early in the day" he
said, II sometimes thought-if it
had gone on-but it didn't go on. l
have prayed about it. Not very en-
Enthusiastically, perhaps-but it is a
good prayer, And there's another
fellow in the running.-a remarkably
good fellow. think it will be all
right"
i did not answer. 1t seemed all
wrong to me. He had told me the
story on one of our Saturday after
noon walks, and when it was ended
We still walked on--west northwest.
It seemed as if we were walking ON
md ON to a place where our roads
would divide forever, and then /
Knew what a blank there would be
'or one of us.
/ could not pray his prayer. l
would have liked toalter everything.
Yet hardly dared wish that Pauline
owed him-I understood him so well.
think that, though he loved her a
thousand times better, she could |
larllx hava undarafood him much l