Eagle River review. [volume] (Eagle River, Wis.) 1890-1927, 1892-10-20
CHAPTER XIII.

! hour of his birth, and on this account,
and because. too, OF the deep friendship
entertained for his father, he took more
than usual interest in him.
Il want to see in you the worthy sue
cessor of my old FRIEND" he said one
| day. you can work out an honorable
career, and you should. You owe it
not only TO his memory but also to that
| dear, sweet wife of yours. Let her be
| your inspiration. promised your father
| when he was dying that would act the
part Ola friend to her. don't believe
| | can do that more effectually than by
helping you.
The old refrain. Doctor. In all that
| is done for me, | see Margaret as the
prompting motive. This prevents any
| feeling of conceit on my part, and l am
willing that she shall have the we'll
deserved credit, but, nevertheless, my
MINDLESS sails flap rather dolefully."
| DIR. Philips says I have dear, sweet
wife. What do you think Of that, Mar
| garrett"
| That he is man given to over
praise" replied Margaret, glancing up
from the scarf she was embroidering.
A very nice man, though" she added.
turning to her work once more. so
! good to me and SO good to you.
He was standing behind her chair,
and bent his head to look into herleyes.
| Nervous under such close contact she
started up, and made Il pretense OF ar
| ranging some books upon a small table.
| The sigh with which his eye followed
her awakened in her heart some twings
OF remorse for what, she felt obliged to
confess, was an unreasonable betrayal
| of ill-huumor.
| Come back to your chair, Margaret.
| You can be very cruel sometimes.
Have you any right to blame me,
Brian?"
| A glance at his face made her regret
| this question the second it passed her
| lips, but before she could recall it he
| had left the room, with the words des-
tined to echo in her heart through many
| long, bitter days.
NO, Margaret. No right at all. I
! see your love is rot for me.
A few minutes later she heard the
| sound OF his horses hoofs on the drive
outside. 1t was too late now. She
must wait until his return. Then she
would tel him how sorry she was.
She wondered why the moments
dragged so heavily, scarcely an hour
| had passed since Brian had left her; it
| seemed more like three. The sound of
| some disturbance down stairs came to
| her ears With nervous start she
| listened anxiously. There was no mis-
| taking the hurried footsteps and sub
| dued voices. Something unusual had
| happened.
| With mind filled with terrible dread,
| and heart beating to almost suffoca-
| tion she few down the steps, along the
hall, and into the library, and there
| No need to ask the matter now. During
| second, in which she seemed to die a
| hundred deaths, she took in the white
| face and still form upon the sofa,e and
| then, without even a cry, but with an
| expression that fixed itself indelibly
upon the minds Of those who saw it,
| she knelt beside this remnant of the
| life and strength OF an hour before, and,
| taking the cold hands between her own,
soothed and dressed them in her effort
| to bring back their lost warmth. Poor
| hands! little while ago she had shrunk
| from their contact, ann now they were all
| powerless, too helpless to respond even
| to her rouc1; yet she would still hold
| them, and, perhaps, after time he might
| feel. She would lay her heart on his,
| he would hear its beating and might
understand. Sh. would
Margaret.
| She heard her name repeated softly;
she felt a gentle touch upon her shout
der, and strong hand lifting her from
| her crouching position, and she raised
| her face, haggard and drawn with suf-
| fering, to meet DR.. Philips sympathetic
glance.
| Don't give way" he said kindly, see
| ing the question in her eyes. "We must
| get him to his room, and meanwhile we
! may hope that things are not so bad as
| they seem"
Poor child" he murmured after he
| had left her. "and poor Brian. I little
| thought, when I saw him SO we'll and
strong yesterday, that to-day he would
| be so near death. sad ending to his
young career.
While Margaret sat by Brian's bed,
| trying in the pain and remorse which
| filled her heart to overlooking to make
| the most of the few attentions she could
| lavish upon him, thought came to her
| like ray Of hope.
Il will ask him to come," she said
under her breath Il will ask him to
come Did you call me, Brian?" She
| bent over the bed and gazed mutely
| up the mOtionleSs face. No, Brian
| had not called, and with a heartbroken
| sigh she turned away to write the tele-
gram which was to tell Wilson of
| Brian's danger.
/ And three hours later Wilson came.
| Well might Margaret say, as her hand
| rested in his sympathetic clasp:
Il felt SO sure that you would come.
| Your presence gives me strength and
| hope. I feel that he will be safe in
your hands.
"As safe as these hands can make
| him, Mrs. Leigh. Please God, your
| confidence will not be misplaced.
Margaret herself scarcely realiZedthe
| extent of this confidence until she had
| taken Wilson to Brian's room, and
| waited with suspense that amounted
| to agony the opinion which she felt
would mean so much.
She watched his face anziously, but
| it revealed little, and only by a subtle
| intuition did she understand that he
| considered Brian's state most critical.
| With the last CLEAN of hope dying