Courier Democrat. (Langdon, N.D.) 1891-1920, 1892-03-17

that day from the plains and was 60
ing on tomorrow into Cashmere after
big game, Reggy Vayle felt in the
something. He could not kill Lori
mer, tor he did not know where he was
TO De found. So he was going to kill
ibex.
1t was a mere chance that in the no.
tel reading room he saw Queenie's
name in the visitors list. He had no
idea she was at Murree, and the shock
OF the surprise gave him the oddes,
impulse. The memory of Queenie rose
up before him as she had been a yea,
before-pure, lovely, his own-and a
great hunger came over the man just
20 see her once more; not to speak to
her, not even to let her know he saw
her, only to see her for the last time.
In the dark veranda of Queenie's
little bungalo stood tall figure, the
rain running off his macintosh in
streams on the flooring. There was
chink between the curtains, and, by
pressing his lace against the pane, he
could see her distinctly The CLEAN
OF the lamp caught her golden head as
she sat, with hands c!asped on her
knee, gazing into the ire looking ut
terly detected, a lonely little figure. A
great feeling OF pity and remorse stole
over Reggy. She looked so young; he
had sworn to love and cherish her. In
stlnctively he stretched out his arms
toward her, when
A sepulchral cough sounded from
the corner OF the veranda. 1t was the
Waterman, the chokedar, who is sup
posed to guard each bungalow at
night, rousing from his slumber and
announcing his alertness. Reggy had
no choice but to fly precipitately.
Indian postal officials are crassness
itself. Vayles servant had been to in
qulre for his masters letters as soon
as the latter had arrived at Murree,
and they were lying on the table in
his room when he returned from his
Enoch Arden visit. He opened them
mechanically. One began "My darl-
ing Queenie,' and was signed, :'Yours,
as ever, Cecil Lorrimer. The address
on the envelope was Mrs. Vayle, but
neither the postoflice people nor Vayle
himself had noticed it. A check for a
large sum fell from it's folds.
1t was a good letter, and showed the
writer in q better light than he had
appeared in before. All being lost for
both of them-for Queenie home and
fame, for him his position in the
world and the dear old corps-Lorri-
mer, who had been getting his affairs
straight, wrote to ask her to come out
at once to Tasmania to marry him
and start lie afresh. 1t was a
Straightforward kind OF a letter, and
it was more. 1t was a love letter.
Queenie had not been to him merely
toy. to be played with and cast aside.
Nayle sat with the letterin his hand
going through a great fight with him
self. He had imagined that Queenie
was utterly dead to him-that he had
cast her off forever. But now, with
this other mans offer lying before
him, a queer feeling OF jealousy came
over him. He saw her again as he
had just seen her-lonely, sad, DESC
late: He remembered her in the old
years; his little wife she had called
herself ever since she was in her teens.
All her treachery was forgotten; hefelt
he could not let her go. Lorrimer's
letter iluttered into the fire and curled
to ashes among the logs. Ten minutes
later Reenie starts at the sound OF
an open door. All the windows are
doors in India, and none are ever
locked. She turns and shriells, for
man stands in the veranda with a pas
sionate look on his face. He
is kneeling before her; his hands
clutch hers convulsively. For she
looks to him just the same as she did
that Christmas when she blushed and
told HIM she was getting too big to be
kissed under the nistletoe-just the
same as she did in her bridal veil in
the village church at home.
Darling" he pleads hoarsely, "dar
ling will you forgive me? Will you
come back to me?"
Far away in Tasmania the other
one, waiting and longing, is not in it.
1t seems so natural to rest her head
on Reggy's shoulder, and there lay
down the weary load OF care and des-
olation which oppressed her, and shut
out forever the hideous nightmare OF
the last few months; and they are
married within q few days.
Il Il 4
The scene changes to the Park and
white-waistcoat weather. .Cis Lori.
mer landed at Charing Cross that
morning, stands in a quiet corner un-
der the trees with his hat tilted over
his eyes and sees ghosts;
ghosts of the men and women
ne had know in town before the
Crimsons, sailed tor India five years
ago; men grown stout, women gone
off; men grown bald, women with I'M
mistakably increased hair. Frocks
new and wonderful; a new curve and
hat brim. Familiar forms; strange
faces. But there, fitting down, chat
ting gayly to nice-looling women, a
well-remembered face with golden hair,
but looking happier, more peaceful
than when he saw it last.
He watches her across the row and
put into hanson by her friends.
Then he jumps into another and fol-
lows it to Gargantuan Mansions.
That evening, when the sunlight,
darkened nv fine awning OVER the bal