Waterbury evening Democrat., 1892-01-05


 Happy and blest are those who so live in these two worlds as to make the most of both.
 Olive could not tell what hymn was sung after the sermon. She was still vibrating to the sound of the preachers tones-his strong sympathy, his perfect knowledge of all the needs of humanity, had satisfied her yearning at last. She was no longer unsubmissive to the will of God; He had spoken to her by this human voice, and
 ''It linked all perplexed meanings
 Into one perfect peace"
 The sunshine was still resting tran quilly on the grass when she came out, and she ascended the stone steps with grateful glance at the ivied bank that sloped up to the churchyard. She was going back again into the old world but it was not quite the same old world that it had been in the early morning. It is world that changes a good mary times in the course of ones lifetime changes like hillside with the lights and shadows always fitting over it. The girl walked slowly along the path under the trees; she was in no haste to leave u SpOG "neTS Sle ndu 1OuuO rest unto her soul.
 Some one saw her walking alone down that path with a curious feeling of satisfaction. There was no light haired young man waiting for her at the gate with supercilious smile. Quite alone she went up the sharp slope of the narrow street, passed through the little crowd at the print-shop corner, and took her solitary way towards Charing Cross. This was his way also, so that he was fully justified in respect fully following her.
 She stopped short at the door of a a shabby book shop and pulled the bell. This movement brought her face to face with her follower, but she did not see him. On her face was q new look that told of peace; but the first flush and radiance of early youth were gone. She had lived whole lifetime since the day when he had seen her sit ting under the larches. Was she less beautiful? He did not think so, although the delicate features were a little sharp ened and the soft checks had paled. Olives beauty did not depend on the bloom of girlhood
 Steward Aylstone had gone abroad for his summer holiday with that face inn printed on his memory. He was a painter and was always looking about for pretty faces; but this face possessed some strange spiritual grace of it's own which escaped him when he tried to put it on canvas. Yet he was successful man and could write A. R. A. after his name. People said he never failed in | anything that he seriously undertook; but then people never will understand 1 that the lives of all true artists are full of unsuspected failures. The beauty of the unexpressed will always haunt our real painters and poets to their dying | day. Beside every finished work, fresh from the brain, stands the ideal of the worker with it's gentle, moclzing smile. Thinking constantly of that one face in England, Steward Aylstone some times lighted on other faces which re- minded him of it. Once it was a peas ant girl with her skirts gathered up, and load of vine leaves lightly bal anced on her head, who looked at him innocently with Olives brown eyes. | He stopped her for moment, her checks crimsoned, she answered him in few childish words; and To! the like ness had fled! Wherever he tested re- semblance it vanished; and this set him longing foolishly for another glimpse of the woman whose counterpart was no where to be found.
 On the very first Sunday after his re- turn he caught sight of her in the Chapel Royal, and followed her home after service. It was an omen, he thought, that he was destined to see more of her yet.
 He had arrived at his old-fashioned house in Cecil street on Saturday night, and had found everything in due order there. The ivy that was trained all over the balcony was kept so freshly green that it was marvel to London eyes; the shrubs in the huge majolica jars flourishing bravely. In the studio