The McCook tribune. (McCook, Neb.) 1886-1936, 1893-06-30
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CHAPTER XXIV-CoNT,NUEp

" bhihh. anu W IldhcD ldUS
Tor tomorrow. and the next day, and
for the years before us? That will
make more time for us. for with the
present we shall have the future, too.
No-that is foolish again. And yet it
Is SO hard to say which | would have.
Snail the moment linger because it is
SO SWEET Or shall it be gone quick
~. ecaus the next is to be sweeter
stlll' Love, where is your fatherP
Unorn" started. The question was
suggested. perhaps. by his inclina-
ton to speak of what was to be done.
but it fell suddenly upon her ears, as
a peal OF thunder when the sky has no
clouds. Must she lie now. or break
the spell? One word. at least. she
could yet speak with truth.
dead"
''Deadn' the Wanderer repeated
thoughtfully and with faint surprise.
'ls it long ago, beloved?' he asked
presently, in a subdued tone. as
though fearing to wake some painful
memory.
Yes" she answered. The great
doubt was taking her heart in its
strong hands now. and tearing it and
twisting it.
'tAnd whose house is this in which
l found you, darling? Was it hisp'
1t is mine" Unorna said.
How long would he ask questions
to which she could find truthful
answers? What question would come
next? There were many he might
ask, and few to which she could re-
ply to truthfully. even in that narrow
sense Of truth which found its only
meaning in a whispered chance. But
for a moment he asked nothing more.
mot mine" she said. 1T is yours.
You can take me and yet call anything
mine"
"Ours, then, beloved. What does
it matter? So he died long ago
poor man! And yet il seems but a
little while since some one told me-
but that was a mistake of course. He
did not know. How many years might
it be dear one?: l see you still wear
mourning for him."
'tNo-that was but a fancy-to-day.
He died-he died more than two wears
ago."
She bent her head. 1t was but a
poor attempt at truth-a miserable,
lying truth, to deceive herself with,
but it seemed better than to be the
whole truth outright, and say thather
father-Beatrice's father-had been
dead but just a week.
lit is strange" he said, chow lit
tie men know of each others lives or
deaths. They told me he was alive
last year. But, it has hurt you to
speak of it. Forgive me, dear, it was
th~oughtless of me-"
He tried to lift her head. but she
held it obstinately down.
Have l panied you. Beatricep!" he
asked, forgetting to call her by the
other name that was so new to him.
'.No-oh, non' she exclaimed,
without looking up.
What is it, them"
..Nothing-it is nothing. No, l
will not look at you'll am ashamed"
This. at least. was true.
Ashamed, dear heart! OF whats?"
He had seen her face in spite of
herself. Lie, or lose all, said a voice
within.
Ashamed Of being glad that-that
| am free" she stammered, strug-
Cling on the very verge of the preci-
pice.
You may be glad Of that, and yet
be very sorry he is dead" the Wan
derer said, stroking her hair.
He thought to turn the subject to a
lighter strain. By chance he glanced
at his own hand.
do you know this ring?" he asked,
holding it before her, with a smile.
Indeed, / know it." she answered.
trembling again.
.'You gave it to me, love, do you
remembers? And l gave you a like
ness of myself, because you asked me
for it, though I would rather have
given you something better. Have
you it still?'
She was silent. Something was
rising in her throat. Then she
choked it down.
Il had it in my hand last night
she SalQ IN d DfedhluP VOICE. lfue,
once more.
..What is it darling? Are you cry
ing? This is nc day for tears"
IL little thought l should have
Yourself to-day" she tried to say.
Then the tears came, tears of shame,
big, hot, slow. They fell upon his
hand. She was weeping for JOY, he
thought. What else could any man
think in such a case? He drew her to
him, and pressed her cheek with his
hand as her head nestled on his
shoulder,
when you put this ring or my
finger, dear-so long ago"
She sobbed aloud.
mo d~arliug-no, dear heart" he
said, comforting her. You must
not cry-that long ago is owe now
and zone forever. Do you remember
that day, sweetheart, in the broad
spring sun upon the terrace among
the lemon trees? No, dear-your
tears hurt me always, even when they