The Bennington banner. [volume] (Bennington, Vt.) 1858-1894, 1893-10-13

pain, yet without bitterness had tied the
sheaves
He had come to bring Virginia to her
fathers bedside. The tremors against
which the old man had struggled so long
had eliminated after an excessive de-
bauch in a paralytic stroke resembling
death. He had drifted to Monklow's
rooms and lay where he had fallen.
AS she drove away with him that day
Virginia did not dream that the summer
would be past ere she returned to live
again at Chelsea square, but so it was.
In Richard Monklow's home, where the
softness and fragrance of modern luxury
were more caressing than the breath of
the perfect summer mornings. she nursed
her father to semblance of health.
Her lonely heart won back a little OF
it's freshness in these surroundings. Her
lips again voiced joyous laughter.
Friendship that rang like gold had been
generously poured into her life. Her
gratitude went out with equal strength
to Richard Monklow, and to his sister,
soft voiced, sympathetic woman, who
made her dimly realize what her moth
er's love might have meant to her.
Then she came home again, and the
days settled back to their wonted placidi-
ty, but with this difference-that bent
and shrunken figure lay Imply in
great chair, and the energy and pride in
her fathers still stubborn heart could
only be read now in the hollow. morose
eyes flashing beneath the puckered
brows.
She stood beside the window one Sep.
TENDER morning, letter crushed be-
tween her hot hands. A mild rain was
drifting like tangled skeins through the
gray air. Beyond lay the college grounds,
vista of damp greenness.
She opened the crumpled sheet, smooth
ing out its creases almost tenderly. Her
lips quivered like childs.
"You know what | am going to say"
she read again. During the summer
that has been like no other to me. many
times the words l longed to speak have
trembled upon my lips, but something in
your eyes always silenced me. Virginia.
can be silent no longer. love you so!
The years are dark before you, dear, but
| would keep you safe. No harm, no
pain, should touch you. Too old and
sad, perhaps, you think me. The years
have left their ashes on my hair. am
asking too much when l ask for your
youth. Yes, yes, know. But, oh! child,
your eyes lured me to dream again. You
woke my poor, chilled soul, and it is
yours. 1t but responded to your uncon-
scious call. Turn from me, if you must,
and l will put away my dream, but my
soul is forever yours. You possess it,
and l would not have it back. But, oh,
if you would come to me, Virginia"
How the words awoke all the old paint
She drew her breath in hard, the lips fell
over her heavy eyes, and reading Rich
ard Monklow's letter she thought Of
Tom. These words of searching strength.
quivering with the rejuvenating breath
of love, had been the lever that rolled
the stone from the old grave, and she
stood looking at memories she had be
lieved were crucified.
my soul is forever yours would
not have it back"
The words were i'll her mind. She
seemed speaking them in the darkness to
that other who had not listened. Was
it so always? Must one speak and one
not hear? One live, the other waltz
"You have very interesting letter
there, Virginia. You haven't made a
sound for half an hour" And at her
fathers voice, reduced now to petulant
piping that anger made shrill, she start
ed guilty and thrust it in her pocket