The McCook tribune. (McCook, Neb.) 1886-1936, 1893-05-12
ufaoture a semblance when she longed

for a reality.
Almost daily she saw him. As in a
dream he came to her and sat by her
side, hour after hour. talking Of many
things, calm, apparently, and satisfied
in her society, but strangely a~pathetic
and Indifferent.
Today, they sat together, as they
had SO often sat, among the flowers
and the trees in the vast conservatory,
she in her tall, carved chair. and he
upon a lower seat before her.
There. was a long silence. He
gazed at the plants, aud his gaze wan
dered from one to the other, as though
he did not see them, being lost in
meditation. His voice had been calm
and clear as ever, but it was the first
time he had ever said so much and
Unorna's heart stood still, half fire
and half ice. She could not speak.
you r very mean to me-" he
said again, at last. Since / have
been in this place a change has come
V 9 me-. l seem to myself to be a
man without an object, without so
much as a real thought. Keyork tells
me that there is something wanting,
that the something is a woman, and
that l ought to love. l cannot tell. I
do not know what love is, and I never
knew. Perhaps it is the absence of it
that makes me what I ana body
and an intelligence without a soul.
But / have realized the worthlessness
of my life since 1 have been here. Per-
haps you have shown it to me, or
helped me to see it. l cannot tell. I
ask myself again and again what it
was all for, and I ask in vain.
/ am lonely, indeed, in the
world, but it has been my own
choice. I remember that | had friends
once, when l was younger, but l can
not tell what has become of one of
them. They wesried me, perhaps, in
those days, and the WEAKNESS drove
me from my own home. Meanwhile,
/ may have 80 years, Or 40, or even
more, to live. Shall 1 go'on living
this wandering, aimless life? And, if
not, what shall I do? Love, says Key
ork Arabian-who eve loved any
thing but himself, but to whom that
suffices, for it passes the love of wo-
man."
That is true, indeed" said Unorna
in a low voice.
"Ah! I see! You despise me for
my apathy. Yes, you are quite right.
Man is not made to turn idleness into
a fine art nor to manufacture content
ment out Of his own culpable indiffer-
ence! 1t is despicable-and yet here
l am"
Il never meant that" cried Unorna
with sudden heat. Even if / had,
what right haveI to make myself the
judge of your life?"
The right of friendship" answered
the wanderer very quietly. you are
my best friend, Unorna.n
Unorna's anger rose within her.
She remembered how in that very
place, and but a month earlier, she
had offered Israel Kafka her friend
ship, and it vas as though a heavy
retributiOn were now melted out to her
for her cruelty on that day.
II eve knew what friendship was
before, he went on. ''Of course, as
l said, l had friends when I was little
than a boy. But in those days
there seemed to be nothing between
that and love-and love I W un-
derstood, that / can remember. But
friendship like ours, Unorna, was
never dreamed of among us. Such
friendship as this, when l often think
that l receive all and give nothing in
return"
Again Unorna laughed, so strangely
that the sound of her own voice start
led her.
"Unorna, do you believe in the mi
grafton of the soul throughout ages,
from n body to anotherP"
sometimes ''ashe succeeded in say
ing.
Il do not believe it," he continued.
But 1 see well enough how men may
since I have known you. We have
grown so intimate in these few weeks;
we seem to understand each other so
wholly, with so little effort; we spend
such happy, peaceful hours together
every day, that I can almost fancy our
two selves having been together
through a whole lifetime in some form.
er state, living together. thinking to-
gether, in%separable from birth, and
full of an instructive, mutual under
standing. I do not know whether
that seems al exaggeration to you or
not. Has the same idea ever crossed
your mindp"
Perhaps, l am so fond of you al.
ready" said Unorna, looking away,
lest her eyes should betray what was
so far beyond fondness. They say
that the most enduring passions arg
either born in a single instant, or are
the result of a treacherously increas-
ing liking. Take the latter case.
Why is it impossible, for you Or for
me? We are slipping from mere lik-
into friendship, and for all I know we
may some day fall headlong from
friendship into love. 1t would be very,
very foolish, no doubt, but it seems to
me quite possible. Do you not see it?"
The Wanderer laughed lightly. It
was years since he had laughed, until
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