Waterbury evening Democrat. [volume] (Waterbury, Conn.) 1887-1895, 1893-12-07

brace, spat at her and scratched her on
the cheek.
Virginia started up, laughter heavy
| with sobs leaving her quivering lips. She
pushed the kitten from her with fran
tic movement, and then with contra
dictory tenderness picked it up again
and held it against her lips, weeping
wildly, as women do when paints robbed
of hope Why should she hurt it? What
had it done more cruel than Tom? She
had held him too closely to her heart
He turned and scratched her.
CHAPTER X.
\ year went by u. - .rked for Virginia
by single incident out of the common,
gray as the wastes Of n sea unruffled by
n storm. unmarked by the approach of a
sail
Another year came, and when the opu-
lent sunlight of early summer was del
uging with its gold the dusty streets a
coupe stopped one day at the door of the
house in Chelsea square, and a man, a
stranger, asked for Virginia Kent.
Crossing the threshold of her home, he
had entered her life. Looking into her
eyes, full of unfOrgotten days, something
of his lost youth had awakened in his
heart that could only die with death
This man was Richard Mouklow. Nir-
ginia had often heard her father speak of
him, especially of his meeting with him
in the auction room the day he had pur-
chased The Masker."
The first glance at him gave an I'M
preston that forever remained. He had
| followed the sea and followed it as a
commander. His straight, powerful
shoulders had n fearless poise. His glance
was level, soft; his face, Its first youth
| faded, brown as serc grass, under the
shOrn, glittcring frost of his hair. His hu-
manity was deep, strong, farreaching,
as one could see who looked into his
eyes, and his smile had warm, bright
sympathy. There were times when he
! looked startlinSly youthful with his
white hair. There We're uuguarded mo-
ments of sadness when the chronicle of
! his years flared eloquently-a confession
in every deepened line. Then one knew
he had lived the full life of man in a
crowded 40 years, in the sowing and har-
vest time, had garnered barren hopes and
| pain, yet without bitterness had tied the
sheaves.
He had come to bring Virginia to her
fathers bedside. The tremors against
W II lAlt plNA iiAslAl LltINA 81 lung
! had eliminated after an excessive de-
bauch in paralytic stroke resembling
death He had driftcd 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 n scmblanCo of health.
Her lonely heart won back little of
its 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 10 his sister,
soft voiced, sympathetic woman. who
made Der 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 diffcrcnce-that a bent
and shrunken figure lay Imply in a
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, n letter crushed be-
tween her hot hands. y 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
| ont its almost fpr,,1or11-
lips quivered like child's
You know what | am :. ing to saw"
she read again. During the summer
that has been like no other to me. many
times the words 1 longed to speak have
trembled upon my lips, but something in
your eyes always silenced me. Virginia
lean be silent no longer. 1 love you so
The years are dark before you, dear, but
l would keep you safe. No harm, nc
pain, should touch you. Too old and
sad, perhaps, you think me. The year,
have left their ashes on my hair. an
asking too much when l ask for YOU
youth. Yes, yes, know. But, OIL child
, your eyes lured me to dream again. YoI
, woke my poor, chilled soul, and it il
!, yours. 1t but responded to your uncon
: scious call. Turn from me, if you must
and 1 will put away my dream, but M
, soul is forever yours. You possess it
and would not have it back. But, oh
, if you would come to me, Virginia!'
= How the words awoke all the old pain
She drew her breath in hard, the lips fel
over her heavy eyes, and reading Rich
ard Monlxlow's letter she thought o
: Tom. These words of searching strength
. quivering with the rejuvenating oreatl
of love, had been the lever that role,
= the stone from the old grave, and sh
stood looking at memories she had be
Geved were crucifed.
my soul is forever yours. woul'
not have it back"
, The words were in her mind. Sh
. seemed speaking them in the darkness t
that other who had not listened. Wa
3 it SO always? Must one speak and on
not hear? One live, the other waltz
4 "You have very interesting lette
4 there, Virginia. You haven't made
3 sound for half an hour" And at he
T fathers voice, reduced now to a petulan
r piping that anger made shrill, she starr