Saint Mary's beacon. [volume] (Leonard Town, Md.) 1867-1983, 1894-02-08
YOU and be fond of you and --and-

Vou anu oe fond OF you and ---and-
wife,
She says II bravcly aud smiles in
so friendly way that the clouds
almost disappear from his face.
And Won do not care after all,
Dulce:'
| Not care-with tha, gray pallor
Isnd those white, set lips--with
those hunted, hopeless eYcs.--with
those small hands clinchcd so tight
ly that the nails leave purple eres-
cents on the soft palms.
lie asks her If she cares, and she.
looking At him. knows that al the
brightness has gone ont of her life
forever; she feels numb aud cold
and dead, but she stands erect with
her little head thrown back, and her
brave voice says steadily: i never
cared much for anything, did /? |
was never one 10 go into heroics,
though, | dare say, it il the pro,er
thing. Helen is in The garden; go
to her, and if you let me be your
friend ! shall be happy
She gives him one Of her hands
and swiles, and he kisses it and
says: You have made me q new
man. Dulce. was miserable in
the thought that in gaining my
happiness | would wreck yours
We'll. she says evenly, 'you need
not have been afraid, you see--now
gO;' and, with last pressure of the
hand he holds; he goes from her.
And then Dulce lies down ON the
soft grass, with her head On the
knotted roots of great oak. How
still and calm it is there-how tired
she is. She will not go home: but
stay there always, in the soft, cool
grassland Harold docs not love
her--does not love her-strange,
she cannot cry-how dim the stars
are growlng-and she was to have
been his wife-TIarold' wife---she
can almost laugh--llelen will be
that nOw-and what was that-a
drop Of rain--another- still
another----and faster they come.
How nice and cool they are, thinks
Dulce.
The grass is getting wet, and she
presses her hot face and hotter
hands into it,
She is not afraid, but she cannot
think Tor the noise the thunder
makes. She is tirel--so tired.
The lightning blinds her eyes. Al
ways without Harold now. Can
that be for her to bear. Never
again to watch for him. Never to
hear his dear voice. 'Ah, Cod
cries the tortured girl heart, Il
cannot bear it.'
She raises herself in her drcnched
clothes to her knees. and clasps the
rugged tree-trunk with both arms.
j cannot bear it! Lot me diev
And as if in answer to that prayer
there comes a flash that seems ~
rend the heavens. and the old oak
is shattered to its roots.
The clinging arms loose their
hold, the aching heart is forever at
rest. and the snnny head falls for
ward: Dulce has gone through the
straight and dreadful pass Of DEATH
Only one scene more: 4 quiet
country church-yard and q little
new-made grave. The fresh earth
heaped above the stilled form is
almost covered with white, scented
flowers, placed there by loving
hands. All is still, peaceful, and
lovely, and surely Dulce is content,
resting 80 quietly among the flowers
she loved; with the soft summer
breezes blowing over her. But
across the grass comes a man with
a white, haggard face, and he falls
with outstretched arms prone upon
the ground by the little mound. q
Dulce, your heart never ached as
his does now. lie went from Dulce
that night, now week ago, With
quick, eager steps to her And she
laughed at him.
my dear Harold, | shall not mar
ry you. How absurd you are. Did
say | loved you: Well, you should
not have believed me. / am going
home tomorrow to be married.
What! Have | not told you that
before3 You loge me:. Well, that
is not my fanlt. Love you? Not
the least bitin the world, my friend;'
and she smiled into his face, serene,
affable, nonchalant.
And now he has brought his