Pawtucket tribune. (Pawtucket, R.I.) 1890-189?, 1894-01-29
"FOR HIM."

They had called her twice, but she still
stood at the glass, fastening rose in her
gown. She held half blown bud caress-
ingly In her hand, and IA smile lay on her
lips. She looked around the warm, sweet
scented room with dreamy eyes.
They called her again. They were i'm,
patient, and 10 was time TO go. She turned
again TO the glass and pulled a wayward
curl In place on her forehead. Then she
nodded approval at the reflected face and
gave herself a sympathetic little hug. IL
was 40 good to be fair. Gathering up her
skirts, she ran down the stairs, humming
a waltz song as she went.
He was coming tonight, so she wore his
rosa white rose. He liked white roses
best. Once when she had a great bunch
Of crimson roses in her belt he took them
from her and replaced them with white.
"Always wear white" he said, "and
when come back meet me with white
rose"
She wore the white rose tonight over her
heart, and hidden beneath its creamy pet
ais was the half blown bud for him. Ii
was one of his fancies TO wear the same
I flowers she wore.
He had been gone a year, but what is a
year when one is youngi He had written
faithfully for long time, but lately
well, he was very busy, and then he had
always been lazy about writing. She
would tax him with it tonight, when she
pinned the fioy. on his coat, and he would
laugh as he alN.yH col when she scolded
him.
1t was Just year 40 tonight that she
had last seen him. And she had sung for
him that ballad, Sweetheart, Remem-
ber." He had liked IL SO much that she
had to sing it over for him-he was such
q foolish boy. How did 1t rum
Sweetheart, RENE ember and never forget,
Death II 30 long, and our years are few.
Why SOW the seeds Of q vain regretY
Oh, heart Of my heart, there Is only you'll
She had danced many times She was
| tired. But he had not come. He was late.
The music was playing in soft under
tone. The low wall of the violin'sounded
like a pleading voice. Insensibly the words
of the little song fitted themselves to its
rhythmic swing:
Sweetheart, remember and never forget,
Death is SO long, and our years are few.
Would he never Gomez Who is that over
by the Window Surely 1t Is he-yet he
does not see her. But he must, he must!
The heart under the white rose gives a
great bound and then stands still and
waits. The lights fash and glare before
her eyes, and the music walls and throbs
and pleads, and the words Of the little
song 20 plaintively on;
Sweetheart, remember, when far away,
My heart will journey the wide world through
To feel once again the old sweet sway.
oh, heart of my heart, there is only you!
He Is looking over now. He is coming
to her at last. She casts down her eyes
that he may not see the love that Is shin
sp., thAr fnr hty.a q haro xxvff y,
him-she would rather he were alone. But
they will go away presently, and then
The music goes on with almost painful
reiterance:
| Sweetheart, remember and never forget
Does he rememberi Does be-but there
| IN O woman on his arm, woman with q
darkly beautiful face and bunch of red
roses at her bosom. And on his coat,
| where she was to have placed her white
| flower, there Is a rosebud Of red.
He is standing before her. He Is hold
| ing her hand and calling her an old friend.
| He is introducing her to his wife.
| She raises her eyes, but there is no love
In them now. They are bright and hard.
| Somebody is asking her to dance. Oh,
| yes, she will da%ce, although her feet are
heavy and the heart under the white rose
his rose-is like ice. But he is standing
there with that smiling woman on his
arm. She goes down the long room to the
sway of the music and the beat, beat, beat
Of the dancing feet. How strange the peo-
pie lookl The whirling figures have taken
grotesque shapes, and the cedar wreaths
on the walls seem to be great eyes that fol
| low her around. And-strange that she
had not seen them before-there are roses
everywhere-large and crimson and wet,
like drops Of living blood.
| She was again In the warmth Of the
sweet scented room. Her eyes were still
hard and bright, but IL was with pain.
The throb of the music was yet in her
ears, and that plaintivs little song, would
| IL never ceasei
| Sweetheart, remember-oh, sweetheart mine
Though others may faltsr my love is true.
| For Just one kiss Of the olden time
| Oh. heart Of my heart, there is only you!
| She took the white rose from her gown
and the poor, pitiful little bud, kissed
them passionately and laid them on the
glowing embers Of the fire.-Cecil Rey IN
New Orleans Times Democrat.