Bennington semi-weekly banner. (Bennington, Vt.) 1894-1902, 1894-10-12
THE STORY.

When tho editor was arranging with her
Ibr a story, he limited that of late her writ
ing had taken rather melancholy turn,
and as he wanted to make the June num-
Der of the magazine especially bright and
airy he asked her to give him something
in her former happy style.
Let it be one Of those sweet old love
stories the world never tires hearing" he
said
Something bright and airy" mutter-
ed the author, turning away, the agony in
her heart showing itself on her pale, grief
sharpened face. Something bright and
airy" she thought as she hurried through
the sunshine sifted so plenteously from the
cloudless April sky, and the same words
were on her lips as she opened the door and
turned her anxious glance to the face rest
ing in such deathlike stiffness against the
pillows. She glided to the bed, and kneel-
ing beside it took the thin hand lying
outside the covering in both of hers. At
the touch of her warm, nervous fingers the
man Enclosed his eyes.
Back already" he asked In a low,
weak voice, while a little CLEAN, tender as
the new moons slanting rays on sleeping
water, lighted his face.
Yes, love, and [naTe such good news, "
she answered. " Vim to write long story
for the magazine, and they offer me
splendfd'- price, 1 will make haste and
wrNe it, andrthen will take you back to
lie country. You know, have always
Thought if could get you away from this
Aot, noisy city you would soon get well.
Now, don't shake your head. Don't you
!. remember often saying, as we stood on the
dear old hills at home, there was new life
ilp the brisk winds sweeping up from the
soutA2'
At her words an unutterable longing
came into his eyes.
'tOh, Alice!" he cried in low, quick
voice, lido you remember Darnley wood in
June? What picture it was to rest the
weary eyes onl Can't you see the narrow,
white path twisting in and out among
the trees and the old pond in the hollow
where the water lilies grew? And did the
birds ever sing so gladly anywhere as they
did there, 1 wonder2 Do you remember the
day we found the redbird's nest in the
cedar shrub, and how told you your life
with me should be as happy and care free
as that mother bird? And have you for
gotten how we used to sit on the long,
lush grass under the oak-'our talking
oak, we called it-and plan our futureP
promised you should never know touch
of sorrow. Oh, my wifel How have l
kept that promised
There was hard, dry sob in his voice
as he finished, and though his face quiv-
cred pitifully she raised clear eyes to his
and said
1T is no fault of yours that you are
sick, and we will go back to the old place,
where know you will get well again"
But he shook his head sadly.
II shall never see Darnley wood again,
Alice. When it is next decked out in
June time splendor shall be at rest. 1t
is best perhaps, and yeti
She kept back the cries that rose from
her tortured heart and said cheerfully:
II will not listen to you, but will begin
my story, and when it is finished I'll take
you to the old home and make you get
well in spite of yourself"
On low chair by his side she sat
through long hours, one hand often clasped
in his, his short, heavy breathing falling
like knell upon her ears while she wrote
out the story of another woman's happy
life. 1t was an ideal summer romance, a
perfect poem, wrought out through the in
finite pain of a human soul. For the va
ried scenes, what backgrounds there were,
brought out with master strokes! The
song of bird and breeze and ripping water
flowed through it, There were fragrant
shades and moonlit bowers; there were
tall, thick grasses, with cleaning dew
drops threaded; there were sweet wild
flowers, lifting lovely, sun kissed faces,
and over all June sky s cloudless beauty.
And across that stage what happy actors
trippedl What fair faces were seen, what
wit and laughter 1oated aroundl Not a
tear of the many binding her eyes fell
among them not pang of her breaking
heart marred their joy.
But all the while the face on the pillow
!. grew whittier, the hands thinner, the light
bf the dark eyes feebler, and before the
work was half completed the terrible truth,
4 against which she had SO long and reso-
lutely closed her eyes, forced itself upon
her: Her husband was dyingl In her dumb
agony she threw down her pen. Should
anything separate them nowP But before
her stood stern, unrelenting specter-
poverty And that Pickering flame of life
must still be nourished, and that awful
visitor who, even now, was standing on
her threshold demanded pomp and cere-
mony at his reception. So she took up her
pen and wrote. She told of a woman g
happy life, while her pen was dipped in
her hearts blood told of song and dance,
while in her agonized ears sounded the
weak, gasping breath of her dying hus-
band. But the story was long in finishing,
and the editor became anxious. What II
she should fail him? He sent to her asking
her to hurry.
''How much longer" she thought,
glancing at the white face, show much
longer will the poor, Pickering fame lasti