The Topeka state journal. [volume] (Topeka, Kansas) 1892-1980, 1894-04-18

without dinchinR, and taking her by
the shoulders, forced her to look into
his eyes and answer him
Il will tell you what / mean Last
Monday, the day before You told me
of your love and asked my father for
my hand. woman, young, bnt faded,
and wearing what was once rich
clothing, arrived at Hazeldene. With
her was child, boy
She wrung her hands and walled as
she looked into her lovers face. ''Sc
like you'll Oh. so like your
But Philip only shook her slightly
and muttered, $50 on
ST met the child the next day. He
told me in his baby way that he and
his mother had come from London to
stay with you / gathered you had
lodged them in the cottage by the old
bridge-that bridge which joins your
place to my fathers. that bridge you
cross each time you come to see me.
You pass that woman every time you
leave my arms. You kiss that child
before you lay your lips on mine.
Philip Dene, will not marry you, for
that woman and her child are your
shame
Philip dropped like stone into the
chair behind him.
lyon are right, Awdry,' he cried, in
a terrible voice. That woman and
her child are indeed my shame"
She slipped her hand into her bosom
and drew forth a tiny packet of
papers One, two, three, she dropped
them singly into the flames, then drew
a ring set with great diamonds and
fiery rubies from her marriage finger
1t tinkled on the hearth as she cast it
from her, and ere the sound died she
glided from the room.
For an hour Philip Dene sat motion
less. The Grange was wrapped in
deadest silence, which the slow drop
ping of the dying fire only intensified.
1t was a drawn, miserable face,
which was creeping among the cur
tain folds and turning the glow of the
lamps to a sickly yellow.
$50 Awdry had found out about
Elsie Poor little Elsie, SO fair, and
ah! SO frail- / loved her SO, / love her
now. And the boy, too, what bonnie
wee chap he is. Thousands of men
and women would give half their for
tunes for SO bright and sturdy a son,
and yet he is his mothers shame, and
yes, Awdry was right-and mine.''
Philip crossed the room and dragged
back a curtain.
w ndL d lovely SunT1Se-On WnaL
fair world. My world is storm-swept
and ruined, but duty must be my sun.
| will go to Elsie, poor broken thing,
and take her and the child, two waits
both, away from here to where we can
find peace. Then, perhaps, when
Awdry hears, are will be sorry and
forgive
He laid his hand upon the window
latch, meaning to leave the house in
that way, but a slight sound caught
his ear.
Someone coming. Who can it be
at this hour?''
Instinctive1y Philip drew into the
shadow. As the door was gently
pushed open, Lady Awdry, barefooted,
her long hair lying all unbound over
her shoulders, stepped softly over the
floor.
She did not seem to notice the parted
curtains, but going to the fireplace,
fell on her knees and with dainty
finger tips began to grope among the
scarcely cold wood ashes which lit
tered the hearth.
My ring-my dear. darling ring"
she sobbed. II must find it. Il must
get back the ring Philip gave me.
1t was only last Tuesday, three days
back; he gave it to me, with tender
words, and OIL such loving kisses
and now it's gone, thrown away like
his love, broken like my heart. Oh!
Philip, I sent you away, but hear me,
come back to me. L cannot give you
up-Philip, come back! come 'back!''
In very passion of despair she
flung herself face downward on the
floor and wrung her hands, and
moaned in agony.
"Awdryi my love, my darling, I
heard you. / am herer'
Philip raised the PROSTATE form in
his arms until it lay across his breast.
He pressed his cool firm hands over
her swollen eyes, and pushed the tan
gled masses of her hair back from her
burning forehead.
Presently she looked at him.
you've come back, Philip. Ahi
don't leave me again whatever I may
do, whatever may say. was mad, 1
think, an hour ago. Mad with pride
and jealousy, and envy of -"
''Of my poor little ha1f-sister. Don't
look so startled, dearest. My mother
married again after my fathers death.
1t was mistake which she scarcely
lived long enough to repent. Dying,
she left a baby girl, Elsie, to my
charge. But the child's father claimed
her and took her abroad. Her
wretched story cannot tell you now,
but only last week she wrote me from
miserable London lodging, praying
my pity and charity for herself and
her child -
s.Oh Philip. and T."
Would not let me speak an hour
ago; but now you know all, and"
ssAnd must f3v1d rr1xy riw