The Abbeville press and banner. [volume] (Abbeville, S.C.) 1869-1924, 1895-11-20

| hIlGW tuOIC lildu a liteiS oSooS
books as they should be written.
well ?" she said, finally.
"You are all right" he said, smiling
at her.
"You are crude, but absolutely origi-
nal. There are a thousand faults, OF
course, but it's dainty. I'll see you
throug gh on the 'Tempus.'
She laughed happily. She could be
sure that he was truthful.
"I wouldn't write so late" he said.
'It does me good; takes me else
where"
"Do YOU want to be elsewhere now?"
Not now" she smiled shyly.
The critic drew his chair close to
the sofa, and, leaning over, took her
hand. Verify drew it away sharply.
You mustn't" she said.
"Not ever ?"
"Not now"
"Sweetheart, sweetheart, when may
I kiss you?"
"Three months from to-day" she
said.
"That's quite time," remarked
the Critic, wistfully. "How long
have we been engaged ?'
"SiX months"
That makes nine. wouldn't eight
do?"
"Three months from to-day" she
repeated drearily, and to herself. ut
won't hurt him then, but he mustn't
get too fond"
Together they revised what she had
written, he suggesting, condemning,
and approving. Some of her best
points he held up to ridicule and
openly laughed her most telling bit
of sentiment to scorn. However, she
was used to him, and liked him all
the better for it; yes, she really liked
him very much.
You must 90 now." she said,
when the little clock struck half-past
ten. The time had flown, and she
remembered again. She dreaded the
long, lonely night unspeakably, but
still she was brave.
"Good-night, sweetheart" said the
Critic.
"Good-night," she answered, with
her eyes on the fire.
When he was gone, she gave a
long shiver, and fell upon her knees
by the sofa. The time she dreaded
had come, and there was no one to
turn to but the Critic, and she
had sent him away.
ooh, God =" she cried, "don't let
me get frightened; at least not yet.
I'll try to make up for all my sins
III try to be good, but don't let ME get
afraid. 1 am so horribly alone. Just
let my brain keep steady, and send me
all the pain you like. Oh, God !! send
someone to me someone that it won't
hurt to love me" ~
1t was all no good. She knew that
presently she would be crazy with
fear. In desperation she flew to her
desk, and began. hastily to scratch
down the thoughts that crowded her
brain. At first she could not put them
into words, but presently they began
to flow of themselves, easily and clear
ly, with no effort whatever. Peace
stole over her, blessed oblivion crept
upon her. She had forgotten once
more.
In the white light of dawn she threw
herself upon her bed, and through
sheer inability to think, she fell asleep.
And so it was through the days that
followed. When Verify felt the ap-
proach of fear, she grasped the only
blank that seemed to lie IN her side of
insanity, for now she found she dared
not think; the spell of bewilderment
and paralysatiOn had passed, she was
alive to keen and unendurable mental
torture.
An inexplicable pride kept her from
communicating her state to any or her
acquaintance, for friends she had
noce, save one.
At the end of the first month there
was tremendous change in her, and
the pile of papers in her desk, was
assuming gigantic proportions. Veri.
ty found it harder than ever to get her
breath, and God seemed to have an
swered her prayer for pain. Again
she consulted the great M. D., why
she scarcely knew. This time the
interview was very short indeed, and
the five dollars were still in her purse
when she left the house. And now
her loneliness became almost more
than she could bear. The Critic had
not been near her for whole week,
but still she would not send for him,
preferring to endure anything alone
rather run the risk of doing him or his
work the slightest injury. The
Critics profession" was almost as
sacred as himself.
The thought that came to her some
times were fearful. Too proud and
shy to share her secret, she found her
self tortured by a thousand vague
horrors of death.
1t was not so much that she
regretted leaving her little world (ex-
cept for fear that death sheuld come
before she had finished her book, but
she dreaded unspeakably the actual
moment Of dissolution and the inde-
pendent step into blackness and all in
definite beyond.
However she wrote on and on.
Sometimes her hand would shake in q
manner which made it impossible to
hold pen, sometimes her eyes would
swim so that she could not see the pa
per.
Gradually she found that everything
outside her wonderful book failed to
make an impression on her. Flowers
gave her no pleasure, rain and wet
caused her no discomfort; she knew
that she had done with the things of
this life for ever.
But latterly she had longed (oh, how
bitterly y for love, for the Critics close
pressure of her hand, nay, for the kiss
she had denied him. And yet to steel
herself she kept repeating
HE mustn't get too fond. If he
never knows how much love him, he
will never know what he has lost"
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