San Antonio daily light. [volume] (San Antonio, Tex.) 1886-1907, 1895-11-17
I launched my shoulders.

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''Sho doesn't play us any of her old
praais," continues he. "She doesn' I say
one thing and go and do t'other the
next moment, as she used to do. She's
too good"
What could | say to one who was fond
enough to think that the summer would
come back at his wish and last forever?
she's not the same, Kit" he goes
on No, not by 90 years One would
say she is older than am, yet she's
scarce the age of woman. And do see
she gets more pale and thin each day
Dye think she's fretting for him?''
Like enough, Jack" says /. "What
y-oud you? He's her husband, and tits
as if he was dead to her. She cannot be
maid again. IT'S young to be wild
CIV and no hope of being wife ever
more"
God forgive me- says he, hanging
his head
1--WE didit for the BEST" saysL 1--WE
could not foresee this. /"
II 80 happened that night that Moll
could eat no supper, pleading for her
excuse that she felt sick.
"What is it, chuck?'' says Jack, set
ting down his knife and drawing his
chair beside Moll's.
"The vapors, / think, says she, with
faint smile.
May" says he, slipping his arm
about her waist and drawing her to
hnn. "My Moll hath no such modish
hum"ra IT'S something else. l have
ing arguments that had come to no de
cisicn when reached home.
Mol spying me coming, from her
window in the front of the house, met
me at the door in her cloak and hood
and begged would take her little
turn over the heath
What have you to tell me?" asks she,
piessing my arm as we walked on.
have given your letter to Sir Peter
Lely's servant, who promises to deliver
it faithfully to your husband"
SWELL" says she, after little pause
of silence, "that is not all
"You will be glad to know that he is
mHAl in health, saysL And then stop
p, all hanging in hedge for not
hing whether it were wiser to speak
my tongue.
nSnething else. I see it in
be nothing from me, for
Us she piteously. Where
getting the better of my
b be sure, was no great
achieya d told all as I have set it
down here
"Ay dear, dear Lowell My darling
Diclki' says she in the end, and then
she would have it told all over again,
with a thousand questions, to draw
forth more, and these being exhausted
she asks why would have concealed SO
much from her, and if l did fear she
would seek him
NAY, my DEAR" saysL "'Tis 10th
er way about. For if your husband does
forgive you and yearns but to take you
back into his arms it would be an I'M
natural, cruel thing to keep you apart.
Therefore, TO confess the whole truth, I
did mediate going to him and showing
how we, and not you, are to blame in
this matter, and then telling him where
he might find you, if ON reflection he
felt that he could honestly hold you
guiltless, but ere do that, as l see now,
Imust know if you are willing to this
accommodation, for if you are not then
are our wounds all opened afresh to no
purpose but to retard their healing"
She made no reply nor any comment
for a long time, nor did seek to bias
her Judgment by single word, doubt
ing my wisdom But perceived by the
quivering of her arm within mine that
a terrible conflict 'twixt passion and
principle was convulsing every fiber OF
her being. At the top of the hill above
Greenwich she stopped, and, throwing
back her hood, let the keen wind blow
upon her face as she gazed over the
gray flats beyond the river. And the all
seeming to give her strength and clear
err perception she says presently:
Accommodation And she repeats
this unlucky word of mine twice Of
thrice, as if she liked it less each time,
THAT means we shall agree to let by
cones be bygones and do our best to gel
along together for the rest of our lives
as easily as we may.
That's it, my dear, says l cheer
fully.
"Hnsh up the past, " continues she il
the same calculating tone. Conceal il
from the world if possible Invent som'
new lie to deceive the curious, and hood
wink our decent friends. Chuckle a
our success and come in time (here sh'
paused a moment) ''to chat so light!
Of our past knavery that we could wisl
we had gone further in the business.
Then turning about to me she asks, Il
you were writing the story of my if
for play, would you end it thus?'
"My DEAR" says 1, ga plays ON
thing, real life's another, and bellev
me, as far as my experience goes of rea
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