The free press., 1895-01-03


ing you"
''You will not forget me? I nm
glad of that. am going to test your
promise sooner than you think, dear.
I am going away tonight.
"Going away?"
The young voice was sharp with q
quick, constrained pain new to it.
"Yes; / have obtained on trial the
position I went to New York to pro-
cure. sail for England on Tuesday.
And now here is piece of good news
to counteract the other. [ went to
see your uncle today and had long
talk with him. He is not such grim,
hard man rs they say. He is very
lonely, old and childish. He promises
all luxury, all kindness if you will
both go to him and be as his own
children. Seeing him as 1 do, with
unprejudiced eyes, I think he regrets
his past heartless conduct.
s'But Max"
"My child, know all you would
say; but Cedric is not strong enough
to work, and cannot go away leaving
you SO lonely and helpless. Besides,
it is not wholly dependence. In his
hands is some money of his fathers
on which you have morally claim.
Believe me, it is for the best"
He went into the house and shook
hands with Cedric; then he stopped
to Cora and reverently touched her
forehead with bearded lips. A mo-
ment more and the great shabby figure
had burst out of the room and was
striding rapidly away under the
blue, star-studded sky.
She stood and watched him out of
sight, with eyes growing strangely
dim. Once he paused and looked
backward. She was still standing
there, slim, dark figure, against that
patch of light.
ooh, my love, God bless you," he
whispered, tremulously.
And through her ears kept ringing
"Non ii scordar di mel"
Five years later. The curtain at
the Grand Opera in Paris rose
on as fine an audience as had ever as
sembled within it's walls. In one of
the boxes on the grand tier sat three
gentlemen. One tall, bronzed, SOL
dierly man, noticing many glasses be-
ing levelled at an opposite box, lifted
his lorgnette and looked across the
stage.
A lady with little coterie of adj
mirers had just entered. She wore
some soft, silken dress, all aqua-mar-
inc and silver. There were water Ill
les in the golden hair and emeralds
on the white neck. A childish face
for all its pride and that peculiar poise
of the head. A face with luminous
blue eyes, a snowy, stately throat and
cheeks just dashed with rose.
"Who is she?" Max Marsden ques-
toned breathlessly.
"Ma foil" cried vivacions little
Frenchman, 'you do not know? She
is compatriot of yours-la belle
Americana. Her name is Lester
Mile. Lester.
"Ah!" And then, after q pause,
"Who is that gentleman leaning over
her chair?"
"Ah, that is Savagneau," answered
a member of the American Legation.
"The Comte de Savagneau. He is
heir to several princely estates, and is
mademoiselle's devoted slave. But
she will have none of him. She is
DCuuUy anu I'LL uell Coo, "hV he'AA = "A-
is mad about her. But one might as
we'll adore a statue. No marble Is
colder than she.
Max Marsden, the celebrated jour
nalist, the literary lion OF the day,
looked with keen eyes across that
dainty vision with water lilies IN her
hair. Dreamily he murmured few
lines of Meredith's
''She was there, and was here.
And the glittering horseshoe curved be-
tween"-
"What the deuce are you mumbl-
ing, Marsdenw demanded the attache.
"Never mind !" curtly.
He was thinking of that other night
when together they heard "Il Irova-
tore" Tt was the same opera tonight,