The times. (Owosso, Mich.) 1882-1897, 1895-08-02

fore, one bright May morning the fam
lily at Greyhope, himself excluded, was
ready to start for London, he had no
thought but that he would drop back
into his old silent life as it was before
Lali came and his brothers. child was
born. He was not conscious that he was
very restless that morning. He scarcely
was aware that he had got up two
hours earlier than usual At the break.
fast table he was cheerful and alert.
After breakfast he amused himself in
playing with the child till the carriage
was brought round. 1t was such morn
ing as does not come q dozen times q
year in England. The sweet moist air
blew from the meadows and up through
the lime trees with warm insinuating
gladness. The lawn sloped delightfully."-
away to the lowered embrasures of the
park, and fragrant abundance Of
flowers met the eye and cheered the
senses. While Richard loitered ON the
steps with the child and its nurse, more
excited than he knew, Lali came out
and stood beside him. At the moment
Richard was looking into the distance.
He did not hear her when she came.
did not speak. Her eyes followed the
direction of his look and idled tenderly
with the prospect before her. She did
not even notice the child The same
thought was in the mind of both-with
q difference. Richard was wondering
how any one could choose to change the
sweet dignity of that rural life for the
faring, hurried delights of London and
the season. He had thought this thou
sand times, and yet, though he would
have been little willing to acknowledge
it, his conviction was not so impregna-
BILE as it had been.
Mrs. Francis Armour was stepping
from the known to the unknown. She
was leaving the precincts of a life in
which, socially, she had been born again.
Its sweetness and benign quietness had
all worked upon her nature and origin to
change her. In that it was an outdoor
life, full of freshness and open air Wig
or, it was not antagonistic to her past.
Upon this sympathetic basis had been
decorum. The conditions must still ex-
list. But how would it be when she was
withdrawn from this peaceful activity
Of nature and set down among "those
garish lights" in Cavendish square and
Piccadilly? She hardly knew to what
she was going as yet. There had been q
few social functions at Greyhope since
she had come, but that could give her,
after all, but little idea of the swing
and pressure of London life.
At this moment she was lingering
over the scene before her. She was
wondering with the naive wonder of an
awakened mind. She had intended
many times Of late saying to Richard
all the native gratitude she felt, yet
somehow she had never been able to say
it. The moment of parting had come
"What are you thinking of, Rich.
ard?" she said now.
He started and turned toward her.
II hardly know" he answered. "My
thoughts were drifting"
Richard" she said abruptly, 81
want to thank you. >"
'Thank me for what, Lali?" he ques-
toned.
"To thank you, Richard, for every
thing since I came, over three years
ago."
He broke out into soft little laugh
then, with his old good natured man
ner. car ght her hand as he did the first
night Is came to Greyhope, patted it
in herly fashion and said: "It is
the WI way about. Lali. I ought to
be thing you; not you me. Why,
look, WHIT stupid old fogy / was then,
toddling about the place with too much
time Oh any hands, reading lot and
forgetting everything, and here you
came in, gave me something to do, made
the little l know of any use and ran a
pretty gold wire down the rusty fiddle
of life. If there are any speeches of
gratitude to be made, they are mine
they are mine"
Richard" she said very quietly ard
gravely, Il owe you more than | can
ever say--in English. You have taught
me to speak in your tongue enough for
all the usual things OF life, but one can
only speak from the depths Of ones
heart i'll ones native tongue. And sec"
she added, with painful little smile,
chow strange it would sound il were
to tell you all / thought n the language
OF my people--cf n.y. PEOPLE whom
shall never see again. Richard, can you
understand what it r!uaJ be to have a
father whom one is never likely to see
again-whom if enc did see again some
thing painful would happen? We grow
away from people against our will; we
feel the same toward them, but they
cannot feel tho Same toward us, for
their world is il another hemisphere
We want to love them, and we love.
remember and are glad to meet them
again, but they feel that we are unfa-
miliar, and because we have grown diff
ferent outwardly they seem to miss
some chord that used to ring. Richard,
II She paused.
"Yes, Laii," he assented, Eyes, un-
derstand you SO far, but speak out. p"
81 am not happy" she said. "Inever
shall be happy. ! have my child, and
that is all ! have. cannot go back to
the life in which I xvns horn / mrst 90