The Somerset reporter., 1895-12-26
A COQUETTE'S STORY.

suggestion of coquetry about her eyes
way that l had noticed in the short time
| had known her. There was an intima-
ton that she had once been brighter of
disposition. although there was a sweet
ness and gentleness in her manner now
that seemed to amply eompen safe for
the listless, PARKWAY air that was ever
about her. After a few months of ac-
quaintance that had brought me to tho
belief that this creature was one of the
rarest of God is creations. | learned, by
the merest chance, that the girl had IA
story-that her disposition had not al
ways been the ideal one that had SO
completely captiyated me. Once or twice
| hinted in the gentlest way possible,
that the story should be told to me, but
tho great, brown eyes of the girl filled
with tears, and l at once thought of
something else to talk about. Two or
three months afterward, in the midst of
conversation, the young woman sud
denly left the channel of our talk and
said:
You never heard, did you, that
was once known as the village CO.
quette?' "
WAS that your story?" laughed.
"There is nothing funny about it, y
the girl returned seriously. ut hash t
been so very long ago-about two years,
think-that IL changed. was pref
tier then than | am now, and in my
youthful folly / thought that it was my
duty to play with the affections of all of
the good fellows who were nice enough
to think that they liked me.
Early in my teens the boy of all the
many of my acquaintance who was most
devoted to me was young Owen Rand.
He was shy chap who did not boldly
declare for me as others did, but in his
quiet way he was ever at my beck and
call and ever ready to do any little serv-
ice that my caprice might suggest. He
knew the flowers l liked BEST he knew
the candies that | thought the most
toothsome, and no wet day did fail to
find my forgotten rubber coverings wait
ing for me when school was over. Some
how | thought only we'll of this fellow.
He never seemed to me as a sweetheart,
and once when he refused to take part
in a game that every one was playing |
reproved him just as would a brother.
1t did not occur to me then now know
that what | said pleased him. 1t indi-
Gated that had an interest in him; that
| thought of him as one whom | might
command and reprove as my fancy indi-
cated. | suppose that all girls are alike
in this particular-they never love the
brotherly boys any more than boys love
the sisterly girls. Owen continued his
unvarying kindness throughout our
school days. When we were graduated,
my biggest bouquet came from him.
was disappointed because he did not
come down with the rest to say that he
was glad or to make some other pretty
speech of congratulation, but the other
boys did this without flowers, and they
made merry at our house and ate all the
good things until there was neither time
nor victuals left. | forgot all about my
devoted Owen in the hilarity of that
evening, and when one of the bold,
handsome young fellows Of the crowd
asked me to go to a concert with him
the next evening | forgot that there
might be another who would expect the
favor of my company, and the engage
ment was made. Owen came to see me
the next day, with more flowers, and
when there were no more good things to
eat, and he murmured his gentle con-
gratulations with such earnestness that
l almost loved him as we sat there to-
gether alone. He was disappointed when
told him that | could not go to the
concert with him, but he did not express
bitterness or denounce any one.
"Some other time then" he said in
a way that made me think that he did
not care enough about it, but since then
l have thought that it was only his way.
/ won t weary you with the details of
how, month in and month out, he was
unselfishly devoted; how he did not join
with the others III their vapid comph
ments and ostentatious attentions; how
at length he came to me and said goodby
when he went ont to Honolulu on q
venture that he thought would yield a
fortune.
Let me hope, he said as l indif-
ferently extended my hand, let me hope
that when | come back you will still be
here and still as free as you are now.
For a moment | was silent, and
then with half fiippant air | said,
You may hope. After he was gone |
felt rather sorry for my conduct in send
ing him away but when his letters be-
gan to come | saw that | had been for
given. 1t was not long before the regu
lar correspondence became wearying to
me. There was too much of the element
of business in it on his side, while l.
here at home, with all my friends and
with familiar associations, was making
the best of vouth. So | stopped writing,
and, after a time of patient, one sided
correspondence, he stopped too.
months after had received my last
letter from poor Owen new home ont
there in the heart of the Pacific had a
note from his sister. Owen had come
back, and he was Ill. Would | come 10
see him? | felt, ft r. the first time in the
long boy and girl acquaintance, a genu-
inc interest. OF course | would go. 1t
would seem so good to see his real, hon
est smile again; to feel the pressure of
his great, warm, unaffected hand, and
to hear his unstudied, earnest compli-
ments. was sorry about stopping the