Waterbury evening Democrat., 1895-02-28

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
imposed the conditions of fine social
| 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withdrawn from this peaceful activity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 ard turned toward her
Il hardly know, he answered. My
thoughts were drifting"
Richard, she said abruptly. Il
want to thank you. -
Thank me for what Lali?'' he ques-
toned.
To thank You, Richard, for every
thing since l came. over three years
ago -
He broke ont into soft little laugh
then, with his old good natured man.
her. caught her hand rs he did the first
night She came to Greyhope, patted it
III n fathcrly fashion and said: 1T is
the wrong way about. Lali. ought TO
| be thanking You; not you me. Why,
look, what n stupid old fogy was then,
tOddling about the place with too much
time on my hands, reading lot and
forgetting everything, and here You
came i'll, gave me something to do, made
the little l know of any use and ran a
pretty gold wire down the rusty fiddle
of hf" If there are any speeches of
gratitude to BE- made, they are mine
they are mine.
Richard, she said very quietly and
gravcly. Il owe You more than can
ever say-in English. You have taught
me to speak i'll your tongue enough for
| all the usual things of life, hut one can
only speak from the depths of ones
heart i'll ones native tongue. And see, "
she added. with Il painful little smile,
''how strange it would sound if were
TO tell You all thought i'll the language
Of my pCoplc-of my people whom l
shall never ste again. Richard, can you
understand what it must be TO have q
father whom one is never likely to see
again-whom if one 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 the same toward us, for
their world is i'll another hemisphere
We want TO love them, and we love,
remember and are glad to meet them
| again, but they feel that VIC IRE unfa-
miliar, and because we have grown diff
fercnt outwardly they seem to miss
some chord that used to ring. Richard
| H. She paused.
Eyes. LaN, he assented. yes, | I'M
dorstand you 80 far. but speak out ="
Il am not happy, she said. "Inever
shall be happy. l have my child, and
that is all have I cannot so back to
the life in which Twas bonn. ! must go
Oh as l am, Il stranger amOng strange
people, lisied, suffered, cared for Q lit
tle-and that is all.
The nurse had drawn away n little
distance with the child. The rest of the
family wero making their preparations
| inside the house. There was no one
near TO watch the singular little drama.
You should not say that" he add
ed. I'VE all feel You to be ono of us. -
But all your world does not feel me
to be ono Of them. " she rcjoincd.
I'VE shall see about that when You
| go up to town. You are bit morbid,
| Lali. l don't wonder at Your feeling n
little shy, but then you will simply car
~ things before You. Now you take my
word for it, for know London pretty
we'll"
She held out her unslovcd hands.
DO '''"v compare with the white hands
o. tie ladies Won know?' she said.
They are about the finest hands
have ever seem. he replied. You
can't see yourself. sister of mine.
Il do not care very much to sec my
| al 81, 4
expect should look very shiftless, for
1 don't care to look in mirror. My
| only mirror used to be a stream of water
in summer" she added, land a corner
of q looking glass got from the Hudson S
Bay fort in tho winter.
We'll, you are missing lot of en-.
joyment," he said. eff you do not use
your mirror much. The rest of US can
appreciate what you would see there. -
She reached out and touched his arm.
''Dp you like to look at me?' she ques,
toned, with 4 strange simple candor.
Fer the first time in many a year Rich.
ard Armour blushed like girl fresh
from school The question had come SC
| suddenly, it had gone so quickly into q
sensitive corner of his nature, that he
lost command Of himself for the instant,
yet had little idea why the command was
lost. He touched the fingers on his arm
affectionately.
Like TO look ut you? Like to look
at you? Why, of course, we all like tc
look at you You are very fine and
handsomC-and interesting.
Richard, she said, drawing heI
hands away. sis that why you like tc
look at me:''
He had recovered himself. He laugh
ed in his old hearty way and said
"Yes, yes. Why. of course. Come, lei
us go and see the boy" he added, tax
ing her arm and hurrying her down the