The Forrest City times., 1895-11-15

to Alaska, and." triumphantly, ''he is now holding the rosebud to his lips which she put in his buttonhole this afternoon
 The unconscious subject of their re- marks was sitting at small table under the window, absently twirling by it's long, slender stem a beautiful yellow rose. From time to time he inhaled it's delicate perfume, or, as the romantic maid interpreted the action, pressed the flower to his lips. Presently he commanded bell-boy to bring him a glass of water. He drank of it, and then, to the horror of his little audience, laid the dropping rosebud across the piece of crystal ice that almost filled the glass, and, lighting a cigar, pre- pared himself to read.
 "There is sentiment on ice for you, warranted not to melt!" cried the pret- ty girls, mockingly, and the little TO- mancer felt utterly crushed
 Night crept in over the sound. The c"ay-curtained cloud which concealed the mountain turned to black, and one by one the tourists disappeared.
 Rose Monroe was the last to leave the piazza. Her companions had passed her unnoticed, as she stood in the shadow of the house, and she made no effort to detain them, for her heart was heavy and she longed to be alone alone with that black curtain that sep ara ted her from success. Wasit there Was her hearts desire, like that cold, white mountain, really there? Time was feeing-any moment telegram might come announcing the road again open to travel; then their happy party would break up, and the tourists would depart to the four corners of the earth. never to meet again. Her thoughts were very sad.
 Strolling to the window, to see if her father was still in the office, she stum- bled against table standing near, and the musical clink of ice against glass attracted her attention. She smiled bitterly as she perceived the fragile vel low rosebud on it's frozen bed, and then, throwing herself in the chair Emerson Dwight had occupied a short time be- fore, stroled the yellow petals with a caressing hand. He had left his book, a handsome volume of Poe's poems, open on the table with a pencil and sheet of paper folded between the leaves. Her restless fingers sought them out, and presently she began to write Sweet yellow rose. that in thy chalice
 curled
 
 Lift, but one instant. thy delicious head That l may read the message none have Let this warm air, and warmer still
 caress
 That on thy petals now with zeal press. Open them wide, until the truth be freed. Of which long have felt bitter need May the soft wish. that fervently I
 breath
 Ger thy cold bed around thy bosom
 wreath
 A gentle warmth, suffice to break the spell Which holds you fast, where love can never
 dwell.
 Iris vain pleadl cold petals like shield
 sealed
 Then, having read her hastily written verses, she twirled them around, with q swift smile of derision, and scrawled dIiOSS lllC iull LII Ol lIc
 LENvoI.
 Alas, sweet rose, you have no voice!
 You area yellow rose on ice.
 Pushing the book away with a gesture of impatience, she bowed her head upon her arm and fell into reverie, from which she was only startled by voices in the office. Realizing, all at once, that the hour was late, she arose hurriediy from her chair: and the impromptu verses never again occurred to her mind until she was brushing out her long yellow hair before the mirror in her own room.
 As the memory of them flashed upon her her heart stood still; like one turned to stone s5e paused, with her brush in mid-air, powerless to move a muscle.
 There was no doubt that when Emer- son Dwight recovered his book he would find the lines, and it was equally certain that, finding them, he would at once rec ognize the author by the handwriting, and She waited no longer to pursue this horrid possibility, but, twisting her long hair into a nasty knot, prepared to go downstairs. The verses must be re- gained at any cost
 Late as it was, few men still sat smoking and chatting in the office Passing them as quietly as possible, Rose stepped out on the piazza and was immediately filled with consternaticn to find two figures bending over the fatal table. One was Mir. C., the con- ductor of the eXcursion; the other, Enl- erson Dwight.
 There was no mistaking the hand- some profile and fnely-turned head