The Worthington advance. [volume] (Worthington, Minn.) 1874-1908, 1896-08-13
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ONE OLD MAIDS WAY.
By WILL ALLEN DROMGOOLE

BY WILL ALLEN DROMGOOLE
Now, things had turned outcuriously,
tor the second time in her life, Miss
Clizabe declared, she couldn't see
her way clear"
1.-THE musk roses and the moonlight"
0he told herself. II mustn't forget the
moonlight"
AS if she ever had forgotten or e'er
could forget, for one single moment,
unless it should be the moment when
che would be lying in her coffin, the
scent of the old roses that night in far
away June, when she stood within the
shadow of the burdened branches and
told him good-by. And how the moon
tight looked on the pale blossoms. and
upon the glistening white street out
eide, and upon his face as he said good
by.
Miss Elizabeth sighed and pinched
q corner of the yellow envelope with
her small, work-hardened hand. She
forgot that her hands were hard, the
scent of the musk roses was in her nos
trils.
'He told me-" she was repeating the
words softly to the moonlight, "that he
must have wife who had money. He
must; his business demanded it and his
tastes, all his life had been one of lux
ury; he would be torture to me with
out money. 1T il for your sake, Eliza
beth she was repeating his very
words, poor little old maid!-"'You,
too, would grow unhappy with nothing
but love to live upon.'"
It was just one month after her IA
ther died, and the estate was found to
be insolvent; gone to pieces. He had
been considered q very rich man. and
she was his only child. She had not
known an hour since that had not been
. hand-to-hand fight with poverty.
Yet, she told herself. it was not death
that had robbed her, but Dives. Dives,
who had entered her life in the form
Of Abigail Stone and her money.
She remembered how poor she felt
that night when she walked back to the
empty house without him. How poor,
and how-alone! Not how lonely
how alone. There is a difference be-
tween being lonely and being alone.
One can bear the loneliness, because one
knows that it will end. But the alone.
ness, ali! mo man has come back" to
tell how that ends.
Then her cousin, with whose people
she made temporary home, had moved
to California, and so, to some extent,
out Of her life, too.
He had begged her to 60 with him,
but she had chung to the old affairs
wherein her idols had crumbled. She
was very weak old maid, you see, not
70 wish to leave. So weak that she
'staid right on there through the mar
riage, witnessed the ceremony, and
saw the couple settle down into their
home which Abigal's money had
bought; and then, when Abigail'a ia
ther had got him into the bank, and
was fitting his own shoes to the feet of
his son-in-law, and people had forgot
ten to talk about her disappointment
In talking of Abigail's triumph, Miss
Elizabeth gathered up the broken
threads of her girlhood and began her
life. Her life as she knew it must be
always; she wasn't going to compro-
mise with sorrow; not at all. She was
as much an old maid the night her
lover abandoned her for Abigail's
money as she was 20 years after, when
her own money came. oh, yes, it
came; she had 1t in her hand at the
moment, in the yellow envelope
Fifty thousand dollars, or it's equiv
alent-a notice which told her that it
was in the express office for her. And
the same note begged her. as the writer
had begged for years, that she would
come west.
II am all alone in the world now,
Lizzie" the note said, unless you come
to me. John wished you to have n
part of his money, and you must know:
dear, that wished it too. Your cousin
loved you to the last, child. he told
me that he had always loved you; my
husband told me that on his death
bed. And he asked that you might
have a bit of his property to make you
comfortable in old age. Gladly, glad.
~; for love you scarcely less than
he did, Lizzie. You knew I loved him,
and you refused to give him heartless
body when another woman's heart was
all his. God bless you, Lizzie, and
send you to me, that we may spend
the little remnant of life that is left
us together. Write me when to nee,
you. And don't throw away your
money on the unworthy; you always
would, you know"
Miss Elizabeth had pressed her cous-
iu'swife'sletter to her sand had taken
of her glasses more than once to get the
tears away, before she could finish the
reading. Yes, she had given Clare her
happiness in refusing to marry her
cousin, who had afterward married
Clare. She had made him good wife,
yet he said he had always loved her; he
had said it on his deathbed. What u
queer thing is love, Miss Elizabeth was
thinking--that is, real love; it never,
never dies. She believed that, and that
is why she believed that he, Abigail's
husband, had not forgotten. She knew
that love could not die. That had been
her revenge; he would not forget her.