Butler citizen. [volume] (Butler, Pa.) 1877-1922, 1896-07-23

no meaningless Daupe OF SOIION. Shc
was grieving over her aunt's loss, and, l
feared, causelessly reproaching herself
for the accident. 1t was not time for
me to speak; it was better to wait until
her thoughts should be less with the
dead and more with the living. l had
determined, when my opportunity
came, to lay my doubts and difficulties
fairly before her, and to ask her aid in
seeking a way out OF them.
But many days wore away before the
opportunity was mine. l had asked her
to accompany me to BASKERVILLE, and we
were riding homeward from that town,
with the horse fallen into his LATEST
iog-trot. For some little time neither of
us had spoken. She was preoccupied, l
thought, but it did not occur TO me to
suspect that any unusual cause existed
/ for her abstraction. As for myself
| well, inasmuch as she was by my side,
l was fairly content.
May l ask your advice?" she said, at
last, breaking the silence.
Surely, in anything" l answered.
'It seems to be best, but l am not
quite satisfied with my own Judgment" 4"
This she said as if more in explanation
TO herself than to her hearer. Il am go
ing away"
"Why?" I demanded. "Why, and
when, and whither?"
at must be soon; I've realized it ever
since my aunt's DEATH" she said, with
brave effort at composure. II am poor
I think you know that l must find a
way TO support myself. I have thought
that perhaps l could be most useful as
a nurse, and that you could tell me
where the best training-schools were.
The people here have been very, very
kind, but must leave them.
"If you heed my advice you will not
go away" said 1. "And as to becoming
a nurse, don't dream of such a thing.
Have you any idea of the long hours
OF duty, the responsibility, the strain
on mind and body?"
"Yes, l think I understand. But
what else is there for me to do? Be-
lieve me, this is no hasty decision"
But it is one you will never cease to
regret
"Regret? l hardly think that-un-
less l should find myself incapable"
"Nonsensei Pardon me for speak
ing SO plainly, but that isn't the point
at issue. The question you have to de-.
eide is this: Do you wish to devote your
best years to labors arduous, eXacting,
often rewarded poorly in money and,
even less in gratitude, only to find your,
self at the end of them broken in health
and spirit? tell you plainly you We're
not sent into this world to lead such an
existence"
"Please don't discourage me-" she
said, almost entreatingly. "You don't
understand. 1 want to do some good
in my life, and the way have chosen
seems to me the best. cannot teach,
1 am not a musician, 1 should starve as
seamstress. But as nurse"
You're the best girl in the world,
and the best place for you is right here"
My vehemence seemed to startle her,
and she shrank little from me.
Dorothy, you must not 60" 1 blum
dered on. "You speak of making your
life useful. Can you not make mine
happy? You are more to me than all
the rest of the world. Without you /
L"
Then words failed me. tried to take
her hand, but she drew it from my
clasp.
"Dr. Morris, you are very kind, but
but
1t was her turn TO lose command of
her voice, but she regained it quickly.
please forget what you have said,' y
she went on. 1T will be better So"
But 1 don't want to forget it. I
want to repeat It, Dorothy, can't you
give me hope"
"Please don't ask me. Why should
you?"
"You may consider me ungenerous,
but 1 must have an answer. What
shall it be?"
NO"
Tie word was spoken low, but too
distinctly to be mistaken. looked at
her in the vain hope of finding some en-
couragement in her face. Her eyes
were averted, and she was very pale,
but she was clearly mistress OF herself.
In desperation l pulled the horse down
to a walk. 1 was determined to tell
my tale through to the bitter end, now
that it had been begun, and L desired
plenty of time for the recital.
Dorothy" said I, finding my only
grain of comfort in the fact that she
suffered me to address her thus, 'Dor-
othy, I-I-love you. 1 should have
revealed my secret long ago, had felt
free to do SO. But so many obstacles
were in the way. In the first place, L
believed you to be rich. Had l come
to you then and made my plea, it would
have been with the feeling that I was
playing the fortune hunter. saw you
daily, and daily the longing to speak
grew, but could not yield to it. Not
only was poor, but my prospects were
uncertain. 1 was held by a contract
which might call upon me to leave you,
to go I knew not whittier. II broke
that contract, l should cut off the
greater part of the income from which
l was trying to save something, with
a faint chance that eventually might
be able to seek your hand with less
suspicion of mercenary motives. Then
Ranks asked me to take his practice;
but how could I either accept or re-
fuse his proposition? VIII you for
give me, Dorothy, if I confess that re-
joiced at the news that you were poor ?"
"Was that generous?" she asked, but
1t seemed to me that there was no re-
proach In her tone.
ut was selfish, purely selfish, all
through. won't try to make excuses.
1t would be hypocrisy to attempt them.
When a mans in love, he's selfshness
itself. After 1 had learned that one
stumbling block was out of the way, 1
determined to end my suspense as
quickly us possible. Yet waited day
after day-you know why. But when
you said that you were going away,
it was too much. Hampered as l am,
knowing how unworthy Of you l am,
Dorothy, / could not resist the tempta-
ton. I have had my answer. What
happens to me after this won't matter,
for I've told you that love you"
This lucid statement finished, / stared
at the trunk of dead tree on the sum-
init of little hill far ahead of us, on
which my eyes had rested throughout
the explanation.
To this day 1 have a vivid mental
photograph of that gaunt trunk and
its seven bare branches-I counted
them as carefully as if my fate had de-
pended upon their number.
Il am very glad that you have told
me this" said the girl, softly.