Connecticut western news., 1897-09-23
DENISE.

They had been three years married. They adored one another. She was young. He was young also. Two happy facesl Two charming soulsl
 Why had they come to this little old and isolated village 100 leagues from Paris? Surely the guides had never reo- commended it. Here the grass grew be- tween the caved in paving stones of the streets. And one could hear now and then, with its jolting and jogging, the jingling of bells and the rattling of windows, the yellow coach, which re- distant railway station.
 It was Cecile who had thought of this trip. Roger had at first said, "No," but she, coming closer to him, said coaxingly:
 "Was it not down there in the little village, close to the mountains, that you were born, passed your childhood and became a man? Was it not there you lived with your aged parents. over whom we wept together year since? I wish to see the good old country house of which you have so often spo ken. And the garden, too, which seem ed so large when you were little child. You shall show me the we'll where you used to throw stones to hear them splash in the water-the tulip tree, where you found the nest of doves. want to see the road you travelled to the schoolhouse. You used to stop by the way to eat mulberries, little gour- mand that you were. How shall laugh as I picture you passing by, when you, Roger, were not taller than boot and wore short trousers On your arm you carried basket in which your mother had placed luncheon of bread and pre- serves. No, Roger, I shall not laugh. Do not think me so frivolous. If I wish to go down there to your native village, it is because I love you-I love you so well-and because I am jealous of past in which have no share. Perhaps some day you might think of these things without thinking of me. Iris this that grieves me so. Take me where you were, mingle me with that which once surrounded you, so that hence forth you may never have reverie in which I am not a part, so that l may never be absent from your memories, however distant they may be-" Speak ing thus, she raised her lips to his, and he consented (not without an air of melancholy because of the proffered kiss.
 The first days passed in this little village were adorable ones. Cecile en- in hn o1u place. Even the ugly, somber streets delighted her. The villagers who pass ed turned to look after her, marveling at her Parisian grace.
 One evening there was fete in front of the town hall-a shooting gallery, three turnstiles and some wooden horses. Mime. Prudence, the clairvoy ant, was there. Cecile entered the wom- ans place to learn her fate.
 "No enemy seeks to harm you, and every possible happiness is yours. ''
 "Ah, I know it," cried Cecile, fall ing impulsively upon her husbands neck, to the astonishment of the clair voyant.
 She visited the old house where Rog- CTS mother had died. "What pity we are not rich enough to. buy it, she said. Then she made him relate, with many details, the life he had lcd when boy-at what hour he arose, at W hat hour he went to bed. She wanted to know, too, the place at table occupied by each member of the family and to hear of those evenings when he sat be- heath the lamp reading aloud, while the old mother, listening, would fall asleep in the great armchair, her feet upon the fender.
 But the garden interested her most of all. She at once recognized the well,
 and she in her turn dropped in stones | to hear them splash in the water. There were no more doves nests in the tulip tree. "What pityl'' Behind the hedge ran the road to the schoolhouse Cecile stained her red lips nearly black with the juice of the | mulberries, and so happy was she that
 her eyes became clouded with tears of l joy. She followed where Roger led. He was charmed to see her so tenderly l affected. He, however, was very silent and smiled but little, trying in vain to 1 hide feeling of deep sadness. Yes, tru- | ly, after they had returned to the little village he was pensive and morose. One morning he dressed in haste and | quickly left the inn where Cecile was still sleeping. He did not even place
 upon her forehead or lips the kiss that would have awakened her.
 He traversed the village, passed the
 last house and entered graveyard. | He stopped in front of a slab of stone
 upon which was inscribed a name,
 "Denise," and the age, ''15 years. '' {, Here he fell upon his knees, his face
 buried in his hands. Roger had not
 told all to Cecile. He had not related
 all his youthful memories. She did not
 know that he had loved when a child
 another child; that the poor little one | had died in the autumn, before having
 received his first kiss. But Roger had
 never forgotten her. Now, before this | grave where he had knelt down, he
 seemed to see her again alive, and SC
 pretty, with her sweet, pale eyes and delicate lips which would never again
 be red. He lived over again those fur
 tive hours of their rendezvous behind
 the garden hedge, the hope, the impa-
 tience with which he awaited the let
 ter which Denise every day as she re-
 turned from school would slip beneath
 the gate. Here in the silence of the
 graveyard he seemed to hear her voice