The Worthington advance. [volume] (Worthington, Minn.) 1874-1908, 1897-09-16

her marriage. True to no one neither
her husband nor to me. This ends it.
Not another regret. And no more
women for mel" .#
He sprang to his feet and tore the
letter into tiny fragments, then strobe
back the way he had come, but with a
different expression in his face. His
step grew more elastic, and he drew
long, deep breaths as he felt that the
shadow had passed-he was free
again.
A day or two later Harding was pass
ing over the same road. He liked it's
quiet, the long reaches of shadow where
the trees almost met across it, the tam
gled vines that clambered and crept
along the rough fences. A team was
rarely seen to disturb the stiffness, for
it was "the old road" to Dorspring,
and, although much more beautiful
than the new road, was fully four miles
longer.
AS the young man approached the
bend where he had seen the boy on
his previous walk, he thought it would
gay voice of the young troubadour, as
he had named him. But the only sound
was the unmusical, hooking, "caw.
cav" of a funereal crow.
When fairly past the curve, how
ever, Harding espied the wheel leaning
against the same tree as before, and
near it lay the boy, sound asleep, the
mandolin beside him, his soft cap pulled
down as if to shade his eyes from any
stray sunbeam that might find it's way
through the heavy LEAKAGE.
Almost involuntarily Harding
stopped, and sudden impulse of mis-
chief took possession of him. Going
closer to the sleeper, close enough tc
note the curve of the lips, firm ye,
sweet, and the blackness of the lashes
that lay on the clear sun-browned skin
he said to himself: Eyes, he would be a
jolly little comrade, I'm certain; SO
here goes!" and he cautiously drew the
instrument toward him. He could play
rather well-had been member of the
college banjo and mandolin club; and
he could sing more than well, being
possessed of a good tenor voice, admira'
bly, trained.
""Twas on q summers eve whe1
roses bloom"-the words rang out on
the quiet air. Instantly the boys eyes
opened, and flushing crimson from
brow to throat, he sprang to his feet.
"Why-who-who are you" he STAN
mered.
"A fellow troubadour," responded
Harding, pleasantly. II heard yor
sing few days ago, and caught ;
fleeting glimpse of you to-day. Catch
ing you asleep, I took the liberty Of
waking you with your own song, fol
the selfish reason that was lonely anc
thought you would, perhaps, give me :
few moments of comradeship - as
troubadour should"
The flush had not quite left the boy.
face, but he laughed responsibility ant
said: Every we'll, Sir Knight. I bic
you welcome. But you must propitiatt
my wrath at losing that delicious naI
by turning troubadour yourself, OF
rather, since you are one, by giving
me a prolonged exhibition of your
skill"
He resumed his lounging attitude az
he spoke, and Kenneth dropped into {
place near him. It was the first time il
months that the man had felt mo
ment's gayety of mood, and he gave
way to it freely. Had his companion
been a woman it would have been diff
ferent. Reserve would have taken tn
place of spontaneity, even had she pos
sessed the power of evo1ing the mood
which is to be doubted, as Harding:
hurt had not yet ceased to sting.
The boy, however, proved to be a!