The Worthington advance. [volume] (Worthington, Minn.) 1874-1908, 1897-09-16
copyright. 1so7.]

TWAS on q summers eve when roses
bloom
THE words of the trivial little song
rang out bithely in clear treble
voice through which the tinkle of
mandolin penetrated. Kenneth
Harding heard it as he strobe
moodily along, and idly won
dered that such sounds should be
heard in that particular spot, as it was
at least five miles from any habita ton.
1t must be confessed that he was not
over-pleased. He was unhappy, and
unhappiness is always unreasonable;
so it seemed to him a distinct grievance
that he should be compelled to listen to
anything like frivolous gayety out
there on lonely path which he had
sought just because it was lonely.
In another moment, as he turned the
bend of the road, he came in sight of
boyish figure stretched carelessly
under tree by the wayside, half lean
ing against it's trunk, half resting on
his elbow, while he touched the strings
in light accompaniment.
"She's a darling, she's a queenl
She's the fairest one I've seen,''
he sang gayly, then suddenly stopped as
he saw Harding approach and, half I'M
consciously, as it seemed, turned to the
wheel that stood beside him. This ap-
parent inclination to mount and run
away changed quickly, however, and
he merely altered his position so that
the pedestrian no longer saw his face.
Kenneth smiled with trace of
amusement.
positively, the boy is shy!" he
thought-"a rare quality in boys now
adays! Suits his face, thought
Harding trudged on, quickly forget
ting the momentary interruption of the
thoughts in which he was absorbed.
That they were not pleasant thoughts
was evident from the stern, hard ex-
preston on his sensitive face and the
moody misery in his gray eyes.
At last, wearied, he flung himself un-
der tree, and with hands clasped
under his head, closed his eyes. He
opened them soon, however, disturbed
by faint sound-opened them in time
to see the boy whom he had heard sing
Ing dart past on his wheel, the mando-
ALI uuS, odCCuC1"lSc, over his DdCk.
Again Harding smiled grimly. 'Truly
a sentimental YOUTH he soliloquized-
"a modern troubadour awheel! Just
the type too. Blonde, curly hair, bright
brown eyes, handsome face, not exactly
weak but little effeminate. Quite the
ideal troubadour with his mandolin and
his fresh young voice. He looks about
1e. Will be sing as gayly at 26, I
wonder?"
Harding's bitter soliloquy ended in a
laugh even more bitter. Putting one
hand in the breast-pocket of his coat,
he drew out an envelope, worn and
dingy. Slowly he extracted the con-
tents-a letter and a photograph. The
latter which represented young man
with fine, strong face, intellectual
and attractive, was his own picture;
he allowed it to fall from his fingers as
he opened the letter and read:
DEAR KEN: Try to forgive me, I am
very unhappy, but could not helpit. Indeed
love you, but you are so poor, and am
afraid that we should both be miserable:
and Mr.. Brown is rich, and mamma insists
on my marrying him. So I send your
picture back. am to be married in St.
Bartholomew next month. Do forgive
me, and won't you come to my wedding?-
Why should we not be friends just the
same? Mr.. Brown does not know that we
were engaged. Mamma said had better
not tell him. Do write me. Your loving
DORA"
The young mans face grew contempt
uous as he read, with a revulsion of
feeling that startled him.
"Good heavens!" he exclaimed, "what
q fool am to care-to be made miser-
able by q weak, bad woman, capable of
writing thati Yes, bad. She would be
perfectly willing to amuse herself by
continuing . play at love with me after