Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1897-10-16

| open any way for me. But she met my
smile with another so full Of confidence and
challenge that my attention was wholly
caught. and did not heed the wears fare
well as he rose and left US.
And would you serve me-" asked. "if
you had the pcwer?'
Nay. put the question as you think It,"
said she. Would You have the power to
serve me II you had the will? Is not that
the doubt in your mind?"
And If it werer'
'"Then, indeed. 1 do not know how to
answer but strange things happen there in
London, and it may be that some day even
I should have some power"
| And would you use 1t Cor meT'
Gould I do less on behalf of a gentle
| man who has risked his mistress favor
| for my poor cheeks sake?" And she fell
to laughing again. her mirth growing
greater as 1 went red in the face. You
| mustn't blush when you come to town."
| she cried, 'or they'll make a ballad on
you and cry you in the streets for a mon
| ster.'
THE oftener comes the cause the rarer
| shall the effect be-" said 1.
1.-THE excuse Is well put" she conceded.
We should make a wit Of you N town.
| What do you in town. asked square
ly. looking her full in the eyes.
Perhaps sometimes she laughed, what
I have done once-and to your good knowl-
| edge-since came TO the country"
Thus she would BATTLE me with TESTING
afswers as often as sought to find out who
| and what she was. Nor had better for
| tune with her mother, for whom 1 had
small liking, and who had. as it seemed, no
| more for me. For she was short in her
| talk. and frowned to see me with her
| daughter. Yet she saw me, must confess,
! often with Cydaria in the next few Jays
and 1 was often with Cydaria when she
| did not see me. For Barbara was gone,
| leaving me both sore and lonely, all in the
mood to find comfort where 1 could, and
| to see manliness in desertion: and there
| was a charm about the girl that grew on
| me insensibly and without my will, until 1
came to love, not her (as believed, for
getting that love loves not to mark his
boundaries too strictly. but her merry
| temper, her wit and cheerfulness. How
| ever. these things were mingled and spiced
| with others, more attractive than all to
| unfedged youth, an air of the world and
| a knowledge of life which piqued my curos-
| ity. and sat lit seems 50 even to my later
| mind as 1 look back) with bewitching in
congruity on the laughing child's face and
| the unripe grace of girlhood. Her moods
| were endless, vying with one another IN an
| ever undetermined struggle for the prize
| of greatest charm. For the most part she
was merry. frank mirth passing into sly
raillery. 'Heigho, that 1 could stay in
the sweet. innocent country" Or again
she would show ape an uneasy con-
science, whispering "Ah; that were like
| ment she would be laughing and jesting
| and hooking, though life were naught
| but great many-colored bubble, and she
| the brightest tinted CLEAN on it.
| II was q golden summers evening when
| I, to whom the golden world was all he'll
| came by tryst to the park of Quinton man.
| or. there to bid Cydaria farewell. Mother
| ard sisters had looked askance at me. the
| village gossiped, even the vicar shook a
| kindly head. What cared 1? By heaven
why was one man a nobleman and rich.
| while another had no money in his purse
| ard but one change to his back? Was not
| love all in all, and why did Cydaria laugh
! at a truth manifest? There she was I'm
der the beech tree. with her sweet face
screwed up to burlesque of grief her lit
| tie hand lying on her hard heart, as though
| 1t beat for me. and her eyes the play
ground of thousand quick expressions.
| | strobe up to her and caught her by the
| hand. saying no more than just her name.
| 'Cydaria. 1t seemed that there was no
| more to say; yet she cried, laughing and
reproachful, Have you no VOWS for me?
| Must l so without my tribute?'
1 loosed her hand and stood away from
her. On my soul. 1 could not speak. 1
was tongue-tied, dumb as dog.
| when you come counting in London"
| she said, you must not come so empty of
| lovers baggage. There ladies ask vows,
| and protestations, and despair, aye, and
poetry and rhapsodies, and 1 know not
| what
| 'Of all these 1 have nothing but despair"
| said /.
'"Then you make sad lover" she pouted
| "And I am glad to be going where lovers
| arc less woebegone.
| "You lcok for lovers in London" cried
that had cried to Barbara-well, I have
| said my say on mat.
| If heaven sent them" answered Cy-
| daria.
And you will forget me?'
| I'm truth yes, unless you come yourself
to remind me- 1 have no head for absent
| lovers"
But if I come 1 began, in a sudden
| flush of hope.
She did not, though it was her custom.
| answer in raillery. She piucked a leaf
| from the tree and tore 1T with her fingers
as she answered with curious glance:
Why, if you come. 1 think you'll wish
| that you had not come. unless, indeed,
you've forgotten me before you come"
Forget you! Never while 1 live! May
1 come. Cydaria?"
Most certainly, sir, SO soon as your
wardrobe and your purse allow Nay,
! don't be huffed. Come. Simon sweet
Simon. are we not friends. and may not
friends rally one another? No. and if L
| choose, l will put my hand through your
arm. Indeed. sir. you're the first gentle
/ man that ever thrust it that way. See
it is there now. Doesn't 1T look well there
Simon-and feel well there, Simon?' She
| looked up into my face in coaxing apology
| for the hurt she had given me. and yet
| still with rockery of my tragic airs
| Yes. you must by all means come to Lon
| don,' she went OIL, patting my arm rs
not Mistress Barbara in London? And 1
| thirk-am I wrong. Simon-that there is
! something for which You will want to ask
| her pardon"
IF come to London. it is for you, and
! you only that shall come.'' cried.
mo, no. You will come to love what the
j king loves, to know what he hides. and to
drink of his cup. l. sir, cannot interfere
| with your great destiny" She drew away
/ from me, courtesied low, and stood oppo-
| site to me, smiling.
For you and for you only" repeated
Then vii! the king love me?" she asked.
| God Forbid said fervently
| "On. and why, pray, your God forbid?
| You're very ready with your God forbds'
| Am l, then. to take your love sooner than
| the kings, Master Simon?'
Mine is an honest love-" said soberly
"Oh, l should dote the country did
| not everybody talk of his honesty there
I have seen the king in London. and ne is
| a fine gentleman
| And you have seen the queen also, may
| be?"
| I'm truth, yes. All. have shocked you,
| Simon. Well was wrong Come, we're
| In the country Well be good. But when
| we've made a townsman of you, we'll
we will be what they are in town. More
over, in ten minutes 1 am going home and
! It would be hard if 1 also left you in anger.
You shall have a pleasanter memory of my
| going than Mistress Barbara left YOU"
How shall 1 find you when 1 come to
| town."
"Why. if you will ask any gentleman Won