The Lambertville record. [volume] (Lambertville, N.J.) 1872-1968, 1897-07-14
DEN ISE.

They had been three years married
They adored one another. She was
young. He was young also. Two happy
facesi Two charming soulsl
Why had they come to this little old
and isolated village 100 leagues from
Paris? Surely the guides had never rec
commended it Here the grass grow be
| tween tho caved III 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-
turned. nearly always empty, from the
distant railway station.
1t was Cecile who had thought of
this trip. Roger had at first said, mo, +"
| but she, coming closer to him, said
eoaxingly:
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 ii not there
you lived with your aged parents over
whom we wept together II year since?
| | wish to SEQ the good old country
house Of which you have SO often spo-
! ken And the garden, too. which seem
ed SO large when you We're Il little child.
You shall show me the we'll where you
used To throw stones to hear them
| splash i'll the water-the tulip tree,
where you found the nest of doves |
want to see the road you travelled to
| the sehoohouse You used To stop by
the way to eat mulbcrries, little gour
How, / ahnlI Inn.YI
as 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, ] shall not laugh.
| DO not think me SO frivolous. If | wish
to go down there TO your native village,
it is because | love you-I love you so
well--and because l am jealous of a
past in which l have no share. Perhaps
some day you might think of these
things without thinking of me. Ills
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 reveTie i'll
which am not "A part, so that may
never be absent from your memories,
| however distant they may be. i" Speak
ing thus. she raised her lips to his, and
he consented mot without an air of
melancholy because of the proffered
kiss.
The first days passed i'll this little
village were adorable ones. Cccile en-
| joyed everything i'll the great, lonely
place Even the ugly, sonber streets
delighted her. The villagers who pass
ed turned to look after her, marvoling
at her Partisan grace.
One evening there was fete i'll front
of the town hall--a shooting gallery,
three turnstiles and some wooden
horses Nine Prudence. tho clairvoy-
ant, was there. Cecile entered tho WON
an IS place to learn her fate.
mo enemy seeks to harm you, and
every possible happiness is yours "
"Ah, / know it," cried Cccile. fall
ing impulsively upon her husband Is
neck, to the establishment of the clair
voyant.
She visited the old house where Rog
err 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 led when
a boy-at what hour he arose, at what
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
meath tho lamp reading aloud, while the
! old ,nDt hnr Egtanin,, xunttlI fall 81 = leon
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 i'll the water
There were no more doves nests IN
the tulip tree. What PITY"
Behind the hedge ran the road to the
schoolhouse. Cocile 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
| joy. She followed where Roger led.
He was charmed to see her so tcnderly
affected He, however, was very silent
and smiled but little, trying in vain to
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 name,
''Denise," and the age, "15 years. f"
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 lac had loved when 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 so
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-
thence 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