The Cecil Whig. [volume] (Elkton, Md.) 1841-current, 1898-05-14

sing here, and brought no music; but per-
haps something will come to me" she said,
rising and sweeping across the room to the
piano, where three or four men stood wait
| ing for her.
She always dressed in half mourning,
and tonight she wore long black gown
with bodice of heliotrope glace silk yelled
sequined net of the same shade-a com
bination which set off her complexion and
hair to perfection.
She ran her fingers over the keys. at
is no use," she said at last, letting her
hands fall. 81 must contradict my own
teaching and be serious none OF the happy
songs will come.
They all declared they liked serious
songs best.
And | must warn you," she said 'all
my songs are memories A far-away look
came into her eyes as she lifted her hands
to the keys again and played the open
bars Of Tosti's "Goodby." Occasions on
which they had heard this song beautifully
rendered REQUIRED to most present; but
she had not sung many notes before they
realized this was new thing singing. The
voice had rich, peculiar quality, and the
soul of the woman spoke through it.
Mr. Hardcastle decided there and then
that he would ask her to marry him. Mr..
Cyril Ranger could not for the life OF him
think what he had been doing to have
spent a whole week near such woman
and not have proposed to her. Two young
men who had come week ago, intending
to stay for the night only, and who lin
gered on because, as they said, of the
sociable, gay, unconventional life of the
place-in other words, 'because Of the little
widow each vowed to himself he would
write that very night to his father and
explain the situation, suggesting a read
iustment of business relations with view
marriage to at an enrly date.
Edward Brogden was deeply affected.
Next morning when he found himself
seated beside her on the steamer max
LIS "h SNNuio'oh IOohN lut lSiiUu Uc
said: Mrs. Walton, have you any more
surprises for us? Do you know you aston
ished us last night? | cannot reconcile
the sadness Of your singing with your
usual gayety. am puzzled to know which
is your real SELF"
Both are real, she said 81 have at
least dozen quite distinct selves. Some
times one is to the fore, sometimes another
1t depends on my mood and my surround
ings whether | laugh to prevent myself
crying or break my heart singing sad songs
through sheer delight and the Joy of
living"
You are an enigma
mo, | am womanw
at is the same thing"
She drew his attention to Aisa Crag.
eyes, yes, the crag," said he absently
"Do you know I always feel attracted by
anything enigmatcal or mysterious; the
more complex a woman is the better like
her; | am weary of simple, transparent
souls whom he that runs may read. What
an experienced All, Mrs. Walton, life
would be worth living if you"
''See. Mr.. Brogden, we must be nearing
Lashlam; and do look at those lovers wan
dering along the road. Isn't it sad ?"
"What is sad 2"
"Ob, they will get married."
That is the best thing they can do"
Mrs. Walton informed him with tears in
her eyes that she felt little hystercal
rO-day, that it was the last day of her holt
day, and that if he would excuse her she
would not talk any more bus would sit
quietly by herself at the other side of the
boat.
THE last day Of your holiday! Then
you must certainly let me speak to you OF
something which affects me vitality" he
said, as he raised his hat and moved away.
"Afterwards," she exclaimed; "after-
wards"
At ) clock that afternoon a large, dull,
bald man, about 80, was standing in the
hall with Mrs. Walton when Edward
Brogden came in to look for Der to have his
talk on something vital to himself
"Allow mc to introduce you to my hus-
band, Mr.. Brogdon," she said, smiling
through her gold-rimmed glass,
All that day Mrs. Ovens cap was in a
chronic state Of displacement through shak-
ing her head over the dull, norid man.
ono wonder, poor thing, she wanted to be
gay and to forget" she kept saying.
Mr., Erosden stayed it out to the bitter
end. Perhaps he was more of an expert
mentaiist than lover, and awaited new
! developments. Perhaps he was really in
love with this fair haired wife of the
! dull, ilolid man-this wife who took
holiday once every year by herself, and
tried to be happy, aud gay, and to forget
rget.-Argosy.
Mr. Rowland Elected