Freeland tribune. (Freeland, Pa.) 1888-1921, 1898-02-17

@e terested, as the
case might be.
For vivid, frank enjoyment, there
were few faces to compare with one
girlish one-a little flushed, with shin
ing blue eyes, and soft curly brown
hair clustering about it.
She was little country mouse, hav-
ing peep at the enchanted fairyland
of London, and at her pleasure the
grave face Of her companion relaxed,
and he forgot, for the moment, to find
it all WEAKNESS to the flesh and van
ity and veXation to the spirit.
The girl wanted to know who every
one was and all about them; she
thought them charming, and regretted
that she did not live in London.
'Father hates it so," she said.
"Your father had long spell of it,"
the man said. ''But"-and he smiled
very pleasantly-"we shall very soon
have you among us, 1 hope, for more
than flying visit"
The girl blushed and grew shy, and
then uttered an exclamation.
"Who is that?" she asked eagerly.
"Look at her, therel That woman
with the beautiful face and dark hair"
'Hhat is Miss ST. Quentin. She
writes, you know. Writes well, too;
her new book is an immense success,
being neither cheap nor nasty"
ooh! I've read it," Hilda Carson
said, the pink flush deepening in her
cheeks. "And L liked it ever so much.
I read it out of doors, too, and it in
terested me all the time"
"Do you consider that a severe test?"
every! And am glad to have seen
her. She is wonderful, with that clear,
colorless skin, and those great eyes.
I think-I think" She hesltated
little.
"Well?"
81 thinl; she is a woman nobody
could help loving, if they knew her"
He laughed. Her fresh enthusiasm
was amusing. and he rather enjoyed
it Tor a change, but before he could
speak again two or three people Joined
them, and he lost sight of Hilda for a
little.
A good many people admired Miss
st. Quentin, but very few even dimly
guessed that, while writing the stories
of others, her own life hid one away
in an inner and very sacred chamber.
They said she was mot o bit i'm
pressionable, and, for all her beauty,
very unlikely to break her own heart
or any one else's.
There were just two or three people
of whom Mr.. Sinclair was one-who
doubted this dictum, and wondered if
the delicate coldness of her manner
did not hide at least as much of her
nature as it revealed.
But even those who had so much
discernment did not know-nobody
knew-of that summer, eight years
ago, when she and Jack Tremain had
met in the old Suffolk mansion. No
body knew of the long, long mornings
In the orchard, talking over everything
and anything, or sometimes sitting in
the silence that is only possible be-
tween friends.
And nobody knew of the afternoons
on the river, or the evenings in the
moonlit garden, or the sudden, sharp
ending to it all.
He was wrong and she was right.
and they were both very proud, 30 she
let him go, forgetting how hard a
thing it is to be forgiven.
And there had been times when sue
cess had seemed a small thing to her,
and life a very desert of loneliness,
because she missed one voice in the
chorus of praise that greeted her and
one face in the many friendly ones
that smiled upon her. For Mary st.
Quentin had the virtue of her defects,
and she was terribly faithful.
Six months ago Major Tremain had
come home, but society had seen very
little of him so far, thought was eager
to lionize him and raved over the deed
that gained him that coveted V. G.
Miss st. Quentin had not seen him
nt all, though she knew he was, for the
moment, IN town, and scanned the
faces in park and street, and party, in
the hope she was half ashamed Of
that Of seeing his.
She was always a centre of attrac-
ton, and had not been many minutes
In Mrs. Sirfclair's rooms before she was
surrounded with little crowd. She
resigned herself to the inevitable, and
was trying to forget her one ihsistent
desire when her hostess came up with
bronzed, dignifed man at her side,
"Miss st. Quentin, may introduce
Major Tremain to you?" she said, and
then there was little exclamation o.
mutual recognition, and ten minutes
ordinary chat, and-that was ell.