The aegis & intelligencer. [volume] (Bel Air, Md.) 1864-1923, 1899-06-30

trouble to get them - she said, sheep
lshly, looking down on her pink shoes
Flowers are so scarce now"
Yes, | had to go round by Coven
Garden, but didn't mind that, Clara
as they we're for you"
Then he broke off abruptly, for Mis-
3 Bevan, the novelette, writer, rushed VI
, TO get some tea. She was gorgeous il
! ! red satin and reshly-curled false
8 fringe. She brought with her youns
frlent from the Lady's Residential
3 Flats; journalist whose favorite tall
was of her editors and her fashion
articles. She was looking round il
search of copy and as her eyes fell
on Clara aud Mr.. Martin, she gave an
appreciative smile. They suggested q
chatty paper on Young Loves
Dream" which might be worked uI
ut leisure. The staircase was soon
filled with Mrs. Bakers boarders and
their guests. Besides two or three
groups OF pink and blue young ladies,
there were several substantial matrons
in thick silks, who tried very hard not
to look like boarders.
Clara" whispered Mrs. Baxter,
it's just nine o'clock and your man
hasn't come"
MY man What do you mean ~
said Clara, flushing crimson, for Mr..
Martin was not yard away.
Your man, yes? Why the man that
was to play for the dancing. He ought
TO be here now: hope he's not going
10 disappoiut."
Il think heard the bell ring. Yes,
here he is--Rudolph is letting him in.
knew he would come, poor fel ow.
Good gracious, how cold he looks ~
| % n
icicle, an embodied shiver. He had 10
overcoat, only thin worsted comfort
er round his neck, and a pair of worn
black WOODEN mittens Oh his numb
hands.
Clara Simpsons face was the only
one he knew as he made his way up
the stairs, through the medley of gay
dresses and black coats. She smiled
brightly on him.
I'VE were just wondering what had
become of you"
I'm not very late, am p he an
swered, nervously. Il walked all the
way.n
"All the way from Remington
Yes, all the way, and l have DO
watch, SO l didn't know how long it
| took"
Take a cup of tea to warm you, and
| there is some cake left, know. Mr..
Martin, please hand the caken
The pianist ate the cake, and drank
| the lukewarm tea with avidity, and
then Clara led the way to the drawing
room. There was large fire, aud
group of chilly people stood round it,
Clara found a gap for Mr.. Denham.
"Do get in there" she said, mo one
c,.h play with cold hands, | know
that"
The largest of the large matrons
looked disdainfully at MIR. Leonard
Denham, as he timidly edged his way
in like poor spaniel, hunted in from
the street. He certainly was shabby,
he had on paper collar and cuffs and
very old black tie. AS the fire blazed
redly OH his thin face, it showed how
gaunt il was, and yet The features
were delicate and well-cut, and the fair
hair was fine as silk.
Clara" said Mrs. Baxter, busting
in, where is this person you've
got to play the piano? Everyone is
waiting 10 begin the first quadrille."
Mr.. Denham nervously tore the
black mittens from his hands, and,
preceded by Clara. made for the piano.
If Mrs. Baxter had any fears as to how
he could acquit himself, they vanish
ed at the first chords, which were
struck with firm, yet delicate touch.
Mr.. Hermann, the German professor,
who stood behind the piano, shook
his massive head, and remarked:
ga, ia, he plays very we'll the piano.
He must have learned in my country,
not here"
And Leonard Denham smiled and
said he learned in Germany. So the
opinion of his listeners went up &C.
cordingly.
"You didn't bring any music" said
Mrs. Baxter.
No, don't need it. play from
memory, or out of my own head" was
the answer. A brilliant set of quad
rifles was dashed off, and then valses,
polkas, mazurkas in quick succession.
Clara Simpson danced every dance.
The color flushed in her pale face, she
was as pink as her dress. After the
third valse with Mr.. Martin, she
danced up to the piano, and stopped,
flashed and painting, beside it. Mr..
Depham look up.
DO YOU like my playing ?" he ask
Like it cried Clara, Il love it.
l never heard anyone play half as
well. It's splendid. Isn'tit, Mr. Mar
tin? 1t would make anyone dance.
Everyone says SO. never. never en-
joyed myself as much as I've done this
frosty night"
I'm very glad of it, very glad"
And now You ought to go down
and have some supper, and Just let me
play till you come back. Do go. |
know there's some cold chicken left.n
Mr.. Denham went, and Clara took
his place. She played her best polka,
smiling to herself all the time, and
looking up, now and then, at Theo-
dore Martin, who stood admiringly
beside her. When Mr.. Denham came
back, looking a little less cold and
hungry than he did before, h. sat
down and played a valse; a valse SO
dreamy, SO sad, SO full of delicate
lights and shades, that it seemed like
the voice of a beautiful soul singing
softly to itself. To the dancers as they
fitted round. it was as if they heard
the beating of each others hearts.
"Ah" sighed Clara, as she stopped
by the piano, leaning on Theodore
Martins arm, that is the best of all !
I'm sorry it's over. What do you call
it, Mr.. Denham -
II haven't called it anything yet.
L y
Clara"
After me! Then you composed
it yourself"
"How clever of you to think of such
a beautiful thing.''
mot at all. 1t was you inspired it.
1t is piece of you-of your love and
your Iife-I have never had any of
my own" he whispered, with a half
regretful sigh.
1t was all over. That was the last
dance. 1t was past twelve o'clock.
The guests were collecting their
mufflers and wraps in the hall, the
boarders were standing by the fire
preparing to face their cold bedrooms;
the two Indians were wondering how
the English could give themselves
such trouble as to spend whole even
ing dancing, and Mrs. Baxter was
looking at the remains of the supper,
and contriving how they could be
made to do for next days luncheon.
All the candles had burnt to their
sockets. Mr.. Denham had received
his two half-crowns from Mrs. Baxter's
hot red hand, and was passing the
little alcove on his way downstairs,
when Clara flew out.
wait a minutel" she said, II have
something for YOU"
She pro iuced little paper parcel
which contained pair of new black
wooden mittens.
Ibid them myself" she whispered,
won't you have them? Yours are
just little worn, give them to me,
and take these. Stay, I'll put them
on for you"
She bent down and drew the knit
| Tod rniftans over the thin white hands