The L'Anse sentinel. (L'Anse, L.S., Mich.) 18??-current, 1899-02-04

veneer or cheap culture. lie talkeu NO
more of literature and art. Nor did he
talk of himself. But he spoke of his
father, and she respected him. He
spoke of his mother and the little dead
sister. and something like tenderness
began to soften the respect. She saw
how the pastoral peace of the old place
held his soul, and she wondered how he
could ever have torn himself from ii to
Ego into the mantles." To go to coll
lege, yes; but "into the manifest" But
this was one of the things of which he
never spoke.
Her time for holiday was nearly over
before she learned that he wrote verses.
Trembling, and yet happy, he read
them to her one golden afternoon in
the orchard. And they were good
verses. They accentuated her curiosity
as to his choice Of a career. The two
were now so nearly friends that shs
dared to speak her wonder.
"Why," she said, you must love the
country in your heart, or you could
never write like this; you make dear
little pictures in your verses. L can't
think why you ever chose to go into
business instead of living here"
He flushed holly, and began to pull
the dry grass from the roots of the
apple tree.
II don't know" he said. 81 had no
idea what business meant. l thought
that in London l should have some
chance of meeting intellectual people"
That's a hateful phrase" she said,
sharply.
'Then I'll change it," he said, and the
voice was voice she had not heard be-
fore. II wanted TO go to London, be-
cause l thought had no chance here of
mean Miss Mabel Roscommon; but you
don't suppose l have never dreamed of
a woman like you, a woman who knows
all the things l want to know, and
never had the chance to know; woman
l could worship, as | worship you, my
scornful lady?"
His voice was hard, defiant, and her
eyes were hard and scornful. She was
very angry.
"And so you thought you would meet
me, or my like, among the young ladies
who serve in the mantles.' Thank
you"
You aren't snob, really" he said,
quietly. please don't talk like one
just TO annoy me-"
1t was hard hitting-the gloves off
on both sides. Each drew n long
breath. The level shadows of the tree
trunks lay thick and black across the
orchard grass.
You despise me-" he said; don't try
to make me despise you. Not that you
could. l know you better than you
know yourself. How could knowwhat
chance there was for me in London? |
have found you, and found you here.
Ii | had gone to college-if my father
had not sown wheat that year should
be your social equal, and gentleman
you have great deal of faith in Ok
ford" she said, with cold malice.
you'll only be sorry afterwards" he
said. why hit man when he's down
! love you from your head to your feet.
eyes, and that smile Of yours. l love
you, body, soul and spirit; but I'm not
worthy to tell you so. Forgive me and
forget it. 1t was for you | wanted to
go to college, for you l went to Lon
don. l was a fool, but it was for you,
because l have dreamed of you all my
life. Now I've told you, and it's all
over"
What are you going to do? Shall
you go back to London?" Her voice
was low and not quite steady.
NO. I've had enough of that. shall
stay here and help my father to work
the farm. Yes, / shall have books-I
know you despise them, but that's be-
cause you have got all you want out
of them. l shall help to farm the land
and look after my mother, and read and
try to forget you"
lie had risen and stood looking down
at her. She rose, too. They stood look
ing at each other. He was no longer a
boy in her eyes-he was man and
her master. She perceived now how the
Alterations that had annoyed her were
not part of the man, but merely the
trappings he had put on-foolishly,
vainly put onto gain her approval.
She thought of his life, alone at the
farm. She thought of her life, alone in
the crowded high school. She raised
her eyes TO his, and her eyes were full
of tears.
Don't be unhappy about me-" he
said, eagerly. II ought never to have
told you, and it is not so hard really
as if l had never known you, for then
/ could never have settled down here,
where / really belong, and have done
my plain duty. | should have wan
dered all over the world looking for
you. Now | shall have the memory
of you to keep me companys and | can
do what ought to have done long ago,
and what | should have wanted to do
but for wanting to find you. You are
not to be unhappy am not; l am
glad"
Her tears brimmed over and fell.
This, then, was the nature he had
thought too poor to show her; this the
soul he had covered up with borrowed
plumes.
Forgive me-" he said, again. 81
ought not to have told you, but never
A 4. IL IL 4 4