The Saint Paul globe. (St. Paul, Minn.) 1896-1905, 1900-04-18
THE GUEST.

Boston Post.
1 sat before the fire In my study. unable
to open my books, unwilling TO go to bed.
because of an event, now four days old,
which made sleep and sustained mental
labor alike impossible
| had quarreled with Linda
10 realize the seriousness of this lovers
quarrel one must have known Linda. To
quarrel with her was to quarrel with one
self This night she was far away. too
Tar by many scores Of miles for me to
go to her, to lay my head on her knees.
as longed to do, and ask to be forgiven.
Poets may harness time and space. but
the lover is their bondman.
Gazing into the fire, which leaned and
Hared as the gusts of the midnight
tempest shook the chimney, saw Ier
race as had last seen it turned TO mine.
neither reproach nor sadness in it. but
mute wonder. In this look of wonder Law
.he sung OF my remorse, wholly selfish
II would appear, since I feared this dis
covery of trait or trick of my char
acter, never before known to her. might
dull the edge of her love.
AFTER a. succession of gloomy Thoughts
porn OF my bitterness, leading back cir
cle-wise to 1t again, l endeavored to for
get my trouble;-1 wrote, 1 read with long
intervals or sensele5s self-searching be-
tween these efforts. l went to the Diano
at last, and let my fingers call from the
Keys as they would the music for which
she cared most. 1t drew the bitterness
from my heart as nothing else could do
but a word from her, herself. That /
could not have.
a hand was laid upon my shoulder.
1 looked up.
Linda stood before me.
She was enveloped in her long onaro
cloak of black velvet lined with ermine
her mead was uncovered. Her hair was
dlsordered as If blown by the wind
Drops of rain trembled upon It,
She gazed down upon me from under
her dropping lids, as she alone could
gaze. Her lips were half parted in n
WlstIul smile. arose, speechless with
less fingers.
At the familiar touch, / cried;
Linda! Lindap
1 drew her toward the fire, for there
was sense Of cold about her. She sank
on some cushions by the armchair 1 had
left. L seated myself in It, She drew
nearer and rested her head against my
knee. The heavy cloak had sunk grad
ually from her shoulders, revealing
loose gown Of white silk. Her long fingers
moved in and out Of it's deep lace trim
ming.
Linda said, catching my breath as
a child who sobs. why did you come to
me so far?'
She raised her head and gazed into my
face. The depth of tenderness In her
eyes answered me.
WAS it to comfort me, beloved; to tell
me what l do not deserve to be told; to
tell me am forgiven?"
She bowed her head, then let it droop
again, until it rested upon my knee. !
settled myself in the armchair, that she
might lean with more ease against me.
The bliss of having her beside me, of feel
ing the soft pressure Of her cheek was
almost more than 1 could bear Hysteri-
cal sobs again choked me. leaned over
and gathered her into my arms, pressing
my lips again and again into the soft
masses Of her hair. The night wind still
fingered In it. In my joy had forgotten
what? 1 shook of the vague fear, the
conceived them drew her closer to me.
She seemed terribly still. only her long.
white fingers moved reStlessly. I ran my
hand through her hair, then drew tine
dark locks back, that 1 might kiss her
brow.
Linda I murmured, bending over her
until my lips touched her forehead-cold!
colder than the night wind, cold as deathg
For Gods sake, LindaI' cried, tell
me how you came here-the storm! the
night! aloneI Linda! did you die2"
Before the day daWned she had answer
ed me. The answer was love, not death.
They broke the word to me at sunrise,
not knowing that she herself had been
my guest that night