The Bowbells tribune., 1900-08-17

you fancy your pure eyes can pene'
trate it! Yet, your rebuke was fit
ting. Grace, I sometimes think l
should be better man did I oftener
listen to your voice-oftener let your
little hand guide me. I wonder, dear, If
you would smile If told you a story
not long enough to tire you in the tell
ing-and asked you, though spoken in a
language you might not understand to
interpret it according to the dictate of
your heart? 1t is only the story of a
man into whose life there crept, as
creeps once into every life, a new, de-
licious fragrance. It instilled itself into
every nerve. 1t Intoxicated him more
than any wine. He looked about him
to see from whence it came, and 10, in
his very pathway hung a rare and
beautiful roSe-sO rare, so beautiful,
that all other flowers paled in it's sight.
"Here lay the crown of possession.
It seemed it won his touch. It's very
perfume held a sigh of longing. The
dewdrop glistening on it's heart was
tear of desire. He was young; his
heart was true; his faith was strong;
and he said: The rose shall be my
own, and so tenderly will cherish it
shall never droop nor die!
"And, 40, he outstretched his hand to
pluck it, and beneath the green, velvety
leaves We're sharp thorns, which pierced
| him until the blood flowed, and out
| from the flowers heart, where the
| dew drop had glistened, there crept a
worm, and the perfume held a poison,
! to breathe which was to breathe de-
struction to faith and truth-yes, even
honor!
"And the man turned away, but he
had left behind him his youth, and all
the world seemed to him suddenly bar
rem. And then, Grace, he returned to
his own home, and sad, and desolate
and weary, he bent over the rosebush
in his own garden, and 10! a perfume.
less enervating but none the less sweet,
stole about his tired senses.
HE touched and caressed it, but no
thorn wounded him. He inhaled it's ex-
quisite fragrance, but it was as the
breath Of higher life. Its core held
no worm, and the dewdrop was the es-
sence Of the flowers own purity. And
a great remorse stole into his heart,
and he said: I have deserved my ret,
ribution. I dare not WOO the flower 1
fain would wear
"Grace," he continued, his voice low
and suppressed with feeling, while,
stretching out his arms, he caught her
hand in both his, my story is ended.
Can you read it's meaning? My pure
white rose, will you indeed let me gath
er and wear you in my heart forever?"
The girl had listened as in a dream.
His words, indeed, had been to her an
allegory; but, suddenly, thousand
birds seemed waking the silent echoes
of her heart with glad and joyous song.
Even into the tears which unconscious
ly had welled into her eyes shone the
prismatic hues of the rainbow, binding
her with it's sudden brilliance; the sill
yer light on the river seemed to fall
from one Of heavens portals, which the
angels held ajar that her mortal gaze
might mcmentarily wander through it.
What mattered it, this former love
of which Harry had spoken, since he,
her hero, loved her now? For to doubt
that he loved her entered not an tn-
stant in her thought. 1t was strange;
it was wonderful; it was revelation
to her own soul; but she knew thai
this night on the river had brought to
her the one crowning joy and glory OF
her life.
She had loved him always-always;
but, so subtle had been the transform
alton from the love Of the child to tho
worship of the woman, that it was all
unsuspected by herself.
She uplifted the long lashes, wet with
shimmering tears, and looked into his
face.
"God make me worthy, dear love!'
she said.
And then he bent his head and kissed
her on the lips; but his kiss was free
from passion as her own.