The St. Johns herald., 1901-06-29


 his usual smile; she was just beside
 him, her hand resting on the railing of
 the old pew that stood between them.
 Something in her face arrested him;
 he stopped and took her hand.
 ''What is it, Lorinda? Is anything the matterY
 She looked for a full minute into his kind. inquiring eyes before she spoke
 No, nothing's the matter. I only thought that, perhaps-perhaps we might walk home together"
 He dropped her hand, and the color flashed to his face. But the blood moves
 more slowly at forty than at twenty,
 and he only said:
 ''Why. yes, Lorinda, of course"
 The night was clear and beautiful.
 It was strange how the man noted each sound. and how his thoughts went back
 to another June night long ago, when
 he had walked over this same road
 with the woman beside him. He looked
 at her face; even in this soft half-light, it was hard and cold. There was some
 thing pathetic in the silent walk of these two old lovers. They were almost at her door now, and she turned her face toward him. If he could have known it, there were two bright spots on her cheeks; as it was, he felt great pity for the lonely woman. He did not know that they were two players in ''the tragedy of what might have been," but he dimly felt that she was trying to bridge over the lapse of time that had come between them. He remem- bered something of the feeling he had once had when she was beside him, and wave of longing, not for her, but for the love that had gone. came over him. He almost forgot the woman in his remembrance of the love which she had once awakened.
 As the memory of the old emotions came over him his heart softened and he turned toward her with ready words on his lips. But they had reached her door, and she was holding out her hand.
 Goodnight, Phineas. I haven't any idea but that you think strange of what I've done tonight, but whatever you think I know l can trust you to keep still. Perhaps there's things we all re- gret. l don't know how you feel, l but" She had opened the door now and had stepped just within the shop ''but I won't be busy Saturday night and If you want to come I'll be at home" And before he had time to an swer, the door had been shut and he was alone.
 It had been hot week for so early | in the season. Phineas felt tired and | spent as he drove home from town on Saturday afternoon. AS he neared his house it's loneliness struck him as some | thing new. The heat of the day, and | his struggles with the question which | he had been evading, and which kept him calling for an answer, depressed him. He lOnged for quiet and peace; whether the old quiet life or the possi- | ble peace of a new one, he did not | know. But his house was not so lonely, | after all; for, as he came nearer, he | saw the old doctors sulky beside the gate. He had always liked the cheer. | full, sensible old man, and he hailed him now with even a note of relief in his voice:
 Hello, Phineas; thought you'd be along if waited a minute"
 Phineas got out and stood by the side of the doctors sulky.
 'It's about the bill, s'pose," he said. 'T meant to see about it before but"
 "See here, Phineas Harden, did you ever know me to drive people on my bills? It isn't bill this time, but some thing that I ought to have attended to as soon as your mother died, but 1t clean slipped my mind. and that's the only excuse I have to offer. I don't know whether you've ever thought much about your father; he died when you were pretty young. He was one of the best friends I ever had. They said he died of consumption; I said so myself, and 1 suppose he did; but if ever q man died of loneliness and want of sympathy it was Dick Harden. Just before he died he gave me letter to give you. He told me to keep it as long IS your mother lived, and at her death .o give 1t to you if you were still un- so, since you're a blooming )ld bachelor like myself, here it is. And 7our father was good man, and lived better than most men die"
 In the afterglow of the sunset Phin- gas sat turning the letter over in his hand. The fading light was too dim Tor the faint, indistinct writing, and he lighted. the lamp.
 He looked at the date and it gave him a curious feeling to know that his father had been younger than he him. self was when he had written the let ter. 1t was true that he had thought 1f his father but little, snd perhaps nothing in his life had ever touched lim as did this letter, which seemed as ,eal to him as though it were his fath- ITS voice coming down to him through he years.
 The writing was stiff and cramped. He read the lines again ant again, see ng his father through each word:
 To My Dear Son-Whether you will ,ver see this cannot tell When life is almost ended, some things seem very dear. I cannot leave you much, but per laps you will some time understand. There is only just enough to take care If your mother. I wish, God only knows now I wish, that could leave you happi ness. Lying here I've had time to think