The Red Cloud chief., 1901-09-27

pTlJlH uOIiHa CuH1e UeiOIe LILO uuui-
ence. She was to sing a suite Of love
songs, by q woman composer, whose
name Hethorington had often read.
but whose music he had never heard.
He felt but a languid interest at first,
In spite Of the tender and f~ull-throat-
cd beauty Of the singers voice, but she
had hardly completed the first stanza
before he sat erect, listening eagerly.
The words, enunciated with delicate
clearness, seemed to speak to his own
soul. They were as familiar to him
as though he had written them, and,
as he listened. and the song suite
continued, swelling In It's c%rescendo OF
passion. he knew he had written these
words-that these were the songs he
had sent years ago to Eloisa Grey.
He had heard, too. that she had tai
ent in composing. but It had never
occurred to him that the name OF h
famous song writer could be that un-
der which his old friend masked her
identity. AS the songs went on, how
ever. he was convinced that this was
tie case. He could not tell why 1t
was, but the soul Of the girl who had
never seemed to love him, and who
had put him aside with girlish timid-
ity and hauteur, appeared to be speak,
ing to him now, and to be declaring
her timorous love. He forgot the
woman beside him; forgot the throng
about him. He saw the meadows be-
yond the western town; saw the old
schoolhouse; remembered the chaste,
shy face Of the girl who would not
look his way, and his heart throbbed
In his ears.
The next day saw him taking a
train back to the town Of his youth.
which was now grown almost beyond
his recollection. He found a relative
of his old friend there, and he learned
her whereabouts.
Should he write? Or should he seek
her out? The probability Of his en-
tertaining a false premise tormented
him In certain moments. He said 1t
was q part of his old folly to rush to
the conclusion that she loved him be-
cause she set his SONGS to beautiful
music. Undoubtedly she had merely
used the material at hand. realizing
that the verses adapted themselves
we'll to music. So he told himself
scornfully-and even while he sneered
he packed his trunk. left his business
and started for a European vacation.
The long. golden afternoon dragged
itself out like a song that Is too sweet
to end. Basil Hetherington. elated
with beauty such as he had never
known. soaked In the old world peace.
forgetful of all the fret and fume OF
the life to which he was used. wan
dering about the ancient town by the
Mediterranean OF his love quest. He
asked the t~ownspeople concerning the
American lady. They knew her and
told him Of the place where she
lodged. But she was not there. The
brooding splendor Of the day had TAX
en- her to the shore or among the
vineclad hills. he told himself. So he
searched, half hoping. half doubling;
dreading to meet her and suffer disso-
luton OF his dream; yet grudging the
hours which he passed away from her.
It was almost sunset when he came
upon her In a quiet place. She sat
looking of sadly at the se~a-changcd,
indeed! A woman in the plentitude
OF ~womanhood. with a woman's mel
ancholy and aloofness. But he had
too compelling a curiosity in his heart
to permit him to accord any consid-
GRAFTON to his own h~esitancy. He
went up to her and held out mis- hands.
"Eloisa." he said. II have come
across the ocean and sought you out
to ask a question of you"
why Basil Hetherington!" she
gasped. Il thought you had forgotten
me a long time ago!"
Forgotten you! I have remembered
so we'll that I have travelled all this
way to inquire why you chose my
words as the theme of your wonderful
songs. Was 1t mere casual selec.
tion?"
mo"
WAS 1t merely critical a~pproval?"
mo"
WAS 1t because you priced m,
songs?"
II priced them. Yes"
For their literary merit-or, 70
their personal messenger"
You are making it hard for me-"
Why"
"You are cheating me of the WON
ans part. You are making me de
clare myself-it Is I who shout
listen"
"Then you did love the songs?
vac a happiness to you to sing Their
as 1t was to me to write them? 70
knew I loved you. You remembers
after all these years."
"Oh. yes. Basil, I remembered
Then, why. In the old days, di
you never let me know you cared fo
them? thought you never rea
them"
"And I thought you wrote them I
me merely because ! CHANGED to be {
hand. I thought you were a poet