The sun., 1901-03-25
rRANK sTocKBRIDGE was nervous.

ERANK STOCKBRIDGEw was nervous.
+ The edge Of his hauteur was still
fiawless; the toss of his head still
high. But there was grayness about
his lips; weariness in his eyes, and
his hands were cold. He paused before
the dressing-table to take up his
gloves and stared hard at his own i'm
age, trying in vain to shut out for an
instant that shape in gray and gold
trimmed glasses.
Two years ago an accident in a
strange city had laid him low in hos
pital ward. Among the doctors who
came to his cot was a woman in trim
gray suit who wore glasses. She had
been kind to him with all woman's
wonderful patience. One day he fam
cied that her eyes faltered under his;
the next, he had gone on his travels
without waiting to say good-by.
For two years he had lodged the
memory of that gray cloth gown in
vain. To-day he had come back to face
down the illusion and before he
reached his hotel he had encountered
that shape in gray. The gold glasses
and immaculate linen were precise and
spotless as of yore. But there were vi
olets, rich and fragrant, nesting
against her throat. She had told him
once that she never wore flowers; that
the thought of anything withering
upon her was intensely repulsive.
Man Of the world that he was, the
sight of these Nesting violets had un'
nerved him. He had stammered out
broken sentences that it made him hot
and cold now to remember. He had
committed himself to call. The doc
tor had granted his request with a
courteous gravity that he should have
known was professional and meant
nothing. He was thinking, instead
what the violets probably meant, and
had begun to lash out impatiently al
the thought of those two wasted years
when he remembered that he had only
come back to be disillusioned, ano
walked downstairs with his head in the
| air.
DR.. Murray was at home. He was
| shown into her study. The violets
| against her throat werea little crushed
and the air of the small room was filled
with their fragrance. Scientists tel
us that the odor of some flowers pos
sess Intoxicating properties. The say
ing may be true of violets. Franl
Stockbridge again lost nerve and cool
ness, and held out his hand with greet
ing he had never dreamed of making.
"For two years have been wishing
for an opportunity to thank you for al
your kindness to me when was in you
ward. You have probably forgotten.
"No," she touched his hand and with
drew her fingers, II remember. Al
ugly bruise."
Stockbridge WINGED. That was ho,
he had figured in her memory, then
"An ugly bruise." He had imagine
something rather more fiattering.
"I'm sorry" he said, apparently spre
pos of nothing.
"Yes?s The rising infection suggest
ed an inquiry, but the doctor added,
little hastily: "Please be seated"
'"Thank you. l wanted to talk wit
you about something, but probably
will not be worth WHILE"
"Yes?" the doctor said, again. The
politely: "You are, of course, the bes
: judge"
Stockbridge walked to the windov
but came back at once and threw him
self cafelessly into chair. II don
know" he began, slowly. I'm nc
squandering too much of your time
am II"
"No, my days work is DONE"
"Do you never get tired of doing?
he asked, restlessly.
The doctor quoted Mrs. Browning
, with stereotyped smile:
'I have lost the dream of Doing.
And that other dream of Done"
"My dear sir, when a woman ha
worked ten or fifteen years in thd
world, she begins to understand tina
a her feelings don't cut any ice with hft
{ There is the work and here am to d
). it, is the sum total of the situation"
Stockbridge arose and went to stan
beside her ON the rug.