The Sauk Centre herald., 1901-01-10
!: Copyright, 1900,
:: By Harold MacGrath.



was a girl in short dresses. 1t was in
a garden surrounded by high red brick
walls which were half hidden by clus-
tiers of green vines and at the base Of
which nestled earth beds radiant with
roses and poppies and peonies and
bushes of lavender lilacs, all spilling
their delicate ambrosia on the mild air
Of passing May. I stood, straw hat In
hand, wondering If had not stumbled
into some sweet prison of flowers
which, having run disobedient ways in
the past. had been placed here by Flo
ra and forever denied tnelr nauve
meadows and wildernesses. And this
vision Of fresh youth in my path, per-
haps she was some guardian nymph. /
was only %, a most impressionable
age. Her hair was like that rare Oc-
tober brown, half dun. half gold; her
eyes were cool and restful, like the
brown pools one sees in the heart Of
the forests. and her lips and cheeks
cozened the warm vermilion Of the
rose which lay ever so lightly on the
bosom Of her white dress. Close at
hand was a table upon which stood a
pitcher of lemonade. She was holding
in her hand an empty glass. AS my
eyes encountered her calm, inquiring
gaze my courage fed precipitately,
likewise the object of my errand.
There was a pause; diffidence and en-
barrassment on my side, placidity on
hers.
well. sir?' said she in a voice the
tone Of which implied that she could
readily understand her presence in the
garden. but not mine.
AS l remember it. I was suddenly
seized with great thirst. 81 should
like glass of your lemonade" l an
swered, bravely laying down the only
piece of money I possessed. Her stern
lips parted in smile. and my courage
came back cautiously-that is to say,
by degrees. She filled a glass for me,
and as l gulped it down l could al
most detect the flavor Of lemon and
sugar.
'It is very good" volunteered. pass
ing back the glass. I held out my
hand, smiling.
''There isn't any change" coolly.
1 flushed painfully. 1t was fully four
miles to Newspaper row. l was con-
scious of a sullen pride. Presently the
object of my errand returned. Some.
what down the path I saw a gentleman
reclining in canvas swing. "Is that
Mr. Wentworth ?" l asked.
eyes. Do you wish to speak to him?
Uncle Bob. here Is a gentleman who
desires to speak to you"
I approached. "Mr Wentworth" I
began, cracking the straw in my hat,
my name is John Winthrop. am a
reporter. have called to see if it is true
that you have declined the Italian port
folio"
1T is true" he replied kindly. "There
are any number of reasons for my de-
clining it. but cannot make them pub
lie. Is that all?"
Yes, sir; thank you." and I backed
away.
"Are you a reporter?" asked the girl
as was about to pass by her.
"Yes, am"
"Do you draw pictures"
"No, do not"
"Do you write novelsY
"No," with nervous laugh.
There is nothing like the process Of
Interrogation to make one person lose
interest in another.
"Oh, thought perhaps you did," she
4 I>o IL 7
passed through the darkened halls of
the house and into the street. l never
expected to see her again, but it was
otherwise ordained. We came together
three years later at Block Island. She
was IS now. gathering the rosy flowers
Of her first season. She remembered
the incident in the garden, and we
laughed over it. A few dances, two or
three evenings on the verandas watch
ing the sea, moonlit, as it sprawled
among the rocks below us. and the
even tenor of my way ceased to be. l
appreciated how far she was above me,
so l worshiped her silently and from
afar. 1 told her my ambitions, conf
dences so welcome to feminine ears,
and she rewarded me with small ex-
change. She, too, was an orphan and
lived with her uncle, rich banker,
who as a diversion consented to repre-
sent his country at foreign courts. Her
given name was Phyllis. l had seen
the name q thousand times in print;
the poets had idealized it and the nov
elists had embalmed it in tender
phrases.
1t was the first time had ever met
a woman of the name of Phyllis. 1t
appealed to my poetic instinct. Per-
haps that was the cause Of it all. And
then she was very beautiful. In the
autumn Of that year we became great
friends, and through her influence
began to see beyond the portals Of the
mansions Of the rich. Matthew Prior's
Chloes and Sir John Stockings Euphe
las lost their charms. .Henceforth my
muses. name became Phyllis. took
her to the opera when didn't know
where l was going to breakfast on the
morrow. I sent her roses and went
without tobacco. privation of which
woman knows nothing. Often I was
plunged into despair, at my distressed
circumstances. Money to her meant
something to spend; to me it meant
something 70 ge.. i1e1 :s.con,e bother