The Hood River glacier. (Hood River, Or.) 1889-1933, 1901-04-19

uliut HtI Hduu iNstihS VA Wv '"fAANb -
the old pew that stood between them.
Something in her face arrested him;
he stopped and took Aer hard.
"What is 1t, Lorinda? Is anything
the matterY
She looked for full minute into his
kind, inquiring eyes before she spoke.
"No, nothngs the matter. 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.
1t 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
1t was hard and cold. There was some
thing pathetic In the silent walk of
these two old lovers. They were almost
mt her door now, and she turned her
face toward him. If he could have
known 1t, there were two bright spots
on her cheeks; as 1t 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. ! haven't any
idea but that you think strange of what
I've done tonight but whatever you
think know | can trust you to keep
still. Perhaps there's things we all re-
gret. | don't know how you feel,
but" She had opened the door now
and had stepped just within the shop
but | 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.
1t 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 its 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-
BILE peace of 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.
"Its about the bill, s'pose," he said
81 meant to see about it before
but"
"See here, Phineas Harden, did you
ever know me to drive people on my
bills? 1t isn't bill this time, but some
thing that | ought to have attended tC
as soon as your mother died, but II
clean slipped my mind. and that's the
only excuse | have to offer. l dom
know whether you've ever thought
much about your father; he died wher
you were pretty young. He was one
of the best friends | ever had. They
said he died of consumption; l sale
so myself, and suppose he did; but Il
ever man died of loneliness and wan
, of sympathy 1t was Dick Harden. Jus
before he died he gave me letter t.
J give you. He told me to keep it as Ions
: as your mother lived, and at her dealt
to give it to you if you were still un
married; so, since you're a blooming
) old bachelor like myself, here it is. Ant
I whatever is in it, just remember tina
! your father was good man, and liveC
, better than most men die"
, In the afterglow of the sunset Phin
eas sat turning the letter over In hi
hand. The fading light was too din
; for the faint, indistinct writing, and b
lighted the lamp.
He looked at the date and it gave hin
a curious feeling to know that hi
father had been younger than he him
: self was when he had written the lei
; ter. 1t was true that he had though
of his father but little, and perhap
nothing in his life had ever touche
him as did this letter. which seemed a
r real to him as though it were his fatf
/ ers voice coming down to MIN throug
/ the years.
The writing was stiff and crampeC
u He read the lines again and again, Sc,
8 ing his father through each word:
To My Dear Son-Whether you vi
ever see this l cannot tell When life
e almost ended, some things seem vel
Il clear. | cannot leave you much, but pc
n haps you will some time understan
IS There is only just enough to take ca
l- Of your mother. | wish, God only know
10 how | wish, that could leave you hapI
"a ness. Lying here I've had time to thiI
: itsall over, and | am leaving this lett
with the prayer that God will someho
make it do the work
:. There is just one thing | want to sa
Be sure of yourself. Never make frien
e because you are lonely. There is no Ion
Is illness like that of a heart that cannot G
rs back to itself. Perhaps you will kno
ut what mean; if you don't. it won't ma
pit any difference anyway. | leave you 4