The Worthington advance., 1901-03-08

ticed what an ugly tie Ae wore.
You wont care after aMhile. Per.
haps you don't care now. Perhaps
you only think you care!" q.
'Dolores!" he said, IN tone she
had never heard him uss before.
She had always been her own mis-.
tress. She had lived Ii books. She
had exaggerated ideas Of the facility
with which one. imaginative, although
unframed might earn = living BY lit
erary work. And she did not dream
that in such work experienced medioc.
rity counts for more than crude, un-
polished talent. .' S. 5@ .S
II don't mean to hurt you, Everett,
but I must succeed-I must! I know
what . pleasant home you have to
oher the woman you marry, anu how
hard you have worked to gain it, I
know how good you are, and IL it
were not that must work out my
destiny IT.. >s<. ~ ;.
II shall wait!" declared the young
farmer, grim,y. ~ shall wait-al-
ways. And If all should not be 40
you fancy-if things go wrong, /
"Nothing will 60 wrong!" She
was sufficiently youthful and pretty
in those days to be arrogant without
arousing resentment. "Nothing! I
will succeed
For awhile she had almost gloried
In her rebuffs-in her disappoint.
ments. Those who had won recogni-
tion had had to bear the neat and
fardel of the day. Her education was
better than that of many of the wom-
en- she met whose work was remuner-
ative. She had health. Enthusiasm
that most inspiring stimulantAwas
hers. And she worked hard.
But this was the end Of it all-fail-
ure. Something she had missed
what, she did not know. Lack of her
editary taste, the privilege Of "stum-
bling against books in babyhood," az
Emerson asserted he had done, or the
absence Of congenial companionship
during a young life of rural isolation
lat all events her poems were not
printed, her critical articles came
back, envelopes ominously thick con-
i tinued to meet her with eatiric sill
ence, and publishers made suave and
insufficient excuses for the return Of
her laboriously written manuscripts.
+ She could not-she would not 60
home. Besides, she had the vial in
the glazed red paper. Her grip tight
ened on it when she again recalled
the asters and the marigolds in the
triangular bed near the summer
house. The summer house where
Dear heart!" cried voice. us It
really you'll"
The intersection of Adams and State
streets was crowded. She turned
with start. The bottle fell from her
hand. It shivered into hundred
fragments on the sidewalk. A pun
gent, penetrating odor arose. Shak-
ing, the girl looked into the kind.
eager face of her old lover!
Dolores! What q lucky chance! I
have looked for you every year came
to town to sell my cattle. But you
had hidden yourself too well. How
thin you are-hov changed. You
have been sick-you are sick!''
There was roaring in her ears.
She put out her hand blindly. Il was
grasped in good, tight, hard clasp
the kind Of grip that steadies heart
and brain.
my poor girl! The fight IL too
hard for you! Come-we must get
away from this crush. What stuff
was in that bottle car bohc acid
Phew! how It smells! There-it's
quieter here. Walk slowly. Lean on
me. You're feeling better now?''
The protecting presence, the ex.
preston of anxious solicitude, the
brooding tenderness of the familiar
voice brought to her in an instant a
revelation Of life and 4ove-of all that
she had hitherto failed to appreciate
of all that she must never lose out
of her life in all the days to be!
Everett" she whispered, "do you
want me to go home with you now I
Or-or is there anyone-else?"
There could never be anyone else,
dear heart"
"some time I shall tell you what ]
IL meant to do-to-day!"
"Never mind telling me-" The
steadfast love in his eyes thrilled her.
"Only-come home. And try to care
for me-if you can. You are tired
out. The old place is beautiful now"