Holbrook argus. (Holbrook, Ariz.) 1900-1913, 1901-06-08

LIS pew WITHOUT stopping ana speaking
to Lorinda. Tonight he looked up with
his usual smile; she was just beside
him, her hand resting on the railing of
the old pew that stood between them.
Something in her face arrested him;
he stopped and took her hand.
''What is it, Lorinda? Is anything
the matter?'
She looked for q full minute into his
kind, inquiring eyes before she spoke.
mo, nothing's the matter. 1 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,
it was hard and cold. There was some
thing pathetic in the silent walk of
these two old lovers. They were almost
at her door now, and she turned her
face toward him. If he could have
known it, there were two bright spots
on her cheeks; as it 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. l 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-
greet. l don't know how you feel,
but She had opened the door now
and had stepped just within the shop
''but l 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 a hot week for so early
in the season. Phineas felt tired and
spent as he drove home from town on
| Saturday afternoon. AS he neareG 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 posi-
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 1 waited a minute"
Phineas got out and stood by the side
of the doctors sulky.
Its about the bill, 1 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 to
as soon as your mother died, but it
clean slipped my mind. and that's the
only excuse 1 have to offer. 1 don't
know whether you've ever thought
much about your father; he died when
you were pretty young. He was one
of the best friends 1 ever had. They
said he died of consumption; 1 said
so myself, and 1 suppose he did; but if
ever man died of loneliness and want
Of sympathy it was Dick Harden. Just
before he died he gave me q letter to
give you. He told me to keep it as long
as your mother lived, and at her death
to give it to you if you were still I'M
married; so, since you're a blooming
old bachelor like myself, here it is. And
whatever is in 1t, just remember that
your father was good man, and lived
better than most men die"
In the afterglow of the sunset Phin-
cas- sat turning the letter over in his
hand. The fading light was too dim
for the faint, indistinct writing, and he
lighted the lamp.
He looked at the date and it gave him
curious feeling to know that his
father had been younger than he him
self was when he had written the let
ter. 1t was true that he had thought
of his father but little, and perhaps
nothing in his life had ever touched
him as did this letter, which seemed as
real to him as though it were his faith
er's voice coming down to him through
the years.
The writing was stiff and cramped.
He read the lines again ana again, see
ing his father through each word: