The Republican. [volume] (Oakland, Md.) 1877-current, 1902-11-06

( one Star-llke diamond. 'Seei this is
my ring. But, during the last month
l have hardly heard from him and it
must be because what they say is true.
/ Icould not bear il any longer without
knowing"
/ There was the soft closing of a
/ door at the end of the room, and then,
| in little mirror which hung above
| the bowl of daisies, Rose Trelawny on
! glancing up saw the reflection of Jack
Merrst's handsome face.
He has come down then by the
five O'Clock train" she thought, and
/ by the expression of his eyes in the
| glass she knew that he had overheard
the WORDS just spoken.
/ 'Well. he should hear more" A
/ sharp pain contracted her heart for a
moment. and the rose4tints faded
from her face, leaving it whittier than
the one of the girls beside her. Then
! she gathered her strength up and
! commanded her voice as she had often
commanded it when the world had
come to listen. Giving a little light
laugh, she laid her hand over the one
that wore the single diamond.
My child! my child! she said,
gently. DO you not know better than
to believe all you hear? Itwould make
! life too difficult if we did"
And so this is your engagement
ring? Well, listen then; owe you
confession. l am not such a dear good
little fool as you are, for l will never
| break my heart over any man. and |
fear-I very much fear l have fiirted
somewhat seriously with this Mr.. Mer
| rift of yours. didn't know about you,
of course, and | like men to fall in love
with me. they are so much more anus
| ing when they do. Now Jack Merritt
was of the obstinate ones who at first
defied my charms, so l punished him
! for il, and of late, for the last two
weeks, victory has perched on my BAN
ner. and he has been what one might
| call attentive. But. went on the beau
tiful clear voice. but he does not love
me, and as for myself he is not the
| kind of man l would ever dream of
marrying. He is good-loobing-but
| that is all"
The girl looked up with flashing eyes.
"You are UNJUST" she cried. you
have been most wicked-for it is wick
ed to play at love-and II have been
the one to suffer"
Miss Trelawny leaned over sudden
ly and kissed her soft cheek "Why,
then" she said, "suffer no more, my
dear, but be happy, and do not pull
your toys to pieces to see how they
are made. He should be very well con-
tent. You love him-and "a man is not
loved every day Besides, you are
| beautiful, much more beautiful than
| | am, and younger-and possibly bet
| ter woman"
Then she stepped out through the
| French window into the rose-scented
| garden. and left the two alone in the
shadowy room.
at would not have been possible"
she said to herself, 81 could not have
taken what was not mine by right, and
anyway-the marguerites told the
| truth"
That evening when the moonlight
was white on the world, and the long
south drawins-room at Bolton Park
was bright with lights, Lady Bolton
spoke to a man who stood beside her.
please do find Miss Trelawny," she
entreated. This will be our only OPP
portunity to hear her sing for she is
going away in the morning to answer
some sudden call. These musicians
are such awfully spoiled people, and so
uncertain"
Presently Rose came, and, sitting
down at the piano, waited a moment
hesitatingly-a though She even she
were not always sure of herself.
Then the plaintive prelude to "The
Rosary foated through the room.
The hours I spend with thee, dear heart,
Are as a string of pearls to me;
1 count them over every one apart,
My rosary-my rosary.
Each hour a pearl-each pearl a prayer
To still heart in absence wrung;
I tell each bead unto the end
And there a cross is hung
o memories that bless and burn,
0 barren gain-and bitter loss;
kiss each bead and strive at last to
learn
To kiss the cross-swee theart, to kiss
the cross.
The chattering crowd grew very
quiet as she sang. The wonderful
voice went out through the open win
dows and was carried away on the
wings of the night wind. The unfath-
omed tenderness of it, the beauty of it,
stirred the hearts of those who heard
with a vague pity, and in way they
understood the loneliness of genius,
and the isolation of those who are of
the very few.
by joye. how strangely she sings
that song" said a man to Jack Merritt,
as they stood listening from the veran-
da.
Yes" he answered, with a slarug
and as he lit cigar. almost as if she
meant it. you know. But it is merely
her art. my dear fellow. She is a most