Freeland tribune. (Freeland, Pa.) 1888-1921, 1902-06-18

bara and sighed. Miss Barbara
turned in the direction of the sigh and
quickly asked.
Are you sick, Dorothy?"
"No, dear; why?'
Nothing, only that is the third time
you have sighed this morning, and it
is so unusual | thought you must be
ILL.," and the sightless eyes peered so
searchingly. into Miss Dorothys face
that a flush suffused her withered
cheeks.
Somehow l keep thinking of our
childhood this morning" Miss Bar
bara said leaning back in her chair.
her wrinkled hands letting fall the
knitting with which she had been en-
gagged.
do you remember the school we
attended and the dancing class? ! can
see the professor now, his violin
tucked under his arm, his coat-tails
keeping time to his footballs, counting
monotonously, one, two, three!' Miss
Barbara paused to indulge in laugh
at the quaint image she had conjured
up, then went on: 81 never will for
get the way father looked the first
time the professor broached the sub
iect of your dancing on the stage. You
had finished some wonderful steps,
and in a transport of delight the lit
tie man turned to father, crying you
were an artistic, that you would have
career before you on the stage.
Father stared at him a moment, then
said in his sternest tone, "A Carroll
on the stage-never!'
"It made a picture, father with his
high-bred face, looking half-scornfully
down on the excited little dancing
master. But | was too frightened to
appreciate it then" and she took up
her needles, while in thought she was
again the slender girl trembling at
her fathers anger.
Did he say that, the professor, l
mean?" Miss Dorothy asked eagerly.
why, yes, indeed; he said you
would grace the stage at fifty! I'M
agine your dancing now, Dorothy"
and Miss Barbara shook with laugh
ter.
Miss Dorothy joined in feebly, then
said:
II must leave you a moment, dear"
and hurrylng out she dropped down
on the stairs that led to the bit of
room overhead.
They were poor, these sisters, all
their wealth having been lost in I'M
wise investments. Miss Dorothy
crouching on the stairs thought of all
the bright, happy past, of her merry
girlhood. She saw her soldier lover
now, as if the years had not inter
vened as he stopped at the bend in
the road to wave his gray cap in
last gay farewell. And she remem-
bered how they had come and told her
he was one who had fallen violently
fighting the maiden battle. For years
he had been sleeping in a grave
marked only by a single word, "Un-
known" Yet, sad as that time in the
sunny south far across the Atlantic
had been, the future that now lay be-
fore her had a drearier aspect. Then
she had been young, and had brave,
sympathetic Barbara to lean upon.
Now, Barbara blind and nearly help
less, turned to her for comfort and
support, and she, what could she do?
81 never could do anything but"
and again the thought suggested by
her sisters words returned to her,
Could she do it? If not that, what
then? Starvation, the almshouse-
Brushing away her tears she re-
turred to the room, striving to speak
as usual.
Barbara, l am going out to attend
to some business; wish me good
luck dear" She was trembling and
as she finished her voice nearly broke.
Quite unconscious of any unusual
agitation III her sisters voice, still
thinking of the past, as those to whom
the future holds no promise often
do, Miss Barbara drew down her sis
ters face and kissed her gently, say
ing, "You always have my best pray
ers and Wishes" and with these words
to cheer her Miss Dorothy hurried
away.
The theater was ablaze with lights.
They shone on the fair shoulders of
beautiful women, on the sombre even