The Intermountain Catholic. (Salt Lake City [Utah] ;) 1899-1920, 1903-12-26
Go the I1iemery Of H11adee

Margaret ST. Ange laid down her book with a
sigh and looked out of the window across the tawny
strand where the waters of the turpoise tossed
in the July breeze. I'm sorry read it." she said,
little impatiently. Il have only two weeks
tion and did not want a moment of 1t spoiled. It's
curious book, The Wand of the Gentle The
name is taking enough and all name should be.
1t takes the fancy as quickly as it catches the eye.
The book itself is glorious! Plot, plotting action,
dialogue color-everythng in it is evenly balanced,
Justly proportioned; artistieay and humanity speak
ing it is satisfactory, and yet it leaves dssatis
fed Not the Margaret st. Ange, reviewer and
newspaper woman but the real me-the individual
for it makes me remember all that used to be,
and wish | might have been like her, that heroine
who was so brave and true and sweet. Ah me 'Tis
a weary work-a-day worldr' And she settled her.
self to write her review of the novel, for it the
last work of one of the best modern writers.
Many people thought her all that she longed to
be, this woman of five and thirty, who was a power
for good in her world. She was at the head of the
literary department of a metropolitan Journal and
she fought ably to keep her share of the pubic's
mental food sweet, clean and wholesome She worked
harder than she needed to, some people said, but
these were such as did not know of the dear old
mother for whom home had to be kept, and the
younger brother Just starting in his profession and
to whom sister had always been fairy godmother.
But even the soundest of Canadian constitu-
tions and the best-discplined of nerves will give
way sometimes, and her physician had ordered her
to the seashore. She must have complete rest, he
said, and she had away to a quiet seashore
spot for a two weeks visit, bringing with her no
work except a little reviewing of pleasant ro-
mances which would help to while away the time.
Soon, her review finished, each word of generous
appreciation clever criticism, telling In the clear
cut English which always fell from her pen (there
those who said they could always tell when
Miss st. Ange reviewed book herself if she
gave it to subordinate, she laid aside her writing
and, book in hand, wandered toward the hill above
the village to watch the sunset.
1t was a quaint old seaside town. Beside the
little church nestled the graves of early settlers
resting in their last sleep peacefully upon the daisy
covered, fragrant hillside which sloped to the
marsh This was green and brilliant, and through
It's softly waving swamp rosemary a slender blue
ribbon ran to the sea.
She gazed long seaward, the sun gliding each
gatherers hut to the glory of palace; then,
as the sun sank like glowing ball Or fire into the
waves she turned idly homeward tarrying beside
a little grave and watching the lingering beauties
of the sunset fall over earth and sea, about her
the soft hush which precedes the dying day.
Some of the restful beauty of nature passed
into her face she sat there stilled and tranquil
lied by the loyelness of the scene.
Hers was a strange face-that Of "a woman
with story'-some said attractive rather than
beautiful.
there with threads of gray; the paor of her cheek
only now and then frightened by the warm col
which IN youth had helped to make her lovely
her features not perfect by any means ''fault
ly faultless, icy regular, spendidly null" There
were lines of pain about the full red mouth. but
the hazel eyes wonderfully expressive, and the
still, kindliness of her gentle somewhat repressed
manner made those feel at home who came within
the pleasant circle of her womanly friendship.
Upon the little grave were daisies yellow and
white, nodding in the breeze and whispering all
the soft secrets of the the slender grasses
and fragrant covers. Wild roses clambered over
the gray headstone, and she found herself wishing
to be at rest in some such lovely spot
''Oh, that We two lay sleeping under the quiet
sod" she hummed, then caught herself up with
mental shake as she remembered the work she had
to do in the world.
Il wonder who is buried here" she thought
idly tracing with her finger the rough inscription
the time-worn granite.
"To We memorye of Madge' she read softly.
The rest of the was blurred and defaced by
wind and weather, but at the bottom she spelled
out: 'She marryed one yr. one mo. d one
daye.'
Quick tears sprung to her eyes and color came
and went. Who was this Madge? What was her
story. Had she been glad to have been "marryedn
but year month and day or had parting for
her been anguish, keen aud terrible! "Ah Madgep