Newport daily independent., 1903-04-04

to be sure of her absolute forgive ness for anything in the past He wanted to allude to that last night; review it hastily, and receive assur- ance of her absolute good feeling. There must not remain the falntest shadow of rancorous remembrance. All would then be well. Some rec ollections would be forever effaced. Never again would that terrible pie ture rise-of the boat at sea, the man that beat the woman's hands until she sank!
 Was she waiting for the answer to some question, or had he answered.? Surely, the first exchange of speech was over q am, you know, a wid- ower," he foundhimself saying.
 Are you, indeed?"
 'And have no child"
 "Ah!"
 Tn that you are more fortunate. The little girls"
 'Not so little. My daughters are grown very tall Elinor made her debut last year. 1 shall present Katherine this season." She moved over to a table and took up a pho tograph. "This is my elder.'
 My God" said Seymour, in a whisper. "Your imagep
 She appeared not to hear. "Kath- erine is darker" she said carelessly. Seymour returned the picture to it's place q have long since forgiven them," he said, suddenly.
 q beg your pardon?"
 q have forgiven them-for caus- ing me the greatest sorrow-com- polling me to the greatest sacrifice of my life. "
 "Indeed, and how was that?" She turned her beautiful, untroub- led countenance upon him. The candor of her gray-blue eyes invited explanation. For an instant he felt puzzled. Had she forgotten-or was it but pretense? But there was no retreat now: he must go on as he had begun.
 T think" he said, in lower tone, "I hated them that night. l hated myself, know, and everything and everyone else-but you.'
 "Hated them?"
 "Yes. Until then 1 had loved them. But all of a sudden. when they seemed to rise to stand be- tween me and-a barrier between us"
 "Poor little girls!" he heard her murmur in a ripping tone. Still he went on 'I think l hated them be- cause 1 had loved them, odd as that may sound, Because I might not doom their innocent lives to pover- ty. Together you and l could fight it out, perhaps. But for the chil- dren's sake it mioht not be-"
 Linda Merrifeld was smiling at him. The smile was dazzling, yet he could not escape it. "Your wife you inherited money at her death?"
 He caught his breath as if struck in the face by hand invisible. But Linda's hands were playing with a rope of curious beads she wore.
 Recovering he murmured a faint remonstrance. Il have less than 1 ever had"
 "RealIy? Some bad invest ments?' Seated, she seemed still to look down upon him, while his gaze, avoiding hers. searched the costly tapestry behind her.
 "No," he said, with an undcrtonc of stubbornncss that he meant her to feel, "my losses in life have not always been unintentional."
 She was silent. and her silence bafiled him. In her fine erect slen- derness she suggested a delicate tree that cast its shade upon him. Her smile was as sunlight waycring, her voice the rippling of brook; he felt as one wandering astray in a pleasant woodland. unhinde1ed and of infinite inconsequcnce Had Linda ceased to remember? He was goad- ed on to know. He must not hesi- tate; others might arrive. He had purposely come early. Your daugh- ters," he began, Shall not have the pleasure"
 q am sorry that they are not at