Waterbury evening Democrat., 1903-11-05

in him went into these letters; all that he was seeing, feeling, dreaming; his plans for the future; his memories of the past; all this was crowded into let ters to the woman he loved. But on this night he found it hard to write, A low, persistent murmur in the room adjoining troubled him. He thought the occupant was merely drunk, still, the sound, coming back ceaselessly, filled his mind with vague uneasiness. He forced his thoughts on his letter. and wrote, a page. Suddenly brass band passing below his window, disturbed him. It was insolently playing Mo Ginty'-playing 'McGinty' in the sacred city of Rome! When the blare of brass instruments died away in the distance, the haunting murmur had risen to a higher key.
 "tGod, give me life! life!'
 *sThs voice was a cry, and my friend dropped his letter and started to his feet. That man in the next room was an American-was ill-was probably alone.
 "No one answered his knock, so he turned the knob and entered the room. The sick man sat up in bed and stared at him. "'You have come at last!' he cried. T was watching for you, grave-digger!' ''The doctor, whom ray friend sum- .moned, leaned over his patient and gave him a hurried examination Then the doctor rubbed his hands and murmured: "tAn interesting case-interesting and desperate.
 ! Constance is -calIing-call- ing, and cannot go to her. They are holding me down. They are trying to bury mel
 There was a table bv the bedside On 1the table was half-burnt candle and photograph propped against an empty coffee-cup-a photograph of 8 woman. My friend reached for it, gave it one look, then quietly put it back, face down ward, on the table.
 '" Digging digging =, digging = ah! the spade struck rock!'
 Fever said the doctor; extreme mental tension; outlook tedious-p ably fatal''
 The next morning the man was rae. tional, but in his rational moments, as well as his delirium, he talked always of Constance. He said that he was an American architect, and in his haste ito get home and marry the woman he loved, he had overworked himself in the Intense, heat of Italy. They were not engaged; she knew that if she engaged herself to him, he would never have strength to leave her. But she had xavs f&~ c. l. 4<> listen to his love when he got back.
 Sitting by the architects bedside, my friend wrote to Constance. It was a short letter and to the point. The next steamer brought her reply. She was distressed to learn of the archi- tect's illness. She cared for him, be- lieved in him, was interested in his work; but she did not love him. She had never listened to his love for her and only once had she given him a gleam of hope It was when he came to say good-by. Partly to silence him, partly because her heart was filled with an infinite pity for him, she had prom ised to listen when he came home. made up in cleverness. N 2 Lnluk, Sa1Q the woman at ms SlO0s 'sthat understand Constance"
 '"The day my friend got the letter, he buried the architect in the English cemetery at Rome. On his breast Wys the photograph of the woman who mad lied to him. He died trusting Con- stance. After that, my friend found that life, when robbed of it's glamour, is ugly business. All the old faiths were gone, the plans and dreams 2
 He broke off abruptly and there was silence, save for the music of the wa X ters. When he continued, softer note had crept into his voice.
 "At last second woman came into his life, bringing with her hope and happiness. Then he found that the boys love is not the mans love; that there is a love stronger, deeper, pro- founder S.
 Does the second woman loye-your friend?"
 Yes" he answered, looking steadily into her eyes, his own shining. "He would stake his soul on, her love. When she becomes his wife,
 But Constance? Surely your hon. ,orable friend answered her letter."
 He looked up with frown, but smiled as he caught her eyes fuli of eager interest.