The Intermountain Catholic. (Salt Lake City [Utah] ;) 1899-1920, 1903-12-26
THE N1EpMoINTAN AND COLORADO CATHOLICS DECEMBER

N''AA
come to the heart of a woman!
That had been her name in the old days before
trouble had marked her for its own. lie had called
her So and when she was teasingly asked II 1t was
.Madge Wildfre" of whom she reminded him. he
had whispered such words as brought the happy
light into her eyes.
With heavy heart she took up the book again
and opened it at the dedication. She never read
the dedication of book. That was one of her
fads.
1T means nothing" she said eynieally, "Peo-
pie dedicate their books TO those whom the world
thinks they should honor, and oftentimes the name
of the ono of whom they think and dream b. day
and night is locked deep within their breasts"
But the simple lines this page touched her
strangely. TO my memory of Madge" it read;
nothing She looked from the book to the
grave and smiled little sadly. There was but
words difference in the two inscriptions, and
yet what world of difference 1T made His mem
ory of Madge was evidently thing apart from that
of all the world. Was she dead too and was his
great heart buried with her! Who was this man
who could write to touch her heart and awake
all the old-time music with a harmony that was
pain! His books were all signed with nom de
plue and the secret of his identity had been well
kept She knew it was a man, for he wrote with
touches of power such as seldom falls to the lot of
woman, unless it is to one like those mighty
Georges-an Eliot or a Sand.
Then, too, his heroine Enthusiastically a
mans woman" and the action of his plot vigorous
enough for a Dumas.
"Ah happy Madge" she thought, Ito have such
a tribute this work of genius laid at your
feet"
She was such lonely woman
Successful in her work, sought after, every am
bition gratifed yet what did all amount to? She
was womanly woman, with all true woman's
longing for home and love- There were men who
admired and earnestly tried to win her hand Often
was she tempted to accept the love she could not
give, but there arose between her and the one
who sought her. the face of her lover long since
gone from this life. He had been proud and mas
terful and had loved her passionately. She was as
proud he, and when his people told her she
would be drag upon him, that he far above
the daughter of poor Canadian village doctor,
she had sent him away from her.
Then her father had died and left her to sup
port the little family, and poverty well nigh stared
them III the face She had to the city to
work, and he, the for whom she would have
given her life, thought that she gave him up for
ambition, that she might become famous in the
great world. Fame! Ambition! What did they
amount to? She thought bitterly of it all and mur
INJURED again: II wish | had not read the book!
But" with little shrug, there's little story in
it!'
So, hurryipg homeward, the professional in
stinct strong within her, she wrote till midnight,
story strong and simple, full of the human interest
which makes story. She wrote it well, with per-
feet touch which characterized her work and
which seemed to strike the varying chords of hui
man emotions and bring forth harmony a mas
ter hand evolves fawless music from the bow of
the violin. She called her story "The Happy Val
ley-that of Death" and it was of the happy Madge
who died. loved and remembered, and of another
Madge who lived alone. 1t only the telling of
it which made it great, but it came straight from
woman's heart and in writing it she forgot her
sadness and grew content.
x
Two weeks after she was back at the Office hard
at work, her cool somewhat cynical self again, half
inclined to repent the writing of the story until
a check from noted editor and fattering letter
reassured her that it good.
Her busy life went and the winter came and
went. One day in early spring when the naples
in the park began to show their tender shoots of
pink, and few snowdrops bravely sought the air,
she found In her mornings mail letter addressed |
in bold, masculine writing.
She opened it with some curiosity as to who |
was writing to her over her pen name, and read:
"Dear Madam: Of all the reviews of my late
book The Wand of. the Gentle, yours has given |
me the most pleasure. You seem to read my char
acters as though my eyes, and to appreciate
my motive thought it were your own.
Il shall be in your city within few weeks and
should be glad to meet you. line to me at my
publishers will reach me, if you will allow to
call. Very truly yours, JOHN BROWNE.
Dec. ), 1900"
She smiled as she saw the pen name of the great
man, wondering that he had not signed himself diff
ferenly, but she replied cordially:
my Dear Mr.. Browne Your letter has reached
me today and | am glad to know that my review
has given you pleasure. ! shall be happy to see
you when you are in the city, and especially as | /
am indebted you for the idea of my little story
The Happy Valley in this months Pacific Maga-
zine. Very sincerely,
MARGARET ST. ANGE.
Dec. Z, 19O0.'
She wondered idly whether he would come, and
them in the press of Christmas work, she forgot
his very existence until his card was brought to her
one day.
Bring the gentleman in" she SAID to the office
boy. rising courteouslv as tall. broad-shouldered
man. with white hair and strong kindly face, en-
tered.
He closed the door behind him and came swiftly
toward her, as she looked at him with eyes in
which recognition swiftly grew to life, but she spoke
not word
Long ago I knew that I msjudged you" he
said gravely. "Will you forgive mc?'
Long ago [ forgave you" she smiled.
Il have ALWAYS loved you, longed for you, even
when | doubted" he went "For years | tried |
to find you but there was no trace till ] your
review of my book. I knew that only you could |
have so understoo me. In your story thought
read between the lines that you were still my
Madge VIII you come back to me? Dear come