Evening journal., 1903-03-10


wants"
Lady Mary was in white dress, all
filmy lace and muslin, with dropping
hat that shadowed her eyes and turned
their blue to violet. Her lips were grave;
this new phase Of pensive quiet suited
her well.
1T must be strange for you," she ad-
mitted; zone prefers to grow with ones
grandfather, as a rule. But you have a
career before you. What shall you do?
Go into parliament"
"My grandfather suggested il" he said,
"but-well, you'll think me very discon-
tented, Lady Mary-I find that l would
sooner carve out my own life than have
it ready made for me-"
"You are ambitious?"
"Too much so. / shall never dare even
to ask for my hearts desire
They had reached the bank, and the
woods of Bernon, nesting against the
mountain whose snowy crest was hidden
in the clouds, lay before them. He fast
ened the boat to a tree and helped her
out, and they went silently, side by side,
through the pines.
While far away on the distant shore,
Mrs. Brandon wrung her hands and pour
ed metaphorical ashes on her head, eiacu-
lating mentally: "What would the duke
say? And Mary is quite capable of it. If
had only persuaded her to leave yester-
day"
Il wish," said John, presently, when
they were resting on fallen tree, 'that
/ could 90 away somewhere alone, for a
time, and adjust myself. But my grand
father wants to start for home this
week. and / have not the heart to gain
say him."
'This week!" She had taken off her
hat and he could read her eyes now
without any perplexing shadows in them
| "He spoke of leaving tomorrow"
"Then this is our-your last day"
"Yes. May say goodbye to you here
Lady Mary?'
She tried to laugh. "And leave me tc
scull myself baclIi" she asked, looking
away from him.
IF had my way" he began passion
ately. Il would never-Lady Mary, for
give mel May tell you one thing be-
| fore / 90? If l could choose, 1 would re-
sign my new life gladly and return to my
old one, content with the memory of lC
days-l0 perfect days. As it is, l shall
carry that memory with me always; and
nothing that can happen in the future
will ever change It. Will you-I hardly
venture TO ask it, but it means so muck
to me-will you give me your photograph
to take into exile with mel"
"Why do you call it exile? You arc
going home"
"The whole world is exile to me after
tomorrow"
"Because-i"
'Because-I am leaving you"
She had put her hand up TO her lips tC
hide a little smile that was creeping
round them.
you are banishing yourself" she said
He stood up, his face paling, his lips
compressed; then he knelt down sudden
" on one knee and took her hands in his
Dare / stay?" he questioned, undel
his breath.
''What do your friends call your" she
asked irrelevantly, looking down. 'JohI
or Jacl2"
"They call me Jack" His clasp tight
ened; his eyes were growing insistent
she lifted hers to meet them.
Il should think you could dare mos
things-Jack."
1t was growing twilight as they crossed
the hotel garden and went into the hall
LET us ask for our letters" Lady Mar,
suggested.
A man who had Just arrived was stand
ing at the office window and said as the,
reached him, "Any kilograms for me
My name is Curtice."
The porter looked up, surprised
"There was a telegram just now," h
said, "but / sent it up to Mr.. Curtice'
room. What is your initial, sir?"
81. Curtice-JOhn."
"Then this wire must be for you," tn
majors smooth voice interposed, as h
Joined the group. "Ar. Crtice says it
not from any one he knows, unless" h
added, turning to John Walford, "it
yours"
John glanced at il and shook his heaC
"No," he said, and handed it on. II con
tained these words;
"Proof document mailed to you to-day
Police Superintendent, Melbourne"
"Can l see Mr.. Curtice at onceg" sal
the stranger. Il have some very import
ant news for him."
"Mr. Curtice is in a very feeble stat
of health" replied the major, with
queer look on his face. 1T would be bel
ter for you to see his grandson, Mr.. job
Curtice."
Il am his grandson-John Curtice,
| was the astounding answer. 81 prefer t
see my grandfather himself. Kindly lea
the way to his room."
And as the major obeyed he was sa,
. ing to himself: "Curtice could hardl
D ask for the money back; it would be
D deuccd ungentlemanly thing TO do. b,
e sides, l have been the means, indirectl,
h of finding him a grandson. ] have Il
G doubt the story in the papers did it."
[ His surmise was correct; the major
e private surmises generally were.
1 The little romance had attracted a
r tention where repeated advertisement
had failed. John Curtice, a clerk in
{ bank, remembered that his mother
!, name was Walford, and that she ha
; spoken to him more than once, in h
T. boyhood, of Peluan. He had a few pi
: STO|