The Manning times. [volume] (Manning, Clarendon County, S.C.) 1884-current, 1903-11-04
tered out in the garden.

tered out in the garden.
She must have just come in, for her
gown was caught in the heavy gate,
and she was trying to get it out with
out rending the light, fragile material.
Let me do that. You'll tear it all
to pieces" I said, taking hold Of the
gate and her pretty laces.
She had dropped her roses, which
gathered up when I had liberated
her, and holding them for her we
walked up to the house together.
offered to get some Of Miss d'Au-
rillacs high-hanging wistaria for her.
and, insensibly, we drifted into
friendly discussion OF various things,
and, to my surprise, her English was
pure and fluent
You have no accent at ALL" I said,
when pausing before the side gate.
"Why, no. Ny mother was an
American as the Creoles call every
body who comes from any other part
Of the country" she explained, laugh
ingly.
1QeQ sue SllppeV away.
Aurore-for I will always call her
Aurore-comes often to visit her Old
relstive, Miss d. d'Aurillac, that somber
recluse, now that the summer even
ines are long, and owing to my In
sistence that she share with me the
glories Of the rose bushes and jas
mine vines, she comes armed with
basket, and we proceed 10 business.
now induce her to sit on the stone
terrace when our task Is accomplish
er, and Harris serves tea and ices.
OF course, it Is her Anglo-Saxon
parentage, which, mingled with tho
vivacity and wit Of her French blood,
makes Aurore so divinely fascinating.
The thought has been haunting me
of late with a strange persistence
that this grand old place would make
a rare setting for Aurore's beauty,
and that her constant presence IN
these rooms and halls and among the
fragrant oldfashioned flowers OF the
garden would shed a radiance and
happiness abroad like the dreams one
has Of paradise only another name
for the place where our loved ones
dwell.
am also persuaded that Miss d'Au-
rillac. would be far more content IN
some convent than shut up In seciu-
sion up stairs, where, after all, she
leads the life of a religious recluse.
I will give any sum Of money Miss
d'Aurillac, or rather her lawyer. may
suggest for this place as it stands, and
by restoring it to its original beauty
and undermining this grand old
house
All, dreams! dreams!
Harris seems to be uneasy. he
pointedly deposits my mail on the
breakfast table, and makes discreet
but persistent inquiries as to wheth-
er he must wire to retain my pas
sage on a transatlantic.
He reminds me that intended to
20 abroad early in the summer, and
asks what instructions he must give
as to my cottage at Bar Harbor.
But I linger on, and doubtless the
June roses will find me here.
b
The evening was exquisite. and Au-
rore and sauntered idly back and
forth, and, listening to her sweet,
girlish laughter, and noting the per-
lection of her beauty, made more per
feet By her light, fimsy summer
gown, REALIZED that hours so perfect
are not Of this world. And yet GER
tainly would try and retain In my
possession the happiness which this
lovely child could, if she only would.
give me.
We stood on the old stone terrace,
over whose ba1ustrate the thick ivy
grows. and taking her slim, cool
hands in mine, and turning her so
that the pale moonlight flooded her
lovely face. I said:
"I have never heard your name, but
to me you are Aurore, because you
represent the promise Of an exquisite
day. You are lovely-and loved-be-
yond expression. Will you not give
me the right to make your life ono
long day-dream Of happiness?"
Looking straight at me from out
the candid depths of her deep blue
eyes, and with a puzzled, sweet smile,
she said:
who do you think I am"
ct know not. But to me you are
Aurore," I answered, gazing in her
troubled face, and noting the flicker.
ing color which entranced her lowell
ness.
''I am Aurore-Aurore d'Aurillac-
MY husband, Fortune d'Aurillac, will
be here tonight"
l heard no more.
With a hoarse cry I epped back,
flinging from me the futtering little
hands and, leaning on the stone rail-
ing, covered my face with my
hands.
Night has drawn on apace, and
dawn is breaking.
The old garden is flooded with a
pale tremulous light. and its mingled
scents are waited to me, like the
sight Of a breaking heart.
A white sail slipped slowly andI
noiselessly by on the quiet waters oil
Bayou ST. Jean, and have finished
my lonely communings in the old gar-
den.
The gate to paradise seemed slowly
opening, but fate closed and locked
it, and I am an outcast and wanderer.
The dawn breaks serene and perl
feet but never again will I see Au.
rore. in her exceeding loveliness, ex.
cept in dreams.-S. Rhett Roman in
the Chicago Tribune.
Willie-Say, pa, what Is mona.
genarjan" anvWay7 PA mOnago.