The Tupelo journal., 1903-03-06

see SILVER InreauS among the Drown
What she really saw was a mass OF
brown hair curling softly above the
forehead, a pair of blue eyes, a deli
cately carved nose, and a wistful lit
tie mouth contrasting strangely
enough with the firm square chin
but all in all an attractive if 20 d
pretty face. But there was a lool
in the eyes not good to see in the
eyes of one SO young, a look hall
startled, half defiant, but withal 6
great sadness in them. She walked
slowly across the room. and stood
before the full-length mirror. There
is a kind of fascination in this stand
ing face to face with ones self, anC
it was not vanity that prolonged the
gaze. They stood face to face, with
eyes looking into eyes, the real ant
the shadow girl, and when Beatrice
turned away she felt that she haG
been looking into her own soul. But
her thoughts were not all of self
There had been another story in the
Goals, and out from them another
face had looked into her own. The
same as the pictured face on which
her eyes rested as she turned away
from the mirror. A face very like
her own, though strikingly contrast
ed in every feature. 1t vas thin anC
pale, furrowed and creased by lines
of thought and struggles of a keer
inward life; lines that bespeak the
7 cn,,l ar1 oh rnnfar 80 , foaa. tbA f,nr
of a student prematurely old, but
with a pair of young, almost child
like, blue eyes looking out from un'
der a mass of softly curling hair that
fell in almost a girlish hammer above
his forehead.
1t was a face that bespoke a grea,
depth of nature-and a stirring OF
the depth-a soul finely strung, but
%quivering under the Earring touch OF
thwarted hopes and broken dreams
1t was the face of a young mar
only five and twenty, but in those five
and twenty years there had beer
crowded enoughpure heart tragedy tc
enrich a volume were it only possible
to portray it. There is often a great
vein of pathos in lives seemingly the
most commonplace and apathetic, il
one a only read between the lines
and this was what beatrice was do
ing, as she traced the life-"A con
test since the day, which gave him
being-and that which marrcd the
gift-a fate, a will that walked
astray."
Fate, chance, circumstance, call il
what you will; but some power the
strength of which we all have felt il
the shaping of our lives, had evel
been a leading force with him, since
the day, when he, a tiny dreamy.
eyed lad, had run away from the
voice that tempted defiance of the
powers of nature, only to return anC
to be carried away from the grea,
water wheel of a mill, limp and very
near lifeless, until the day when, old,
er grown, but not less dreamy-eyeC
nor susceptible to the voice of his
guiding fate, he had had the old ties
of the old life broken by a force
stronger than the force of the water
wheel, in the form of another life
! joined to his own, a life as different
from his w as night from day; one
that would lead into new paths-anC
new tields-fields more "of the earth
earthy"-than the old ones wherein
he and Beatrice had lived as kindred
spirits and had grown nearer and
dearer to each other every day. But
now as she looked at the pale, sac
face, another rose up between them
"a dark, cold face, and over her
heart there swept a great loneliness
and heart hunger.
80 Harry" she whispered, and a
moment later lay full length on the
lounge, her whole frame shaking
with sobs.
She almost fancied there came an
answer from the pictured lips, sc
well she knew the answer would be
that of poor Tom Tulliver, who told
all the tenderness, the love, tho
pathos, aye, the tragedy, too, OF
years in that one cry-"Maggie!'
when the little sister of his child
hood had been swept by the merc;.
full food of the old river Floss, bach
into his arms after years of estrange
ment. Who ever has read that path
etc little story (and | am sorry fol
one who has not) has felt some OF
the tragedy of the breaking of Ole
ties.
Beatrice's sobs were full of it now
as she gave herself up to a paroxysn
of grief. At last when her sobs hat
spent themselves, she lay in that
border land of dreams where the
past and the present, the real ant
the dream life are so strangely
mingled there is no tracing the boun
dairy. She was living e those days
of childhood queerly mixed with The
events of the past few months. She
was a child again following in Harry's
footsteps-but carrying with her this
terrible feeling of restlessness, de
fiance. loneliness and heart hunger
I she had felt since he went away-al
because Harry was angry and would
not kiss her. She held out her arms
and whispered. 81 love you, Bruver;
l love you"
Then she smiled gladly, for the lips
parted-and he was speaking, speak
ing to her in the beautiful words oil
Byron
For thee. my own sweet sister, in thy