The Press., 1904-03-10
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FACE IN
The
CIR o w ID
BY K eth Gordon
Copyright, rsOs. by 7. G. Mcclure

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| After awhile she came to look for
him when the train stopped at the
| F1fty-third street station In the morn
ing-the tall, broad shouldered man
| with the aggressive chin and deter
| mined mouth. She felt vaguely dis
appointed when she did not see him.
Insensibly he became the touch OF
romance in the dreary monotony OF
her days, five and half out Of seven
| Of which were spent in Wall street, q
| place where the advantages of being
a woman are not glaringly apparent
often during the tagging afternoons
of summer, when business was dull
and the hands of the clock approach
| ed 5 but slowly, she would sit resting
| her face on her hands and wondering
| about him. Who was he? What was
he? Was he married or single?
The noise of the street blow, dulled
| by distance until it was as dreamy as
| the humming of bees at monday,
| droned softly in her ears sort of hv-
| ing melody, and her thoughts defied
office hours and went far afield in a
| fantastic search for the reality about
him among the crowd Of possibilities.
Over and over she gave him local
| habitation and a name, but these
| changed always with her mood. No
name that she could hit upon seemed
to express his personality, and she
| finally discarded them all and thought
of him only as The Man.
The weeks melted into months, but
her interest in him did not flag. Rath-
er it became deeper as time went on.
Curiously enough, it was what might
be termed the nonessentials that baf-
fed her. About the man himself-his
character and what he would do in
any given emergency she felt the
same assurance that she did about her
self
She had decided that he was a law
yer, though precisely why she thought
so she could not have told. Then one
day she saw him with a child, girl
of ten, who bore a certain fleeting re-
semblance to him.
imperceptible sigh escaped her. Then,
as the absurdity of the matter dawned
upon her, she laughed softly to her
self. What difference? Josephine and
Marie Louise had never dampened her
affection for Napoleon. She even be-
gan to feel q mild interest in the lady.
Sometimes, for two or three weeks
at a stretch, they would not encounter
each other. 1t was after one Of these
breaks that, watching him as he en-
tered the car, her interest and salts
faction at seeing him again shone all
unconsciously in her face, and his
glance was arrested by 1t.
As the faint color touched her cheeks
under his gaze he looked casually
away. For a moment he had thought
her some half forgotten acquaintance
from the welcome that he had sur
prised in her eyes, but her quick an
noyance as she returned to her reading
forbade that idea.
She did not look toward him again,
but more than once his keen, blue eyes
rested upon her as she sat there, slim
and straight, with masses Of pale
brown hair piled upon her small head.
After this he, too, began to watch of a
morning. A habit is very easily form
ed!
Then for weeks he disappeared. The
girl wondered anxiously what had be-
come of him. Had he gone abroad?
Mayhap he was ill-or dead! At the
thought she shrank like one hurt, for
he had become, in a whimsical way,
a part of her life. He had become as
near and dear as only ideals can be.
When he did appear one morning,
towering above a crowd of lesser men
like god, there was a new gravity in
his face which held her attention even
before she noticed that he was in
mourning
That, then, was what these weeks
of absence from business meant. Sick
ness and suffering and death. His
wife undoubtedly. from the sorrow and
oppression that he showed. The quick
sympathy that she felt lowered In her
soft, wide eyes as they rested briefly
upon his face. And he, reading that
look, felt a curious thrill.
Long since he had begun to regard
her with a sort of tacit, silent friend
ship. 1.-THE little girl with her soul in
her face" as he once described her to q
friend, shaking his head deprecatingly
at the thought of a woman like her
having to wrestle with the world. She
seemed to him too exquisite for the
ups and downs of such a life
He watched her surreptitiously now,
wondering idly who she was and
whether he should ever meet her.
There was a wayne might follow her
and bestow quarter on the elevator
boy, and the thing would be done. But
the coarseness of such methods re-
PEELED him. She seemed the sort Of
woman who would resent that kind of
thing.
Moreover, in his heart of hearts and
in spite of his bigness and worldliness,
he was a fatalist. If it were written
from the beginning it would occur!
No man could dabble in the affairs Of
fatei
1t was nearing the end of the third
year. He took the same train now
with regularity which made her sus-
picious. The results of chance were
never so unerring. Intention was ap-
parent.
But through it all save at unexpected
moments when the curtain would lift
for a second and an unintentional
glance betray deeper knowledge they
regarded each other with the battling.
impressive eyes we keep for the I'M
known. No twentieth century romance
ever moved SO slowly.
Then Billy Stoughton, who in this
particular case was the instrument Of
fate, awakened one morning with an
unaccountable but imperative yearning
for Broadway. Five years earlier an
equally compelling desire had landed
him on the ranch, where he had bided