The San Francisco call., 1904-11-20

The sick man hesitated. His keen
gaze was searching the physicians
face.
What is your name? Weston? All,
/ remember-the American physicianp
He gazed at him steadfastly for an in
Stant Yes, L will trust you. Doctor,
1 have a strange tale to tell you and a
stranger request to make, and not
much time or strength left in which to
do it. 1 love. Yes, here on my bed,
facing death, 1 still love, and it is the
only thought that fills me. She is your
countrywoman. Her name is Miss Holt,
Miss Alice Holt. What is it? Are you
faint?"
No; go on"
She is to return to Rome and to me
in two years. She has sworn it at the
fountain of Trevi. But she wears an
other mans ring. / cannot let him win
her. She must not know that 1 am
dead; you understand, doctor, she must
not know! For two years she shall be
mine. This is more than a sick mans
fancy. Promise me that you will write
to her for me. and then when it is time
for her to come to Rome tell her 1 am
dead
He fell back exhausted, and the color
receding from his face left it a deathly
hue.
Il cannot do this thing for you" The
physicians voice in dissent aroused
him.
Such a slight deception can matter
but little. 1t is dying mans request"
And the eyes already, with a look not
born of earth, turned toward him ap-
pealingly.
There was long pause, and the de-
mons Of revenge and jealousy alter
nately asserted their sway over the
physician. This woman, or love of her,
laO6 n III fPo Z,
thoughts were not Of the world he was
about to enter, but of her. Was it not
right that she, too, should suffer. He
merely said:
4 promise you
Milanfs hand clasped him as In a
wise.
My dagger-bury it with me-"
A heavy fog hung over San Francis
co. 1t served but to increase the up
pearance of luxurious comfort of the
Holt home on Pacific avenue.
"A letter for you, Miss, Holt"
The beautiful girl looked up eagerly,
and seeing the handwriting which had
been familiar to her for a year, waited
till the maid left the room before open
ing it, for she knew that it would con-
tain the tenderest sentiments coupled
with such thoughts as could
emanate only from mind
that had attained high
degree of culture, and she wanted the
joy Of it undisturbed by curious eyes
She had expected passionate protestn-
tions of love from her Italian lover, but
instead of that he had so interviewer
his love with all that was highest and
best in art and nature that her love
and her noblest ideals seemed one and
inseparable. A smile played about her
lips as she tore open the envelope.
There was no heading.
Il have willfully deceived you for
twelve long months, and God knows I
have suffered so much that 1 am now
breaking my promise to the dead; my
only excuse was a base one. Your
lover, Piperno Milani, died shortly
after you left Rome. I was summoned
to attend him. Having no one else, he
told me of his love for you and begged
me to keep his death from you, which
/ finally consented to do. Love of YOU
wrecked my life and he died thinking
only Of you. Yet 1 can not practice this
deception any longer. 1 do not ask
your forgiveness. l have acted like a
madman. I had learned to do without
you, but your letters, breathing so of
yourself have brought back the past,
and, heaven help me, love you still!
JOHN WESTON"
For an hour or more she sat dazed.
Then, going to her desk, she sat down
and wrote the following:
This is no time for maidenly
scruples. I once refused the love of
the best man ever knew. But the
man who wrote those letters has nv
heart. Shall we start over again?
ALICE"
1t was just two years since that
party of Americans had met together
for the last evening in the Palace of
the Caesars. The Italian sky was