Oxford Democrat. [volume] (Paris, Me.) 1833-1933, 1904-08-23
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CHAPTER XXXyII.
Author OF The Grip Of Honor" The Southerners
Sir Henry norssn. Buceaneer." "A
Doctor Of PHILOSOPHY Etc.
ce,,dsh,. Is,s. ,, CHARLES scRIsHERs Sons

Il
CHAPTER XXXvII.
I1"1'vO weary horsemen on tired
horses were slowly riding up
SJ The river road just where II
Es..sS9 entered the Wilton planta-
ton. One was young. a mere boy In
years: hut Il certain habit Of command.
with the responsibility accompanying.
had given him a more manly appear
ancc than his age warranted. The
other. to Il casual glance, seemed much
older than his companion, though
closer inspection would show that he
was still young man and that those
| marks upon his face which the careless
| passerby would consider the attributes
| Of age had been traced by the fingers
| OF grief and trouble. The bronZed and
weather beaten faces Of both riders be-
| spoke an open air life and suggested
those who 20 down upon the great
deep in ships. a suggestion further
borne out by the faded. worn naval
uniforms they wore.
In spite Of the joy Of springtime
which was all about them, both were
| silent and both were sad. But the sad
ness of the boy. as was natural. was
less deep, less intense than that Of the
man. He was too young to realize the
| greatness of the loss he had sustained
| In the death Of his father and sister,
| and were il not for the constant re-
| minder afforded him by the presence OF
| his gloomy companion he would prob
| ably, with the careless elasticity OF
| youth, have been more successful In
| throwing off his own sorrow. The man
had not lost father or sister. but
| some one dearer still. He looked thin
and i'll, and under the permanent
bronze Of his countenance the ravages
wrought by fever, wounds and long
| illness were plainly perceptible. There
were gray hairs in his thick, neatly
tied locks. too, that had no rightful
place there In one Of his age. The
younger and stronger assisted and
watched over his older companion with
| the tenderest care and attention.
They rode slowly up the pleasant
road under the great trees. from time
to time engaging in Il desultory con-
versation. Philip endeavOred to cheer
| his companion by talking lightly Of
| boyhood days as each turn Of the road
brought familiar places In the old es-
tate in view. Here he and Katharine
AMI Hilary had been wont to play;
| there was a favorite spot. pleasant
| haunt here; this had been the scene Of
| some amusing adventure. These well
meant "reminiscences nearly drove Sey-
| mour mad, but he would not stop them.
| Finally they came to the place where
| the road divided, one branch pursuing
| its course along the river bank past
! the boathouse toward the Talbot place,
the other turning inland from the river
and winding about till it surmOunted
the high bluff and reached the door Of
the Hall. There Philip drew rein.
This is the way to the Hall. you
know, Captain Seymour" he said,
pointing to the right. Seymour hesi-
tated moment and said finally:
Yes. know. The bOathouse lies
| over there. does it not, beyond the
turn: think will.let you so up to
the house alone. Philip, and will go
ride back presently"
We'll. then. will go with you" said
Philip. Il really think you are too
weak. you know. especially after our
long ride today. to 20 alone"
NO. Philip" said Seymour gently.
II wish to be alone for few mo-
meuts.''
The boy hesitated.
"Oh. very WELL" he said. beginning
| to understand Il will sit down here on
| this tree by the road and wait for you.
III tie my horse. and you can leave
yours here also if you wish. There is
nothing at the Hall. God knows, to
make me hurry up there now. since
| father and Katharine are gone. lie
| continued. with sigh. Go on. sir.
| I'll wait You won't mind my wait
ing:"
| NO; certainly not. If you wish II.
shall be back i'm few minutes any
way. just want to see the-thve All
bOathouse. you know
Yes. certainly. | understand. OF
course" replied Philip bluntly. but
carefully looking away. and then dis
mounting from his tired horse and as.
sisting Seymour to do the same from
his.
Poor old fellowr' he murmured MS
he saw the man walk haltinely and
painfully up the road and disappear
around the little bend.
Left to himself, Seymour stumbled
alone along the familiar road over
which q few short months before nc
had travelled light heartedly by the
side of Katharine. AS he pressed on
he noticed u man leave the boathouse
and climb slowly up the hill. DESTROYS
of escaping the notice of the stranger
who. he supposed, might be the factor
or agent of the plantation. he waited
in the shadow Of the trees until the
man disappeared over the brow OF the
hill. and then he staggered on. A shor,
time after he stood on the landwaro
end of the little pier, and then his
heart stood still for second and then
Ieaped madly in his breast as he seem
4 ed to hear subtle voice, like an echo
of the past. which whispered his name
Seymour. Seymour"
i Stepping toward the middle OF TN
pier SO that he could see the interior
Of the boathouse through the innel
door. his eyes fell upon the figure ol
Ia woman standing in the other door
way looking out over the water
stretching out her hands. The sun hat
set by this time. and the gray dus'
of the evening was stealing over th'
river. He could not see distinctly, bu
there was light enough to show him
familiar scarlet cloak at her feet. and
although her back was turned TO MIN
he recognized the graceful outlines O
her slender figure. 1t was Katharine
or q dream! But could the dead re
| turn again? Had the sea given VI
| her dead indeed?