Waterbury evening Democrat., 1904-01-09

and move away under yours; if, though she love you, she does not shrink from you and fear you, and she jests when she would rather cry, and mocks you when she would rather caress-if she does none of these things why, then, you are deceiving yourself, or she is de- ceiving you, or both, but she is no young girl
 was happy when we talked of the sea; when he quoted poetry to me, and, with that dear, mild humor of his. made me relish Bret Harte and Mark Twain. two heroes of whom the vicarage li- brary contained no record When we talked of things was happy, when he spoke of me was nervous. He was coming too near, dared not listen, was not strong enough for happiness, feared 1t and him. I loved him most when we were apart. But even into cognate thought could not put my love. There was no future in it then, and 1t had mo form.
 The time came when we must part. Tomorrow must return to my father: he, knew, was going to Colorado to have one more last try for health.
 Up to this last evening he had al- ways been the ideal lover of a young girl; the lover who never spoke of love, whose gentleness always implied what his lips never uttered. Why or how our hands had sought each others I never knew; I cannot even nowS remember nor even when that involuntary joining had commenced-I think from the very first day we had met.
 I never called him Bernard; never, never, never; and, yet, as Bernard all ways think of him. B. z. B. was in- scribed on the umbrella which he al- ways carried; leaning upon it now and then in his weakness. I asked him once for what the z. stood; he made me guess, and leased me, as failed to do so. Tn revenge, insisted it must be Zeroboam, and Zeroboam always called him, even on the last day of our parting.
 We had strolled together far up the beach. We were between sandhills and the sea, with not a soul within eye sight My hand rested in his. It was dark, moonless still, only an occasion al whiff of air blew us strain of the distant music; and always far away in the light the dark masses of people surged to and fro.
 This is our good-by." he said, and answered nothing.
 How he knew, how he understood, has always been mystery: we never spoke of love, yet he never doubted mine, nor his. He went on. always in that hoarse, sweet voice: T shall go to Colorado first, California next; then shall come bwek, and we will go to the south of France. I cannot live in this climate" was trembling; felt wanted him to be gone. I could not face the sadness, and did not wish to be sad I was rest less, nervous and excited.
 Say good-by to me here,' he said, suddenly, and his arm was over my shoulder and his face near mine.
 "Good-by," I said. hastily drawing back from him. He held my hand-no, now both my hands were in his.
 'Is that the way friends say good- by"
 Hot as fire glowed my cheeks in the darkness, and my heart stilled my breath withits quick throbbing. His face was near mine. shrank back and back.
 .tGood-by, good-by," said, with nervous haste, and then when he would have come nearer, felt his breath on my cheek. "No, mol" I cried. Don't. don't.''
 He sighed-a short, quick breath rath- CT than sigh-and then stood up.
 .'Very well,' he said; perhaps you are right. Wait until come back. But mind, if not me, no one else You prom ise that?"
 Yes I answered, soberly and grave ly, rising also 'Yes, promise"
 I have longed for that kiss ever since. How have longed for it you will never know.
 Gan you understand? But, yes, some how I feel you can. That kiss I have never had has colored all my life and made me what I am. Always have snatched at momentary qualification, for fear of the hour when I should long for it. And so I have drunk when the cup was offered me-drained it for every drop of sweetness, and never missed but that one kiss which can now never have. I loved him; yet when we parted my lips were dry, and laughed while he looked sad.
 My cousins had laughed at our friend ship; they laughed when we said Good by to him at the railroad station, and I with them. I was not sad, nor gloomy; I had no forebodings.
 That summer the trees and grass were greener than they have been before or since, and I was as gay as the sum- beams I never heard from him, and never wrote to him, but dreamed of him all day and at night. He seemed so close to me that did not even miss his presence. That three weelTs we had been