The Republican. [volume] (Oakland, Md.) 1877-current, 1904-01-14

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 l never
knew; | cannot even now remember
nor even when that involuntary joining
had commenced-I think from the very
first day we had met.
l never called him Bernard; never,
never, never; and, yet, as Bernard all
ways think of him. B. q. B. was in
scribed on the umbrella which he al
ways carried; leaning upon it now and
then in his weakness l asked him
oIce for what the Y. stood; he made me
guess, and leased me, as failed to do
so. In 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 soul within eye
sight My hand rested in his. 1t was
dark, moonless, still, only an occasion
al Whit of air blew us a 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: Il shall go to Colorado
first. California next; then shall come
back. and we will go to the south of
France. l cannot live in this climate"
was trembling; l felt l wanted him to
be gone. l coEld not face the sadness,
and did not wish to be sad. was rest
less, nervous and excited.
Say good-by to 1ne here" he said,
suddenly, and his arm was over my
shoulder and his face near mine.
"Good-by," l said, hastily drawing
back from him. He held my hand-no,
now both my hands were in his.
as that the way friends say good
by"
Hot as fire glowed my cheeks in the
darkness, and my heart stilled my
breath with its quick throbbing. His face
was near mine. l shrank back and back.
"Good-by, good-by." l said, with
nervous haste, and then when he would
have come nearer l felt his breath on my
cheek. mo, no." l cried. Don't,
don't"
He sighed-a short quick breath rath-
er than a sigh-and then stood up.
Very we'll" he said; perhaps you
are right. Wait until I come back. But
mind, if not me, no one else You prom
Use that?"
Yes" l answered, soberly and grave
ly. rising also. Yes, promise"
l have longed for that kiss ever since.
How l have longed for it you will never
know.
Can you understand? But, yes, some
how | feel you can. That kiss | have
never had has colored all my life and
made me what | am. Always | have
snatched at momentary qualification,
for fear of the hour when | should long
for it. And SO l 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. | loved him; yet when we parted
my lips were dry, and l 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
7 with I I1roS oil
l had no forebodings.
That summer the trees and grass were
greener than they have been before or
since, and | was as gay as the sun
beams. | never heard from him, and l
never wrote to him, but dreamed of him
all day and at night. He seemed SO
close to me that l did not even miss his
presence. That three weeks we had been
SO constantly together had given him
to me absolutely. | could hear his an
swer to every question, see his sunken
eyes light into consciousness and CLEAN
with quiet humor, feel his hand in mine
both when | slept and when | woke.
Nothing disturbed my memory but that
longed-for, empty, wasted kiss. Some
times | would feel again his breath on
my neck, and his beard would brush my
cheek. And then | blushed, my heart
beat, but held up my lips, and always
he was not there. learned to listen for
him in every footstep, to look for him
behind every tree.
One day my uncle came. We went out
into the garden. We chatted. | was
very happy. My uncle had come unex-
pectedly, just walked up the avenue
while we were at dinner
l pictured Bernard walking I'D like
that; quiet smile, well, child, here
am again."
l felt that was what he would say.
Then 1 would take his hand and we
would go away together. And | would
kiss him and lay my cheek against his
beard, and tell him l was sorry had
not kissed him before he went.
do you remember what friends you
were with that poor fellow, Bernard
Basing. last year," asked my uncle.
My heart gave one great thump. It
was the first time had heard his name
his dear name.
Eyes, remember" answered.
mice fellow, wasn't he? Poor fell
loI."
SPoor fellOwi" said fain+Iy