The Abbeville press and banner. [volume] (Abbeville, S.C.) 1869-1924, 1904-08-31

psychologist, enables a woman, WIN
her eyes fixed on the horizon to SEQ
clearly, aye, theorize, upon every small
est intermediate detail Of the pictures
HE has a observation-disclosures be ac'
complished-his thrown his cigar
away-is of gentle breeding. his
hands do not embarrass him, his eyes
do not embarrass me-"
Only giving her as long a glance as
the eyes Of fve-and-twenty can give
Of the blushing face Of u pretty wo'
man.. this side Of offense! Then the
stranger steps aside into the deep oar.
lev for Mrs Chester to pass, hail
raises his hat, sends n quick glance
in pursuit of the girlish, graceful ng-
ure when it has passed. and continues
his way.
Thus the adventure is over; in a lie
sequestered as Daphne Chester's 10
come across q well-looking stranger OF
a summer afternoon may, aided by
meditation, become an
Thus these two people have met; Win
issues literally of life and death de.
pendent upon their speaking have kept
silence, But now appears the Deus
O.. machina, the first visible link IN
that dark chain that binds us u
which it is our pleasure to call rate.
The stranger, absorbed in MS
thoughts, or by his cigar, has dropped
a letter, and Daphne has barely passed
him by half a dozen steps BEFORE she
discovers it, lying in the path.
She stoops down, Eve-like. specula-
tive. She reads the address.
IT'S written in a woman's hand, up
on an envelope of blue rep: a square
shaped envelope at least three times
larger than the old-fashioned letters TO
which Mrs. Chester's eyes are aecus-
toned at Fief-de.la-Reine.
"Sir John Severpe, Royal Engineers
Poste Restante, jersey"
By this time Daphne holds the let
ter between her fingers. The situa-
ton begins to involve questions OF
conscience rather than Of curiosity.
.The affair is none Of yours" says
Pride. Leave the letter where you
found it, and pass on. Flattering in
deed to a mans ~yanity-think what
that is! a mans i%nsatiate vanity
were you to pursue this youth and &C.
cost him-seek his acquaintance, W.
solicited"
But the loss Of that letter may
nrove the spoiling of his life" pleads
Daphne's soft heart. 1T may be from
his wife, poor boy! The thought
makes her heave a sigh of pity. "Or
from his sweetheart. If l were
young-if I belonged to the world still
what might not the loss Of a letter
cost me! 1t is a question Of right, OF
duty to my neighbor, no matter wheth-
G.: my neighbor be a man Of fifty or
of twentyfiVe."
Having scared into the region OF
abstract and lofty morals, Mrs. Chester
wavers no more. IL believe this
letter must belong to you, sir"
She has been forced to run at full
speed to overtake him; her face 1s
o%verspread with damasE; she pants a
little for breath; curt, reserved in her
manner; cold, most unsmililng are her
lips.
Sir John Severne's eyes, habituated
Of late to A%nglo-Indian charms
charms whose i~diosyrcracy is scarcely
that Of GOODNESS or reserve-rest upon
Daphne Chester with an admiration
which she is, fortunately, too breath
less or too bashful to notice.
II am extremely sorry that you
Lave taken so much trouble on my &C.
count" he, begins, mechanically trans
ferring the restored letter to his pocket.
cit may have been from his wife. 1t
was mot from his sweetheart" she
thinks, with prompt decision. mo boy
Of his age ever got back possession OF
q love letter with such an air of indlf-
ference as that.O
Under this broiing sun, too. Real
ly. I shall never be able to thank you
enough"
There is nothing to thank me for
at all, sir. I am used to the SUM-"
Cutting him short without a smile,
without the relaxation of a muscle OF
her face, then preparing to turn away.
IL suppose I am at no great dis
lance from the sea here?" he begins
desperately, not rejecting upon the
wisdom of his question, wanting only
one look from the hazel eyes that, as
vet, have so studiously refused to en-
counter his.
"Well no. In an island the size OF
Jersey you can hardly get very far dis
tant from the sea-" q.
Cruelty laconic is Mrs. Chester's an
swer, yet do her footsteps linger.
How strong the pulses of the lusty
year are beating! They stir the earth
as with a new creation; they make
themselves felt, even in her own frozen
heart. How the cuckoo murmurs, how
the thrushes call aloud for joy!
To be Continued.