Willmar tribune. [volume] (Willmar, Minn.) 1895-1931, 1905-01-25

presence SQe leT heISeH somewhat or
child, and yet one who could hold
him in restraint with a glance.
But could she trust her very life, and
all chance for Happiness, in his hands.
and desert the good old soul who had
been mother SO many years? It must
come to that, she felt, for his adopt
ing Greenvale - permanent residence
was unlikely. She was sure his trout
raising hobby was bat a short-lived
fad, and to content himself In slow
going Grecnvale for long was not to be
expected. He had grown used to the
busy world d great city and back
to it he must 90 or be miserable. She
even doubted II he would remain there
after snow came and the dreary mo-
notony Of winter began.
She knew what Aunt Comfort would
say II asked. She knew what that good
souls waiting up for her and the kiss
that was q benediction meant! Rrt
no. It should not be, and, as she
turned away from the dark curre1a. It
was with a resolve to say mo" when
the time came, and come what may,
abide with and care for Aunt Comfort
so long as she lived.
And that evening Martin called.
II leave for the wilderness to-mor-
row." he said, when greetings had been
exchanged, land am taking old Cy
with me-" And then ensusd a some
what humorous account of how that
unique old man felt about the trip
and what he was likely to meet. 1t
was rather forced, for Martin felt him.
self starting upon a mOment0us expe-
dition, and leaving Angie just now was
also unpleasant. Then again, he sore
ly wanted to conflde in some one, and
yet dared not.
A secret is burden, be it good or
evil, and all the possibilities of joy and
sorrow contained in the one Martin
carried made it double burden. In
due time, and as usual, Aunt Com
fort withdrew, and he was alone with
Angie.
And now she too seemed out Of
sorts.
my school has been troublesome
to-day" she said, in response to his in
curry, "and the turning leaves always
affect me in peculiar way. am
| positively unbearable all through the
melancholy days." she added, affecting
a laugh, land I think my school no.
ticed it."
Martin did, at least, and quick of
intuition realized that even a hint Of
love-making now would be out of
place.
"You are not quite your usual self, -
he said at last, almost desperately,
"and I am way down hill in my mood. >"
"You ought not to be-" she returned,
smiling at him. you have few weeks
Of camp-fres, bough beds, and wilder
! ness life ahead, and l almost envy
you. I'd like to look into your camp
some evening and see you cooking.
! Shall you visit that old hermit on your
| trip?'
IT expect to-" answered Martin, feel
ing himself grow hot and cold, "but
I wish the doctor were going ALSO
And now strange fatality led Angie
t. ask all about this hermit-how he
looked, lived, and acted, who he
might be, and where he came from.
'I've thought of him so many times
since the doctor told me-" she added,
after Martin had answered her aues-
tions as vaguely as possible, and the
more think Of it, the more pitiful
his life seems. wish I could send
him something" 4.
Then new thought came to Martin.
He had an old and faded picture OF
Angie, taken at 16, with hair in curls;
but now he must have q later one for
a purpose he dared not even hint, AM.
how to get It without exciting her Gu
riosity was a question. =
! 4"Ansie." he said after I pause.