The Irish standard. [volume] (Minneapolis, Minn. ;) 1886-1920, 1905-12-30

a child, and yet one who could hold
him in restraint with 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? 1t must
come to that, she felt, for his adopt,
ing Grecnvale as a permanent residence
| was unlikely. She was sure his front.
raising hobby was but short-lived
fad, and to content hiR,sclf in slow
going Grecnvale for long was not to By
| expected. He had grown used to tho
busy world of a great city and back
to it he must 30 or be miserable. She
even doubted If he would remain there
| after snow came and the drcary mo-
notony of winter began.
She knew what Aunt Comfort would
| say If asked. She knew VIII at that good
SOULS waiting up for her and the kiss
that was Il bencdiction meant! But
no, it should not be, and. as sho
turned away from the dark current, it
was with a resolve to say mo" when
the time came, and come what may.
abide with and care for Aunt Comfort
80 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 ensued 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 momentous expo
dition, and leaving Angie just now was
also unpleasant. Then again, he sore
ly wanted to confide in some one, and
yet dared not.
A secret is burden. be it good or
evil. and all the possibilities of joy ana
sorrow contained in the one Martin
carried made II a 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 tn,
melancholy days." she added, affecting
a laugh. land think my school no
ticed it."
Martin did. al least, and quick of
intuition realized that even a hint of
l0ve-making now would be out of
place
"You are not quite your usual SELF"
he said at last. almost desperately,
land am way down hill in my mood"
"YOu ought not to be-" she returned
smiling at him. you have few weeks
Of camp-fircs. bough beds, and wilder
ness life ahead, and 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?"
Il expect to-" answered Martin, feel
ing himself grow hot and cold, "but
I wish the doctor we're going also"
And now strange fatality led Angie
to 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 q,,es-
tons as vaguely as possible. "and the
more l think of it, the more pitiful
his life seems wish could send
him something"
Then a 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 a later one for
purpose he dared not even hint, and
how to get it without exciting her Gu
riosity was a question.
"Angie." he said. after a pause.