The Denison review. [volume] (Denison, Iowa) 1867-current, 1907-10-02

" .a--<N 2 :
Of her mothers fall painted in words
of bitterness such as only wounded
pride and dead love can conjure. She
would see her mothers soul In all its
nakedness, and his would be the hand
that had thrown aside the garments
OF time and charity.
care you sleepy. daddy?" Poindexter
reused himself.
Not Bit" he declared. what
makes you think that, daughter?'
You are so STILL" she explained,
"and you don't talk"
"Daddy's little tired" he explain.
ed
"Shall tell you good night storyy'
The child nodded her head contented-
~, and Poindexter began a fantastic
tale. Ee had fertile fancy. and these
good night stories We're glorious NO.
ments in the child's life. There were
times when she stole softly about the
house lest she interrupt his writing.
but when bedtime came and she lay
curled up in his lap while his rich
voice recited weird tales of giants and
fairies and dragons she had him for
her very own and was content with
the sacrifice.
AS they neared the climax his voice
grew soft, and when at last the end
came he waited for the usual applause
of THAT was lovely. daddy" Instead,
soft lips brushed his cheek and the
tired child sank off to sleep.
Tenderly he bore her to her bed and
tucked her in as gently as a woman
might have done. Reverently he press
ed his lips against the rosy mouth and
tiptoed from the room.
The library seemed cold and cheer
less when he returned. The child's
visit had but emphasized his loneli-
ness, and he sat banlSly at the table
on which lay the package with its adj
dress but half completed.
He swung his chair about that he
might not see it; but. though he had
turned his back upon it, the script
still danced before his mental vision.
He could still see the uncompleted
tail of the "y" he had been writing
when Elsie had come in and the ink
blotch in the corner where the pen had
relied against it. A dozen times he
half turned to complete the address,
and as often there came to his mem
DRY the words of his daughter.
Some day she would read the book
with clear vision, and perhaps she
would understand. There is always
some one to disillusion with awkward
speech. Perhaps she might never know
how true to life the story was. Then
again some chance remark might bear
in upon her the truth.
Agnes by her action had forfeited
all right to his forbearance but there
was still his duty toward his child. 1t
seemed like murder to destroy this
masterpiece, and vet
lie Went over every incident of his
life since his marriage. She had mar
ried him, ambitious for his future,
and he. utterly content, had been hap
Ply in his moderate success save for
those moments when her urgings spur
red his ambition. One purpose in writ
ing this very book was to show her,
when it was too late, that he could ac-
complish those successes for which she
had longed; that he could write as bril-
liantly as the man for whom she had
left him
The east glowed with the first blush
of the dawn when at last he rose from
the chair and threw aside the curtains
to let in the morning light and the
fresh air.
Slowly he crossed the room to the
empty fireplace and laid the package
in the crate. A tiny tongue of flame
crept along the wrapper, biting deeper
as it grew. At last only the blackened
sheets remained. and he turned away.
"For Elsie's sake" he whispered and
added, with a sign. ''and for Agnes
too. God pity her" His magnum
opus was found not in accomplish
ment, but in remuneration.