Waterbury evening Democrat., 1907-07-26

DuncomDe rose suddenly rom ms seat.
 Come out into the garden, Andrew" he said. q feel stified here" His host rose and took Duncombe's arm. They passed out through the French window on to the gravel path which circled the cedar shaded lawn. A shower had fallen barely an hour since, and the air was full of fresh, delicate fragrance. Birds were sing ing in the dripping trees; blackbirds were busy in the grass. The perfume from the wet lilac shrubs was a very dream of sweetness. Andrew pointed across park which sloped down to the garden boundary.
 up there among the elm trees, George" he said, "can you see gleam of white? That is the hall, just to the left of the rookery." Duncombe nodded. "Yes," he said, T can see it." Guy and she walked down so often after dinner" he said quietly. Il have stood here and watched them. Some times she came alone. What a long time ago that seems" Duncombe's grip upon his arm tight ened.
 Andrew" he said, q can't gor' There was a short silence. Andrew stood quite still. All around them was the soft weeping of dripping shrubs. An odorous whiff from the walled rose garden foated down the air.
 I'm sorry, George! It's lot to ask you, know"
 Tt isn't thatw
 Andrew turned his head toward his friend. The tone puzzled him.
 T don't understand"
 "No wonder, old fellow! don't un- derstand myself"
 There was another short silence. An drew stood with his sightless eyes turn ed upon his friend. and Duncombe was looking up through the elm trees to the hall. He was trying to fancy her as she must have appeared to this man who dwelt alone walking down the meadow in the evening
 ''No," he repeated softly, T don't un- derstand myself You've known me for long time, Andrew You wouldn't write me down as altogether senti- mental ass, would you?"
 T should not, George. I should nev- CT even use the word sentimental in connection with you"
 Duncombe turned and faced him squarely. He laid his hands upon his friends shoulders.
 "Old man." he said, there's the truth: So far as man can be said to have lost his heart without rhyme or req son, I've lost mine to the girl of that picture"
 Andrew drew a quick breath.
 Rubbish, Georgew he exclaimed. "Wby, you never saw her. You don't know her"
 Tt is quite true" Duncombe an. swered, "and yet I have seen her pic ture."
 HIS lTltuu iuuSueu QueeTly.
 "You, George Duncombe, in love with picture! Stony hearted George we used to call you. l can't believe it. can't take you seriously. It's all rot you know, isn't it? It must be rot"
 Tt sounds like it." Duncombe an- swered quietly. Put 1t this way, if you like: have seen a picture of the woman whom if ever I meet l most surely shall love. What there is that speaks to me from that picture I do not know. You say that only life can beget love. Then there is that in the picture which points beyond. You see, I have talked like this in an attempt to be honest You have told me that you care for her. Therefore have told you these strange things. Now do you wish me to go to Paris? For if you say yes shall surely go"
 Again Andrew laughed, and this time his mirth sounded more natural.
 Let me see," he said. We drank Pontet Canet for dinner. You refused liqueurs, but I think you drank two glasses of port. George, what has come over you? What has stirred your slow moving blood 10 fancles like these? Bah! We are playing with one another. Listen! For the sake of our friendship, George. I beg you to grant me this great favor-go to Paris tomorrow and help Phyllis!'
 You mean it?"
 God knows do. If ever took you seriously, George-if ever I feared to lose the woman I love-well, should be coward to rob her of help when she needs it so greatly for my own sake Be her friend, George, and mine. For the rest the fates must provider'
 "The fates!" Duncombe answered. "Aye. 1t seems to me that they have been busy about my head tonight. It Is settled then. will go.'