, 1907-01-25
THE RE N
BY GRACE sRUToN

1t was quiet in the studio. Outside,
In the November twilight, the wind
and rain beat and walled in pathetic
harmony with the occasion. Within
no sound broke the silence save an
occasional sob.
Buried to-dayl Buried to-day!"
This was the burden to which John
Gray's heart was breaking. And yet,
oddly, he could not think of Anita de
Lee as buried. To his eager memory
she was so alert, so vital, so sweetly
full of life.
They were to have been married at
Christmas. The world had not known
1t. The sternly affectionate old father
who had borne her to Europe at the
first hint of a love stronger than his
W had said mol" to the bare idea,
but Anita had smiled encouragement
at her lover.
I'll go with him, dearest" she had
decided, land try to help him to a
happy summer. And when we come
back it will be your turn, and we've so
many happy years before us, dear boy"
But she had chung to him weeping
when 1t was time for good-by.
Then had come her dear letters,
bearing no hint of sickness or sorrow.
And then, yesterday, her fathers
brusque telegram:
Anita died suddenly this morning.
Buried Florence, Friday"
And this was Friday. He threw him
self on the lounge from which she SO
often had smiled at him, and turned
his face to the wall.
A tap at the door startled him to
sudden action. All day he had kept
lonely vigil, refusing to answer any
summons; now he could have sworn
it was their oft used signal. He flung
the locked door open, but, of course,
the bright hall was empty. Yet when
lie returned to the sofa there she was,
lightly poised on the arm of the big
chaig. smiling at him in the old, ac-
customed way.
No, you're not mad or dreaming,
Jackie" she laughed, as the thought
flashed through him. That's why l
turned on the light, so you'd be sure
you really saw me, and why I'll leave
yoL a little sign when l vanish. No."
waving back his impetuous movement,
you mustn't touch me, though you
may look and listen. You'd better,
really, for I may not be able to visit
you again.
There must be no more of this fool
ish despair, Jackie boy" shaking at
him the tiny finger that had so often
pointed her sweet lectures. "Why,
even in heaven l heard you grieving,
and-it hurt me, Jackie. Love isn't
worth much If it makes life less worth
living, and I'd hate to think that low
ing me made you unhappy. Look me
straight in the eyes, Jackie-there's a
dear boy!"
She did not actually touch him, but
something thrilled from her leaning,
fiowerlike figure and face to his soul
and spirit. Suddenly he found himself
viewing the years they were never to
spend together. He, successful, COM
placent, doing work but little above
the average and finding 1t good. She
delicate, %adoring, not SO much helping
as holding his hands.
Inc next picture showed him the
long years without her visible pres
ence, with a grave, strong companion
to tread life's road beside him. But
now his work held a real message for
the uplifting of his fellows, and the
growing child, Anita, held wondrous
promise in her heart and eyes.
The soft voice talked on gently,
soothing the cruel ache that had dead
ened his senses, fading at last into q
tenderiy whispered "Good-by, Jackie,
dear Jackie. God bless you! Be a
good boy, for my sake! Some time
perhaps-if you're brave and patient
-"
She was gone, and his heart went
with her. Again he sprang to the
door, and again the bright hall showed
empty. But the still room was sweet
with the delicate perfume inseparable
from her, and the violets he had that
morning placed before her portrait
now lay on the arm of the big chair
Chicago Tribune.