Alaska sentinel., 1908-07-16
"Not at all," she said. Please go

was a beautiful ride, too, through two | lines of ambitious katy-dids and other night insects. l remember we talked about the habit of some birds an in- sects singing only at night. The girl | in the white dress set me to thinking by remarking that night time seemed to be sweetly sorrowful, and so was the | best time for song. 1 recall that l thought about 1t at the time and re- membered that 1t was true that there was more singing in the evening than any other part of the day.
 Well, it was only a minute or two until we were in the farm house, danc- ing laughing, enjoying ourselves. Some how I don't remember of having heard laughter that meant as much as that heard at country dance.
 And the music-you know there wasn't much to that music; just two fiddles and a bass fiddle saving away, but somehow there was lightning In 1t. We danced, the little girl in white and I. Her cheeks and lips were glowing and her eyes seemed to have stolen the glow from the lamps. Once curl on her head touched my cheek. I-why, can't begin to tell you how real it all was.
 Then came the ride over the starlit road, with the wild crab apple blossoms scattering Incense before us, with the night birds singing in harmony with the song In my heart. The moon drop ped lower and lower toward the fringe of trees on the ridge, and I was just wishing that might ride on like that forever, for 1t seemed that the little girl in white must have felt herself tiny and frightened in the big, still night, for she unconsciously nestled close to me.
 II did not want to release her hand when I left her at the door to the big white house did not want to take my eyes away from her, and, as drove to- ward home, somehow the night was black and lonesome and there were no pictures In the shadows of beauty In the yellow light of the moon. When I unhitched my horse and turned him out to pasture stood for long time. with the bridle in my hand and leaning against a corn crib. When at last I slowly walked to the house knew that something had come into my life-I loved the little girl in the white dress. had known for long time that l cared for her greatly, but l never be- fore knew how much.
 II guess l must have been passing the first station beyond my stopping place." he laughed, interrupting story he realized was being told In voice growing more and more fervent and passionate.
 With a suddenness that seemed per fectly reasonable to me, I found my self the day after the dance talking tn | the old gentleman who owned the white house; of hearing him advise me not to hope to win the hand of the little girl i; of hearing how, since oil had made the old man rich, his girl would not be married to any man in the farm land. Hers was to be a grand social success. After that the dear old familiar places no longer held beauty. The country was as dreary to me as if it had beeD swept by war or something else
 And then-and then woke up," he said, laughing, jerkily, awkwardly.
 She rose, went to the window, look. ing into the street.
 And the restT She did not turn and she spoke softly.
 He arose and stood just behind her.
 'I need not tell you who was the little girl In white" he continued. speaking quickly and impulslvely. "She has been before me ever since l left my home and came to New York. She was before me even after I heard she was engaged to marry Sam Willetts. cursed the fate that brought about discovery of oil on my own land after it was too late. Wealth was nothing to me without the girl in the white dress"
 "But-but you never told the girl ip the white dress?'
 "No," he said bitterly. q didn't. Tha, was a great mistake, but I was a sim ple-hearted fellow in those days. I thought the decision of her father end. ed my hopes."
 And Sam Willetts? He did not mar. ry-"
 "No,; he interrupted hastily. 'I don't know why, but I have often thought that she would discover that her na. ture would not barmonize with his as soon as she saw him continually.
 Shall we-shall we go back there In a more substantial manner than In revere-you and r." he pleaded, wist. fully and tenderly.
 She did not answer, but slowly, ten. derly, she extended her hands
 Poor father" she said, ''he told me before he died. He was sorry, very | !, bod