Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1908-09-05

able, Madeline. Haven't | seen you look
at the boy with positive aversion? More
than once. in my presence. you've drawn
away from him involuntarily when he
came putting bis arms about your neck"
1t was In Your presence. she muir
murs with a subtle insinuation. But he
does not observe that. and urges his
point.
Hes the picture of his father. That's
the core of the matter. You shrank from
the father. and you shrink from the son.
The chances are. as he grows Older. the
resemblance will become more marked
and your repugnance will increase. Nerv-
Gus. irritable. with sort 81 disease of
pride-don't YOU recognize the traits YOU
have told me of in your-in your hus-
hand?'
out There is a silence and the two have
the effect of comba ting each other with
their thoughts. There is at once a repul-
sion and an attraction between them, and
when by chance their eyes meet they
hold each other with look at once
ecstatic and apprehensive.
AT last the silence is broken 1t is the
woman who speaks.
wrong. Maybe I'm destined to go wrong,
to the end.''
You are right for me-" stonehurst in
terrupts. "You are perfect for me-
But Madeline does not heed him.
My childhood was pitiable,' she says.
as much to herself as to her companion:
1T was worse-it was grotesque. l had
extravagant dreams. and was sur
rounded with the uglieSt realities. There
was the boarding house that poor mother
kept and where she worked like a slave.
The kitchen was dark and had a mOldy
smell and there We're rats i'm the pantries.
She had brother John and Aunt Ann and
me- all TO feed and clothe. She thought
for us all. and hung over that old burned
out range with the croSs-blrs sagging in
the middle Her face got as hard as
granite. and her eyes-loyely eyes-got
dim. ! was full of fine dreams. and al
ways trying to pretend that things were
beautiful and that we were happy. l had
Il great deal of belief in myself. l was
always going to do something wonderful.
But after all. / couldn't get ahead of the
mere work of the house, and my dreams
boiled in me. Nothing could have been
more ridiculous than 1 was-a great
ganging girl all choked up with grief
and pride and revolt and passion ana
love and pity and hate.
Poor child.'' murmurs Stonehurst.
Il am trying to excuse myself to you.
she explains. drawing nearer. Donald s
sleeping now. Can't you hear his breath
we are saying. Oh. that's one Of the
things that has always annoyed me so in
him-his habit of listening. / suppose
that as he couldn't use his eyes. all the
inquisitiveness OF Childhood has gone INTO
his ears" She sits staring at the fire for
a moment or two while the man looks at
her.
you never have told me- he says UNI
der his breath. how it came about that
you married Alexander Cameron.
The woman clings to him with her loon,
her face scarlet with 81 curious shame.
.'But l feel" she cries, las If 1t were
dream, When you are here with me 1t
seems as if ! must sweep the facts away
and cry out But | never belonged TO any
one but you-but YOU, Henry! Why. II
as if / had always held Il vision of you in
my heart and as If you had come now to
fulfill il in the flesh"
The man slips from his chair upon his
knees and presses her hands to his lips
They are silent for time. and only his
deep breathing is audible. Then he arises.
After all he says with a smile which
strangely Eliminates his somber face
Facts are of little consequence COM
pared with our inner knowledge. Tell me
i must know some time-tell me about
Cameron.
Suddenly she laughs, and there is
witchery in her glance.
''Silence is little glass ball." she cries
There is nothing durable about 1t. Soon
CT or later it has to be broken She
makes though she ground something
between her glowing palms See, I shat
ter it now. Stir the fire. Henry. Thank
you. Well-weil-he boarded with my