The Topeka state journal. [volume] (Topeka, Kansas) 1892-1980, 1909-05-20
THE EVENING STORY
The wan That Was Not.
(By Helen RamsdeIly

er, sat on the porch watching her sis
| ters movements, her sewing lying idle
on her lap. Presently she yenfured
to demonstrate.
m quite sure, Rachel, that the
seeds are not nearly ripe enough to
gather and that you are only spelling
next years crop"
very Well In that case I'll buy
some new ones,'' answered Miss
Rachel. "Or, perhaps, we can afford
to build six-feot fence on our side
OF this one and grow it over with
vines; ANYWAY. not one of these seeds
Is going to fall on their side"
Miss Emily rose and walked over
to the fence, speaking very softly
Don't want them to hear us,
Rachel. It's like trying to quarrel
with them-and they've always tried
to be friendly. I really can't see why
you hate them SO. You used to like
Steve once and his wife is a pleasant,
sweet-spoken woman"
OBSERVATION-DISCLOSURES. I should say
that's how she got him.
Miss Emily sighed wistfully.
4 don't see why you hate them
So" she repeated.
you can't? Humph! Well, you
Just once try being nice and polite
to them and-you needn't be nv sis
ter any longeri''
At that moment a girl some -
years of age came out of the house
hold thus condemned by Miss Rachel
ana both the sisters grew silent. They
had been speaking much too low for
their neighbors to hear what they
said and in innocent Ignorance the
girl called over, though timidly. as if
half expecting one of the snubs she
so completely failed to understand.
Aren't you gathering your seeds
awful early. Miss Belden? It's better
to let them get ripe. They're the fin
est sunflowers We've ever seen. We're
sorry they've quit blooming
~
lence itself. To her sister she re-
piled in tones of unuttered indigna-
ton. too low for the girl to hear.
"It'n be six-foot fence next year
if I have to live on dry bread
nOh, Rachel how it would lookl"
I'VE can cover over our side with
vines"
But in winter the vines would be
dead just the same as the flowers"
Without reply Miss Rachel gather
ed up her apronful of great staring
seed cups and assembled the stairs to
her room. Here she went straight to
an old-fashioned writing desk, and,
opening it, placed the package of
seeds in one of it's many compart-
ments.
Once it was out of her sight the
hard lines in her comely face relaxed
and gradually, as they faded, her
natural expression returned, reveal
ing tears of suffering and of genuine
kindness as well.
For a long time she sat there, abb
sorbed in her reverie, and as the sun
light died without new light touched
Miss Racheps face from within and,
led by some touch of previous mem
DRY, she opened a small locked draw
er and took out a quaint old box of
family fragrant sandalwood.
1t had grown too dark to see it's
contents plainly. but Miss Rachel did
not need to see them. She knew ev-
cry line of the faded letters that lay
there; every detail of the girlish for
get-me-not ring in its tiny box beside
them; every word of the newspaper
notice of death that lay beneath
them; while every feature of the pho
tograph that lay on top was craven
deeper in her heart.
Tonight she went over it all once
again; her joy; her passionate, silent
grief; then her awakening from her
own bitter sorrow to find that her
sister was suffering also. Then she
had opened her eyes, so long blinded
to all save her own bitter grief, and
to find that Emily's lover, Stephen
Loring, came to see her sister no
more.
Questioned. Miss Emily had replied
proudly, with swift-flus hing cheeks, |
that she did not wish him to come, |
and Miss Rachel probed no farther.
Scarcely a. year later Stephen mar
ried a girl of a neighboring village, |
and Emily, growing paler and gent
Ter day by day, gave all the love left
in her heart to Rachel, which Miss
Rachel silently but deeply reciprocal
ted, all the more tenderly that Miss
Emily so often seemed inwardly |
shrinking before her. as if in shame |
at her fate.
With true New England reticence, |
mingled with Unborn delicacy, neither |
ever spoke of the others love and |
loss, but when Stephen Loring some i
twenty years later had come to live |
beside them Miss RacheTs wrath rose |
high against this destroyer of her
gentle sisters happiness in life.
RACHEL
Miss Emily stood at the door. peer
ing into the now dark room.
"OId Mrs Clayton is dying and |
they want you right away"
Miss Rachel rose at once, not even |
closing the lid on her little box of !
keepsakes.
At the door she paused, speaking
gently:
"You won't need to go until morn
ing. You are too frail for such
things /
And before Miss Emily could reply /
she was gone on this, one of her
many deeds of mercy.
Alone. Miss Emily entered the room
and went to the window, where she
could watch her sisters tall form
through the fast deepening darkness.
A lamplighter came by as she stood
there and lighted the lamp in the |
street below, just in front of the win |
dow AS she moved from the WIN
dow the audacious CLEAN of light |
generated past her. falling directly on
the opened box of keepsakes.
Dreamily, yet half-startled, Miss
Emily moved toward them. She knew
well enough what they were-the
package of letters tied with mar
row black ribbon were Andrew Ar
nold's letters of love to Rachel; the |
little box beside them held a we'll |
known Turquoise ring; but the picture |
that lay ntop, surely she might see
that again after all these many years.
Half-guiltily she lifted it and held
it in the light, eagerly scanning the /
face. Then with a little sob she sank
on her knees, the picture still c1asped
In her hand. her hidden face resting |