The midland journal. (Rising Sun, Md.) 1885-1947, 1910-11-11

said. ana Maria saw her face was as
white as death.
Then they pushed on, and in
little while Gervais Joined them and
they walked till they overlook the
village fly that had brought Enid,
and drove In 1t the rest of the wGy.
Lady Derriman welcomed her son
with cry Of Joy. and he buried his
face on her shoulder as she clasped
him in her arms.
aThis was Ends doings, ! know,
she said, tremulous with happiness.
"Oh, my dear, dear one!1
She stroked the bent head with the
brown locks so cruelty and prema-
turely whitened, but she asked him
no questions. Mother and son sat
holding each others hands, content
for the moment in the inexpressible
gladness and comfort Of each others
presence.
IL she traced new agony on his be-
loved face, Lady Derriman made no
mention Of it, only caresscd her boy
with double tenderness, and gallantly
hid from him her aching heart and
mothers sorrow.
He stayed till evening and then
went.
II will come again soon, he said
to Enid as they stood alone, @but am
content when know she is with you.
Heaven bless you, dear, and grant
your life may be happier one than
mine. Enid, / sometimes think am
being punished now for my idolatry.
loved her more thar my life-ay, I
fear more than my God, and now
They clasped hands silently; Ends
lovely eyes were wet with tears, and
then he went, and she stood watching
his young figure, stamped with such
woe and agony as rarely come to
man, pass from her sight.
That night she knelt down and
prayed for him, and for Dorothy, too.
She dared not let herself think of her
cousin The naughty, beautiful face,
with its cold, steel-gray eyes, its
laughing mouth and ivory teeth.
would rise out Of the past to mock
her; and then once again she would
see that hideous, bloated countenance,
hear the coarse screams and words
and realize with a SILVER that this
was proud Dorothy's end.
July was drawing to close. Lady
Derriman, now convalescent. was
thinking Of migrating to her Scottish
home for change Of air. and Enid was
only too glad to go.
Every now and then Gervais had
been up to see his mother. but no
word Of Dorothy passed his lips to
them or between themselves when
alone.
Lady Derriman kept the bitter dis
appointment and pain that had fol-
lowed on her sons marriage to her.
| self, and Enid was thankful, for
what could she say now with this
awful knowledge ever before Ter
eyes?
One late night, so hot that the
muslin curtains did not move in the
breeze. a cab ratified up to the door
and a man entered the house hur-
riedly.
Lady Derriman had gone to bed,
and Enid was alone In the drawing
room, dreaming by the open window
She started up as Gervais came in:
he was dusty and worn, his face was
lined and furrowed, his eyes sunk and
| weary.
| Enid, he said, with broken sob,
"it-it is ended; she is dead! Oh,
Dorothy, my lost wife. MY lost
darling!"
He staggered to chair, buried his
face in his hands and burst into a
food of passionate tears. 1t was Of
his fair young bride he thought then!
The agony, the horror. the misery
were gone, and yet he mourned her,
for he had loved her with love pass
ing words. Enid rose and put one
trembling hand ON his bent head,
then went slowly away and left him
with his sorrow alone.
| CHAPTER XXI.
Six Years After.
What is 1t, Parsons?"
| Lady Derriman looked up from her