The Birmingham age-herald., 1911-05-07


 believe that you love me better than I deserve to be loved. I am proud, too. very proud to have won your generous love. But 1t pains me to know that I cannot write back to you what l wish to write-alas never! You know my father died before we ever met. He had an old friend who had come from England and who, early in life, had done him some great service. When my father died he drew me to his side and said; Carry. I shall leave you, but my old friend will be your father And he put my hand in his and said I give you my daughter
 This old gentleman had a son. older than myself and we were much to- gether, growing up like brother and sister. I was proud of him. for he was tall and strong and everybody called aim handsome. l do not need to tell you more, Paul-when l was still girl we had promised that one day we would be man and wife. Laurence-that is his name-is much in England and, believe is there now I have wished to tell you all this before. but feared to tell you I think I was too selfish to tell you. And what can I say now? Laurence seems almost like brother to me--and as for you, Paul-but I must not go on. For if I marry Laurence. as fate seems to have decided, 1 will try and love him better than all the world. Paul if you should shed tears over this letter I have shed them, too. I can write no more now"
 After this my reveries dealt entirely with things longed for and visions seen only in dreams. I look at the blazing hearth The white heat of the fire roars up the chimney and I think, Sup posing that 1t had all come out in this way" Then I build up my romance from among the embers.
 Laurence, wandering abroad, meets new faces, and very sweet faces. He writes to Caroline as a sster-writes more than his father could have wished. The old man sees and Carry sees that the heart of Laurence Is not hers. They agree to be to each other as a brother and sister. Then come her letters to me no longer sad. but full of hope And so at length the day when Carry and I are to be married comes, and live as in a dream. l sit beside her in the twilight the day before I can call her mine, and we talk of Bella and of that sweet sisters death. And of Lau. renee. a new brother, coming joyfuny home with his bride. A thousand pleas ant plans come up and are abandoned like the waves we leave behind us; a | thousand other joyous plans are like- 1 wise drawn from the fancy.
 And then I fancy Carry and myself 1 again in Devon walking on the terrace 1 of the old hall and the rocks are winding their way to their nests as the shadows fall amid the great oaks in the park below.
 Then I skip over many happy years and see myself surrounded by children ar grandchildren with the sweet face oi | Carry always by my side. Life has mel lowed into ripeness and the hot ambition. of youth have gone by. Calm and joy. ful quietude has succeeded. That future ] which still lies before me seems like q roseate twilight The children, when they are away at school or when l am away l from home-which I seldom am-wrlte me curious little letters telling of their wants and their games.
 And now who was that bride whom Laurence brought back from across tho seas? Why, who should it be, of course, but Enrica-my old Roman love! Oh, yes. | it was certainly Enriea. And Laurence l and Enrica live near us, and we have among our children a Laurence and En- rca named for them, and my name and Carry's are among their children. In the pleasant summer evenings we ride over to see Laurence and Enrica or they ride over to see us accompanied by all their numerous brood. And then We have a great sorrow-a death in the family; we lose our little Paul, and the cottage Is l very still.
 But why do l dream longer? The even- ing is past, the night is come. But Q crimson belt yet fingers on the horizon though the stars are out. Behind tho partition my tenant and his wife have closed their labors for the day, their children asleep beside them. The fire is ] dying upon the hearth. But I dreamed pleasant dreams that night-for dreamed that my reveries was true.
 Next weeks one-page classic will be | "Narda," by George Ebers.
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