The Clio messenger. (Clio, Mich.) 1907-current, 1914-09-18


burned. Finally she reused herself.
Thank you. Emmaline," she said
In tired voice, good night now; I'm
going to sleep. and you must go to
bed. too"
But alone In the warm wan dark.
Shirley lay, staring open-eyed at the
ceiling. Slowly the terror was Selling
upon her, the dread, noiseless and in
tangible, folding her in the shadow OF
its numbing wings. Was her mother
the one over whom that old duel had
been fought? She remembered the
cape jessamines. Was the date of
that duel--of the death of Sassoon-
the anniversary her mother kept?
She sat up in bed, trembling. Then
she rose, and opening the door with
caution, crept down the stair, sliding
her hot hand before her along the
cool polished banister AS she passed
through the lower hall, hound on the
porch. seeming her, stirred, thumped
his tail on the flooring, and whined.
Cropping her way to the dining-room,
she lighted candle and passed
through a corridor into a low-ceiling,
ed chamber employed as a general re-
ceptacle-a glorified garnet, as Mrs.
cambridge dubbed it.
1t showed a strange assemblage! A
row of chests, stored with winter
clothing, gave forth a clean pungent
smell of cedar, and at one side stood
an antique spinet and a worn set OF
horsehair furniture.
Shirley had turned her miserable
eyes on a bookshelf along one wall.
The volumes II contained had been
her fathers. and among them stood
row of tones taller than their fell
lows-the bound numbers of county
newspaper, beginning before the war.
The back of each was stamped with
the year. She was deciphering these
faded imprints. Thirty years ago"
she whispered; yes, here it is"
She set down the candle and
dragged out one Of the huge leather
backs. Staggering under the weight,
she rested it's edge on the table and
began feverishly to turn the pages, her
eye on the date line. She stopped
presently with a quick breath-she
had reached May 18th. The year was
that Of the duel: the date was the day
following the jessamine anniversary
Fearfully her eye overran the columns
Then suddenly she put her open
hand on the page as though to blot
out the words, every trace of color
stricken from cheek and brow. But
the line seemed to glow up through
the very flesh: Died, May 14th; Ed
ward Sassoon, in his twenty-sixth
year."
The book slipped to the floor with a
crash that echoed through the room
1t was true, then! 1t was Sassoons
death that her mother mourned. The
man in whose arms she had stood
such little while ago by the old dial
man who had killed him!
ooh, God" she whispered, "just
when l was so happy! Oh, mother
mother! You loved him, and your
heart broke when he died. 1t was
Valiant who broke it-Valiant-Val.
liant. His father!"
She slipped down upon the bare
floor and crouched there shuddering
and agonized, her disheveled hair wet
with tears. Was her love to be but
the thing of an hour. single clasp
and then, forever, nothing? His ia.
theirs deed was not his fault. Yet
how could she love man whose every
feature brought pang to that mother
she loved more than herself? So,
over and over, the wheel Of her
thought turned In the same desolate
groove, and over and over the parox-
ysms Of grief and longing submerged
her.
Noiselessly as she had descended
she crept again up the stair. AS she