Pierre weekly free press. (Pierre, S.D.) 1889-19??, 1917-04-19

love you-how much love you,
my---My Lady Bountiful.'
And | understand" she muir
INJURED. "You cannot"
"No; | cannot"
She looked at him, turning her
head with a quick, imperious mo-
ton. He saw that there. was in her
eyes the hint Of tears.
But" she said, "that doesn't
make the slightest difference to
me. Some day you can"
"Do you feel that?"
II know it," she answered, her
trust absolute.
~ wonder sometimes, he said,
why we do feel SO sure of-of the
future"
For an instant she laid her left
hand, light and tremulous, on his
coat sleeve.
"Tell me,'' she asked, "what
your attitude about it is-ex-.
actly."
liz ldtSHcO.
"All | can think Of now,' he
protested, lis the wonder of your
love for me-your acceptance of
me on trust. l did not know, [
could not realize, there was such
heroism in woman
1T is not heroism," she denied.
1t is merely that | love you-and
that yon love me. That, also, is
why we both know that ultimately
happiness must come to u.s."
Yes; that is why" He looked
at her as religious devotees look
at sacred things, from afar, or as
lovers of the beautiful at a work
of art. Somehow, | am con-
WINGED that the doing of the work
before me will bring its reward.
That reward is you. both of us
try to serve others. Surely that
is the only real way in which we
can serve ourselves
She started, remembering what
Vetter had said-almost the same
thing.
eff you will listen, if it will not
tire you," he went on, II shall tell
you a. story, my own story Of my
idea of what this life, this service,
must mean in the end"
She recognized the growing ar
dour in him, the. enthusiasts com
ing to the surface, the breaking
forth Of his peculiar strength I'M
der the influence Of what she had
said to him.
"Ah," she breathed, "do tell
me-"
She leaned far back in the cush-
ions, sometimes screening her face
from the flames with her uplifted
hand, now and then flashing to
him a look Of understanding or
appreciation, while he talked, his
voice vibrant, low, more musical
than she ever had heard it.
This is the fanciful, beautiful
story to which she listened:
The young man who travelled
the Happy Highway wore on a
finger Of his left hand a ring Of
gold, wonderfully wrought and
set with a pale, translucent emer-
aid. All his apparel was like that
of a kings son.. And the sunshine,
creeping into the ringlets of his
hair, became wavy, vibrant gold.
The smile of the young nan was
the most beautiful the other pill
grims on the Happy Highway ever
had seen. Since nothing in his
conscience reproached him, it was
unblemished by grief; and, since
he had found nothing to fear in all
the world, it welcomed everybody
who approached him; and, be-
cause he had nothing to conceal
from the gaze Of men, it was radi-
ant with delight.
He is not only beautiful" said
a bent old man; che is the best-na.
tured young man who ever has
trod the Happy Highway"
NHe is so," agreed an old
woman in a funny little treble
voice. NAnd all of us must keep
him happy forever"
Thus it came about that the
young mans days and nights were
perfect, for all the joyous com.
pany needed the old woman's adj
vice. Care never came near him,
and pain could not touch him.
AS he strolled along the high
way, men and women Of all ages
brought him wonderful gifts and
did him service and pleased him.
They arranged it so that the pur-
pie plumes Of lilacs shaded him
always from the MONDAY sun, and,
as he walked, red roses, the red
dest roses that bloomed, swayed
forward from each side, and,
moved by unseen hands. washed