The Washburn times. [volume] (Washburn, Wis.) 1896-1976, 1917-02-15

| TOlnette!
David did not believe her denial ;
never believed it. .a
"Fatber sent me for you, He's go
ing to give a great dinner at the tav-
ern and you're to sit in the place of
honor. Come. you mustn't keep your
cook waiting" af
And she held out her hand.
But David did not stir.
The look of haggard suffering had
returned to his face. Her loneliness
was an arrow that sent all the poison
of his despair once more burning
| through his veins. For the first time
| he found a voice, voice trembling
with emotion.
II cannot l cannot .
! please go!"
She opened her eyes wide and shot
a blue radiance Of hurt surprise ut
him. Then she went swift and straight
| to the point, woman not to be put
aside by evasions:
Indeed, I will not. You mustn't
| stay here alone"
| He had regained control of himself,
but the struggle left him deadly pale.
He could not bear to face her as he
spoke.
II am going away. cannot live
without you" The words were hard
| ly more than whisper.
She took two quick steps forward.
| Her hand fell upon his shoulder. light
as a floating strand of gOssamer. But
he felt it and thrilled through all his
being. Slowly, slowly, he raised his
head and she saw his face, that he had
gone into the valley Of the shadow of
death. In the hush Of the wilderness
his scarcely audible words seemed to
| fall on their hearts with the measured
beating of an memorable judgment.
What did she see in the wilderness?
A dry reed, shaken in the wind Of de-
spair? But her voice rang like a song
in the morning:
''It is not brave to turn back from
| the blowing. / have heard my father
! say that courage should be lifted to
such height as to maintain its great
ness even in the midst Of miseries,
holding all things under itself"
David smiled.
81 call the immortal truth to witness
that no fear, either of life or death,
can appall me, having long learned to
set bodily pain in the second form of
my being. And do now think it the
act of a coward to die"
The girl had grown paler as she read
his determination in his face, white
and rigid as mask.
David was silent. In the morning
sunlight that dappled the little glade,
the frozen branches of the trees stood
mOtionless. A white snowflake danced
across the space before David's eyes
and his vision followed it up, up, into
the cloudless blue beyond. In the quiet,
it seemed to Toinette as if she could
hear her own heart beating. David
spoke again, slowly:
"And if we be 1ieutenants of God in
this troubled world, do you not think
station when he leaves us unprovided
of good reason to stay in the Old?"
.No, certainly do not" she said,
with a rebuke lovelier because it lay
in her sweetly troubled voice, "since
it is not for us to appoint that mighty
majesty what time he will help us;
the uttermost instant is scope enough
for him to revoke all things to ones
own DESIRE"
And she scaled her lips with the
mOistneSs Of her tears, which followed
still one another like a precious rope
of pearls. David suddenly realized
how ineffably sweet life was; wonder
full, tragic, joyous worthy Of music,
worthy of tears.
The pistol fell to the ground unheed-
ed. David took a step forward
But she checked him.
"No," she said, "do not tell me. Doc
tor Elliott has told me all. He and
Lydia have gone. Forgive me, forgive
me, David! Let the dreadful past go
with theml See, you have made me
cry-aren't you sorry? And by this
time there's no dinner for either OF
u.s."
They laughed together. They were
young.
"Pl get dinner for you," promised
David. 81 knew a butchers son once
upon a time"
"Once upon a time!" she repeated.
"That sounds like story. That's the
way they always begin"
And so it was the beginning of
story; but David did not tell it to her
then.
They went home together.
At Toinette's door, little Mr.. O'Ban-
non hailed David with a shout.
II sent my dove into the wilderness"
he said, his eyes twinkling, "but you're
the most stable olive branch l ever
Sawi"
CHAPTER XIX.
The Story Begins.
In the little stone courthouse on that
Sabbath morning a hundred voices
were lifted in the stirring music or
Giardini's triumphal hymn. The peo-
pie of the countryside had gathered to
give thanks to God for the victory over
their savage foes. The vigor OF the
chant swelled in stern strength which
was made beautiful by the rough voices
of the pioneers. In the little room the
hymn echoed with the majesty OF
cathedral chant:
Come, thou Almighty King,