The Madison journal. (Tallulah, Madison Parish, La.) 1888-current, 1919-11-08

| | tlat II amounts To much, but / WASH
, ut all sure that it would be fair t,
him. Marrying doesn't mean so much
after all-nOt at my age. It's enough
to know that-that people think ot
, you-and to see them. | thought we
were all-Oh, pretty happy the way
thugs were, and dOn'tstAink it would
mean giving up Il great deal for hin
or me, either, if we just went on as
we have been. II see him almost
every day, and"
Mother" Georges voice was loud
and stern. "Do you think you could
20 one seeing him after thiS"'
She had been talking helplessly
enough before: her tone was little
more broken now. "Not-not even
see him?"
How could yOu?" George cried.
Mother, it seems to me that if he
ever set foot in this house again
! oh! | can't speak of il. Could YOU
see him. knowing what talk it makes
every time he turns into this street.
and knowing what that means to me I!
on, | don't understand all this--I
/ don't! If You told me. II year ago.
that such things were going to hap
pen. I'd have thought YOU were in
Sane-and now l believe | am"
Then, after preliminary gesture Of
despair, rs though he meant harm to
the ceiling. he flung himself heavily,
face downward, upon the bed His
anguish was none the less real for
its vehemence; and the stricken lady
came to him instantly and bent over
MN, once more EMBEDDING him in her
arms. She said nothing. but suddenly
her tears fell upon his head: she saw
them, and seemed to be startled.
"Oh, this won't do" she said. give
never let you see me cry before, ex-
cept when your father died.
mustn't
And she ran from the room.
\ little while after she had
gone. George rose and began solemnly /
to dress for dinner.
He sat gauntly at the dinner table .
with Fanny To partake of meal .
which neither spoke. Is
abel had sent word mot TO watt for
her, an injunction it was as well they
oheyed, for she did not come Mt all.
But with the renewal of SuStenance
furnished to his system. some relax
luon must have occurred within the
George. Dinner was not
quite finished when. without warning.
sleep hit him hard His burning eyes
could no longer restrain the lids above
hem: his head sagged beyond con-
rOl; and he got his feet, and went
urching upstairs, yawning with ex- I
From the door of his room. ]
which he closed mechanically. with his I
yes shut, he went blindly TO his bed. !
ell upon it sOddenly, and slept-with I
lis face full upturned to the light. &
1t was after midnight !
When he woke, and the room was dark. -
lie had not dreamed, but he woke with a
he sense that somebody or something v
ad been with him while he silent h
or something infinitely COM h
aSsionate; somebody or something in il
nitely protective, that would let him h
ONE to no harm and to no grief. S
He got up, and pressed the light on. W
inned to the cover of his dressing ia
lie was square envelope. with the Il
'ords, For you, dear" written in N
encil upon it. But the message in
de was in ink, little smudged here 81
nd there. 81
81 have been out TO the mail box. II
arlinS, with a letter I've written to c;
ugene, and he'll have it in the morn 81
e. 1t would be unfair not to let "
i'm know ut once, and my decision L
Iuld not change if / waited. l. would st
ways be the same. l think it is
little better for me to write to you, Sc
ie this. instead of waiting till YOU W
AXE up and then telling you. because m
N foolish and might cry again, and lii
took vow once, long ago. that you
lOuld never see me cry., | think GO
hat makes me most ready to CRY ju
wv is the thought of the terrible suf- yo
ring in your poor face. and the I'M gr
lppy knowledge that il is |, your ca
other, who put it there. 1t shall lol
yer come again! l love you better pl
an anything and everything else on co
nth. God gave you to me-and OH to
w thankful l have been every day
my life for that sacred gift-and
thing can ever come between me TO
d Gods gift. And Eugene was pl;
,ht-I know you couldn't change
out this. Your suffering shows how yo
ep-Seated the feeling is With. you.
I've written him just about what ".
hink you would like me to-thOuch loN
old him | would always be fond of CIT
n and always his best friend. and | po'
ped his dearest friend. He'll under ne
nd about not seeing him. He'll I'M an
rstand that, though / didn't say il
so many words. You mustn't trOu- sill
Al 5 51'