Year: 1879

WllC0 SGc0eO 10 speak III LuCn all ian
guages but that of fear or reverence full
lips, whose easy curl was yelled by the
silken mustache he wore.


Twice or thrice Margery's own eyes,
encountering these of the new conner,
dropped suddenly and heightened CO.
lor crept to her cheeks. John Butler
saw, and hated himself for the sudden
aversion he felt for the man at his side,
What property had he in Margery that
he should resent the tribute of admira-
ton which none could choose but rem
der to SO fair face? Yet vague pre-
sentiment, of evil from which he could
not eliminate an unreasonable sense of
personal loss. made him unquiet as he
walked homeward, when the service was
over. His heart was none the lighter to
see that Wild, presuming on his pre-
vious introductionto Margery, had over
taken her and was walking at her side,
bending with chivalrous grace as he
talked, whiles milesand bushes chased
each other over herf ace.


It was the beginning of sad summer
for John Butler. There are no truths
SO powerful in ther final self assertion as
those which we have persistently stri-
ven to hide even from ourselves. It was
not long before he knew, past denial,
that with all the strength of his mature
manhood he loved Margery Gray, and
that. alas! whatever faint hope he had
unconsciously cherished, despite the
disparity of age and temperament
of some day winning her to himself,
was fast ia ing into thin air.


Allan Wilde had so far disarmed Dea-
con Gray's first distrust as to be Vel
come visitor at the farmhouse. Even :,
ing by evening he sat with Margery in
the grape arbor, and the light breeze
waftsd the sound of gay talk and happy
laughter through the open window of
John Butler's study. Margery's beauty
blossomed in those days like that lovely
cactus flower which opens in a single
night Her unframed Imagination in
vested her lover win all heroic attris
butes. The stories he told her of adven-
lures met in the practice of his profess
sion in remote, halfsettled districts, of
encounters with hestile land owners,
who disputed even by force of arms the
right of railway passage across their soil
sounded to her like the widest dreams
of romance. She could scarcely believe
that so brilliant and daring represen-
tative of the great would outside should
bring the treasure of his love to the lit
tie county girl whose life was bounded
by her native bills.


John Butler watched the young man
narrowly. He had the rare nobility of
nature, which would have made him
able to rejoice in Margery's happiness,
even at the price of his own pain, could
he have felt that he resigned her to a
worthy rival. He had learned that Al
Ian was we'll connected in his distant
home, but nothing definite of his person.
al character, beyond certain reputa-
tion of careless living. Yet all the more,
as weeks went by, he felt assured that
Margery was building her life hopes up
on the treacherous sand of an untrue and
vaeilating nature. Possibly he was nei
thes whelly right nor wrong IN his
judgement. Wilde had the dual tenn
perament. Magnetically responsive to
external influences, he was good and
bad ny turns. When, with just per-
ceptible mist of tears dimming the
brightness of his eyes, he would say to
| Margery.


Darling, you little know what my
! life has been! I am not worthy of you.
but you shall make me what you will -
He was, perhaps, for that time, as
thoroughly himself as when, far away,
amid crowd of reckless companions, he
had drained the dangerous glass or sung
the bacchanalian song.


| He left her in the first days of autumn
with the golden rod bright in the val
leys, and the scarlet sumach afiame on
all the hills. Margery's face was bright
| through her tears with perfect hope and
trust, as she bade him good by. Was
he not to come again at Christmas time,
and then, if all was we'll, they would
never be parted more.


Gay, tender letters came to her as the
first weeks went by, their loving words
singing themselves over in her heart
like the carol of spring birds. Almost
imperceptibly change crept over them
"a tone of troubled, half reckless dis
content. which grieved her sorely.
though it could not shake her loyalty.


At last, one night, she opened the
envelope. with its familiar superscrip-
| ton. to find only ahastilv-scraWled note
within:


| Dearest Margery: / have been unfor
tunate and am in serious business trou-
bic. / fear l may not be able to come to
you so soon as we arranged. Don't for
get, darling. Your own ALLAN.


That was all. No word of comfort or
explanation and following an absolute
silence for three long weeks.


None but q nature proud and sensitive
as Margery's could comprehend the
agony of suspense in which, each night
she looked vainly for message from her
lover. She shared her burden with no
one-others might distrust him, but not
she


Coming in. one evening. from long
| walk among the bleak hills, whittier
she had gone to ease the intolerable
aching of her heart, she heard the noise
of wheels as her father returned from
his nightly journey to the village post
office. and sank down unnoticed in a
dim corner of the half-lighted room. He
came up the long walk with a slow, hea-
Wy step, and, throwing wide the door,
strode through the passage way. He
did not see her as he passed, and, in her
breathless anxiety, she made no sound.


"Wife." he said, with solemn inten-
sity of tone that made her heart leap,
ian awful thing has happened! Alas
for the day when, in spite of my better
judgement, received wolf in sleeps
clothing under my roof! All the village
is talking Of the news which tie news
papers have brought to night. 1t is of
Allan Wilde, Mary. To meet debts he
had made-gambling debts! he forged
a note. Detected and persued with
arms in hands he resisted the officers of
the law. and-paid the forfeit with his
own life!"


| - oOAS~f1A Adfiss thiOuSh OhC AOoli.
Mrs. Gray fell back weakly in her chair
and even her husbands strong limbs
tottered under him. Margery came for
ward from the shadow. Colorless as the
dead, with the long white cloak she had
not yet removed, falling in heavy folds
about her, she might have seemed
standing in her winding sheet but for
the intense burning of her eyes as the
freight fell upon her face. With an
imperious gesture she grasped the
newspaper in her fathers hand, and be-
fore he had gathered strength to detain
her by word or sign she had gone
through the long hall, up the stairs, and
they heard the key turn in the lock of
her own door.


Ii Margery could have died that night
she would have accounted it the sweetest
boon that fate could hold in store; but
life was too strong in her young veins.
Rebel as she might against the cruel for
tune which had befallen her, she had
no cholce but to rise the next morning
to the first of the new days which seemed
TO stretch in endless procession before