1 Author .w-vb* waacr
CHAPTER XXII—Continued.
"What is justice?" t she asked.
Then she turned her head away again.
‘•If you knew what justice means for
me you would not ask me to be just.
You would be more merciful."
"You exaggerate-’’
*‘Xo. You do not know, that is all.
And you can never guess."
She relapsed into silence. Before
her rose the dim altar in the church,
the shadowy figure of Beatrl :e stand
ing up in the dark, the horrible sacri
lege that was to have been done. Her
face grew dark with dread of her own
soul. The Wanderer went so far us
to try and distract her from her
gloomy thoughts, out of pure kindness
of heart.
••You see. > the Wanderer said,
gently, “I am to blame for It a'l.”
“For it all? No—not for the thou
sandth part of it all. What blame
have you in being what you are?
Blame God in heaven—for making
such u man. Blame me for what you
know, Maine me for all that y<*u will
not let me tell you. Blame K '! *
bis mud belief in me and v/m
Arabian. for the
blame yourself—oh.
“Do not talk lik
he said. “Be just first ”
“I am no theologian."he said, “but
I fancy that in the long reckoning the
intention goes for more thau the act. ”
“The intention!” she cried, looking
baok w.th a start. “If that be true—”
With a shudder she buried her face
in her two hands, pressing them to
her eyes as though to blind them to
some awful sight. Then, with a short
struggle, she turned to him again.
“There is no forgiveness for m« in
heaven," she said. “Shall there be
none on earth? Not even a little from
you to me.”
“There is no question of forgive
ness between you and me. You
have not injured me, but Israel Kaf
ka. Judge for yourself which of us
two, he or I, has anything to forgive.
I am to-day what I was yesterday and
may be to-morrow. He lies there
dying of his love for you, If ever a
man died for love. And as though
that were not enough you have tor
tured him—well, I will not speak of
it But that is ail. I know nothing
of the deeds or intentions of which
you accuse yourself. You are tired,
overwrought, worn out with all this
—what shall I say? It is natural
enough, I suppose-”
“You say there is no question of
forgiveness,” she said, interrupting
him, but speaking more calmly.
“What is it, then?”
“I wish that the thing had not been
done. I wish that I had not seen
what I saw to-day. We should be
where we were this morning—and he
perhaps would not be here.”
“It must have come some day.”
Unorna said. “He must have seen
that I loved—that I loved you. Is
there any use in not speaking plainly
now? How poor it sounds, now that
I have said it! You do not even be
lieve me.”
“You are wrong. I know that you
are in earnest.”
“How do you know3” she asked,
bitterly. “Have I never lied to you.
If you believe me you would forgive
me.
“I have nothing to forgive,” the
Wanderer said, almost wearily. “I
have told you you have not injured
me, but him.”
“But it meant a whole world to
me—no, for I am nothing to you—but
if it cost you nothing, but the little
breath that can carry the three words
—would you say it** Is it much to
sayP Is it like saying, i love you, or,
I honour you, respect you? It is so
little, and would mean so much.”
“To me it can mean nothing, unless
you ask me to forgive you deeds of
which I know nothing. And then it
means still less to me.”
• 'Will you say it—only say the three
words once?”
“I forgive you,” said the Wanderer
quietly. It cost him nothing, and, to
him, meant less.
Unorna bent her head and was si
lent- It was something to have heard
him say it, though he could not guess
the least of the sins which she had
made it include.
"It was good of you to say it,” she
said, at la6t
A long silence followed, during
which the thoughts of each went their
own way. Suddenly Israel Kafka
stirred in his sleep. The Wanderer
went quickly forward and knelt down
beside him and arranged the silken
pillow as best he coaid.
When Unorna looked up at last she
saw that the Wanderer was asleep.
At first she was surprised, in spite of
what she had said to him half an hour
earlier, for she herself could not have
closed her eyes, and felt that she
could never close them again. Then
she sighed. It was but one proof
more of his supreme indifference. He
had not even cared to speak to her,
and if she had not constantly spoken
to him throughout the hours they had
passed together he would perhaps
flaws been sleeping long before now.
She bent down as she stood and
jgmhed his cool forehead with her
HJleep on, my beloved,” she said.
in a voice that murmured softly and
•adly.
She started a little at what she had
done, and drew back, half afraid, like
an Innbcent girl. But as though he
had obeyed her words, he seemed to
sleep more deeply still. He must be
very tired, she thought, to sleep like
that, but she was thankful that the
soft kiss—the first and last—had not
waked him.
“Sleep on,” she said again, in a
whisper scarcely audlblo to herself.
“Forget Unorna if you cannot think
of her merolfully and kindly. Sleep
on—you have the right to rest, and I
can never rest again. You would for
get. It would not matter then Jo you,
for you would have only dreamed, and
I should have the certainly—forever,
to take with me always!”
As though the words carried a
meaning with them to his sleeping
senses, a look of supreme and almost
fceavenly happiness stole over his
Bleeping face. But Unorna could not
see it She had turned suddenly
away, burying her face in her hands
upon the baok of her own chair.
“Are there no miracles left in
heaven P” she moaned, half whisper
ing lest she should wake him, “Is
there no miracle of deeds undone
again and of forgiveness given—for
meP God! God! That we should be
forever what we make ourselves!”
There were no tears in her eyes
now. as there had been twice that
night. In her despair that fountain
of relief—shallow always, and not apt
to overflow—was dried up and scorched
with pain. And, for the time at least,
worse things were gone from her,
though she suffered more. As though
some portion of her passionate wish
had been fulfilled, she felt that she
could never do again what she had
done, and felt that she was truthful
now as he was, and that she knew evil
from good even as Beatrice knew it.
The horror of her sins took new
growth in her changed vision.
“Was I lost from the first begin
ning?” she asked, passionately. “Was
I born to be all I am, and foredestined
to do all I have done ? Was she born
an angel, and I a devil from hell?
What is it all? What is this life, and
what is that other beyond ltP"
Behind her, in his chair, the Wan
derer still slept Still his face wore
the radiant look of joy that had so
suddenly come into it as she turned
away. lie scarcely breathed, so
calmly he slept. But Unorna did not
raise her head nor look at him, and
on the carpet near her feet Israel
Kafka lay as still and as deeply un
conscious as the Wanderer himself.
By a strange destiny she sat there,
between the two men in whom her
whole life had been wrecked
and she alone was waking.
Tho dawn came stealing on, not
soft and blushing as in southern lands,
but cold, resistless and grim as an
cient fate; not the maiden herald of
the sun with rose-tipped fingers and
gray, liquid eyes, but hard, cruel,
sullen, a less darkness, following upon
a greater and going before a dull,
sunless and heavy day.
The door opened somewhat noisily,
and a brisk step fell upon the marble
pavement. Unorna rose noiselessly
to her feet, and hastening along the
open space came face to face with
Keyork Arabian. He stopped and
looked up at her from beneath his
heavy brows with surprise and sus- •
picion. She raised one finger to her
lips.
“You here already?” he asked,
obeying her gesture and speaking in
a low voice.
“Hush! hush!” she whispered, not
sasisfied. 1 ‘They are asleep. You
will wake them. ”
Keyork came forward. He could
move quietly enough when he chose.
He glanced at the Wanderer.
“He looks comfortable enough,”
he whispered, half contemptuously.
Then he bent down over Israel Kaf
ka, and carefully examined his face.
To him the ghastly pallor meant noth
ing. It was but the natural result
of excessive exhaustion.
“Put him into a lethargy,” said he,
under his breath, but with authority
in his manner.
IJnorna shook her head. Keyork’s
small eyes brightened angrily.
••Do it,” he said “What is this
caprice? Are you mad? I want to
take his temperature without waking
him.”
Unorna folded her arm's.
“Do you want him to suffer more?”
asked Keyork, with a diabolical smile.
“If so I will wake him by all means;
I am always at your service; you
know.”
“Will he suffer if he wakes natu
rally?”
“Horribly—in the head.”
Unorna knelt down and let her hand
rest a few seconds on Kafka’s brow.
The features, drawn with pain, imme
diately relaxed.
“You have hypnotized the one,”
grumbled &eyork, as he bent down
again. “I cannot Imagine why you
should object to doing the same for
the other.”
“The other?” Unorna repeated, in
surprise.
“Our friend, there, in the arm
chair.”
“It is not true. He fell asleep
himself.”
Koyork smiled again, inoreduousl.t
this time. He had already applie
his pocket thermometer und lookei
at his watch. L'norna had risen tc
her feet, disdaining to defend he rue i
against the imputation expressed ii
his face. Some minutes passed i
silence.
“He has no fever,” said Keyor'c
looking at the little instrument.
will call the Individual and he wil
take him away.”
“Where?”
“To his lodgings, of course. Where
else?” He turned and went toward
the door.
In a moment Unorna was kneeling
again by Kafka's side, her hand upon
his forehead, her lips close to his ear,
“This is the last time that I will
use my power upon you or upon anj
one.” she said quickly, for the time
was short.
t ‘-Obey me, as you must. Do you
understand me? Will you obey?”
"Yes,” came the faint answer, as
from very far off.
••lou will wake two hours from
now. You will not forget all that hue
happened, but you will never love me
again. I forbid you ever to love me
again! Do you understand?”
‘•I understand.”
“You will only forget that I have
told you this, though you will obey
You will see me again, and if you can
forgive me of your own free will, for
give me then. That must be of youi
own free will. Wake in two hours of
yourself, without pain or sickness.”
Again she touched his forehead,
and then sprung to her feet. Keyork
was coming back with his dumb ser
vant. At a sign the Individual lifted
Kafka from the floor, taking from him
the Wanderer’s furs and wrapping
him in others which Keyork had
brought. The strong man walked
away with his burden as though he
were carrying a child. Keyork Ara
bian lingered a moment.
“What made you come back so
early?” he asked.
“I will not tell you,” she answered,
drawing back.
“No? Well, I am not curious.
You have an excellent opportunity
now.”
“An opportunity?” Unorna repeated
with a cold interrogative.
“Excellent,” said the little man,
standing on tiptoe to reach her ear,
for she would not bend her head.
“You have only to whisper into his
ear that you are Beatrice, and he will
believe you for the rest of his life.”
“Go!” said Unorna.
Though the word was not spoken
above her breath, it was fierce and
oommanding. Keyork Arabian smiled
in an evil way, shrugged his shoul
ders and left her.
CHAPTER XXIIL
After carefully locking and bolting
the door of the sacristy. Sister Paul
turned to Beatrice.
“You are angry, my dear child,”
said Sister Paul. “So am I, and it
seems to me that our anger is just
enough. 'Be angry and sin not’ I
think we can apply that to ourselves.”
“Who is that woman?” Beatrice
asked. She was certainly angry, as
the nun had said.
“She was once with us,” the nun
answered. “I knew her when she was
■b mere girl—and I loved her then, in
spite of her strange ways. But she
has changed. They call her a witch
—and indeed I think it is the only
name for her.”
“I do not believe in witches,” said
Beatrice, a little scornfully. “But
whatever she is, she is bad. ”
Sister Paul shook her head sorrow
fully, but said nothing.
“My child,” she said at last, “until
we know more of the truth and have
better advice than we can give each
other, let us not speak of it to any of
the sisters. In the morning 1 will
tell all I have seen, in confession, and
then I shall get advice. Perhaps you
should do the same. I know nothing
of what happened before you left your
room. Perhaps you have something
to reproach yourself. It is not for me
to ask. Think it over.
“True. I will tell you. Sister
Paul, I am 25 years old. I am a
grown woman, and this is no mere
girl’s love story. Seven years ago—I
was only 18 then—I was with my
father, as I have been ever since. My
mother had not been dead long then—
perhaps that is the reason why I
seemed to be everything to my father.
But they had not been happy together,
and I had loved her best. We were
traveling—no matter where—and then
I met the man I have loved. He was
not of our country—that is, of my
father’s. He was of the same people
as my mother. Well—I loved him.
How dearly, you must guess and try to
understand. I could not tell you that.
No one could; I began gradually, for
he was often with us in those days.
My father liked him for his wit, his
learning, though he was young, for
his strength and manliness, for a hun
dred reasons which were nothing to
me. I would have loved him had he
been a cripple, poor, ignorant, de
spised, instead of being what he was
—the grandest, noblest man God ever
made. For I did not love him for his
face, nor for hl9 courtly ways, nor for
such gifts as other men might have,
but for himself and for his heart—do
you understand?” .
“For his goodness,” said Sister
Paul, nodding in approval. “I un
derstand.”
“No,” Beatrice answered, half im
patiently. “Not for his goodness,
either. Many men are good, and so
was he—he must have been, of course.
No matter. I loved him. That is
enough. He loved me, too. And one
day we were alone in the broad spring
sun upon a terrace. There were
lemon trees there—I can see the place.
Then we told each other that we loved
—but neither of us could find the
words—they must be somewhere.
I those strong beautiful words that could
j tell how we loved. We told each
other—”
■‘Without your father's consent?"
asked the nun. almost severely. Bea
trice's eyes flashed.
"Is a woman’s heart a dog that
must follow at heel?" she asked,
fiercely. "We loved. That was
enough. My father had the power but
not the heart.to come between us. We
told him, then, for we were not oow
ards. We told him boldly that it
must be. He was a thoughtful man
who spoke little. He said that we
must part at once, before we loved each
other better—and that we should soon
forgot. We looked at each other, the
man I loved and I. We knew that we
should love better ye*, rw'ed or to
gether, though we couid not. tell how
that could be. But we knew also that
such love as there was between us was
enough. My father gave no reasons,
but I knew that he hated the name of
my mother's nation. Of course we
met again. I remember that I could
cry in those days. My father had not
learned to part us then. Perhaps he was
not quite sure himself. At ull events
the parting did not come so soon. We
U>ld him that we would wait forever if
It must be. He may have been
touched, though little touched him at
the best. Then, one day, suddenly
and without warning, he took me
away to another city. And what of
him? 1 asked. He told me that there
was an evil fever in the city and that
it had seized him—the man I loved.
He is free to follow us if he
pleases, said my father. But he never
came. Then followed a journey, and
another, and another, uniil I knew
that my father was traveling to avoid
him. When 1 saw that I grew silent
and never spoke his name again.
Farther and farther, longerand longer,
to the ends- of the earth. We saw
many people; many asked for my
hand. Sometimes I heard of him
from men who had seen him lately. I
waited patiently, for I knew that he
was on our track, and sometimes I felt
that he was near."
"Unorna met me after compline to
night I could not but speak to her
and then I was deceived. I cannot
tell whether she knew what I am to
him, but she deceived me utterly.
She told me a strange story of her own
life. I was lonely. I cannot tell how
it was. I began to speak, and then I
forgot that she was there, and told
all.”
"She made you tell her by her se
cret arts,” said Sister Paul, in a low
voice.
"No—I was lonely, and I believed
that she was good, and I felt that I
must speak.”
"Her evil arts—her evil arts,” re
peated the nun, shaking her head.
"Come, my dear child, let us see If all
is in order there, upon the altar. If
these things are to be known they
must be told in the right quarter.
The sacristan must not see that any
one has been in the church.”
. "You must help me to find him,1'
she said, firmly. "He is not far
away.”
"Help you to find him?” she stam
mered. • ‘But I cannot—I do not
know—1 am a'raid it is not right—an
affair of love-”
"An affair of life. Sister Paul, and
of death, too. perhaps. This woman
lives in Prague. She is .rich and
must be well known-”
•Well known, indeed. well
known—the witch they call
"Then there are those who know
her. Tell me the name of one person
only.”
“ mere is one, at least, who knows
hens” she said at length. “A great
lady here—it is said that she, too,
meddles with forbidden practices, and
that Unorna has often been with her;
that together they have often called
up the spirits of the dead with
6trange rappings and writings. She
knows her, I am sure, for I have
talked with her, and she says
it is all natural,. and that
there is a learned man with
them sometimes, who explains how
all such things may happen in the
course of nature—a man—let me see
—he has a godless name, too, half
heathen and half-Chrjstian, and no
one knows his country—let me see;
let me see—it is George, I think, but
not as we eall it, not Jirgi, nor Jegor,
no, it sounds harder—Ke—Keyrgi—
no, Keyork—Keyork Arabi-”
“Keyork Arabian!” exclaimed Bea
trice. “Is he here?”
“lou know him?” Sister Paul
looked almost suspiciously at the
young girl.
“Indeed I do. He was with us in
Egypt once. He showed us wonder
ful things among the tombs. A
strange little man, who knew every
thing, but very amusing.”
• ‘I do not know. But that is his
name. He lives in Prague.”
“How can 1 find him? I must see
him at once—he will help me.”
“I should be sorry that you should
talk with him,” she said. “I fear he
is no better than Unorna, and per
haps worse.”
She had taken the lamp again and
was moving 9lowly toward the door.
They left the church by the nuns'
staircase, bolting the door after them,
and ascended to the corridors and
reached Beatrico’s room. Unorna’s
door was open, as the nun had left it,
and the yellow light streamed upon
the pavement. She went in and ex
tinguished the lamp, and then came
back to Beatrice.
It was late when she opened her
eyes, and the broad cold light filled
the room. She lost no time in think
ing over the events of the night, for
everything was fresh in her memory.
Hall-dressed, she wrapped about her
a cloak that came down to her feet,
and throwing a black veil over her
hair she went down to the portrew'
lodge. In five minutes she had found
Keyork’s address and had dispatched
one of the convent gardeners with a
note- Then she leisurely returned to
her room and sat about completing
her toilet
Twenty minute* had scarcely passed,
and she had not finished dressing
when Sister Paul entered the room,
evidently in a state of considerable
anxiety.
“He is there!’' she said, us she came
In.
•‘Who is there? Keyork Arabian?”
Sister Paul nodded, glad that she
was not obliged to pronounce the
name that had to her such an un
christian sound.
“Where is he? I did not think he
could come so soon. Oh. Sister Paul,
do help me with my hair! I cannot
make it stay.”
“He is in the parlor, down-stairs,’
answered the nun, coming to her as
sistance. “Indeed, child. 1 do not
see how I can help you.” She touched
the black coils ineffectually. “There!
Is that better?” she asked in a timid
way. “I do not know how to do it—”
The uonvent parlor was a large
bare room, lighted by a high and
grated window. Plain, straight, mod
ern chairs were ranged against the
wall at regular intervals.
Keyork Arabian was standing in
the middle of the parlor waiting for
Beatrioo. When she entered at last
he made two steps forward, bowing
profoundly and then smiled In a def
erential manner.
“My dear lady,” he at id, “I am
here. I have lost no time. It so
happened that I received your note
just as I was leaving my carriage
after a morning drive. I had no Idea
you were in Bohemia.’’
“Thanks. It was good of you to
come so soon.”
She sat down upon one of the stiff
chairs and motioned to him to follow
her example.
“Andyourdear father—how is he?”
inquired Keyork, with suave polite
ness us he took his seat.
“My father died a week ago,” said
Beatrice, gravely.
Keyork’s face assqmed all the ex
pression of which it was capable.
"I am deeply grieved,” he said,
moderating his huge voice to a soft
and purring sub-bass. “He was an
old and valued friend.”
There was a moment's silence; Key
ork, who knew many things, was well
aware that a silent feud, of which he
also knew the cause, had existed be
tween father and daughter when he
had last been with them, and he
rightly judged from his knowledge of
their obstinate characters that it had
lasted to the end. He thought, there
fore, that his expression of sympathy
bad been sufficient and could pass
muster. 1
“I asked you to come, ” said Beat
rice, at last, ‘-because I wanted your
help in a matter of importance to my
selt. I understand that you know a
person who calls herself Unorna, and
who lives here.”
Keyork’s bright blue eyes scrutin
ized her face. He wondered how
much she knew.
“Very well, indeed,” he answered,
as though not at all surprised.
“You know something of her life,
then. I suppose you see her often,
do you not?”
“Daily, I can almost say.”
“Have you any objection to answer
ing one question about her?”
“Twenty, if you ask them, and if 1
know the answers,” said Keyork,
wondering what form the question
would take, and preparing to meet a
surprise with indifference.
“But, will you answer me truly?”
♦•My dear lady, I pledge you my
sacred word of honor,” Keyork
answered, with immense gravity,
meeting her eyes and laying his hand
upon his heart.
“Does she love that man—or not?”
Beatrice asked, suddenly showing him
the little miniature of the Wanderer,
which she had taken from its case and
had hitherto concealed in her hand.
She watched every line of his face,
for she knew something of him, and
in reality put very little more faith in
his word of honor than he did him
self, which was not saying much. But
she had counted upon surprising him.
and she succeeded to a certain extent.
HIb answer did not come as glibly as
he could have wished, though his
plan was soon formed.
“Who is it! Ah, dear me! My old
friend. We call him the Wanderer.
Well. Unorna certainly knew him
when he was here.”
“Then he is gone?”
“Indeed, I am not quite sure.”
said Keyork, regaining all his self
possession. “Of course I can find out
for you it you wish to know. But a3
regards Unorna I can tell you noth
ing. They were a good deal together
at one time. I fancy he was consult
ing her. You have heard that she is
a clairvoyant, I dare say.”
He made the last remark quite
carelessly, as though he attached no
importance to the fact.
“Then you do not know whether
she loves him?”
Keyork indulged himself in a little
discreet laughter, deep and musical.
“Love is such a very vague word,”
he said, presently.
•‘Is it?” Beatrice asked, with some
coldness.
■•To me, at least,” Keyork hastened
to say, as though somewhat confused.
“But, of course, lean know very little
about it in myself, and nothing about
it in others.”
Beatrice began to understand that
Keyork had no intention of giving her
any further information. She re
flected that she had learned much in
this interview. The Wanderer had
been and perhaps still was in Prague.
Unorna loved him and they had been
frequently together.
‘ ‘Will you be so kind as to make
some inquiry and let me know the
result to-day?” she asked.
‘ ‘I will do everything to give you
an early answer,” said Keyork. “And
I shall be the more anxious to obtain
one without delay in order that I may
have th e very great pleasure of visit
lng you again. There is much I
would like to ask you. If you would
allow me. For old friends, as I trust
I may say that we are, you must
admit that wo have exchanged few—
very few—confidences this morning.
Command all my service. I will come
again in the course of the dayT”
With many sympathetic smiles and
half-comic Inclinations of hi- short,
broad body, the littlo man bowed
himself out
CHAPTER XXIV.
Unorna drew one deep breath when
Bhe first heard her name full with a
loving accent from the Wanderer’s
lips. Surely the bitterness of despair
was past, since she was loved and not
oalled Ueatrlce.
Unorna scarcely knew that, it had
not been she who had parted from
him so long ago. Yet she was play
ing a part, and in the semi-conscious
ness of her deep self-illusion It all
seemed as real as a vision in a dream
so often dreamed that it has become
part of the dreamer's life.
She had really loved him through
out all those years; she had really
sought him and mourned for him. and
longed for sight of his face, they had
really parted and had really found
each other but a short hour since;
there was no Beatrice but Unorna,
and no Unorna but Beatrice, for they
were one and Indivisible and Inter
changeable as the glance of a man’s
two eyes that look on one fair sight;
each sees alone, ihe same—but seeing
together, the sight grows doubly fair:
"And all the sadness, where is it
now?” she asked. “And *11 tho emp
tiness of that long time? It never was,
mv love—It was yesterday we met.
We parted yesterday, to meet to-day.
Say It was yesterday—the little word
can undo seven years.’'
"It seems like yesterday,’’ he said.
"Indeed, I can almost think so
now, for It was all night between.
But not quite dark as night is some
times. It was a night full of stars—
each star was a thought of you, that
burned softly and showed me where
heaven was. And darkest night, they
say, means coming morning—so,
when the stars went out, I knew the
sun must rise.”
••And why should it not last? Is
there any reason In earth why we tWo
should part? II there is—I will make
that reason itself folly, and madness,
and unreason. Dear, do not speak of
this not lasting. Die, you say? Worse,
far worse: as much as eternal death is
worse than bodily dying. Last? Does
any one k&oit what forever means, if
we do noiP Die we must, in these tid
ing bodies, of ours, but part—do.
Love has burned the cruel sense out
of that word, and bleached its black
ness white. We wounded the devil,
parting, with one kiss, we killed him
with the next—this buries him—ah,
love, how sweet-”
There was neither resistance nor
the thought of resisting. Their lips
met, and were withdrawn, only th&t
their eyes might drink again the
draught the lips had tasted.
Truth or untruth, their love was
real, hers as much as his. She re
membered only what her heart had
been without it.
He spoke tenderly, but with the
faintest echo of sadness in his voioe.
The mere suggestion that suoh
thoughts could have been near her
was enough to pain him. She was
silent, and again her head lay upon
his shoulder. It must be so easy
to be- faithful when life was but
one faith. In that chord, at least,
no note rang false.
“Change in love—indifference to
you!” she cried, all at once, hiding
her lovely lace in his breast and twin
ing her arms about his neck. “No,
no! I never meant that such things
could be—-they are but empty words,
words one hears spoken lightly by lips
that never spoke the truth, by men
and women who never had such truth
to speak as you and I.”
“And as for old age! What is it
after all? A few gray hairs, a wrin
kle here and there, a slower step,
perhaps a dimmer glance. That is
all it is—the quiet, sunny channel be
tween the sea of earthly joy and the
ocean of heavenly happiness.”
• ‘Yes, ” she said. “It is better to
think of it so. Then we need think of
no other change.”
• ‘There is no other possible, ’1 he
answered, gently pressing the
shoulder upon which his hand was
resting. “We have not waited and
believed, and trusted and loved, for
seven years, to wake at last—face to
face as we are to-day—and to find that
we have trusted vainly and loved two
shadows.”
She said nothing. By merest chance
he had said words that had waked the
doubt again, so that it grew a little
and took a firmer hold in her unwill
ing heart. “To love a shadow,” he
had said. g*To wake and to find self
not self at all.”
But she knew it was only a doubt,
and had it been the truth, and had
Beatrice’s foot been on the threshold,
she would not have been driven away
by fear. But the light had begun.
“Speak to me, dear,” she said, “I
must hear your voice—it makes me
know that it is all real.”
“How the minutes fly!” he ex
claimed, smoothing her hair with his
band. “It seems to me that I was
but just speaking when you spoke.”
“It seems so long-” She
checked herself, wondering whether
an hour had passed or but a second.
[TO BE CONTINUED].
Eurus, one of the most successful
race-horses that ever campaigned in the
country, has been retired. A trifle
short of first-class, he dropped inth
many soft spots, winning between 575,
000 and 580,000 in the four years he was
in training. His most notable victory
was the Suburban of 1887, when, ridden
by Davis, he beat a big field, including
Oriflamme, Richmond, Hidalgo, Ratap
lan, Barnum, Linden and Ben All. The
i betting was twenty to one.