Evening Republican, Volume 14, Number 154, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 29 June 1910 — WHERE IT ENDED [ARTICLE]

WHERE IT ENDED

And, Luke, where do you expect all this to end?” “End? I hope It never will end. I don’t see why It should.” Folding up a little pink note Luke Clark put on his hat and went to visit somg of his patients. “How little men know the hearts of women!” his sister ejaculated as Luke left the room. In a luxurious house in one of the fashionable residence districts of Philadelphia V dainty creature was reclining with a novel in her hands when a servant brought in a card. This was six months after Luke had taken up his residence In Walton. “Say I will be down in a moment,” the girl told the maid. When the door closed she jumped to her feet, went to the mirror and stood admiring herself before going down. In the drawing room stood a young man with a fine head and clear cut features. Hearing the rustle of silks on the stairs, he turned and caught her hands held out to greet him. After a short conversation in which he told her how much pleasure her .letters had given him since taking up his residence out of the world, he | burst forth in expressions of levs. He

told of his poor prospects in Walton and asked her If she thought she could share them with him. “I would not go,” was the startled reply. Luke drew back, hurt, stunned, unbelieving. Edith Lowrle remained fixed in her resolve. Her eyes were wide open and her figure was erect. She watched her lover as he flung himself into a chair and shaded his eyes with his hands. She glided to his side, sat on the arm of his chair and even smoothed his hair with her jeweled fingers. If he felt her caresses he did not respond or even move. “My dear, .dear friend,” she began. “What would you do with me? It is your ideal that you love, not me. You would soon find that out and then —” Her hands fell among the folds of her dress. She crumpled the silk between her finger's as she spoke. “These silks, this lace, these jewels, the pictures, books, the soft carpel beneath my feet, all are simple necessities to me. They are not objects of my love, but part of my daily life. Without them I would not be what I am, nor what you think I am. Think of me at Walton in an old calico dress, bungling over my work. Your sister would be a very queen beside me, and she as well as you would despise me for my ignorance.” With a strong effort he drew himself from the girl's embrace and went from the room as one in a dream. He said no word of farewell and she made no effort to detain him. As he passed from the house Edith went to the window and waiched his retreating figure. “Is there no such thing as friendship?” she asked herself aloud. A dark, dreary day In November seven years later the vines on the young physician’s home in Walton were dead and covered with snow. The ground was white and flakes filtered through the air. Luke Clark was dying. From hard work the people of the little village said. A pale little woman, almost a child in appearance, dressed in deep mourning, made her way through the house, much to the alarm of the one servant. She Insisted on seeing the patient and would not be satisfied until Dr. Clark’s sister came to see the strange visitor. With the sister's consent the little black figure hurried to the sick chamber. She threw herself on her knees beside the bed, her hands, bereft of rings, clasped the hand o< the dying man, ih voluntarily he opened his eyes. A faint smile crossed his face.

“Luke, do you know me?” Edith asked. ; “Of course I do,” he answered feebly, “though there is a great change in both of us.” “Have you forgiven me?” she asked with a sob. “Long ago,” he whispered. “Have you forgiven yourself?” "Never!” “Then do so for my sake. God bless you, Edith, darling, good-by.” And then it was all over.—Kansas City World.