Evening Republican, Volume 19, Number 212, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 7 September 1915 — HIS LOVE STORY [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

HIS LOVE STORY

by MAR IE VAN VORST

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CHAPTER XXVlll—Continued. Later, when the others had left them to themselves in the music room, Sabron sat in a big chair by the open window and Julia Redmond played to him. The day was warm. There was a smell of spring fldwers in the air and the vases were filled with girofles and sweet peas. But Sabron smelled only the violets in Julia's girdle. Her hands gently wandered over the keys, finding the tune that Sabron longed to hear. She played the air through, and it seemed as though she were about to sing the first verse. She could not do so, nor could she speak. Sabron rose and came over to where she sat There was a low chair near the piano and he took it leaning forward, his hands clasped about his knees. It had been the life-long dream of this simple-hearted officer that one day he would speak out his soul to the woman he loved. The time had come. She sat before him in her unpretentious dress. He was not worldly enough to know it cost a great price, nor to appreciate that she wore no jewels—nothing except the flowers he had sent. Her dark hair was clustered about her ears and her beautiful eyes lost their fire in tenderness. “When a man has been very close to death, Mademoiselle, he looks about for the reason of his resurrection. When he returns to the world, he looks to see what there is in this life to make it worth living. lam young —at the beginning of my career. I may have before me a long life in which, with health and friends, I may find much happiness. These things certainly have their worth to a normal man —but I cannot make them real before my eyes just yet. As I look upon the world to which I have returned, I see nothing but a woman and her love. If I cannot win her for my wife, if I cannot have her love —” He made an expressive gesture which more impressively than words implied how completely he laid down everything else to her love and his. He said, root without a certain dignity: “I am quite poor; I have only my soldier's pay. In Normandy I own a little property. It is upon a hill and looks over the sea. with apple orchards and wheat fields. There is a house. These are my landed estates. My manhood and my love are my fortune. If you cannot return my love I shall not thank Tremont for bringing me back from Africa.” The American girl listened to him with profound emotion. She discovered every second how’ well she understood him, and he had much to say, because it was the first time he had ever spoken to her of his love. She had put out both her hands and, looking at him fully, said simply: “Why it seems to me you must know how I feel—how can you help knowing how I feel?” • • • • • • •

After a little he told her of Normandy, and how he had spent his childhood and boyhood in the chateau overlooking the wide sea, told her how he had watched the ships and used to dream of the countries beyond the horizon, and how the apple blossoms filled the orchards in the spring. He told her how he longed to go back, and that his wandering life had made it Impossible for years. Julia whispered: “We shall go there in the spring, my friend.” He was charming as he sat there holding her hands closely, his fine eyes bent upon her. Sabron told her things that had been deep in his heart and mind, waiting for her here so many months. Finally, everything merged into his present life, and the beauty of what he said dazed her like an enchanted sea. He was a soldi :r, a man of action, yet a dreamer. The fact that his hopes were about to be realized made him tremble, and as he talked, everything took light from this victory. Even his house in Normandy began to seem a fitting setting for the beautiful American. ‘lt is only a Louis XIII chateau; it stands very high, surrounded by orchards, which in the spring are white as snow.” “We shall go there in the spring,” she whispered. Sabron stopped speaking, his reverie was done, and he was silent as the intensity of his love for'“her surged over him. He lifted her delicate hands to his lips. “It is April now,” he said, and his voice shook, “ft is spring now, my love." *• At Julia’s side was a slight touch. She cried: “Pitchoune!" He put his paws on her knees and looked up into her face. “Brunet has brought him here ” said Sabron, “and that means the good chap Is attending to his own lovemaking.” Julia laid her hand on Pitchoune’s head. “He will love the Normandy beach, Charles.” “He will love the forests,” said Sabron; “there are rabbits there." the little dog’s head the two

hands met and clasped. "Pitchoune is the only one in the world who is not de trap,” said Julia gently. Sabron, lifting her hand again to his lips, kissed it long, looking into her eyes. Between that great mystery of the awakening to be fulfilled, they drew near to each other —hearer. Pitchoune sat before them, waiting. He wagged his tall and waited. No one noticed him. He gave a short bark that apparently disturbed no one. Pitchoune had become de trop. He was discreet With sympathetic eyes he gazed on his beloved master and new mistress, then turned and quietly trotted across the room to the hearth-rug, sitting there meditatively for a few minutes blinking at the empty grate, where on the warm spring day there was no fire. Pitchoune lay down before the fireless hearth, his head forward on his paws, his beautiful eyes still discreetly turned away from the lovers. He drew a long contented breath as dogs do before settling into repose. His

thrilling adventures had come to an end. Before fires on the friendly hearth of the Louis XIII chateau, where hunting dogs were carved in the stone above the chimney, Pitchoune might continue to dream in the days to come. He would hunt rabbits in the still forests above the wheat fields, and live again in the firelight his great adventures on the desert, the long runs across the sands on his journey back to France. Now he closed his eyes. As a faithful friend he rested in the atmosphere of happiness about him. He had been the sole companion of a lonely man, now he had become part of a family. THE END.

“My Manhood and My Love Are My Fortune.”