Orland Zenith, Volume 5, Number 32, Orland, Steuben County, 12 October 1904 — Page 6

THE DOORWAY.

She looked at him with a pretty little pucker of doubt. “Please don’t make game of me,” she said. “I had no idea the composer was within earshot.”

made. She believed him to be a struggling musician, fighting long odds.

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In the heart of the day I strayed to the heart of a tangled wood, And there, like a dream, before me a desolate portal stood.

“But I hope you don’t reckon on my becoming famous,” he said. “I don’t know that I have ever tried to be, though I will buck up, if you wish it. But you ought to understand that I have not been hampered by lack of funds.”

He insisted on the excellence of her playing, and she continued to look doubtful, as if she were not quite sure that he was not making game of her, than which nothing was farther from his mind.

Strange and solemn and sombre it stood —and I was alone; Mystery fell like a fog; fear swept by like a moan.

Then he gave a rough idea of the very satisfactory state of his finances. “What a shame,” she said, “I thought I was going to help a struggling genius.” “You may help a struggling man,” he said gravely, “but not a struggling genius.” “I had accepted; you insisted upon it,” she said laughing. “But I’m not at all offended at hearing the true state of affairs. At least we can never suspect one another of being mercenary.”

But they became friendly. There were mountains to be climbed, and they climbed them together. Mrs. Weston was active and unaffected. She climbed quite as well as he am, and seemed to enjoy it. Music was tabooed from the conversation, at his request.

It was bolted strongly above, and bolted below again, And one of the bolts was Sorrow, and the other bolt was Pain.

Pat —Did you ever back a horse in your life, Mike? Mike—Yes, once, and only once. “Did you win anything?” “No, begorra; that I didn’t.” “Why, how was that?” “Well, you see, I backed the blessed boss through a shop window, and I had to pay £5.” —Spare Moments.

Mike Lost.

Two dim lights hung in the shadow, two red and misty spheres. And my soul sank as I saw them, for I knew they were Blood and Tears.

“I live in an atmosphere of music,” he said, “and 1 have come to Switzerland for fresh air. I write stuff that nobody wants to hear, and you play stuff written by me So we are bound together by the bond of eccentricity.” She looked at him curiously. He was not the first musician she had met, but he seemed to be quite different from her notion of what a composer ought to be. His hair was not long and his dress was not slovenly. He looked like a barrister or a doctor; clean, cheerful and very like a man. This man puzzled her. She liked him—quite apart from music. As they became more intimate, they became more confidential. Mr. Barnard heard all about the late Joseph Weston, of whom she spoke with sincere affection, and she let him know, in that indirect way only possible to women, that she was wealthy. “You don’t often hear of -a man making a fortune by music,” he said. She was silent for a moment, and then said, “But royalties on compositions should bring in a large income ”

The way was lost behind me, backward I dared not go; I beat upon the portal, and my heart broke with the blow.

They were strolling back to the hotel after a morning ramble. “Suppose we go In and have some music,” he said. “Isn’t It funny, I haven’t heard you play since the day I arrived?”

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Bruised, and bleeding, and blinded, I forced the bolts to move— * I passed through the dreaded doorway . . and the other side was Love!

She turned scarlet from her chiij. to her brow, but he did not observe It.

—Ella Heath, in Lippincott’s.

“I remember standing and listening to it,” he continued happily. “I believe my heart went out to you at once. Hullo! What’s the matter?” She turned white. “I have deceived you horribly,” she said. “But really, I hardly gave it a thought. I can’t play the piano at all.” Ho looked at her in astonishment. “Then who was it?” he asked. “I’ll swear there hasn’t been any one staying at the hotel with a touch like that.”

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He stood listening. It was the most delightful sound that can reach a musicians’s ears —one of his own compositions being played by a complete stranger. It Is all the more delightful when the composer is not entitled to the adjective “popular,” and has not often submitted to the experience.

On or two people, who knew what they were talking about, used to say, that if Charlie Barnard had not been born so enormously rich, he would have achieved something considerable in musical art. As it was, he had written one or two pieces of real merit, which, however, not being designed to tickle the public ear, were known only to a small band of connoisseurs.

1 He stood there listening with a 1 smile of pleasure on his face. The ; piece was being played with remark- ■ able accuracy and not a little taate,- ' and his hands unconsciously beat time to the rythm, while his head nodded approval, t He had come to Switzerland for a ramble, and had not expected to be greeted by the sound of one of his own works. Presently the music ceased, and, a moment later, a lady came out of the room whenpe the sounds had come. She was tall and gracefully built, well-dressed, obviously American and undeniably pretty. “Married,” reflected Charles Barnard, “but” —on second thought—“a widow.”

Their eyes met. In a small Swiss hotel it is possible to speak even to a pretty woman without an introduction, if she gives one a decent excuse. Her eyes, in addition to being bright and intelligent, were agreeable, and he bowed. “I fancy I have to thank you for an unusual pleasure,” he said with a smile. “It isn’t often I hear my compositions played so charmingly. In fact, to tell the truth, it isn’t often that I hear them played at all.”

She looked at him for a moment in doubt. Then her face flushed a little with pleasure. “Are you, then Mr. Charles Barnard?” she asked. “I am that much neglected individual,” he said. “In this case, however, a very fortunate person.” They felt an instinctive liking for one another, that odd sense of community of interest, which very young people mistake for love at first sight. They were not exactly very young; she was perhaps eight-and-twenty, and he was about seven years older; hut they were instantly aware of the community of interest. “I am very fond of music,” she said. “I think 1 may say, without affectation, I am passionately fond of it, and, of course, I admire your ‘Danse des Pees.’ I suppose everybody does, who knows it.”

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“It was one of those mechanical things,” she said weakly. “You know, you wind them up and they strike notes. It —it had been sent to the notel on approval and was taken away the next day. I happened to put in your piece, and when you choose to think I had been playing it, I—I —I let you.” She was nearly crying, because she could not understand his expression. “I'm awfully sorry,” she whispered with trembling lips. “I didn’t mean to deceive you. In fact, I meant to tell you, but — They had seated themselves on the /■eranda to drink tea and he had tossed his cap aside. Now he reached for it and stuck it on his head —askew as usual. “Wnere are you going?” she asked putting down her cup. “I’m going into town,” he said, “to see if that jeweler chap has anything decent in the way of rings. You haa better come with me.” “All right,” she said meekly. "And look here,” he' added, “‘don't tell anyone that I didnt know the difference between one of those mecnanical things and a human being. But I’m rather glad you don’t play.” "Are you really?” she gasped. “One person In the house is quite enough,” he said with a grin. “Do you like diamonds?” —The American Queen.

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“I have published twenty or thirty little pieces,” he said, with a smile, “and I can lay my hand on my heart and state that I have never earned as many pounds out of the lot.” Her face clouded sympathetically. “And yet you go on working?” she said.

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“I write stuff because I like writing it,” he said simply. Charles Barnard always spoke of his work as “stuff”; he was perhaps one of the most genuinely modest men in the world.

Faithful to the ifjast. A lady’s coachman —a crusty old fellow who had been in the service of the family in her father’s time —gave her great trouble and annoyance on several occasions by not carrying out her instructions. At length his conduct became unbearable, and she determined to dismiss him. Calling him into her presence, she said with as much asperity as she could command:

“I suppose teaching pays best,” she remarked. “On the whole it do“<!,” he said, “some men make quite respectable incomes by it.”

He didn’t mention that he had never had occasion to give a music lesson in his life, because he was not given to discussing himself. “It must be to be obliged to waste one’s powers and’ energy on the drudgery of an art, when one has capacity for really good work,” she said wistfully.

“It is,” he •said thinking of one or two good fellows he knew, who were struggling for fame in the midst of poverty. ‘‘I know more than one man who might turn out really excellent worktlf he didn’t have to earn a living.” And she treasured the saying in her heart, thinking it applied to himself

“I cannot stand tlrte-a»y longer, John. You must look out for another situation. You will leave my service at the end of the month.” The old servant looked at her in amusement for a minute, and then the characteristic “loyalty” came to the surface. “Nr., na, my lady,” ho said. “I drove you to the kirk to be baptized, I drove you to your marriage, and I’ll stay to drive you to your funeral!”

A Test of Uralite.

By invitation from the Metropolitan Asylum's Board a number of persons interested in this particular class of building witnessed a practical test by fire of two huts specially erected for the purpose on ground adjacent to the Fountain Hospital Buildings, Tooting. One hut was constructed with timber frame, covered 'externally with galvanized corrugated iron, and having a lining of felt and pine; the other hut had a timber frame, covered externally with iron and lined internally with uralite sheets, and having the face of the wood frame'work covered with uralite strips. Both huts were filled with inflammable material, and were set on fire at the same time. Within half an hour the first named hut was totally destroyed, while the other hut was none the worse.

THOUGHT SHE WOULD DIE.

They lingered on for nearly a month in the cheap little hotel —for it was outside the beat of the ordinary tourist—daily becoming more necessary to each other. Of course, he didn’t propose. Men seldom propose in real life. But it came to much- the same thing in the long run. On© night they were strolling back to the hotel. She was tired and he made her take his arm. There happened to be no other visitors about and they went out on the vetanda and gazed at the mountain they had climbed some half dozen times. He put her arm around her waist and she submitted. It had not occurred to him to do such a thing before, and if he had she would probably have laughed at him and called him to order. But the psychological moment had arrived. When she wished him good-night, he kissed her. She laughed at him softly, hut not a word was said about a deep, dignified passion.

“I’m afraid this mountain air is getting into our heads,” she said. “Makes one feel ripping, doesn’t ie - he said unpoeticaliy. But the following morning he spoke of their being married as if it was all arranged. "Are we goi ag to be married?” she' asked, raising her eyebrows. “W e are, if y ou think you can trust yourself with me,” hd observed. “I think i might be willing to do that.” she said quietly, “if you really wish it.”

1,1 <1°.” he replied. “I have never before told a woman I loved her.” “You haven’t mentioned it to me yet,” she said with a twinkle in her eyes; "but f think I understand what you mean. -\Vhat about your career?” He looked at her in astonishment. His career? jje had never heard of it, and would not have thought of using such a word. “Perhaps my my money may help you to make a name,” she said, rather timidly. Then he understood. It accounted for one or t* 0 odd remarks she had

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Dull.

An Englishwoman with a serviceable sense of humor was she who is mentioned in a recent English book as having aided her husband in fighting “a good fight.” The two were found one day, in their old age, by a caller, sitting one on each side of the fire, and the old man said, proudly:

“Well/f missis and me, we’ve been married nigh on fifty year, and we’ve never had one quarrel.” The old woman looked up at the visitor with a twinkle in her eye. “It war varie conscientious,” said she, "but varie dool.” —Youth’s Companion.

Very Homelike.

Mrs. Quiverful—Was that place where you boarded during my absence, at all homelike? -

Mr. Q. —Very. The children made so mufh noise I couldn’t hear myself think.

"Perhaps so,” he said with a kind of cheerful cynicism, "That is to say it is admired by about a score of intimate friends.” She opened her eyes widely. “It Is not popular?” she asked. “Never likely to be.”

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To Keep Away.

“Now that I am engaged,” said the young man, “I suppose it is up to me to resign from my club.” “Not necessarily,” replied the sage from Sageville, “all you need to do is keep away from it until after you marry and settle down again.”—Chicago News.

“Why” “Heaven alone knows!” he said carelessly. “Between ourselves I suppose it isn’t good enough.” “If you were not so delightfully frank, I should believe you were practicing the piscatorial art.” she said with a laugh. “I admired your playing of it,” he 1 remarked bluntly.

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