Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 17, Number 34, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 12 February 1887 — Page 2

"Hj

THE%TAIL.

A PAPER FOR THE PEOPLE.

GETTING OLD.

As year succeeds to year, the mors Imperfect life's fruition seems, Cur dreams, as baseless as of yore, .f Ar« not the same enchanting dreams,

UlHan§«ome,

VvV-.

The girls I love now note me slowHow dull the boyB who one© seem'd witty! Perhaps Fm getting old—I know

I'm still romantic—roore's the pity! T~ —George Eliot.

The Romance of a Forgotten Village. *7

[Bessie Chandler in Brooklyn Magazine.] At twentv-nine, Lawrence Barton was trying to believe that he was tired of "f®* He was doing his best to be cynical. He thought that he had "pumped life dry and the pump wheezed. In reality wasn't at all tired of it. Not that he wai a hypocrite: only we all of us have away of playing around a genuine emotion as a lish dees around a Baited hook, and fancying we know all about it till it finally hooks us, and we find out our mistake. Had Lawrence Barton really been the played-eut blase young man that he honestly thought he was, he thought he was, ho would have laughed at his

present

world-weariness,

as the

caught fish, lull of bitter wisdom, might, laugh at

the

assumed knowledge of the

clever and rich, life had

been made so easy for lnm that now he had deliberately concluded there was nothing in it and, though he would have made a very disconsolate and sulky Crusoe, ho pined for a desert isle.

So it was with a grim feeling of satisfaction that, at the close of the season, he watched his friends New York, one by one, for their various summer outings. He had llirted desperately all winter with Miss Estelle Van Deusen, and she confidently expected he would form one of her train at Mount Desert this summer but in his present languid state even Miss Van

Deusen's

attractions paled

their ineffectual fires, and she was reluctantly compelled to leave him behind, without even oxtorting a promise of a meeting later in

tho

summer

For the first few days after they had had a delightful sense

all goneCLawrence ,.„

v..—

of freedom. He felt that he owned the whole of New York himself, and on the whole concluded that New York destitute of acquaintances, was an improvement on tho desert isle. But after a

fondly

and

llttle

began to pall on him. 1 he hot streets, the blistering nftvement8,the rows of closed houses, the restless tide of eager, perspiring men, were not as attractive as he hail

imagined, and oneP0"1"

ing, and desperation, he Packe£

hls

and started for Long Branch, and a breath of fresh air. True to himself, however, he wont to a hotel where he would be least likely to meet acquaintances,

confined himself strictly to

visiting old ocean. The Sunday after his arrival he went for a drive. It was a perfect day, and he really got a good deal of solid enjoyment out of it,—for a cynic, lie had driven aimlossly along for some miles when his attention was attracted by the ruins of a large building at some distance from the roadside, half concealed

amid

tho clus-

terintr trees. It looked as if there had been a fire, and while he was still studying it he saw another and another. 1 hey lifted their broken walls against,*1}® dark green of the trees, great desolate ruins. Surprised, Lawrence drove on, till, discovering a lane which seemed to lead toward them, he turned and followed it. On either side weres hade trees of an older growth than one is apt to find in

American villages, and the KJ®8® was soft and volvetv as luiglish turf. There wtro few whoel-traeks ever it, but still Ijawrence kept on till be came to what seemed to him at first sight the city of the Sleoping Beauty. It was very quiet, no human being was in sight all around him rose tho doorless and wlndowless walls of old ruined buildings. Presently tho inevitable little yellow dog tlew out and barked at him, and thou a doorway of one of tho smaller and better preserved houses a slouching rustic appeared. "What is this?" asked Lawrence, as soon as ho saw him. "What?" eaid the man, with the exasperating drawl of his class. "This place—what is it?" repeated Lawrence. "This? Oh, this is Belver." "Was there a fire?" "Fire? Oh, no. There warn no fire, they jest dropped."

Ijawrence turned away with a naliimpatlont, half-disgusted air. The mau looked stupidly aftor him. "Mr. Beiver, he can tell you all about it," at last he managed to call out. "Where can I find him?" asked Law rence.

"Up

A it

to that big house, at the end or

that lane," shouted his informant. Ijawrence drove on and soon came to a large, old-fashioned house set well back from the road. lcop, broad

piawias,

with

heavy white pillars supporting their roofs, ran acrow tho front of the main part and of each wing. An ill-kept gravel walk, with a high row of box on each side, led to the massive front door with its heavy knocker. Ijawrence looked a minuto," doubtful whether to intrude himself upon the ancient statellndss of the mansion then hitched his horae and went In.

The result was that he spent the summer in Belvoir, as he discovered the true name of the place to be but what the place reallv \va% and how he felt about it, can, perhaps, best he known from a letter which he wrote soon after to Miss Van Deuaeti. It ran thus: "I thought I wouldn't say a word about mv hidh g-plaeo, but I find I cannot keen mv 'swan's nest among the reeds' secret. It is more than I can hold. I'm afrnid you'll be bored to death hearing about it, and I really have it in mv he irt to be very sorry for you, when, some sunshinny morning, you unsuspectingly go for your mail and this corpulent packet greets you, 'conveying a melancholy into all your days but somebodv must be sacrificed, for I have stumbled upon the dearest-, quaintest, most delicious spot you ever heard of, and I needs must talk about it. "Once upon a time—all well-conducted stories begin with lhaU you know—there were here at Bslvoir some famous iron works. The clang of the workman hammer rang through the little valley and wakened the echoes upon the distant hills. (I'm not all sure about the veracity of that statement, lut I consider it a v!tiai'- b!v well-turned a«*ntenco.) buildings reared their heavy walls, and rows and rows of houses for the workmen made a miniature city. In then of it all w«« the Ixttutiful manor-honse of its owner, James Belvoir. who se***»s to have gone hack to biblical principles and to have boon a sort of prophet, prie*t and king in his own right, 'LOOK on that picture, and then on thi*,* as the lemperace lecturers say. A

little grassy valley dotted over with the skeletons of grand old buildings, roofs

Eeld

one, floors gone, and the very walls up by the woodbine and wild grapes that have clambered everywhere. There are long avenues of trees that lead -to nothing now, except to some one vineclad wreck. Here and there are small houses, which have been touch enough to resist this constant gnawing—one might say crunching—of the tooth of time. I am living in one of these. Across the way a gaunt old building turns on me its sightless eyes. A young and enterprising ailanthus tree has grown up within the walls, and now nodding over the top in a highly triumphant manner. "1 have seen ruins before, more picturesque and more romantic than these, but they didn't begin to interest me as much. There is all the difference there would be in looking at the neatly swept and garnished skeleton of a celebrity in a museum and digging up one unexpectedly in your own potato-patch. You see better iron ore was discovered elseelsewhere these works didn't pay then place got into chancery, and was in that pleasing locality for more than twenty years, and has only recently been let out. It is a dead-and-buried village, and I only wish I had the pen of a ready writer to resurrect it, if only on paper. "I ran across the place by accident, and was fascinated from the very start. I called on its ancient warden, heard its story, and asked him if he thought I could board here for the summer. He said no, but I might rent one of tho 'artisans' cottages, which were standing.' I longed to ask him if his cottages were in the habit of sitting or lying down for an afternoon nap, but didn't dare. I would as soon think of joking with a poplar tree. He is as much James Belvoir, of Belvoir, as his father was before him, with all his wealth and power. He was a restless sort of look in his eye, as if he were 'expecting a judgment shortly, on the day of judgement,' and, indeed, there is a strong 'Jarndyce vs. Jarndyce' flavor to the whole thing.

I believe he has a grand-daughter living with him. His looks are fully in keeping with his ruins, and I expect every time I meet him to see a shoot of the ubiquitous woodbine twining up one leg or around his neck. Isn't it queer I should have struck such an old, Rip-Van-Winkle place? "I brought down my horses and some traps from the city, fitted up one of these 'standing cottages,' and expect to have a royal time. There area few other inhabitants, 'squatters'—pardon me but that is the correct expression—who live, as nearly as I can find out, on fresh air and Mr. Belvoir's chickens. Otherwise we are alone. I am keeping 'bachelor's hall,' but with a little kindly forbearance on your part I think I might make it ileasant here for you and yqur mother. Jo won't you come and see my discovery before you go back to the city? I am anxious the place should tell you its own story in its own words. I lenow I have given a very bungling description, but I feel better myself—sort of relieved —as a beer bottle must, when the first 'fizz' is off.

I hope you are having as charming a time as you anticipated. Believe me, 'the moon never beams without bringing me dreams' of you, and as we have a particularly beamish orb here in Belvoir, you may fancy me dreaming and thinkng of you a great deal. "If you have had the patience to wade through this, let me thank you, and tell you again I am very sorry for you but I had to perpetetrate a was really no escape.

""J

description, there

"With kind regards to your mother, believe me,

"Sincerely yours,

"R.K.

"LAWRENCE BARTON."

Sorfn. after sending this letter, Lawreiicey'eoirmng home

from

the river

where he had been trying his new cedar boat, heard the tinkling of a piano in his house. He had brought a little upright from the city, but had never suspected his stout colored cook or young housemaid of any latent musical ability. Going to the window he glanced through the half-open blind. Seated at the piano was a young girl her back was toward him, and he could only see that she was slight and graceful, with amass of brown hair falling half-way to lier waist. Her hat lay on the floor beside her. She was dressed in some queer brocaded stuff, made in an odd, quaint fashioned tune, and raised her hands high, and threw them back with a little air as she played. "It is the little Belvoir girl," thought Ijawrence, "I hope I shan't embarrass her."

He went up the porch making a good deal of noise, but the tinkle, tinkle never stopped. He paused at the door, but the erformer, without turning round, went mperturbably on.

Finally, after finishing her "piece' with an extra old-fashioned flourish, she looked up, and, after surveying Lawrence well over, calmly remarked, "I'm Dorothea Belvoir." Lawrence felt an insane desire to answer, "The deuce you are," but wisely refrained. Still quietly looking at him she went on, "You're the new tenant. I came over to try your piano." "I hope you like it," said Lawrence, satirically'

This was the girl he had feared to embarrass! "Oh, ves,*' she said "much better than ours. 1 think I shall come often." "Do," said Ijawrence, "I shall enjoy it immensely." "Oh, I shall come when you are taot here," looking at him gravely. She had an oval, brown face, and large dark eyes and as she rose Ijawrence saw that she was taller and older than he had at first supposed. "Won't you play for me?" he asked, after a little pause. Plainly this was not a girl witn whom any prefacing or beating around the bush was necessary. "Oh, no,-1 she said, decidedly, "you play." lie meekly took up his Mendelssohn. Miss Dorothea Belvoir sat down at the end of the sofa and waited. He played one and then another of the "songs without words.' She never moved. He lanced toward her. Her arms were olded over the end of the sofa and her head rested on them. "Uo on," she said, softly.

He went on obediently. Ijawrence plaved well but there was something in the*eager face beside him, something in the hungry, questioning eyes, that made him plav" better than most audiences had power to do.

At last he finished. She rose with a long, deep sigh, and taking his music, looking at it for a second wistfully, then started for the door. "Aren't you going to thank me?" asked Ijawrence, curiously. "Oh, no, I would thank him if I could," and she stretched out her hand toward

At the doer she paused, hesitated a moment, and then came back. There was a bright flush on he face as she raid in an indescribably sweet and winning •way, "But I do thank you, though, for all the time and trouble,"

She held out her haud with a shy grace, and Ijawrence took it, feeling that somehow no one had ever thanked him more graciously before. "Then we are to be friends?" he said.

Hie brown eyes opened with astonishment. "Why, certainly," she answered. A fter this he saw her nearly every day.

TERRE HAUTE SATURDAY E VENUS MAIL.

Sometimes they rowed, sometimes they walked, for she knew all the prettiest ways and places. She had lived here always, going to school for a few years in the neighboring little village of Sqnan, but picking up the most of what she knew in her grandfather's big library.

It was a most singular life. Here in this ruined place she had grown upas if there was nothing beyond these grassgrown avennes. She was intensely intesesting to Lawrence. She was as frank as a child with him, utterly unconscious that there was anything peculiar about herself or her life.

She reminded him of birds in Central Australia which he had read of, that come and look at the naturalist and his gun, perfectly fearless, because perfectly ignorant. He was never tired of watching the workings of her vigorous young mind.

Sometimes she startled and halffrightened him by her quickness. A chance word or thought ef his would flash back to him, in a dozen different ways, almost as soon as spoken. It was like the Eastern miracle, where the tree springs np, blossoms, and bears fruit before one's eyes. She asked him queer questions about the world, and Lawrence felt sure she spoko with a capital Win mind, and mentally classsed it, as the catechis does, with the flesh and the devil.

To him she was one of the most interesting features of this quaint old place a little girl, utterly untaught and simple, who listened in round eyed wonder to all he said, and talked herself in the most original and deliciens way.

To her he was simply Adam—the first man—and she turned toward him and opened to him her royal nature as naturally as a flower turns to the sun.

He never realized that it must necessarily be a dangerous thing for a young girl like her, brought up, or rather grown up, as she had, alone, with her intense, deep nature, and her perfect ignorance of conventionalities, to be thrown daily with a man who was wisest where she was most untaught, who had thought and theorized, wlnre she was just beginning to feel. It never occurred to him that she would fall in love with him she was so utterly unlike any girl whom he might have thought equal to that gymnastic performance.

Nor did it ever occur to Dorothea, that she would. She simply did it without any knowledge or thought whatever.

So Lawrence Barton drifted along through the summer, the charm of the place laid hold upon him and held him fast. He felt that it was charmed. Near

one cf the buildings hung a large, rusty old bell used in former times to summon the workmen. Now the woodbine had climbed up the trestle-work, and into the bell itself, clasping the rusty clapper with its clinging tendrils. Lawrence felt that if once he should tear it from its leafy bondage, and make the old bell speak again, at the first stroke everything would vanish, and the quiet valley and crumbling old buildings would pass away silently together.

He read and wrote a good deal, pulled in his boat, or rode his horse, and talked to Dorothea. He used to go over to the manor-house of an evening, and sit on the broad piazza with Dorothea and her grandfather.

At first Dorothea talked the most, asking him all sorts of questions, and bringing out her little ideas in a sort of queer surprise and delight to find she had them. But after a little this changed. The more she learned of that other, wider life which Lawrence had lived, the more silent and puzzled she grew.

Dimly and vaguely there began to creep into her heart doubts and perplexities about herself. A great jealousy filled her for all his past life. She grew moody and capricious some days %he waatld be full oUhp old, joyqus ,l|§e, and URK naturally, as a child chatters, or a bird sings, but at some chance word of Lawrence's she would instantly grow silent and nothing could draw her out again*

Poor Dorothea! she was too perfectly ianocent and inexperienced to know what was the matter she only knew that at times she hated herself, her life, and even Lawrence, with a bitterness that was very strange and new.

It could not last long. An explosion was inevitable, and it came one day when she and Lawrence were out rowing—or rather she was rowing she preferred it. Lawrence was lounging in the stern, watching with half-shut eyes the shadows on the river, the trees that drooped over it, and the gleaming of th# golden-rod which was just beginning to blossom.

There had been silence for a little time, which Lawrence broke by dreamily saying, "I wish Estelle Van Deusen were here to-day!"

It was not that he really wanted her, only her c&lm, rich beauty seemed, somehow, part of just such a day as this. "Who is she?" asked Dorothea, quietly. "She is the most beautiful woman I ever saw." "Tell me about her."

Dorothea's face was very red, but thai the day was warm and the oars we» heavy. "Tell you about her?" said Lawrenci, half-laughing. "I think that is all the~ is to tell."

There was a little pause. "Does she love you?" asked Dorothea calmly, and without any idea that th question was at all unusual. "No, Dorothea, I'm awfully afraid she doesn't. Her taste is very poor don't you think so?"

Dorothea didn't answer. A bright spot of color glowed on each cheek. "Do you love her?" she asked, very seriously. "I don't know I've been trying for over a year to find out," and he laugh&d again.

He threw back his head and watched Dorothea with an amused look in his eyes. She was so absurd, this little girl, trying with her little plummet to sound the depths and shallows of his nature.

Dorothea pulled steadily for a little while without speaking suddenly she asked, almost fiercely, "What are you thinking about now?' "Of you," said Lawrence "you've no idea how interesting you are."

This was too much Dorothea felt so hurt, so bruised all over, she couldn't stand this. "I must be very interesting," she said, in the most deadlv sarcastic way. "You are," said Lawrence, and again he had the effrontery to laugh. "I thank you for your kind interest, but you can take it all back, I don't want anv of it, I won't have any of it." She spoke rapidly, passionately, and as she ended sent the bow of the boat inshore with a vigorous stroke. Before Ijawrence could prevent her she had dropped the oars, sprung from the boat, and was climbing up the bank.

He called, but she did not answer.

The slight figure walked rapidly on, the IU ha brown head held him and hanghtily, and after watching her out of sight he took the oara and pulled slowly home. He laughed a good deal to himself, and wondered what under the snn made her flv off at such a tangent. "He found letters at home which made him decide to ran up to the city for a few days, and it was not until the third evening after this thai he was able to go over to the manor-house, where he found old Mr. JBelvoir alone upon the piazza,

beating a melancholy and monotonous tattoo with his gold-headed cane. Dorothea had gone away to her mother's sister in Philadelphia.

She had gone quite suddenly the day before. Lawrence had never heard of this aunt, and he somehow resented the whole thing as a personal injury. Mr. Bevoir didn't know when she would be home, and, in fact, seemed to take but a languid interest in the matter any way, Lawrence couldn't understand this visit of Dorothea. He missed her very much, and kept saying to himself that he had no idea he was so interested in her. He thought of her a great deal, and amused himself by imagining how she would carry herself in a city, and among peo pie, for the first time in her life. Somehow he always thought of her with her old-fashionad dress on, and her hat hanging off from her neck, a shy, half-defiant expression in her brown eyes. It never Occurred to him that she could ever take part in this new life he always thought of her as looking at it from the old standpoint.

He rowed a good deal, and took long horse-back rides, wrote numerous letters and read some but sometimes the book would fall from his hands, he would yawn and look out where the old building kept watch over the sleepy landscape. "After all," he thought, "a man needs some sort of company in a place like this it's a beastly old hole to be alone in."

He was therefor delighted one day, after Dorothea had been gone about four weeks, by a letter from Miss Van Deusen, saying she and her mother were en route for home, and would like, if convenient, to come and see him and the delightful place that he had found.

He wrote at once, begging them to come. Then, thinking it would be pleasant to have a larger party, he wrote to a distant cousin of his, inviting her and her daughter, and to his friend Charlie Adams. They all came, and for days the old ruins echoed to the sound of laughing voices, as they had not done for many long years.

Miss Van Deusen was charmed with it all—delighted, enchanted. She declared she had never been in so weird and romantic a spot. She posed in vine-cover ed window-arches, some soft white wrap thrown over her head and shoulders, the moonlight falling full upon her, a perfect picture of something—Lawrence couldn't quite remember what. She strolled through the woods, the most picturesque of dryads, and glided in and out among the ruins, looking like haunted spirit in her clinging white dress.

And yet, somehow, she jarred strangely upon Lawrence. She seemed an intruder in this quiet old place. He fancied the old buildings turned their sightless eyes reproachfully at him for having brought her here. He thought of Dorothea flitting in and out among them, as unconscious as the birds that build their nests in the vines. Out on the river, the figure of Miss Van Deusen reclining in the stern of his boat was blotted out by the vision of a little girl whose brown hands tugged at the heavy oars, and whose upturned fade looked scornfully and haughtily at him. And Miss Van Deusen played for him her most beguiling ana entrancing music, he saw seated at the piano instead a quaint, prim little figure, playing with unskilled fingers some queer, old-fash-ioned tune.

He talked a good deal about the "child" to Miss Van Deusen, and that sagacious young woman secretly resolved to see her before going home if she had to stay all the autumn.

One morning, just as they were all starting for a drive, a servant came over from the Belvolrs with a note for Mr. Barton. Lawrence uttered an exclamation as he read the signature. It ran: "DEAR MR. BARTON: I came home only last night and hear that you have friends staying with you. I would be very glad if, waiving all ceremony, you would bring them over to tea this even 4ng "DOROTHEA BELVOIR."

He told the ladies, who at once decided to go- As for himself he was surprised to see how eager he looked forward to it, and how much he wanted to know if these weeks of new, strange life had made any change in Dorothea. He walked over in the evening a little in advance of the others with Miss Van Deusen. Dorothea saw them coming and came out on the piazza and met them. "I am so glad to see you, Mr. Barton," she said, simply, and held out her hand.

Lawrence was so astonished that he forgot to take it, and when he remembered he forgot to let go of it qgain. Was this graceful young lady with the charming manners Dorothea?

He started and wondered, and felt indignant and mystified. He introduced her to Miss Van Deusen and the others as they came up, feeling very much bewildered all the time. She found seats for them all on the piazza, talking meanwhile in an easy way.

Lawrence sat and looked at her. After all there was not much outward change. The thick brown hair, instead of falling in a mass, was coiled low in her neck, the old-fashioned dress was gone and a dainty white muslin had taken its place. Tan and sunburn had faded frem face and hands. Changes all of them, and yet not the change. There was all the difference between the old Dorothea and this one that there is between a young colt, running wild in the pasture, full of life and strength, untaught, and almost uncatchable, and the same animal going at a splendid gait in harness. When or by whom he didn't know, but Ijawrence felt that Dorothea was broken.

He watched her earnestly, trying to get used to the change. By and by she rose and led them in to tea, introducing "My grandfather," in a dignified and pretty way. She seated herself at the head of the table behind the old-fashion-ed silver urn, as self-possessed and (harming a hostess as Lawrence had ever afeen. \Around the wainscoted dining-room 8 of bygone Belvoirs looked down uton them. Little children smiled from tin canvas who had long since, as decreet old dotards, tottered into their ane&tral vaults. Over the mantel hung a peture of Mount Vernon, fearfully and womerfully executed in colored needlewort by a dead and buried Dorothea

Bel^ir. The blue-embroidered clouds bright and globular as marbles, blade of grass on the lawn asitself like a cedar of Lebanon, dies in the tall candelabra see night light for the queer old room, rence found himself wondering

we and se The ed th and if Mr. thegu

Ivoir had lighted them, before came, witn flint and steel. Adams fell in love with Doronptly and on the spot, Lawsins were charmed with her, an Deusen waa all gracious-

Chart

thea rence's and Mi ness.

It am

Lawrence to see how folly new Dorothea was for the girl. she could hoist her with her chuckled he, very inteleself* hadn't been able to say when he bade her good-

a match t! clever soci "I bell own pel gantly, to

Somehow very much, nigtit, he sal derfully. Mi "Why shoi been away see,"' and little courtesy.

You have changed wonDorotbea." n't I," said she, "I've nge countries for to R* dropped him a saucy

Exceedingly puzzled, and yet very much fascinated, Lawrence went away. On the way home Miss Van Deuseu said quietly, "Why did you never tell me, Mr. Barton, that Miss Belvoir was a young lady, and a very pretty one?" "I didn't know it myself," said Lawrence, shortly.

A few days afterward the party broke up, and once again Lawrence found himself alone.

The night after he had seen the last one off he was startled by the sudden appearance again of a servant with another note.

This, too, was from Dorothea. Her

Kindfather

was ill—very ill would

wrence come? He went at once and found the old gentleman unconscious and near his end.

They had sent for a doctor, who presently came, but his skill availed little, and through the long night they watched and waited for death to come.

Toward morning the old man spoke. "Dorothea,"he said feebly. "I am here, dear grandfather," said the young girl, brokenly. "Dorothea," he repeated, "wait a little, the suit will be decided soon." And then he closed his eyes and the end came quietly.

After it was all over and they had laid this last of the Belvoirs to rest in the little grass-grown cemetery, Lawrence went to see Dorothea. Her aunt, who had been summoned to the funeral, was still with her, and Dorothea was going to shut the old house and go and live with her, but nothing was quite decided yet.

She was looking over old letters when Lawrence came, and a few fell from her lap and fluttered to the floor as she rose to greet him. She appealed strongly to him in her little plain black dress, and he longed to comfort her, but he didn't quite know how. But he had come with a purpose, and after they had talked a little about her plans, he said, "Dorothea, there is one thing I want you te take into consideration. I know I have no right to speak now, but you need not answer—only I cannot bear that you should go away without knowing how I love you. It has been so from the very first, but I did not know until you went away how dear you had grown, and now when you are making all these plans for the future you must let me have a little share in them. Only just think of it, dear you need not answer now."

The color rushed to Dorothea's startled face. She looked at him piteously, her eyes filling with tears. Lawrence took a step toward her and held out his arms. "Oh, don't," she cried. "I can never marry you

Lawrence stood still. "Why?" he asked, gently. "Because," she began slowly, then broke out impatiently—"Oh, go away. You have no right to come here now you ought to know you ought to see. You humiliate me so. Oh, dear, I wish I had never seen you," and she buried her face in her hands.

Lawrence waited a minute, and then said very gently, "I do not understand you I am so sorry if I hurt you, but it is very simple. 1 only want you to say that some time you will try and learn to care for me— will learn to love me."

Dorothea looked up with great amassment in her eyes. "Learn to love you!" she said, in a halfwhisper. "Yes," said Lawrence, "would it be such a hard thing, dear?"

She turned her face away from him while a great wave of COIOK. rushed over it. "Why, Mr. Barton, is it possible you haven't seen—that you don't know?" "Know what?" said Lawrence, thoroughly bewildered. "Are you telling me* ihe truth?" she said, simply. "Indeed I am. I can't see—I don't know what you mean at all.' "Why," she said, with the old childlike directness, "I have loved you all summer I did from the very first, because—because—well—because I did, and I showed it in every way I didn't know any better. It seems as if you must have seen—as if you must have known. And that last day on the river, it came over me suddenly how much I cared, and that you were only Interested in me as if I were a child, and I felt all at once that there must be something different about me from those other women that you could love, and then—why, don't you remember how I jumped out of the boat? I was so hurt, so mortified, and I made up my mind I couldn't see you any more I wanted to go away and see for myself what the difference was. And so I went, and all the time I was gone I tried so hard to grow like other women I watched them all the time and tried to act like them. I thought if I came home all changed, maybe you would love me then, but it is all so different now," and she sighed wearily.

Her little revelation seemed to Lawrence the most pathetic thing he had ever heard. He cursed himself for his blindness. The thought of what this little girl must have suffered almost brought the tears to his eyes, and his voice was husky as he asked, "Why is it all different, darling? If you can only forgive me and love me still, I will try all my life to make you forget all this trouble."

She smiled a little sadly as she said, "I learned so much when I was away. I am so much older now. I can never marry you now, Mr. Barton. I should be ashamed all iny lifo to think how much I loved you when you didn't care at all for me, and then you know it isn't really I you care for even now. If I hadn't gone away and learned, oh, lots of little society things, you would never have thought of loving me, and yet I was I all the time."

Lawrence was silent. His earthly paradise seemed so near, and he couldn't quite see yet why it should be barred against him. "Once, Mr. Barton," she began again, "after I had been away a little and found I could be like other girls, I thought I would like to come back and make you love me if I could and then refuse you. I thought it would be such a triumph, but this is all so different." Her eyes filled, and she looked out of the window.

She looked so little and childish—she teas such a child that Lawrence's heart yearned over her. He had no idea of giviug her up yet. "Dorothea," he mid, "let us, forget it all. I have been a fool, but you don't know how I love you. Let u» put all these miserable misunderstandings away from us, and I will try to make you so happy that you can never think of tiiem again."

She turned aronnd. "How can I marry you now? It is all too late. I should hate myself if I were so weak. Oh, dear, please go away!"

Dorothea had baa but little experience of the staying power of an earnest lover, and the persistency of this one was beginning to provoke her. "Why should I go away? Why will you spoil our lives for the sake of a whim —a childish notion?" He tried to take her hand, but she drew it quickly away.

Don't talk any more," she said, "I have quite decided." "Dorothea," said Lawrence, solemnly, "if go away now I shall not come back again."

It was probably the most injudicious speech he could have made. All the

gentleness faded from Dorothea's manner. "I don't know that I have asked you to," she said, with spirit.

Lawrence flushed a little. "Then you want me to say good-by to' you now, once and forever?" "Certainly," said she, with decision, and held out her hand. "What nonsense it all is," said Lawrence "why do you act so childishly?" and he moved in front of her trying to make her look at him, but her face was resolutely turned the other way. "Please go away," she said, without turning around.

There waa a little silence. "Good-by, then," said Lawrence, sadly, holding out his hand. Dorothea gave him him hers, still with averted race he kissed it once, but before he could repeat the action she drew it away, and covering her face with both her hands, cried, "Oh, go! go!"

At the door Lawrence paused and looked back. She had not moved, but she knew that he had stopped out, "Oh, go! don't come back, please."

It could hardly be said to be a very cordial or even hospitable remark, and. Lawrence went

For a long time Dorothea sat there ouite still, then she rose and with a little sob flung herself on the floor, pu arms on the broad window-sill,

ut her and

buried her face in them. Lawrence was hurt and angry. It had been the most powerful shock that his self-esteem had ever received. Society had taught him to put a higher value upon himself than this. Hitherto, feminine half of creation had hunt

the

over

him like the boughs of a peach-tree, laden with ripe fruit. A very little shake would have brought a goodly number to his feet. But here was a peach which clung persistently, spite of his most vigorous clubbing. He was really hurt more deeply than in his self-love. Every hour the Knowledge grew of how dearly he loved Dorothea. He called himself a dolt and a fool, but while these cheerful names undoubtedly relievod his mind they failed to make any difference in his prospects. It maddened him to think of his blindness. He had passed the most charming summer of his life, and instead of recognizing the real charm, he had thought it was the loveliness of the place, the leaving his old lifo HO completely and finding everything so fresh and new. And Dorothea? Certainly he had accepted her as a very important factor in tho sum of tho whole, but only as a factor. Now he began to realize that in his case one swallow had made a summer, and Dorothea was that swallow. Well, she had flown away now, and with many wrathful thoughts over his stupidity he began to pack up to go back to the city.

Still he lingered, aftor the last box and trunk were filled, although he said to himself that it was strictly in keeping with his character as a fool to hang around still longer. Tho weather was lovely, the scarlet woodbine hail decked the old buildings in a fantastic dress, and he hated to leave the place. The afternoon before he was to go ho strolled for the last time through all the boautlful places that never looked so beautiful as now. He threw himself on theground against the wall of the old foundry, and idly began to throw little stones and sticks down the bank, hearing them splash, or see them float away, in tho liver below.

Presently a curious little sound came to him from within the building. Ho listened a minute, then sprang to his feet, and rushed to one of the arched openings.

Dorothea was there in a little rustic seat which ho had made, and it was the choked sound of sobbing that ho had hoard.

Heiwent toward her, all resentment dying out in his heart. "Dorothea? Oh, my darling!" he said*

She turned a tear-stained lace toward him for an instant, then quickly turned it away. "I'm going away to-morrow unless you will tell me that I may stay.'t

There was no answer. "Won't you take it ail back, dear, and tell me that you love me?"

Still no answer. He gently tried to take her hands from her face, saying tenderly, "Poor little girl, poor Dorothea, tell me what is tho mattor tell me all about it." "I am very lonoly," came in a choked voice from behind the hands, "I, thought I could bear it when I came home—I mean the being without you— but I didn't know then Uiat grandfather was going to die," and again sobs shook her little figure and choked her voice.

Lawrence laughed. It was such a very naive speech of hers. He drew her toward him and gently stroked the brown head. "So you think you could have borne it, do you, if only your grandfather had lived?

Then after a little, "I will make you so happy, dear, if only you will let me." Dorotnea didn't answer, but the sobs had stopped. "Won't you look at me, Dorothea, and tell me that you forgive me for all the pain I'gave you?"

Stili profound silence on the part of Dorothea, who, however, showea no desire to change her position. "Don't you love me a little, dear?" continued Ijawrence, with praiseworthy persistence.

He never was quite certain whether the old building befriended her at just this moment and softly rustled its viny garments, or whether he really did near a very faint, "Yes."

But he has always chosen to believe the latter, and Dorothea has never contradicted him.

"100 Doses One Dollar" is true Only of Hood's Sarsaparilla, and it is HII ananswerable argument as to strength and economy.

A QUESTION ABOUT

y: Browns Iron

K] Bitters

•"ANSWERED.

Th* qnMtton hM wobtWjr fawn adkad titooMada of timw. Hmrc&o Brown'* Iron Bitter* eornvrary. tWn*?" well, ft dftMoH. But it Aom cor* aoi dteeew for wWeb »p*poUW« phrntoian woold praaerib* mo* Pb/sicUo* necgait* Iron tba b«*t rMtcrattv* unrat known to tba prufwlan, and foqnirjr of uf lSkdiiut cbomictl firm will mbaUatfiu tM «—«rtiuq tiutt&n-atra mor* mpmtloH farm than of may otter MitwUix*

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BROWN'S IRON BITTERSteMS:

bsadacb». or prodnea constipation—aJ! other Iron Medicine* rfo. BHOWN'81BON BITTKKM enres Indlgcsttos, BIlleejm«es,Wc«Utreee, Drapepoia. Malaria* CJiiJI* and Fever*,' Tired Feetlac»Geaeral DeMH«y,Paia iatiw Mde,B*ek«Ltek*Iieadael«u4Nmal. gta-oraQ tbaaa aiftnent* boo i* preecribed daily.

BROWN'S IRON BITTERS.KSS'5-.

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