LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume VIII, Issue 825, 13 February 1877, Page 3

LITERATURE.

SECOND THOUGHTS ARE BEST. ( Concluded.') The panic-stricken nurse left the child and ran inside a garden gate and closed it after her. The unconscious little one laughed and put out her chubby hands, evidently thinking that the rabid animal would play with her as did her pet dog at home. Philip Orne retained his self-possession, and just at the critical moment when all seemed lost, he caught the creature by the nape of the neck and held him in a powerful grasp. In vain did the maddened animal snap at his captor and writhe and struggle to escape. The white fingers which May had secretly stigmatised as weak and effeminate, seemed made of iron.

A few moments of this horrible uncertainty—then the brute’s eyes glazed and he went into a fit.

The danger was no longer immediate, and Philip relaxed his hold. By this time a policeman had arrived on the spot, and with his truncheon ended the poor creature’s sufferings. May felt deeply humiliated at her inefficiency in the hour of danger. For all that she had done with her fancied firmness of nerve, that dimpled little form might now have been mangled and torn by those huge fangs in which lurked a poison as deadly and more to be dreaded than that of the rattlesnake.

She caught the child in her arms and almost smothered her with kisses; then she turned to Philip. ‘ Mr Orne, I owe you a debt which nothing can repay. If this little darling had been bitten I should have felt all through my life that it was owing to my lack of presence of mind in not snatching her from the threatened danger.’ Her overstrung nerves relieved themselves in a burst of tears.

* Don’t speak of it- it is best forgotten. Will you take my arm ? You are looking very white.' May accepted the proffered arm and they walked on in silence.

Philip did not underrate the danger he had escaped. He well knew that a false aim in seizing the rabid animal, or the slightest relaxation of his iron muscles, would have exposed him to sufferings compared to which the tortures of the Inquisition were but as shadows. He felt as a man does who has met death face to face. May was of a frank, open nature, and she felt that she had done this quiet man injustice. She had undervalued him, and she must make confession, or never again feel at case in his society. *Mr Orne,’ she said, hesitatingly, ‘will you forgive me ? I did not give you credit for such courage. I thought ‘ Say no more, Miss May,’ Philip answered, as he gazed in her brown tear-clouded eyes. 6 It would not be ’in mortal man to resist so fair a pleader, whatever might be her offence. May I not reverse our present positions, and become the entreating party myself ? ’ ... There was a meaning in his quiet tones which thrilled to May’s heart and made it thrill tumultuously. Philip saw her agitation, and took her little hand in his warm firm clasp. ‘ Miss Alleyn—May—will you prove ycur contrition by giving me the sole right of this soft little trembler?' As May listened she knew that Philip Orne would henceforth be to her life as is the sun to the flower, but a strange timidity scaled the lips usually so ready with their gay retort. Blushing and confused, she strove to withdraw her hand. Her lover’s ardent glances studied the sweet face, with its downcast eyes. * If you do not answer, I shall think silence means consent.’ One swift glance at his face. ‘Please, Mr Orno, my fingers are not made of iron.’ He dropped her hand with a pained look. * I beg your pardon ’ The rest of his sentence was unuttered, as May was flying up the lawn like a wild thing. This evasion of a direct answer was a new phase in May’s character; but Philip read its meaning correctly. A denial of his suit would have been prompt and decisive. Her girlish timidity caused Hope to fold her snowy wings and make her dwelling within his heart. He did not succeed in seeing May alone until the morning of his departure; but the previous evening he gave her a bouquet of English violets with a note hidden in its fragrant depths, requesting her to wear his offer in" as a breast-knot if she could respond to his love. When she appeared at breakfast, the sweet, shy face was suffused with blushes as Philip’s eyes rested upon it, for beneath it, breathing forth their precious meaning, reposed his gift. . When Philip returned to his city home he bore with him the hope that, with the coming of the daisies, he might claim his ‘Mayflower,’ as he loves to call her. It seems fitting to him that the earth should bo dressed in a garniture of bloom upon her wedding-day, who is to him the fcureat bloom of them all.