LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume VIII, Issue 1011, 21 September 1877, Page 3

LITERATURE.

summer's golden days.

[By Beatrice Dunphy.] ( Concluded.}

* Lois, won't you come out ? Do, darling, for I must tell you that I love you, and hear that you love me.' I do not know what to say; he is my friend, and I am so fond of him that I do not wish to hurt him ; yet I cannot give him the answer he wishes to hear, for I do not love him. lam trying to frame a reply when auntie comes up to us, and tells me it is time to leave. I answer hurriedly, ' Yes, auntie, I will get my cloak ;' and I give Philip a look to follow me; but aunt Mary has checkmated me here, for she hands me my wrap, and then takes Philip's arm. As he pu<s me in the carriage he sftys, 'Write me an answer in time to let me come and see you to-morrow before I leave Cool mo ry.' I nod assent, then lean back, cover my head over, and pretend to be asleep. Why could not Philip have remained my friend ? Why does he want so much more than I can give? When I get to my own room I take out my <'esk, and write a letter to Phdip. I want it to be kind and friendly ; but I wish him to unde)stand I have no love to give in return for his. First, I write a long letter, teliing him he has mistaken friendship for love ; but I feel I am wronging him by such a supposition, so I tear it up. and write just what I should have said to him had time allowed :

'Dear Philip,—Forgive me if I have ever led you to believe my affection for you was any other than that of friendship. lam so sorry that you love me; for I have no love to offer you in return, but shall always remain, dear Philip, your true friend, - Lois.' It is broad daylight before I have finished this short epistle, so I do not attempt to go to bed, for I see it is six o'clock ; but I change my dress, and run over to the rectory with my note, drop it into the letter-box, and get home again long before auntie is down. After breakfast she orders the carriage round, and asks me to go out for a drive with her. I see her reason ; she is afraid Philip will come over, and that we shall go out for a walk. I know that he will not, so I assent readily. .As we are on the way home we meet the r< ctory carriage returning from the station, and I know that PI ilip Graham lias gone. lam very weary, and go to bed early. Auntie wonders next day why Philip does not call, and I tell her that he has left Coolmory, and is going to India. She replies that he might have been polite enough to have called to say goodbye ; and then severely censures him for his inattention. This I cannot bear, for lam very fond of Philip, and I will not hear a word against him. I feel weak and hysterical, and burst out crying in a fo lish way; then rush out of the house down to the river, where we had so often Ik en together I throw myself down on the grass, and have a good cry ; then wander abou* to all the places where I had been so happy, and i cmembcr every word that Philip said, and everything that I had done, even to my romp in the clover-field. Everything is the same ; but the country seems to have lost its charm. The sun is just as bright, the gras-s just as green, the river just as rippling ; but I want to go home. lam longing to see mother and the girls, and to have no time or opportunity to think of the past mouth. lam pining for change, for nothing seems pleasant to me at Coolmory now ; but most of all I am longing to see Philip again. If I could only see him down by the river once more, only have time to tell him that my letter Mas a mistake, and that [ love him more than life !

It is too late now, and I only look forward to seeiim Barbara and Helen, and trying to forget my summer holiday. I never thought how golden the days were, or what made them so bright to me, until Philip left; nowall the glory of my life seems to have departed with him, and I feel as i 5 the beauties of Coolmory are mocking at my misery, and 1 desire as much, to go home I longed a ! month ago to come down to Aunt Mary's. Chapter IV. 1 have been home some months now, and everything is the same as ever. Mother is just as busy about getting us married as she was last season, only that she seems to have given me up altogether, and I am allowed to accept or invitations at my own sweet will.' We spent the autumn at a semifashionable watering-place, and made some new acquaintances—among others, a Mr ■l'.romo B auehamp, who is very attentive to its all. Mother has gi'eat hopes of ftis ultimately making one of us Mr-" Jievome Beauchamp ; but 1 haye my doubts on the subject, and look upon hi,m as quite a oonnrmed old, bachelor, .He is an amusing, clever and does not bore nie in the least, consequently wo get on very well together. 1 have never told any ovjo about Philip Graham, nor ever asked Aunt Mary for news of him. When I first came home I tried to forget him ; but ev< ry day I think of him, and wonder if I shall ever again see his grave serious smile, or hear his melodious laugh It is nearly a year since I went down to Oooimory ; and we have again glori us summer weather. The season is in full swing, . and we go out a deal. I seem to have i lost all my girlish whble-heartedness, and

enjoy nothing with the old joyousness; but I go out, and my thoughts are distracted whie I dance and tdk ; but when I come home I feel weary of it all and then think how happy I might have been with Philip if J had answered his quest on differently that morning a year ago I often wonder if he is st 11 in ludia, or if he returned homo at once; and als'> if heiuft ;.>ny girl on hia voyage there or back who has marie him forget me. I feel that 1 should be happier if I knew these things concerning him ; and then I argue with myself that he is nothing to me now : and my stock of logic i" exhausted in the convict in that he is clearer t 3 me th«.n all the world

I am in this frame < f mind one morning when father sends f>>r me, and when I reach his study I find mother waiting with him for me. Mother is looking delighted about something, and father is looking worried. They do not keep •■ e long waiting before I have heard their reason for sending for me, namely, that Mr Jerome Beauchamp has dene me the honour of pr poking to father for my hand and youthful affections. Father goes on to tell me that both mother and he approve of the match, and that they have given Mr Beauchamp permission to plead his cause with me I listen silently until father has finished speaking, then break out into a passionate refusal to see Mr Beauchamp, much less to become his wife. Father looks quite relieved, hut mother seems disappointed, and I wish it was in my power to pass JVI r Beauchamp's offer of marriage on to Barbara or Helen. .After this little episode my life seems even darker ; for Mr Beauchamp used to lend me clever books, and his conversations were always brilliant and amusing Now my refusal of him has vex. d mother, and noth ng I can say or do will please her. Evidently Mr Bemchamp will not take father's answer as a [decided one, because this morning I received a letter from him, in which he begs so earnestly for my love, and promises to make life so pleasant to me, that for one m ment I feel inclined to let • the dead past bury its dead,' and to become his wife, if he will have me when I tell him all my love was given long ago to Philip Graham. But I remember Philip's words, and that he considers me true and worthy ; so while the others go out to the Park I stay at home, to have a quiet afternoon to answer Mr Beauchamp's letter, and to tell him that I cannot marry him. It is a brilliant warm day, and I am writing in father's study. I am very puzzled what to say to Mr Beauchamp, and my thoughts revert to that other letter I wrote to Philip this time a year ago. I pass my fingers through my hair with a vague idea that that will help me what to say, when I hear the study door open and close again from the outside ; then I look up to see who has entered, and can scarcely believe my eyes, for it is Philip Graham. In that one glance I can see that Philip loves me still, and that no one has come between us. That he loves me with the same passionate longing is evident : for before either of us has time to reflect he has caught me to him, and I have thrown my arms round his neck, and can say nothing but 'Philip,' while he soothes my hair and murmurs,

' Lois ! my little T ois !' Then he puts me from him, while he says,

'Lois, I should never have intruded on you, but I came to fsee your father on business, and they told me that no one was at home.'

Here I cannot help interrupting him with ray exclamation of, ' 0 Philip, it is what 1 have been praying for night and day.' Then I break down, and cover my face with my hands, as I remember that he has >aid nothng to me that has given me any right to revert to old times. At length I look up, and find the same fond old smile on his face as he takes my hand, and says,

'So, Lois, you do love me, though you wrote that letter, which has kept me an exile for a year ?' And my tyes answer for me; for in another moment I am in his arms again, and he is pressing his lips to mine. 'I came on here f>om your father's office to get him to draw up an agreement for a partnership with Dr Drewirfc ; but now he will have to give me a deed of gift instead ; for I shall not give you up easily this time, little Lois '

Before the others come in we have settled everything ; and Philip and I arc looking forward to spending many golden summer days together.