LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume VIII, Issue 1017, 28 September 1877, Page 3

LITERATURE.

TWO EVILS.

By Ernest Cutiibert,

( Continued.)

‘Moralising, eh, Mr Norton?’ she said * or thinking of the time when we stood upon the surface of that treacherous element to gether ? Indeed, the last time I saw it ; for 1 have since avoided it altogether, not oaring to think of what might have been but for you But I feel quite brave now. Will you let me take your arm ? Thank you. Yes ; I feel very brave now, because you know, I am under your protection.’ She stopped. Was it for want of breath ? for this was a long speech for her. No ;it seemed as if she was excited, and anxious to veil that excitement as much as possible. She had adopted the worst course—that of talking. ‘ And so you were going to leave without wishing me good-bye ?’ she resumed. It was a startling question for Charles, for in the first pleasure of seeing her he had lost all remembrance of his resolution. ‘ I must confess it, Miss Foster, 1 was,’ he said.

‘That was not kind, knowing that you might not see me again.’ ‘ Not again !’ he repeated almost mechanically. ‘ I might meet with another accident —a worse one than ours in this little xvater here and not have you near to help me or to support me with your strong arms, as you men should us weak women, you know.’ He did not quite know—indeed he rather thought that at that moment he was the weaker of the two, for he was trembling then, while she seemed quite composed. It was true, as she said, but the thought had never come to him; and there were a thousand and one other things which might happen to them both. He had never thought of that either. ‘Miss Foster,’ he began, ‘if in leaving you without saying—without offering my my respects—my wishes for your recovery, I seemed unkind, believe me it did not spring from want of thought.’ ‘I am sure of that,’ she said kindly. ‘Thank you. I felt certain that you would interpret me rightly ; that would think that I, at least, had not forgotten you; that I must always think of you. I felt it would be so hard to say “farewell.” ‘ Yes,’ she replied softly, ‘ it would be hard, though we have not known each other very long.’ ‘ It seems a very short time to me, the pleasure has been so great.’ ‘You were not used to compliment, Mr Norton.’ ‘ N or do I now. My life has been too stern for that. I speak from my In art This hard and wearisome work a-day existence has not left me time to cultivate the dowers of speech.’ This was rather earnest for him, and perhaps she thought so. At any rate she did not reply, and they proceeded in silence. But she was there ; that was all he thought. Her hand was resting within his arm; but that was not all he f. It. There was a very strong rising in his throat, and a tremulousness of the voice, and—- ‘ Mr Norton,’ Edith broke the silence, ‘as I am going away, will you do me the favor of accepting this little gift as a slight remembrance of the girl who owes her life to you, and who will never forget the heavy debt she can never repay ?’ She took her hand from her muff’ as she spoke, and held out to him a locket. It was open, and he saw that it contained her likeness. ‘ Miss Foster,’ he replied, in pleased surprise, ‘ it is the greatest gift you could have made me. It is the very favor I would have asked if I had dared.’ ‘ Then you will accept it ? Thank you. I shall hope now not to be quite forgotten. ’ ‘ I never could have forgotten you—never.’ ‘ I am glad of that,’ she said. ‘ Thank you,’ he answered. ‘ But I have nothing to give you in exchange for this ; nothing to call you to a sometime recollection of me ; nothing to bring back again, as this will to me, the pleasant life here, and the happy memories associated with it.’ ‘ Poor and content is rich, you know, she said. ‘ Is it ? Well, even my thanks are poor, but they are the riches of the heart. From peer and peasant they spring alike; from the same source, the fountain of truth and ‘ Love,’ he was about to say ; but he stopped. He felt that he was going too far, Tho pained tremor of his voice, the deep earnest tones in which he spoke, the thrill of passionate intensity which had passed over him, all told their tale, the one imcoa trollable feeling. Net he went on with her. They reached at last a little arbear laid out in the grounds, and set with a Letle rustic seat for one, with a little rustic stool before it for another one ; and they entered and stood there. But she did not release his arm; indeed sRe seemed to cling more closely, very confidingly, to it, with her two little hands elapsed upon him. And he looked down upon the little face besides him, and which was bent upon the ground, and upon the delicate form just touched with the grace of budding' woman, -so full of

fresh life, so pare, and clinging there so trustingly to him, and— He would have been more than mortal if he could have -stood there and not to'd the secret of his emotion, the secret which he had bidden himself not to reveal 13ut it was a place for love, and he was only mortal. And so it came to pass that he sat her unre istingly down upon the little rustic seat, and at her feet, upon the little rustic stool, told the story of his hopes. Iwo days later Charles Norton stood in the ‘ pdvate ’ at the mi l, before his employer, who, seated at his table, looked up surprised when his favorite clerk requested a little ‘ private conversation ’ with him. ‘Certainly, Norton, certainly,’ he replied, fussily but kindly, and pulling out bis watch as be spoke ; ‘ I am rather busy now, but I can give you ten minutes. ’ [To ho nimtiwed.)