LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXII, Issue 1913, 12 April 1880, Page 3

LITERATURE.

MRS. THORN. 'Remember, Flo, you must not be disappointed, when the Thornes comes home, that you see but little of them. When you and Miss Lilian were children together it waa all very well; but now that she is a great and travelled young lady, there it a wider difference between the cottage and the hall." said Mrs Granger, as she sat over the breakfast table, her eyes resting as she spoke on the pretty young face opposite hi r, the graceful iignre which, spite- of her words, she thought might adorn any drawingroom. ' The path between the hall and the cottage had grown no larger, that I know of mother,' anewered tbe girl. 'lt remains to be seen whether Lilian's feet have become more delicate. She used to love me dearly. I will not believe her changed until she has so proven herself. I will not Intrude upon them, dear. You need have no fear of that.'

But a bright blush rose to the girl's cheek as uhe remembered another, who had found the path spoken of all too long—whose foot had so often trodden it side by side with hers —who, an he walked, had poured into her •willing ear the words she had cherished all these years of his absence. Yea, she and Lilian had been dear and cherished friends; but there was another dearer still—Lilian's brother—who had promised she and Lilian should be sisters in name as well as in heart.

It was all their own secret as yet; not even her mother shared it. Both had thought it best so, during those years of his absence. She had been but a child when he left htr. He was to return and find her a woman. Ihen, if sha were willing, the pledge between them should be publicly renewed.

Even as she lived over again all that happy time in memory, she heard the distant Bhrill whistle of the in-coming train, on which the returning travellers were expected. Three years had passed since she had seen him—three years ! Perhaps he had forgotten her!

Was it this thought, or the house, which stifled her —which caused the quick impulse to snat.m up her hat and find freer breathing space in the open air ? Down the well-trodden path her swift feet carried her until, at the base of a hill where two roads diverged, she paused. Ono led to the Hall. She could go no farther; he must Fesk her.

But as she stands, a pretty picture, in the June sunlight, anotner step, sounding close beside her, drives the blood to her cheek. No time for thought, for wonde' - , aB her eyes startled, confused, meet those of her lover who has come to seek her.

Eagerly he outstretch d bath hands. Shyly she placed hera within their firm grasp. 'You expected me, little one?'he said, fondly. ' > hink of it. I let the carriage drive on without trie, say that I preferred to walk, I felt that 1 should find you here. Flo, have you waited for me all these years ?' Tears brimmed in the girl's eyes. Oh, how richly had her faith been rewarded 1 How little he had changed, save that he was brown r, ta'ler, handsomer! She might think they had been parted but yesterday. But the words with which she strove to answer him would not come at her bidding, only the blood pouring scarlet into her cheeks and temples, ' Flo, tell me quickly—l have not builded my castle upon tbe sands ?' Then she looked up into his face, and, needing no ppokeD words, he opened wide his arms, and drew her close to hiß breast.

' We have brought down a gay party with ue," he said, later. ' Lilian is you know, engaged. I wonder what my mother will say when she hears she is to lose us both ?

■ Do not tell her yet,' the girl pleaded, remembering the haughty, elegant woman, whose smile was like a rift of sunlight against a gleaming iceberg. ' Wait until these people have all gone. Let us keep our secret a. little longer.' ' Let me tell her, Flo—tell them all. Believe me, it would be best.' 'No, no!' she answered. "I could not bear the cold, incredulous glances of all these people. Let no one know until we are alone again.' And when at last he strained her again to his breast, in a la3t embrace, she had now bis promise that it should be even as she wished.

How glad she was that she had exacted it, wlipd, one morning, Lilian and Mrs Thome alighted from their elega t carriage at the cottage gate, and sweeping their trains uprn the gravelled walk, dimmed the little parlour with their grandeur, as each stooped and pressed a languid kiss upon the girl's hot cheek. Was this Lilian, her little friend, her oldtime playmate, who, when she ro«e to go, expressed the indifferent wish that, they might sometimes see her at the Hall ' yes.' Mrs Thome echoed. ' Come up, my dear. We are to have tableaux and a ball next week, in hononr of the young lady I hope ere long to welcome as a daughter. Lilian is, you know, soon to leave me. it is only right that she should be replaced. ' 'lt is false —it is false!' cried out the young soul, in its agony ; bat the white lips were dumb.

Yet had not his mother said it 1 Oh, if he would but come, that he might assure her how idle were her fears. But no, she would be silent. She would accept this invitation,—would see them together; then she could judge for herself. It was a gay, brilliant scene, in which she found herself at the appointed time. In her simple robe of white, she felt like some field-daisy, suddenly transported to a hotbed of roses ; but, sinking into a quiet seat near the door, Bhe watched, with eager, jealous eyes, for the curtain to rise. At last, at the tinkling of a bell, it vanished. The tableaux had begun. Picture after picture was disclosed to her wondering gaze ; but one scene buried itself into her brain.

At the feet of a beautiful girl, dressed in white satin and gleaming pearls, knelt her lover, his eyes beseechingly on h'r face ; but Bhe, turned half from him, pointed to the background, where stood a girl in humble garm- nts, weeping bitterly, and holding up her hand, on one finger of which glistened the ring he once had placed thero. A mißt swam before her vision. She had seen enough; but, as she rose from her seat, Bome one barred her exit. It was Mrs Thorne, who, drawing her arm through hers, led her to her own private sitting-roam. ' 1 have something to say to ynu, Florence —something it is necessary you 3hould hoar. My son loves Miss Doxter, the young lady at whose feet you just now saw him. I have learned that but one thing holds him back front otTericg her his hand and heart —the remembrance of some childish pledge between you, He holds himself bound in honor, and, at whatever co3t to himself, he will redeem his word.'

'You say your p.on loves Wins Dexter? How do you know that 2' It was the girl's right. A pride equal to the woman's before her had suddenly sprung into birth, and lent firmness aud decision to her words.

'I am his mother,' she answered. 'Should I not know my son's heart ? Besides, did you nnt see the tableau? did you not rend it aright, ? ilo meant that you thould sea and judge.' 'Ho said so 1 He knew it was to be there ? *

Mrs Thome bowed her head. She uttered no lie.

'Toll him, then, I set him, free—that I hope never to look upon his face again. 'That is bravo, and like you, Florence ; but ho will not accept it from me. Here are

pen and piper. Write to hltn ; but let him know nothing of what I have done. Though hia heart broke in resigning the woman of hia choice, he would not falter unless he supposed your wish alone dictated your rennaciation of him.'

1 Aa you will, madam.' And, with her heart wounded, torn and bleeding—with those pitiless eyes upon her —she penned the scornful words which gave him back his troth, without explanation or softening, then turned, and like a deer with the hunter's arrow piercing its side, fled to her home.

Those were dreary months that followed. The engagement between the Hall's young master and Miss Dexter, if it existed, had not been announced. Indeed, he had been absent all these months.

A day or two after she had left for him that letter, he had gone ; but now that the leaves were turning to scarlet and brown he wai expeoted home, to be present at his sister's wedding.

Once more the whistle announced the coming of the train ; but no longer had ehe need to watch and wait his coming, for slowly, sadly, they bore him to his home, to await the physician's verdict of life or death.

There had been a serious accident, and he had fallen one of ita victims.

Then Flo learned her heart ; knew that she loved him even yet—that she could better bear to see him wedded to another than to have that bright young heirt hidden from her sight forevermore by the cruel sod.

' He does not care,' the old doctor said, at last. * I cannot underst md it. Make him want to live, and he will get well.' Each word stabbed the listening mother's heart. All her ambitious hopes had fled ; her pyramid lay dismantled at her feet Should she le"i her boy's life pay the forfeit? Three weeks had passed since he was injured, and the physicians said he cared nothing for life, not even enough to rouse himself and fight for its possession. Ah, did she not know why * Had not her hand stolen from him all that made life dear ?

So, in the twilight, a visitor came to Flo—no longer in haughty dignity, and with rustling robes, but a woman who knelt beside her, as she poured sobbingly forth a strange story mto her wonderirig ear. 'I wronged you both,' she said. 'He loved but you. I designed the tableau. He was averse to it, but he did not dream you were to be there, or that it could have any significance to you. I learned his secret, although he knew it not. I told him when your letter came that you had ceased to love him, and he, reading your scornful words, believed it; but when I hinted to him that another might care for him, he turned indignantly away. I still hoped time would soften it, but now each hour, each moment, is precious. Flo, Flo, give me back my son, and I will gladly receive you to my arms as a daughter.' For a moment the girl wavered. The bitter wrong done her, the cruel suffering of all these months, arose like accusing angels against the woman kneeling at her feet ; but in the silence came another cry : _' For his sake, Flo, will you not forgive his mother, and let her feel that she is also yours ?' For a time the tears of both mingled, as the girl clasped the softened, pleading woman in her arms ; then she said, quickly : * Take me to him!'

But the physician had spoken truly, for the color which flushed Ronald Thome's cheek when he heard the truth, hie eyes resting on the face of the'girl he had. loved so well, never quite deserted it again, but grew and grew, nursed by her tender care, until the flush of health was his again. While he always said, in after years he owed his life to the two ■« men whom he loved best on earth—his mother and his wife!