CHAPTER X. "SO NEAR AND YET SO FAR."

Te Aroha News, Volume III, Issue 122, 3 October 1885, Page 6

CHAPTER X. "SO" SO NEAR AND YET SO FAR."

Alda and JLeta, sitting at the window of a handsome brown-atone residence, in the last month of spring-time, were discussing Leta's return home in a few weeks at furthest. "What shall I do without you, Leta?" Alda said, sorrowfully^ " I will be very lonesome withput you !" " You can get some one to fill my place, dear Alda, very easily. An advertisement will bring hundreds out of employment to you ; surely you can pick from among the* some one who will suit you."

"It will not be you, dear," Alda said, drearily, "and I cannot bear to think .of a stranger being with me constantly. Then there was a slight pause in the conversation, broken at last by Alda's voice, low and tremulous: "Leta, do you not think it strange your brother has nover been to see us since we came here?" "He ia so busy," Leta said, quietly, noting with saddened heart how the fair face flushed and paled, for strange as it may seem not one hint of Mark's marriage and his young bride's flight had reached Alda s ears. Isolated almost entirely from society, she had not met any person who was familiar with the strange romantic tale. But she knew that for only a few months at most could she stay amongat those who had been so kind to her, and she longed with an unutterable longing to gaze upon the face of Mark Maynard once more j to feel his strong hands clasp hers would seem almost as if he could hold her back from death's cold embrace ! As has been said, she knew she had not long to live. She had talked it all over with Leta, calmly and quietly, as behoved one resigned to the dread thought. She had divided her girlish possessions between Leta and Alice - f her vast wealth she had never mentioned, but stored away in her mind was a plan which was destined to reach fruition ere many months rolled by. Uncle Sam watched Alda with a great pain gnawing at his very heart strings ; he was alono in the world, having never married, and on Alda he had bestowed all the affection he would have given to a chiM of his own, if he had been blessed with wife and family. It grieved him to see Alda each day growingtbinnerandmoreshadowy, it grieved him to think that young life so full of grand possibilities must go out when just on the threshold of perfect womanhood ; to lose his pet, his gleam of sunshine, was almost more than he could contemplate now in the autumn of Ms existence. Alda and Leta, sitting by the parlour window, gazing out at the passing throng, saw a ruddy-haired, buxom Irisb girl sauntering slowly by. Leta leaned eagerly forward and said to Alda, half laughingly : I believe that was Katie Maguire, our fiery Irish help of last summer; yes, lam sure," she added, decisively, as Katie turned her head in that direction. "The one that left so suddenly?" Alda said, smiling. "Your mother was terribly put out that morning : I remember it well." And Katie, sauntering dlowly by the elegant house, had not the faintest idea that Mrs Maynard's daughter Leta was gazing out at her from the parlour window. Katie's mind was filled with other thoughts just then, and she did not notice the girl's familiar face pressed so closely against the window panes. Candice, in the boarding house where we last saw her, was more than grateful for the kindness Mrs Harris showed her; but several days passed : her little stock of money was nearly gone, and she had no way to obtain more. t)ay after day she wandered out on the streets in search of Katie, but she could find no trace of her, and at last gave up in despair. A week elapsed, and then two, and her last dollar was expended. What should she do ? She was conscious of only onethought— She could not accept this shelter longer. Mrs Harris had been "cry kind to her, but she could not forget she bad no claim upon her, and that ehe was poor also. So once more poor Candice found herself out on the sidewalks of Chicago, friendless and without money. She wandered all day through the streets and along the boulevards, and at nightfall found herself in a atrange part of the city ; the buildings of brick and granite were replaced by humble cottages, and tiny shops were scattered about s instead of the mammoth etores. ■ Hark ! What was that noise, thundering, ' roaring in her ears like imprisoned water striving to burst their boundaries 1 On, on she wandered ; now her feet were not upon the hard pavements, but treading soft, yielding sand, and the waves of the lake, leaping and splashing, broke on hrvr astonished sight. Then a wicked thought surged through her brain ; her breath came Bhort and pantingly as whatehe contemplated came to her in its horrible possibilities. Why not get rid of it all, the pain and heartache, bury the present and past under the cold, cold waves ? What was that stretching far out almost beyond her sight ? 'Twas the pier where they loaded and unloaded vessels. She would go out on that a little way. She would not drown herself- no ! no ! only walk out over the waves and watch them splashing against the abutments beneath her. She was young and strong ; it would be so hard to die. No one noticed the fair young girl in widow' 3 weeds wandering out on the pier among the tiers of cordwood. She went on and further on ; beneath her lay the cruel, ! treacherous waves, One leap, and all would I be over ; the waters would encircle her, and the floating driftwood would float on the ! : same as ever ! But no ; an icy band seemed to reach out and save her from herself, and ' turning with a weary sigh, she hurried toward the shore. It was so far, so very ■ far ; she was faint and weary ; she could r scarcely see her way, and just at the water's edge her poor teet, benumbed with cold, , stumbled, and she fell into the leaping I waves. A faint cry struggled from her lipg, a terrified, agonised cry ; a brawny j labourer heard it, and saw with dismay the I woman's form sink from sight. I For just one second's space he stood as if i paralysed ; then, hurrying toward the spot, i he waited for her reappearance. She was ; borne on the crest of an incoming wave I almost to his feet ; another minute and she [ would be washed out again, never to return. i With one leap he stretched out his toil-worn [ hands and clutched her dress. The water was receding. Would he lose her again ? ' No ! no ! and clutching her garments with I a firmer clasp be drew her from the waves i and laid her tenderly on the beach. > "A suicide !" So thought this timely i rescuer, and snatching up the lighted lan- > tern he had dropped, he held it above the girl's face, scanning it curiously. ; It was by mere chance this man was on r the beach ; his cottage was only a few rods I distant, and he had come in search of drifti wood for fuel; but now he forgot everything p cave the young girl lying unconscious be1 neath his gaze. p She was no ordinary suicide he felt sure ; 1 that dainty, high-bred face, refined even in I its rigidity, was not the face of a common I unfortunate, but of a lady whom cruel adversity had driven to this step ! 3 Hark ! Someone was coming. The moon f just bursting through a cloud revealed two 1 men in the police uniform, their brass s buttons and stars glistening in the silvery 3 light. They must not find this fair young girl ; she might be dead, and they would send her to the morgue, or, worse still, if living, to the police station, as a suspicious character ; she did not belong there, and, gathering her up in his strong arms, he i carried her rapidly towards bis little home, t She breathed ! Ah ! yes, he was Bure of b that! Opening the door he entered the tiny cottage ; two women looked up at his sudden " entrance, screamed slightly, and then grew 7 pale as they saw the strange burden he carried. It was no armful of driftwood to , be laid in the oven and dried, but a fair fc girl with curls of red-gold hair streaming a over his shoulder I i One of the women, red-haired and ruddyfaced, started forward impulsively and fixed

,hebedfor him to lay her onj theu the vine-brown eyes fluttered and new open vildly, and the pale lips murmured: « Katie 1 Katie 1" , The ruddy-faced young woman peered nto the stranger's countenanoe anxiously. What did she mean by oalling " Katie l [Catie !'* Surely she did not know her. Again the young voice rose in delirium : "Katie I save me ! save me 1" Katie Maguire, for it was she, caught the 3mall hands in hers, and, in a wondering, awestruck tone, Baid : "Be aisy, Miss Candice, darhnt Katie will save you, Bhure t" . How came this fair young gir here, lying so low, for now she was certain it was Miss Candice of Valley Farm? "Can it be,' Katie thought, wondetingly, " that she is in need of friends and has come to poor Irish Katie? Shure, 'tis cruel treatment has drove her to this !" "You know her, Katie? It was her brother's voice, bringing her back to tho present. "Know her!" Katie answered, quickly. " Shure I know the poor lamb so well I would do aught in the wide world for her I It's Mistress Maynard's own niece, more shame to her to drive tho child to this ! Dear Miss Candice, do you know Katie?" The brown eyes rested for pne moment on the girl's ruddy face as if in recognition, and the pale lips murmured ; " Katie ! kind, good Katie ! I have hunted for you so long !" But the girl was delirious ; Pat was excluded from the room and Candiee's wet garments were changed for warm dry ones from Katie's slender wardrobe. Mrs Maguire looked anxiously at Katie as they disrobed her, but Katie, resolved to shield Candies at any cost, met her sister-in-law's gaze defiantly. " 'Tis all right !" stie said, as if resenting the slightest intimation of wrong. t§ Shure the poor thing's husband is dead and she be nearly crazed ! Mayhap she will die if she don't get cared for quickly !" and bo the really kind-hearted sister-in-law asked no further questions ; Pat was despatched immediately for a doctor, and before morning the feeble wail of an infant was heard in that humble cottage, and Mark Maynard had an heir. But the mother's life was despaired of ; she raved in her delirium of Mark, and called on Katie piteously to save her from the cruel waves. The kind-hearted Irish girl kept by her side constantly, assuring her in tender tones that she would save her,