Literature.

Taranaki Daily News, Volume XLVI, Issue 190, 16 August 1904, Page 4

Literature.

A HAPPY MISTAKE, Jack Barry walked out of the hotel the picture of physical health and strength. lie was handsome, too, ojhl had he been rich the girl who could have refused his protlered hand would have been a curiosity. But, alas, like most, of his comrades, he was poor. Not that he carod the least, as lie would ,havo soi|d| himself, but he ascribed the ofle hack-handed slap ho had ever received from Dame I'oi'tun.: to his poverty—that is, to his income of £3OO a year and no more. > ( course, it was a girl that did It. Young cavalry ofiicers take nothing seriously except girls—and,, unfortunately; very few gills take young cavalry oilicers seniously. It is one thing to ilirt and dance with a handsome fellow in a fine uniform, and quite another to marry one and live in comparative poverty.

.1 ack haid iailen in love with a girl almost Oei'ore the ink on his commission was dry ; he had danced attendance on her a whole summer at the seaside, and he had proposed and been quietly but Jirmly rejected. The rejection was a terrible blow, lie was convinced that the girl was in love with him.. He rather thougjat that, he was treating her with unusual fairness by being actually in love with her. She tumbled him oft' a very lofty perch v. :'h a little halfwhispered ''No." lie hardly believed his own ears when sfhe said it. Then he suddenly discovered how much he really did love her. He could not .live without her—no, not a day. He meditated suicide all one night, resolved to commit it, unfortunately went to sleep in his chair, woke up with an enormous appetite, ate a good breakfast, and—changed his mind. Ho concluded that it would be much more romantic, and .would make her feel worse, to waste his life and then some day to tell her it was all her fault. Ah .' she jvould under.stand it all then.

Aftei; joining his regiment, however, Jack did not get an opportunity to waste his life. He was ordered abroad, a«d, there was plenty of work to do, and ho spent two years away from lOnigiand, home, and be a uty. It was a good tiling for him. He hud no opportunity to spend his income, and therefore was obliged to save it, so that at the end of that time, when he bad managed to get a, three months' leave of alijsence, he had a little money and a good deal of common sense. He had developed. Instead of wasting his life, he found that be was.full of healthy ambition, and while he could not forget the girl, he tad grimly resolved, to. gpt alowg without her. He did propose to do one thin®, however, and that was to get to Eng- , land, as fast as ever he could, call on her, and, let her know how well iio was getting along without her. He reached the hotel at noon—ho was, jnst leaving,; the, hotel to call on her., at eight. She' livod in Kensington, It was a delightful Septemjljar night, with a full moon, and he walked down to the' house repeating on the way a dozen tirnbs ■ or more, the question, ''is Miss Burroughs at home ?" so that his voloe would not tremble the slightest particle even before the secant. , His voice did not tremble, either, when thie critical moment arrived, but lie was a little astonished tliat the. servant should usher Mm into the drawingroom without saying a word or even asking for his card. Jhj was still more astonished •to "find that there was no light in the room save the stream of moonlight that slanted in at the window. i. itonishment was not the word for the occasion when he saw Violet Burroughs herself leaning on the sill of the window in the mooplighit; and he almost gasped when ifce said in the most matter-of-fact way; " I knew you would come back !"

'' Did you ?" he exclaimed, sinking unimvited, into a chair. "Yes," she repeated. Then he noticed that she was crying. "I hope that I don't intrude, perhaps I had better call ajgain ?" She pa d no -attention to the suggestion, but still looking out of the window, said : "Your voice has changed, already a groat deal." "Yes, I suppose it has," he (answered.

"You said you would be a changed man, 'but I dild not suppose it would affect you so soon," she continued. "Oh, it is dreadfal, isn't it?"

"My voice ?l I did not kno|w, that it was. I'll have It trained "Oh !"

"How can you jest? Y'ou know I mean this afl'air of ours—your love for me."

"When you jest you make me feel that you are desperate. You will not commit suicide, will yon ? Promise me that you won't." The conversation was becoming rather rapid. Jack had called for the purpose of saying not a word concerning the old love that he had so manfully buriod—for the purpose, too, of letting her see how well he had buried it, and how nicely he was getting along without her after all ; and here she was plunging into it herself in a most unladylike mannpr, and dragging him along with her. More than that she was rapidly opening up the old wounds; and, still more, she was resurrecting the old love. Why was she crying ? Why (Jijd she expect him ? How did she even know he was in town ?

She must have expected him to call that very evening, el9e she would not be acting in this—to say the least—highly informal manner. But the thing that pleased him.most was the fact that the whole thing, was so fresh in her mind. It was possible that even now she might bo won by him. He answered her last question.

"I did think of suicide—but I gave the idea up. There is too much in life to live for—there are too many changes of luck—to many opportunities in the end what was refused in the beginning " ','ph, no—no^—do not think that you can ever win my love !" "Hut, Miss Burroughs, I did not come here to win your love. You ma.v remember that wlwn we parted you assured mo that you had a great respect for. me, thai you hoped that you would see me often, in fact, er—l believe you said—er—that you would lie a sister to me, or something like that—and I ihad no intention of compelling you to receive any unwelcome attentions." "But you lovo me?" "Well, I—er—l " "You must love me !" "It shall be just as you- say." "I do not mean that, either. You would not have acted as you did unless you loved me." "Well, I'll acknowledge"—he was getting just a little tender new-

"that Ido love you. I've tried to forget you, but I couldn't " '■' You haven't had a very lortgitime to try to forget."

It has secim.,l very long indeed to

"Yes, it has to i, e, too. 1 have bocn sitting hero at, this window crying ever since."

1 -arry nearly jumped. Sitting there crying ever since ! Was it possible, or was the girl crazy ? He never solved the problem. The girl continued :

But 1 rc( o not love you, fchd no matter what papa and mamma say I will never marry you. I haw never told you why. I'll tell you now. I love another." "Anothler ?"

'Yes, and have for a long timeand I never expect to see him Again, for I sent him away, and he may be dead now, poor fellow. I thought it would be fun to reject him, and I really didn't know how much I cared for ilrim—and then I thought he wouldn t take 'No' for an answer. But> oh, he did, and I have been t|lie most miserable girl in the world ever since. ]j love him—l love him—and he ought to lmve sense enough to know it !" She broke into sabs,, burying her head, a quivering mass of disordered hair, in her hands. "Then it has always been quite a hopelesa case, so far as I am concerned ?" "Yes."

"Well, let me show you how bravely I can stand 'it. Let me tie a brother to you. Tell me who he ia I will go to him and bring him hack to you. I have an idea that he will be very glad to come, whoever he is."

"No," with a shake of the head-, "he is too proud. Ho .will nover come back to me." "Tell me who ha is."' "You know him." "Well •>"

"He is Jack Barry, a lieutenant in the 71st Lancers. You remember him at the seaside two years ago ?" Jack pinched himself to discover whether he was really awake or dreaming. He felt like shouting, but concluded that it wouldn't be quite the correct thing. He wanted to laugh with happiness, hut he couldn't laugh while she was crying there in the corner. He saw it all now. She thought she was talking to some other fellow whom she had refused just' before. Finally he said :

"Yes, I know him very well, but he, too, has changed.'' "In what way ?" she asked, anxiously.

" Well,, his voico has changed, too." '■' That's nothing. I don't care how he has changed; if he only lovSs me as he used t0.," "He does—and, by-the-bye, his voice is very much like mine now." It was not the words he had used, but the tone of voice in which he had spoken tlvem that gave her woman's intuition the spur. She looked quickly up. He was stamding now where shje could catch the outlines of his figure. She uttered a little exclamation, reached over to the wall, switched 1 on the electric light, and—well, this is the end of my story 4