Miry's Great Mistake.

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXXI, Issue 3032, 31 October 1908, Page 2

Miry 's Great Mistake.

By EFFIE ADELAIDE tOWLANDS. Auhot of Selina's Love Story "An Inherited Feud," " Brave Barbara," "A Splendid Heart," etc., etc.

CHAPTER Vlll.—Continued. "Ah, yea, that is the hurt!" the man said passionately, almost fiercely, "to feel that for all my love, for all the hungry eagerness of my heart, I could do nothing; only stand by and see that brute send her each day slowly, yet must surely, to her grave. It was all very hopeless thing, Laurie, you see, for, had she known of my love, she could never even had she wished to do so, have found any comfort in that love. Yet, for all its hopelessness, there was a comfort, a happiness, in it for me. While she lived, the world was beautiful. I was glad to live. Though our hands never clasped, and our lips scarcely spoke, she was there. I could look at her, and stand near her, ready to do all in my power to help her when a chance came. She was alive. I had the joy of knowing that; but now—now " "Dear Paul"—Laurie could not endure the sight of his face—"my darling, my brother, be brave. Do you think, do you know, that mjr heart bleeds for you? But I must help you. I must be cruel to be kind. ' There is no good to be gained by letting the knowledge of your sorrow crush you to the earth, as it is doing now; and then, Paul, remember, there i* mother—you love her—you know her love for you. As yet she knows nothing; but, unless you make an effort, unless " Paul stretched out his hand tj his "Laurie, she must never knownever!" he said hurriedly. Laurie stroked his hand tenderly, gently. "Then you must try to become more like yourself, Paul, or I fear —but no more now, here is Isobel; she is looking for me. Why'not take us both in to supper? What do you say, Isobel? Shall Paul take us to supper? I confess I am unromantically r . hungry. I suppose you are not, you fairy-like creature." ~_. Isobel laughed airily. She was looking her very best, in a most becoming gown of soft white clinging stuff, with a quantity of old lace about the picturesque body. "I think I should like some supper, too, Laurie," she said in a pretty, childish way. "I am a very greedy person; but," with a clever touen of shyness, "need we bother Mr Hungerford to take us? He—he doesn't look hungry yet." It was impossible to resist laughing at this remark. , Paul looked down at the girl before him with just the same feeling of pleasure and admiration that he would have looked at a lovely child. Isobel, with her soft, flaxen hair, and delicate skin, and tiny form, was like an exquisite doll. He had never seen any one just like her before. "Do you know that is a confession, Miss Marston?" he said, speaking more like his real self than he had done' for a long time. Laurie's apt words about his mother had touched him sharply. The mere fact of opening his heart had done him good. He had made the first effort to throw off his gloom; and Isobel came on the scene just at the right moment. He smiled down at the girl. Laurie had all at once flitted away, and Paul and Isobel were alone together. "A confession that says that you have done me the great honour of studying my expressions, since you do not recognise my 'hungry' look. Yet, I hope it is not one you know best." Isobel looked up at him shyly.J "I don't think I have studied you very much, Mr 7 Hungerford," she said simply. "I-I have been ▼ery sorry fcr you," and then she blushed. "Oh! please forgive me," she said, greatly disturbed. "I —I spoke without thinking." | Paul said nothing; but the great aching-wound in his heart did not shrink or wince at the light touch of this girl's unconsciously spoken sympathy. Laurie's oft repeated praise of her new friend came to him in a vague way; and also in the same vague way he realised that he had not up to now bestowed much courtesy or attention on this pretty little creature. His great sorrow had driven all thought of his aunt's matrimonial schemes out of his head, and at this moment Isobel appealed to his interest and liking for herself alone, and not because she happened to be a guest in his aunt's riuuse. "Have you danced much? I hope so," he asked her gently, as they walked toward the supper room. "Every dance, as yet, except the -the first," Isobel answered. "Every dance. Of course, that i» the proper thing. Is that your card? May I look at it?" '* He adopted the sort of tone one would use to a child, or some one very young. "It is all scribbled over," laobel aaid hurriedly, and her lingers closed upon the pasteboard. It was evident to Paul that for some reason she would rather not let him see this card. He felt a vague sense of amusement, and then of decided liking. She was, ua Laruie had said, "a dear little thing," and she was so prettily shy, and so prettily young. Paul felt it was impossible to let his gloom and grim sorrow be paramount in this gill's presence, Isobel knew exactly how far she had progressed with him, and her heart beat high at this moment. "Don't you like dancing, Mr Hungerford?" she asked, still hur riedly, and then, before he could answer, she had caught her foot against something, had stumbled sharply, and would have fallen, but for ■Paul's strong arms. Isobel clung to those arms for a little moment; her fan and. programme and lace handkerchief had fallen to the ground, and Paul was

full of solicitation as she released iierseif from him, blushing and trembling. "How stupid I am," she said, trying to laugh. "I—l am so sorry, Mr Hungerford." "What for?" Paul asked with a smile. "Did you imagine your fairy weight hurt me?" "la very heavy, really" Isobel said; and then she blushed again, and her small hand went out involuntarily as he stopped and picked up her things. Paul's eyes rested unconsciously on the card as it lay open before him, and then he frowned, for the first name written in pencil on the programme was his own. "Why, you were engaged to me for the first dance, Miss Marston," he said. Isobel took her belongings from him hurriedly. 4 ' Yes, but—but you did not come; and so I thought of course you had forgotten." She said this shyly but she managed to put a little pathetic touch into her ''lear young voice, a pathos that hurt him. Suddenly he remembered, at this moment, something Laurie had said the day before. "The child is so delighted you have asked her for the jvfirst waltz," Laurie had declared; and he had never given it another thought. "What a brute I am," he said to himself. As he looked at Isobel's averted face he added, "Poor little thing, and she did not want me to know that I had hurt her." Out aloud he said, stretching his hand toward her: "What can I say to you, Miss Marston? What apology can I make? Can you. will you ever forgive me?" Isobel put her small hand in his for an instant. "I could forgive you everything," she said; and her voice had a sound of sudden passion in it. The next instant she had flitted away like a white butterfly, and Paul was left standing, staring after her with the strangest sensation he had ever experienced, and which he scarcely knew how to qualify. CHAPTER IX. THE LOCKET AND ITS PORTRAITS. Mary obeyed Dr. Cartwright in everything; it was a pleasure to be enabled to do anything, to show this man how grateful her heart was to him, not for the mere sake of saving her life, for life, in the abstract, was not of great value to the poor child, but for helping her to try and make the best of that life which fate and her won girlish impetuous folly had blighted so cruelly. She wished, as day succeeded day, that her work could have been harder and more important. She was eager to be doing, not alone for a sense of gratitude, but from a desire to banish thought and all its miseries. It was all very well, however, for her to make a fixed determination, and to say to herself, "I will not think henceforth; my past is forgotten. I live for the future." (To be continued.)