■I It was a small party, but a choice one. Mrs. Langdon Wing had just re turned from a long sojourn in Europe, where she had come to know many "new" people. She prided herself upon her discretion and discrimination. In deed, a report had been circulated that it was only in Mrs. Langdon Wing' 3 parlors, among all the parlors within the sacred pale of society, that one might meet really brainy people, who, at the same time, possessed unexcep tional manners, and wore good clothes. ' he source of this report had been un ci iritably suspected to be not far from tier own "boudoir"—but Mrs. Langdon Wing's was truly a very nice house,— and so thought young Dr. George Dover, as he stood there one evening, under the softly-glowing piano-lamp— without any odor. Mrs. Langdon Wing's lamps were said to be the only ones in town which never put them selves in evidence through more than two of the five senses. Mrs. Wing was immensely flattered to see Dr. Dover, whom she had been coaxing and inviting for a long time His researches in microscopy had brought him to the front in a wonder ful way, for so young a man—for he was said to be very young, though the gray hairs in his beard and a certain severe aspect which his face wore in re pose would indicate that he was nearer forty than thirty. He wrote articles in the learned reviews, and his brother physicians spoke of him with awe. He was undeniably distinguished in ap pearance, with his tall, well-made fig ure, and his pointed, close-clipped blond beard. In spite of the almost for bidding expression of his features, and especially his eyes, which were of a deep, almost sombre, blue, he was handsome, and he gave an impression of exclusiveness by a general coldness of manner which he allowed to meli into cordiality only nnder the most ex treme provocation. Therefore his smiles were much prized, and Mrs. Langdon Wing, having evoked several of these marks of approbation, flattered* herself that she WHS one of the favored few whom this "difficult" gentleman liked. She had devoted herself to her distin guished guest this evening even longer than she felt was strictly permissible in a hostess who had at least twenty others to entertain,—and she had intro duced him to five or six people, all of whom, though undeniably brilliant in certain special lines, failed evidently to impress this lofty young doctor. His ennui was so apparent that Mrs. Wing, who was closely watching him from a divan not far away, was in despair. "Why is it," she queried discompos edly of an intimate friend with whom she was stealing a few moments of "off guard" conversation, "'that groat people do not hesitate to show when they are borfior" "My dear," replied the friend didac fcieally, "von are now probing the ages. In old times, the great, who were then nsnally saltans and satrapH and all thai sort of thing, not only showed that they were bored, but ohopped off the heads of those individuals who had the temerity to bore them. Nowadays the heads are only figuratively chopped of; —but their majesties the great are no fonder of being bored. I fancy, than they were forty centuries or so ago." "Historical information, my deaX" returned the hostess, "may be very inter esting, but it is not philosophy, and it does not explain things." "Oh, if you wish me to go into th* human nature of the situation, and why men are cross and women whim sieal -and people whom you and 1 think " "Goodness!" interrupted Mrs. Wine in a whi-per, "what have I done. That exquisite Mrs. Perry the widow of that rich old General Perry, who died three or four years ago at Cannes—you were there, don't you know?—went out into the conservatory 1 alf an hour ago with my Amy—am! the nurse has been sent to take Amy of to bed, and I have not set eyes on Mrs. Perry since. What, if she should have been left out there all alone—and she is the most refined—and the most brilliant creature! I was just counting on her for my receptions next month—she is musical, you know, and poetical, and all that—and now she will hate me. Goodbye, love. I must devise a coup d'etat." A moment later the intimate friend found herself talking with the gentle man who had been wearying the " great Dr. Dover, while the lively hostesp was bearing that gentleman away—his face wearing a relieved look—toward the conservatory. He recognized the fact, of course, that Mrs. Wing was a species of fraud—"out she gave charming din ners. and—well—there are some people by whom it is not half bad to be de ceived. Mrs. Wing was one of them. "Yon mnst know her, Dr. Dover," nhe was saying in her most vivacious tone, "really the most delightful woman I have seen for years. I happened to be at Cannes when her husband died, four years ago- everybody was so sorry for her —though he was an old gouty fellow —and left all his money to her—he was a millionaire—but she is so lovely tall, and brnnette—though her akin is fair enough to go with a Swedish wig— such magnificent dark eyes !—like Evan geline's, you will think—everyone does. Where ea 1 she be peering around tiirough the open door of her beautiful c mservatory. "Ah I there she is—in among the palms yonder, and she is keeping my small daughter up I There i.i the nurse, too, waiting to take her to bed ! What do you mean, my dear Mrs. J'erry"—advancing with her tinker ahak ing in the air and with a look of roguish reproach upon hqr face—"what do you man by detaining Amy from her couch ? Dr. Dover, let me present yon to my dear friend, Mrs. Perry. You have heard of Dr. Dover, Mrs. Perrvf We are all very proud of him." She turned to her little girl—for Mrs. Wing prided herself upon the strictness of her domestic discipline—and did not have time to notice that the color had entirely deserted the handsome face of her distinguished guest, and that the elegant composure of the wealthy widow was distinctly ruffled as she bowed to the gentleman who had been so snddenly presented to her. To Eleanor Perry, indeed, a certain familiar scene from one of Heyse's stories had snddenly recurred, which almost matched the one in which she found herself now taking part. The recollec tion was all that brought her to herself. A moment later, when Mrs. Wing, hav ing despatched the child with her nurse, turned to address a word to these two guests of hers whom she was so so licitous to entertain, she found them discussing the palm-trees, under the SHE FOUND THEM DISCUSSING TIIF PALM TREES. spreading branches of which they were standing. They showed an interest which assnred her that she had made a lncky hit in bringing together two "botany-fiends," as she herself mentally dabbed them, in the vernacular of soci ety. "Don't fail to come in for Madame Chamouni's song in about Ave min utes," she said, as she turned to leave them, convinced that they were sure tc be congenial—(and would accept her next invitation I) "I rely on you to bring her in, Dr. Dover—she is absurdly fond of Madame Chamouni, as I happen to know"—and she swept away, with a last playful gesture of confidence. Eleanor Perry sank down upon the rustic bench where she had been sitting with little Amy, and motioned to her companion to Bit beside her. "We had better go out with the oth ers—perhaps"—he stammered. "No," she responded calmly, "no—l am glad to see you again. It—it brings back—many things. But we will not speak of those—no, no, so much has happened since then !" "You—l beg your pardon, Mrs. Perry —but, really, one would think the old days were here now. You are as fair as ever you were ten years ago." "I do not wish compliments from you, Dr. Dover," she bogan, coldly. "I never liked them—and you once used to respect my feelings. Oh, let us talk of the island, —the dear little island. Are your father and mother still living? I suppose that your brothers and sisters are all married and moved away." "Yes, my father and mother are well, —and only my sister Esther,—she was married, but was left a widow—is with them. She has two children, and they are a comfort to my father and mother. But how does it happen that you are over here? I heard that you were never coming any more." "No, I was not, and after the death of my father and mother, three or four years ago, I sent for my two sisters. They are much younger than I —my brother and my sister Juliet died, you know. I put them at school in Swit zerland. After my husband left me, I was so wretchedly lonely that I went and stayed with them, and we had a dear little home together,—but the girls were homesick, and so we caine back. They are going out on the island in a day or two, and they are planning a good many alterations there. We shall be there all summer, probably. You will see us then perhaps?" "I—hope so." "And—let me give you my card. Perhaps you may find time to come and see us sometimes here. Dr.—Dr. Dover," —she did not mean to hesitate over his name. but she had always called him "George" before. "I know that you must be very busy,—you are getting to be so famous! I heard of you over there, too, —and was proud of my old playmate. Let me congratulate you 011 all your success." His color rose a little as she uttered these words in a half-playful tone. With a courteous "Thank you," he dis missed the subject, and asked, "Did you really like it better over there— Mrs. Perry?" "Oh, —no—I was unhappy there,— and I am just as unhappy here, for all that I can see, —but never mind that. Yon must have been there a good deal. Mrs. Wing was saying that she used to meet you in Paris. Where else were you?" "Wherever there is a hospital or a medical school," he answered, smiling. "Oh, I knew that you were sure to do something when you chose the medical profession. Your father was a remark able physician, though he lived always in the country. It was in your blood. Don't you remember that you were always going to build a b capital wbiuk should be big enough to hold all the sick people in the world, and that yon were going to make thein all well ?"' He laughed,—and for a moment his face lost the guarded, almost strained, expression which it had worn since they had first begun to talk. "Oh, yes!" he said, "I hail forgotten. I; was apropos of old Dakin. Yon will recall it, for I used often to speak of it, i —and Dakin, being a hunchback, and ! so egregiously out of proportion in every way, was a special eyesore to me. I thought that he had not been properly doctored, and I told him once that he ought to go to my father, and have his case attended to. I shall never forget | his harsh langh when I said it. and how he flung hack to mo some such re tort as this: -I'll have to wait till I gets wings, hoy, before I gets rid of this blessed hump!' I as'.ie 1 my father if this was true, and he told me that it was, and explained to me that, if Dakin were to pay him a thousand dollars, he could not do anything for him. Then I began to scheme, myself,—and hence the colossal enterprise, of which I am flattered to have you remember so much But alas I —l am no near to curing old Dakin and his ilk than iny father was." "No?" she breathed forth wearily,— and for a mom-nt they both sat silent. Then there was a sudden hush in the parlors outside, which recallot them to themselves. A woman's voic began an operatic aria. "It is Madame Chamouni," she said quickly. "We have stayed too long. Mrs. Wing will expect ns. Come." George Dover was a cold man by na ture, and he thought that his mori than thirty years of life and its varitd experiences had steeled him to the ten der inflnenceß of love; hnt Eleanor Perry had always had a peculiar influ ence over him. He had decided, de cide I in cold blood years ago, when they were both of them lrat twenty, that ho could not afford to marry a poor girl— and he had gone out into the world to seek his fortune. Rumors had como to him that she had grieved for hiin—one of his sisters had even told him that "Eleanor had been ill, and it was noth ing in the world hut his going which had affected her;" and then she had written to him once or twice—pretty, girlish let ters. He remembered just how they had looked. He had answered one of thorn briefly and coolly, in accordance with the policy which he had marked ont for himself. Then he had heard that she had married rich old General Perry, and had thought how much better that was for her than a long engagement to a poor yonng fellow like himself, to be followed by a wearing life of small economies and uncertain Hocial and professional strug gles. Then he had heard, through the gossips in the little island-town where their love dream had spent itself, that the old man was dead, and that his rich yonng widow would live abroad here after. But she had come hack—come hack with all her beauty—all that subtle charm of manner which had made him love her as ho had never loved any other woman—as he now began to see that he never could love any other woman— and. after all that had passed, she had still been kind to him ! He felt a glow of shame—hard, wise, polished, suc cessful as he was—when he remembered the sweet, girlish blush which had swept over her face when that unmiti gated snob of a Mrs. Langdon Wing had brought him up to her. Only a few days passed before he stood at her door. A storm was raging, and he had felt pretty sure of finding her at home and alone, and he was right. Her sisters were away, and she was reading under a lamp in front of her open fire, amid surroundings of such luxury that selfish Dr. George Dover beamed and expanded in a sybaritic refinement of pleasure as he stretched himself on a divan opposite her, and listened to the sound of the sleet on the plate-glass windows. All of the half-embarrassment which he had fancied that he detected in her manner at Mrs. Wing's was gone now. She was the woman of the world— bright, elegant, anxious to please. If there had been any sentimentalism in her bearing the other night, it was all gone now. He was not sure that she was not more'charining that ever in this mood, as she sat before |him, in a lan guid yet perfectly graceful attitude which she had always dropped into, he remembered, when she was talking earnestly—and in a marvellous gown of some sort of silky black stuff, with glints of white in it. She gave him little time to think, and he was contented to tit and look at her, and hear her clever talk, in which she led him on to speak freely of his life abroad; she imitated the patois of peas ants, the shallow chatter of the salons, and the slang of the Btudios; he told her of his studies, his am bitions—they touched everything but that past--and he was in a sort of dream until the striking of a wonder ful clock, with a tuneful chime and a little clash of bells at the end, awoke him to the fact that he was staying too late. After her visitor had gone, Eleanor Perry, who was at heart one of the most trustful and loving of women, and who, on that little island out in the sound, had cherished for this cold, proud, intellectual man a love which he could only imagine, found herself trembling with excitement. She had never understood why he had gone away in those early days without a word of love to her. They had been mates during all of their childhood. It had been understood between them that they were to go to all the merry-mak ings together, listen to all the concerts together, choose each out of all the rest for companionship. Nothing had ever been Raid of love. It was all a matter of course,—she was his and he was hers. Then she could remember when he had begun to be different. They were at a little church entertaiment. He looked gloomy and uneasy. When she and her sisters were ready to go home, he had left. She did not under stand it. She thought that perhaps he was n;t well,-—hut tbr was an ide finable something in his manner which roused her pride. She determined to watch herself a little. He came over to the rectory two or three times after that. They all played games together, but he was grave and embarrassed. She lad canght him looking at her with troubled eyes, bnt he made no at. tempt to see her alone. Then he had come over one evening to tell them all that he was going into the city to take medical lectures, —and that he never expected to have any more good times. There was nothing before him but hard work. He had looked very sad when he said this, and she had wanted to tell him that she would write him long, merry letters, and they would have plenty of good times yet,—but he had not said a word about writing. In her heart this had made her love him more wildly than ever. She had an indefinite idea that George was being very honorable. He was poor and he was not going to say a word which should bind her, —but with that girlish perverseness which no amount of edu cation can expunge from the feminine character, she wanted to bo bound,— she did not care for poverty, for hard ship, for anything, if he would onlj love her. It had not occured to hei that he could abstain from winning hei because he did not feel ready on his own part to face difficulty of providing for two, —of accepting the responsibili ties of marriage, even years away. Poor girl! She had never thought of that. She did not think of it oven now. Then, after Hloepless nights anil heart breaking days, when everybody thought that she was ill, and needed a doctor, and George's father had given het "bine pills," and quinine and powders after the old fashion, sho had written a little letter to George. Hlie could nevei forget when the answer came. Not sven her sister Juliet,—sho had died while Eleanor had been absent in Europe, but she had been her other self throughout their whole life together had known what was in that letter, nor when it had been opened. For two days sho had carried it about on her heart without opening it at all. She dreaded to see what was in it, —and yet it was from George, and inexpressibly dear. Then she had opened it, with a suffocation at her heart which made her little hands quiver and her breath ;oine in gasps. And what a short, con ventional letter it had been! It had 'icen "pleasant to find that he had not been forgotten;" she was "good to write;" he hoped she was well;" he was "very busy, and so much interested that he thought he might one day get ;obo a doctor." He sent love to all the family. He thought the books of which she had written must be very good reading, and he congratulated her upon getting so much culture. There was not a word about another letter from her. Her whole being was 011 fire with rage and mortification. She tore the '.etter np and burned the pieces. She thought of all his tender looks and words, —how be had always singled hoi ■>nt. first of all,—how he had to'd her that 110 other girl in the village was so pretty,—could dance so well, ride so well, read so well, skate so well, as the! And how her heart had glowed when he had spoken to her so! Then the days passed on, and she had tried to get over her love for him; but one day it had all come back—and Bhe felt such a longing to see his face and to hear his voice that sho had written another letter to him—she turned crimson to this day whenever 3he thought of it and of the heart-sick sning days while she waited for a re |ily. Then he had come home on a lit tle vacation at Easter time, and had sent word when he went away that, after seeing her aud the others at church Easter morning, he hud fully Intended to call and pay them a little visit, but he had been so busy that he had not been able to manage it;—and then General Perry had come to the island, and he had petted her and been eery kind to her, and her sore little seart had found a refuge in his fatherly ■ove. They had traveled, and in the excitement and change she had tried to be happy. After she had been married four short years her husband had died. And now here she was four years a widow—free, rich, more beautiful than ever—and George Dover, established in his profession, handsome, cold, polished, and with that air of exclnsiveness which made his attentions precious, had come back to her. She did not know why ho had treated her so in the old days. Her only theory was that he had not loved her—that she had been only like a lesser sister to him—that he hail seen she was getting too fond of him. and had taken the only honorable way to check her unwomanly emotion —and yet. in her soul, she felt that he had loved her, and had wondered at the mystery of it all. How ought she to treat him? She did not believe that her money had anything to do with this new attraction which he had con ceived for her— and she—she loved him just as she had loved him in those old days. She was willing to wait until he could explain the past, lint he had asked her if he might come again—per haps mutters might yet be adjusted be tween them—and still—ah! there was something else, something which she felt might stand as a firmer separating wedge between them than all the past As she sat in the dark in her own room, leaning out into the mild winter night, and trying to collect herself, she heard a faint wail from an inner apart ment, and she sprang to her feet and ran toward it. On a richly draped bed there a child was writhing ami moan ing, as though in pain. 011 the othei siilo of the room his nurse lay in a heavy slmuber, but Eleanor did not waken her. Sho bent over the child, lifted his tiny body, and rocked him gently into silence, gazing into his strange, shrunken little face with a look of in citable love. His voice had seemed like that of a newly-born babe, but his face showed that ho must be five or six years old. It wore an habitual scowl, and except for its great, solemn eyes-' like his mother's, but without their I brilliant gleam-it was plain, to repul siveness. His head was peaked, and was set low between his shoulders, on which rested an unsightly hump. But no bright and perfect child was ever surrounded by more of luxury and tended with more unceasing care than this unfortunate one. "He is surely growing better and stronger," his mother whispered to her self. "Even though he may never be large and straight, he will soon learn to talk and walk like other children"—for little Clarence conld speak only two or three words, and the few of Eleanor's friends who had seen him could not I hope that he would ever become intolli-! gent; but she would not allow herself to believe that it was anything but his prolonged weakness and ill-health which retarded his mental development. I As soon as his body became strong enough to allow his mind to grow, then he would talk to her, she believed, and make a delightfnl companion for her; some merciful doctor had encouraged her in this theory. In a week Dr. George Dover ciimi l again to see her. This time there were other callers, bnt he outstayed them. "I hope I did not come inopportune ly," ho murmured, when they had at last said good-night. "Yon could scarcely come inoppor tunely," she replied, smiling. "I shall always be glad to see you." "You forgot that you and I are sitting here alone," he reminded her playfully. "This is not the time for the language of society." "Oh, I am sincere," she insisted. "1 was never accused by my worst ene mies of being anything but sincere. And people who have—suffered—as—l have," she faltered, "can be nothing but sincere." He looked at her keenly. He won dered if she had grieved much for tlm old man who was gone. He knew nothing ahont the child. Mrs. Lungdon Wing was aware that there was a child, and that he was an invalid, bnt even she had never seen him, and she had not happened to mention his existence to Dr. Dover. "One would not think that yon had suffered, El—Eleanor," he said quickly. "Forgive me,—but the old name—l al ways liked it—slipped out before I knew it." She flnshed like a girl. "I like it, too," she said simply. "It seems tc bring back the old days when I was happy. Ido not mind your calling me Eleanor." "Thank you," he said, in a voice so deep and full of meaning that she felt almost embarrassed. He paused a mo ment. "I was going to say, Eleanor, that one would nover suspect from your face that you had had a care nor a trouble. Your brow is as smooth as it was when yon were eighteen—while l— and I am less than a year older than you, if I remember rightly I am wrinkled and gray, and poople take me for forty. I have had a lonely, care worn, hard-working life." "I am obrry," she said softly, the I sense of his strange fatuity, or his strange misunderstanding, rushing over her again,—"but—but you do not know all of my life. You have never men tioned my child. I do not know that you have heard of him." She turned pale under his look of surprise, and her faint smile had something piteous in it. | "Your child?" he repoatod with sud den coldness. "There I" she exclaimed. "Ho is cry ing now"—as a feeble wail came steal ing down the broad stairway. "I will show yon that I, too, have suffered." She sprang from the room, and pres. ently returned, hearing in her arms the fragile, malformed child. He had stopped crying, and as she seated her self, and laid him across her lap, the hunchback turned his dark,inscrutable eyes, so like yet so unlike her own, dully upon the face of their visitor. An involuntary shudder, which she rather felt than saw, ran over the man s frame. With all his experience in his profession, he could never see such a being as this child without this awful revulsion of his nature. "And yet—remember, George, this little creature is the dearest tiling on earth to me—you say that I cannot have "SEE HOW LITTLE YOU UNDERSTOOD." suffered! See how little yon nnder stood!" The tears ran down her cheeks, H< could have caught her in his arms am! comforted her in his compassion, bnl the tiny, misshapen figure of the child lay between them. "N—o," he said slowly, "I—l did not nnderstand, as yon say, Eleanor. For give me." When he took his leave, his whole nature was 011 fire. For a few days he had allowed the old love, which he had j stamped out in his youth, to repossess ; him. All the bars of coldness and of j calculation had been let down. He had J not seen how his comfort could he very j much interfered with, nor his career j hampered by marrying this woman, who suited him so well. But this child 11 Whatfrightful litl objjet it wf I Whon l:o cane again, lie was told that the child was very ill, and that | Eleanor con Id not see bini. When ho j loft the hou.se, he p.*iced tho streets for hows. "If the child should die !" he ; thought ! "If the child should die!-- | But if he should live, —oh, even if she loves me, as 1 f*el sure that she does, I : could not ask her to marry me. I could i nev( r l*ve with him, and she would I novcr row bun to be sent away from her. Even if 1 did not see him, the thought that he was in the house would make me ill." He shndde ed again. 14 1 cannot help it. It would V ' u.-el ess to fight against it. Yet,—if tho ' child should die ! —but if he should live. I had better get away. I cannot do luv work,—l cannot think of anything but her from morning till night. 1 will take up with that offer that came to mo last week,—and leave America." He heard the next day that the child was worse, and that a day or two more must decide the matter. The brief time was an eternity to him. Poor Mrs. Langdon Wing had miscal culated in regard to these two brilliant beings with whom she had hoped to decorate hor assemblies during the sea son. They had no heart to go any where after that meeting in the con servatory, and, save for a formal card leaving on her day at home, they never went near her beautiful parlors again all winter. On the night when the crisis came in the child's illness, it was Eleanor's chosen task to watch with hini from seven o'clock nntil midnight. She was distranght and unbalanced from the long strain to which she had been sub jected, and she had not slept soundly for a week. She felt herself oppressed to-night with an irresistible drowsi ness. Several times she found herself dropping off into nnconsciouss, to bo roused by the feeble wail that she knew so well, and to tremble lest she should fail to remeinher to give the medicine, J —on which, the doctor had warned her, her child's life might depend. Again she felt herself going to sleep, and again she rose with a start to find that she had almost passed another medicine time. The child was half-awake, and | sho administered the dose. Then she sat down upon the divan, where she was at tempting to hold herself erect, and a strange mood descended upon her. Her thoughts dwelt upon George Dover. She acknowledged to herself anew that he was the only man whom she had really loved, and she almost sobbed aloud that sho was to be a second time sundered from him. "He must have felt something of the old attraction for me, that night when wo met so strangely at Mrs. Wing's," she reasoned, "or else he would not have come so soon to see me,—and it is plain to me that 1 cast a sort of a spell upon him,- —but he tries to shake it off. Since he has seen my poor baby, perhaps he cannot love me. I could feel that every fibre of his being revolted at the sight of my poor darling. He could never marry the mother of such a child. It would always stand like a ghost between us —and he might bo afraid that, if I should bear other children, they might be like Clarence. Hut if Clarence should die to-night—suppose that his miserable, painful little life should be ended,—suppose I should forgot to give the medicine—oh 1" she cried, "oh what am I thinking I I am a wretch! 1 am a murderer I God forgive me! Oh, I have had a horrible dream I I did not think these things while I was awake I I had a nightmare. Oh, I hope I have not slept over 1" She rushed to the gilded clock on the mantel, and thrust back the masses of her hair which sho had unbound in her agitation; but it was minutes before her distended eyes could read the hour in the dim light. No, it was only a little past the time. Her nervousness abated. She gave the drops, and it seemed to her that the child looked bettor. She sat down close beside him, where she could mark every change which passed over his wasted face, and she was able to serve out her allotted period without prema turely calling up one of the tired nurses. Two days later, I)r. George Dover again sought Eleanor's honse. He had come to his decision. "If the child is worse, I will stay," he said to himself, as he waited in the parlor to see Eleanor, "If he is better, I will go." Presently, weak and haggard,—hut not more than he was,—she stood before him. Her long vigil had revealed lines and pallors in her face which he hud not suspected, but her eyes were bright and brave. "He is better, Dr. Dover," sho said, half-conscious that she was pushing him away forever by her words. "I am told now that, unless some now and unexpected development occurs, my boy may live as long as I do, and be my comfort and solace, as he is now." There was, after all, a half-note of definance in her tone. Instinctively, though she could not know what he was thinking, she wished him to under stand that she was for her child against all the world. . j "That—that is good," he faltered. Then he paused. Ho thought that he ' had fortified himself to speak the next I words calmly, but great beads of sweat | stood out on his forehead when he tried to pronounce them. "I must not detain you. Eleanor," I he blurted forth at last, in a hoarse voice which he could scarcely '"cognize as his own, "but 1 felt j that, since I have had a most j advantageous offer to go to Russia, and j study in the hospitals there, I wanted j to say goodbye to you. I shall be gone for months—perhaps for years." "To Russia ?" -She turned very pale. ' "Yes. They are experimenting there j with the cholera in a wonderful way, I 1 shall probably sail within this week. ! Goodbye, Eleanor. It has been a strange fate which has thrown us together again." "Yes," she said, with the whiteness creeping faster and faster up her face but speaking very firmly; "it has been , a strange fate, as you say. Goodbye." I - Arthur Beardsley Mitchell in 'lio- MM* ■Mil 1 I ' I 1 Subscription to tlie TRI BUNE, $1.50 per year, entitles you to the best reading twice a week. I | ADVERTISING! I I I Advertising in the TRI BUNE is valuable be cause of its extensive circulation. j IPffll! Job work of all kinds at the TRIBUNE office in the neatest style and at fairest prices. ' : ji pirn
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