■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-
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