A Dozen Ways Of Love

come upon him at an unbecomingly early age, so that he had long been the object of his neighbours' merriment. When to these facts it is added that, although a

presence that she should never refuse a man simply because he was a foreigner. Or if he did not want an English wife, why did he not impor

ut French hairdresser there lay the rare capacity for one supreme and lasting affe

r figure was short and broad, and she was lame, walking with a crutch. Her face and features were large and peculiarly frank in expression; upon her head was a very

Mr. Sa

the pleasure of

own Mr. Saintou. Are you Mr. Saintou? None o

the effort of the bow caused his small eyes to shut and open themselves again. There was nothing staccato about the manner of the hairdres

I want my hair cut. It is like a sheaf of corn. It is like a court train. It is li

on, and that the force of the similes which followed one another like electric shocks escaped him altogether. He was about to show th

I should sit there. You have no men in at this time of day, have you, Mr. Saintou? Now I shall sit here in the middle chair, and you shall wash my hair. My father is the baker round the corner. He ma

? Mon Dieu! Holy Mary, what hair!' For as the Eastern women carry their burdens on the crown of the head t

torer bottle, if it were red,' remarked

our of the sun. Mon Dieu, what hair!' As he untwined the masses, it fell over the long

dinner,' said the quick voice with decision. 'My father is

he ends cut?' asked the hairdresse

ch e

ese ends,' and he lifted a handful of the hair on

cut. Lighten it; that's what I want. Do you think I am a woman in a hairdresser's advertisement to sit all day

ecision. He leant against the next chair and set his lips very firmly together. 'By all that

ou been long in the country? Well, wash the hair

nto the shop he brought thence what was best and newest. Do not laugh at him. Have we not all at some time in our lives met with what seemed the embodiment of o

f such hair for ever-that would be heaven. I

eath, Mr. Saintou?' said the quick voic

will turn grey; then for the sake of my profession I shall be obliged to dye it. There will come

afraid to die now?'

d,' said the hai

y tell me there is something wrong at my heart, and that if I ever feel either glad or sorry I

believe her. He had drawn the bright hair back now from the

d to mademoiselle th

and go to church, and cook my father's dinner every day, and a very go

take. Who told mademoiselle

ster is ill, and my father is as cross as two sticks, but for all that I am not heart-s

English, and I flatter myself I have the accent very well, but what avails if I cannot make you u

laughter from under

as in love. No, my heart is not touche

of all

Sain

g, and after her voice and laughter had died away she went on nodding her head in time to the brushing as if s

?' said the little lady, when the

n,' said the hairdresser, putting bo

tou, don't feel. If I should feel I should die off, quick, sharp, like a moth that flies into the candle.' She made a little gesture with her hand, as if to indicate the ease

o see her, if I put my hand on my heart and weep, she will jeer at me; but if I wait and work for her in silence, then she will believe.' He made a parlour for her in the room above his shop; and every week, as he had time and money, he went out to choose some ornament for it. His maiden sister watched

re stood like a lion in the path. She waited through the months of the dreary winter till the one gleam of sunshine which had come into her hard young life had faded, till the warmth it had kindled in her heart died-

ou; but the very strength o

poorly these three months. I could not come out, so the other day I had my sister cut it off. My father wanted to

oved the girl or the hair, and his heart answered very sincerely that the hair, divine as

should have come very willingly and would hav

looks as if one had tried to mow a lawn with a pa

u soothingly; 'I will make it all right.

andled. 'I shall make it all right,' he said cheerfully; 'I shall trim it b

nset or a geran

reat fair marigold just beginning to curl in its petals for the night. He worked slowly, for he had something he wanted to say, and when his wor

de his sister, who was listening to every word through the

ern comment. And so it was. The baker

f his daughter. 'We all expected it,' said the neighbours; 'she had heart disease.' And they t

bury a baby that is dead; it is sadder, if we but knew it, to bury in darkness and silence a child that has never lived. A joy that has gone from us for ever is a jewel that trembles like a tear on Sorrow's breast, but the brightest stars in her diadem are the memories of hopes that have passed away unrealised and untold. Ah