Told in a French Garden / August, 1914

THE IND

e of an

he afternoon before. The Youngster had his head over a map almost all through dinner. The Belgians were practically pushed out of all but Antwerp, and

ories were giving way to the facts of every day, but in our minds, I imagine, we were every one of us asking, "How long can we stay here? How long will it be wise, even if we are permitted?" But, as if by common consent, no on

and he pulled an envelope out of his pocket and laid

mn of '81 that I l

inter, yet, in the middle of the se

kinds of newspa

d her, and which only sighed sadly, a year later, on hearing of her dea

here I heard that she was buried, and a trifle overstrung by a few months delicious, aimle

or me, for I had given to Dil

tful evenings I had spent under her influence, the pleasure I had had in the passion of her "Juliet," the poetic charm of her "Viola"; the graceful witchery of her "Rosalind"; how I had smiled with her "Portia"; laughed

d, how she had gone to Europe, how she had died abroad,-

lace where she was buried

he tawdry ornamentation inseparable from such places in Italy. It was marked by a monument distinctly uni

cross was cut, and un

s Day's Madnes

ilence, Trium

read with s

Dillon a

the

ary,

25,

, than all my old interest in her returned. I lingered about the place, full of romantic fancies, decorating her tomb with

he young Dominican priest, who sometimes came to her grave, and who finally told me such of the facts as I know. I can best

had been

, or greater gaiety. Yet all the eve

stage to praise her, and trooped away, laughing and happy

to be stripped of her stage finery. Her fine spirits seemed to strip off with her characte

woman's ordinary lot instead of work,-or if, at a later day, she had yielded to, instead of resisted, a great temptation. All day, as on many days lately,

as it was-she was tired, and the October nigh

h more than her usual kindliness, not because she did not expect to see them all on Monday,-it was a Saturday night,-but because, in her inexplicab

rove hurriedly home to the tiny apa

per table

to see once a year only, in one simple word of greeting, always the same word

s was O

me minutes, and then resolutel

u by myself, I feel that perhaps this will be less painful than the thought that I had passed forgetful of you, or changed toward you. You were a mere girl when we mutually promised, that thou

I was, when as a child, you first knew me, and he has always been my confidant. In those first days of my banishment from you I kept from crying my agony from the housetops by whispering it to him. His uncomprehending ears were my sole confessional. His mother cared little for his companionship, and her invalidism threw him continually into my care. I do not know when he began to understand, but from the hour he could speak he whispered your name in his prayers. But it was only lately that, of himself, he discovered your identity. The love I felt for

t. I know you so well. Remember it, I beg of you, only to ignore it. It was made, you know, when one of us expected to watch the passing of the other.

lix

father died this morning. F. R." and an uncertain mark as though he had

fell from

time she

doring her hopelessly-was necessary to her life. She felt that she could not go on without it. For eighte

e had

remembered so well, before she could reach the place; that spot before wh

ssing table. She took from it a picture-a miniature. It was of a young man not over twenty-five. The face was strong and full of virile suggestion, even in a picture. T

o stir the passionate love of such a man. Her face was still young, her form still slender; her abundant hair shaded deep gray eyes where

g into the morning, and, with his pictured fac

. She calculated well the time. If she travelled all day Sunday, she would be there sometime before midnight. If she travelled back at once, she could be in town again in

r midnight

ve the graves of the almost forgotten dead in the country churchyard. The low headstones ca

beside the rough sexton at the door o

she last saw him, but he had recognized

placed his lantern on the steps, and telling her that, according to a family custom

e family customs. She

ve would wear his out! How she had suffered when she decided that love was something more than self-gratification, that even though for her he should put aside the woman he had heedlessly married years before, there could never be any happiness in such a union for either of

slowly ente

rs, the odor of d

e face of the man she had loved, who had carried a great love for her into another world. But as she looked, her eyes widened with fright. She bent lower over him. No cry burst from her lips, but the hand holding the lantern lowered slowly, and she tumbled down the two steps, and staggered

s, hopeful face with which she had approached the coffin of her dead lover were very different from the blind manner in which she stumbled back to his bier, and the hand wh

grizzled; lines furrowed the forehead, outlined the sunken eyes, and gave an added thinness to the nostrils. She bent once more over the face, to her only a strange cold mask. A pai

e until she slid to the ground beside him. Heavy tearless sobs shook her slight frame as it stretched its length beside the dead love and th

red in her memory the long-loved, young face that had been with her all these years. The spirit whose consoling presence she had thought to feel upholding her at this moment made no sign. She was alone in the world, bereft of her one supporti

like light stretched dead, the low rustle of the wind as if Nature restlessly moved in her sleep, came suddenly upon her, and brought her-fear. She held her breath as she sti

ralyzed. She

allied to her

rd her name brea

ce so familiar to her ears, a

herself o

ed not

ly dared

er sound of that loved voice. Every hour of its banishment wa

erve li

the air, which merely emphasized her loneliness, the

ted to h

ickly mounted to the bier. She loo

ir, and worn lines, it re

from the col

n them, once more the longed-for v

from beh

rned q

smile on his strong, young face-as if it were yesterda

living face in the moonlight,-the young, brown eyes, the short, brown hair falling forward ov

sick, so full of longing

ps, and was caught up in the arms flung wide to catch her, and which folded about her as if forever. She sighed h

away, the Critic drew

ading the letter from the envelope he had c

spell, and the Docto

the Critic, "you owed me

, "that we have always thought you ought to have been a novelist, and

the Critic, "That was only im

ur trunk, and that you have been committing it to memory ever

ewrote it so often that I never could forget it. I'll confess more than that, the story has been 'declined

said the Youngster, serious

sentimental twaddle," sighed th

d the Critic, "that you

t was a tribute to your person

em for fear that he may give the play some charm that the fool theatrical man might not have felt from mere type-written words on white or yellow paper. By Jove, I know the case of a manager who once bought the option on a foreign play from a scenario provided by a clever friend of mine-and paid a stiff price for it, too, and when he got the manuscript wrote to the chap who did the scenario-'Play dashety-dashed rot. If it had been as good as your scenario, it would have g

ght?" asked t

cenari

o you

as produced later-ran five years, and drew a

, "I believe he thinks his story cou

ce. I burned the manuscript this morning, and now being delivered of it, I

ave been a three volume novel. We would have heard all about their first meeting, their fi

as quite enough of it. Don't throw anything at m

the Critic. "Tha

ould have liked to know if the child turned out to be a genius

ls until some one tells a better-and I'd like to kno

ecall who she was

but she is all 'mine own'-a genuine cre

of a sentimentalist tha

se and yawned. "So I am going to bed to sl

ntered away, "as one of our mutual friends used

the other, "it do

Journalist, but the

the actresses we all know. I can't bear that to-night. After all

, but here they locked hands, and the form

ar-and you, too, Youngster.

garden that night, as I looked out of my window toward the northeast, with "Namur" beating in my head, the five men had their heads st