A Day of Fate. Edward Payson Roe

that I am, I am just gaining the power to see her clearly as the sun declines."

      I know my face was full of honest sympathy as I said, gently and reverently:

      "Tell me more of your brother. The thoughts of such men make me better."

      She shot a quick, grateful glance, looked down, trembled, shook her head as she faltered:

      "I cannot—please don't; speak of something far removed."

      The feeling was so deep, and yet so strongly curbed, that its repression affected me more deeply than could its manifestation. Her sorrow became a veiled and sacred mystery of which I could never be wholly unconscious again; and I felt that however strong and brilliant she might prove in our subsequent talk, I should ever see, back of all, the tender-hearted, sensitive woman.

      "Please forgive me. I was cruelly thoughtless," I said, in a voice that trembled slightly. Then, catching up the paper, I continued, with attempted lightness, "We have found this journal, that we mutually read, a fruitful theme. What do you think of its literary reviews?"

      Mirth and tears struggled for the mastery in her eyes; but she answered, with a voice that had regained its clear, bell-like tone:

      "In some I have seen indisputable proof of impartiality and freedom from prejudice."

      "In what did that proof consist?"

      "In the evident fact that the reviewer had not read the book."

      "You are severe," I said, coloring slightly.

      She looked at me with a little surprise, but continued:

      "That does not happen very often. It is clear that there are several contributors to this department, and I have come to look for the opinions of one of them with much interest. I am sure of a careful and appreciative estimate of a book from his point of view. His one fault appears to be that he sees everything from one perspective, and does not realize that the same thing may strike other intelligent people very differently. But he's a fixed and certain quantity, and a good point to measure from. I like him because he is so sincere. He sits down to a book as a true scientist does to a phase of nature, to really learn what there is in it, and not merely to display a little learning, sarcasm, or smartness. I always feel sure that I know something about a book after reading one of his reviews, and also whether I could afford to spend a part of my limited time in reading it."

      "I have singled out the same reviewer, and think your estimate correct. On another occasion, when we have more time, I am going to ask how you like the musical critic's opinions; for on that subject you would be at home."

      "What makes you think so?"

      "Miss Yocomb told me that you taught music in the city, and music is about the only form of recreation for which I have taken time in my busy life. There are many things concerning the musical tendencies of the day that I would like to ask you about. But I hear the clatter of the supper dishes. What do you think of the editorial page, and its moral tendencies? That is a good Sunday theme."

      "There is evidence of much ability, but there is a lack of earnestness and definite purpose. The paper is newsy and bright, and, in the main, wholesome. It reflects public opinion fairly and honestly, but does little to shape it. It is often spicily controversial, sometimes tiresomely so. I do a good deal of skipping in that line. I wish its quarrels resulted more from efforts to right some wrong; and there is so much evil in our city, both in high and low places, that ought to be fought to the death. The editor has exceptional opportunities, and might be the knight-errant of our age. If in earnest, and on the right side, he can forge a weapon out of public opinion that few evils could resist. And he is in just the position to discover these dragons and drive them from their hiding-places. If, for instance, the clever paragraphist in this column, whose province, it seems, is to comment at the last moment on the events of the day, were as desirous of saying true, strong, earnest words, as bright and prophetic ones, in which the news of the morrow is also outlined-why, Mr. Morton, what is the matter?"

      "Are you a witch?"

      She looked at me a moment, blushed deeply, and asked hesitatingly:

      "Are-are you the paragraphist?"

      "Yes," I said, with a burst of laughter, "as truly as yours is the only witchcraft in which I believe-that of brains." Then putting my finger on my lips, I added, sotto voce: "Don't betray me. Mr. Yocomb would set all his dogs on me if he knew I were an editor, and I don't wish to go yet."

      "What have I been saying!" she exclaimed, with an appalled look.

      "Lots of clever things. I never got so many good hints in the same time before."

      "It wasn't fair in you, to lead me on in the dark."

      "Oh, there wasn't any 'dark,' I assure you. Your words were coruscations. Never was the old journal so lighted up before."

      There were both perplexity and annoyance in her face as she looked dubiously at me. Instantly becoming grave, I stepped to her side and took her hand, as I said, with the strongest emphasis:

      "Miss Warren, I thank you. I have caught a glimpse of my work and calling through the eyes of a true, refined, and, permit me to add, a gifted woman. I think I shall be the better for it, but will make no professions. If I'm capable of improvement this column will show it."

      Her hand trembled in mine as she looked away and said:

      "You are capable of sympathy."

      Then she went hastily to the piano.

      Before she could play beyond a bar or two, little Zillah bounded in, exclaiming:

      "Emily Warren, mother asks if thee and Richard Morton will come out to tea?"

      "I may be in error, but is not a piano one of the worldly vanities?" I asked, as she turned to comply. "I did not expect to see one here."

      "Mrs. Yocomb kindly took this in with me. I could scarcely live without one, so you see I carry the shop with me everywhere, and am so linked to my business that I can never be above it."

      "I hope not, but you carry the business up with you. The shop may be, and ought to be, thoroughly respectable. It is the narrow, mercenary spirit of the shop that is detestable. If you had that, you would leave your piano in New York, since here it would have no money value."

      "You take a nice view of it."

      "Is it not the true view?"

      In mock surprise she answered:

      "Mr. Morton, I'm from New York. Did you ever meet a lady from that city who was not all that the poets claimed for womanhood?"

CHAPTER VI

       Table of Contents

      A QUAKER TEA

      "Richard Morton," said Mrs. Yocomb genially, "thee seems listening very intently to something Emily Warren is saying, so thee may take that seat beside her."

      "Richard Morton," said Mr. Yocomb from the head of the table, "has thee made the acquaintance of Emily Warren?"

      "No, sir, but I am making it."

      "So am I, and she has been here a week."

      "I should esteem that one of the highest of compliments," I said; then turning to her, I added, in an aside, "You found me out in half an hour."

      "Am I such a sphinx?" she asked Mr. Yocomb with a smile; while to me she said, in a low tone: "You are mistaken. You have had something to say to me almost daily for a year or more."

      "I am not acquainted with the article, and so can't give an opinion," Mr. Yocomb replied, with a humorous twinkle in his eye. "If the resemblance is close, so much the better for the sphinxes."

      "Now, father,