A Day of Fate. Edward Payson Roe

you want to stay very much?" she asked.

      "Miss Warren," I exclaimed, and my expression must have been eager and glad, "you looked at me then as you would at a doubtful stranger, and your glance was searching. You looked as only a woman can—as one who would see her way rather than reason it out. Now tell me in sincerity what you saw."

      "You know from my manner what I saw," she said, smiling and blushing slightly.

      "No, I only hoped; I have not a woman's eyesight."

      She bit her lip, contracted her wide, low brow for a moment, then turned and said frankly:

      "I did not mean to be rude in my rather direct glance. Even though a music-teacher, I have had compliments before, and I have usually found them as empty and insincere as the people who employed them. I am somewhat alone in the world, Mr. Morton, and I belong to that class of timid and rather helpless creatures whose safety lies in their readiness to run to cover. I have found truth the best cover for me, situated as I am. I aim to be just what I seem—neither more nor less; and I am very much afraid of people who do not speak the truth, especially when they are disposed to say nice things."

      "And you saw?"

      "I saw that bad as you are, I could trust you," she said, laughing; "a fact that I was glad to learn since you are so bent on forcing your society upon us all for a time."

      "Thank Heaven!" I exclaimed, "I thought yesterday that I was a bankrupt, but I must have a little of the man left in me to have passed this ordeal. Had I seen distrust in your eyes and consequent reserve in your manner, I should have been sorely wounded."

      "No," she replied, shaking her head, "when a man's character is such as to excite distrust, he could not be so sorely wounded as you suggest."

      "I'm not sure of that," I said. "I think a man may know himself to be weak and wicked, and yet suffer greatly from such consciousness."

      "Why should he weakly suffer? Why not simply do right? I can endure a certain amount of honest wickedness, but there is a phase of moral weakness that I detest," and for a moment her face wore an aspect that would have made any one wronging her tremble, for it was pure, strong, and almost severe.

      "I do believe," I said, "that men are more merciful to the foibles of humanity than women." "You are more tolerant, perhaps. Ah! there's Dapple," and she ran to meet the spirited horse that was coming from the farmyard. Reuben, driving, sat confidently in his light open wagon, and his face indicated that he and the beautiful animal he could scarcely restrain shared equally in their enjoyment of young, healthful life. I was alarmed to see Miss Warren run forward, since at the moment Dapple was pawing the air. A second later she was patting his arched neck and rubbing her cheek against his nose. He looked as if he liked it. Well he might.

      "Oh, Reuben," she cried, "I envy you. I haven't seen a horse in town that could compare with Dapple."

      The young fellow was fairly radiant as he drove away.

      She looked after him wistfully, and drew a long sigh.

      "Ah!" she said, "they do me good after my city life. There's life for you, Mr. Morton—full, overflowing, innocent life—in the boy and in the horse. Existence, motion, is to them happiness. It seems a pity that both must grow old and weary! My hand fairly tingles yet from my touch of Dapple's neck, he was so alive with spirit. What is it that animates that great mass of flesh and blood, bone and sinew, making him so strong, yet so gentle. At a blow he would have dashed everything to pieces, but he is as sensitive to kindness as I am. I sometimes half think that Dapple has as good a right to a soul as I have. Perhaps you are inclined toward Turkish philosophy, and think so too."

      "I should be well content to go to the same heaven that receives you and Dapple. You are very fearless, Miss Warren, thus to approach a rearing horse."

      Her answer was a slight scream, and she caught my arm as if for protection. At the moment I spoke a sudden turning in the lane brought us face to face with a large matronly cow that was quietly ruminating and switching away the flies. She turned upon us her large, mild, "Juno-like" eyes, in which one might imagine a faint expression of surprise, but nothing more.

      My companion was trembling, and she said hurriedly:

      "Please let us turn back, or go some other way."

      "Why, Miss Warren," I exclaimed, "what is the matter?"

      "That dreadful cow! Cows are my terror."

      I laughed outright as I said, "Now is the time for me to display courage, and prove than an editor can be the knight-errant of the age. Upon my soul, Miss Warren, I shall protect you whatever horn of this dilemma I may be impaled upon." Then advancing resolutely toward the cow, I added, "Madam, by your leave, we must pass this way."

      At my approach the "dreadful cow" turned and ran down the lane to the pasture field, in a gait peculiarly feminine.

      "Now you know what it is to have a protector," I said, returning.

      "I'm glad you're not afraid of cows," she replied complacently. "I shall never get over it. They are my terror."

      "There is one other beast," I said, "that I am sure would inspire you with equal dread."

      "I know you are going to say a mouse. Well, it may seem very silly to you, but I can't help it. I'm glad I wasn't afraid of Dapple, for you now can think me a coward only in streaks."

      "It does appear to me irresistibly funny that you, who, alone and single-handed, have mastered this great world so that it is under your foot, should have quailed before that inoffensive cow, which is harmless as the milk she gives."

      "A woman, Mr. Morton, is the mystery of mysteries—the one problem of the world that will never be solved. We even do not understand ourselves."

      "For which truth I am devoutly thankful. I imagine that instead of a week, as Mr. Yocomb said, it would require a lifetime to get acquainted with some women. I wish my mother had lived. I'm sure that she would have been a continuous revelation to me. I know that she had a great deal of sorrow, and yet my most distinct recollection of her is her laugh. No earthly sound ever had for me so much meaning as her laugh. I think she laughed when other people would have cried. There's a tone in your laugh that has recalled to me my mother again and again this afternoon."

      "I hope it is not a source of pain," she said gently.

      "Far from it," I replied. "Memories of my mother give me pleasure, but I rarely meet with one to whom I would even think of mentioning her name."

      "I do not remember my mother," she said sadly.

      "Come," I resumed hastily, "you admit that you have been dull and lonely to-day. Look at that magnificent glow in the west. So assuredly ended in brightness the lives of those we loved, however clouded their day may have been at times. This June evening, so full of glad sounds, is not the time for sad thoughts. Listen to the robins, to that saucy oriole yonder on the swaying elm-branch. Beyond all, hear that thrush. Can you imagine a more delicious refinement of sound? Let us give way to sadness when we must, and escape from it when we can. I would prefer to continue up this shady lane, but it may prove too shadowy, and so color our thoughts. Suppose we return to the farmyard, where Mr. Yocomb is feeding the chickens, and then look through the old garden together. You are a country woman, for you have been here a week; and so I shall expect you to name and explain everything. At any rate you shall not be blue any more to-day if I can prevent it. You see I am trying to reward your self-sacrifice in letting me stay till to-morrow."

      "You are so considerate that I may let you remain a little longer."

      "What is that fable about the camel? If he once gets his head in—"

      "He next puts his foot in it, is the sequel, perhaps," she replied, with the laugh that was becoming to me like a refrain of music that I could not hear too often.