Her Lord and Master. Martha Morton

      "Why, I've loved you all my life, Glen."

      "I don't mean that way, Indiana." He took up his mandolin again, nervously.

      "I don't know any other way, Glen," she answered, pitifully.

      "Not now; but don't you think you could?"

      "No, Glen."

      "Try me; let's be engaged for a little while, then if you can't love me—"

      "Glen, it's no use—I've known you too long."

      "Indiana, you don't know what you're saying—you're killing me, Indiana!"

      "Glen! Glen!" She threw herself down beside him, and smoothed and patted his hair, soothing him as though he had fallen and hurt himself. He seized her hands, and held them tightly.

      "Life means nothing to me, without you, Indiana—you're the key to it. Look here; suppose I was given a beautiful book to read, in a foreign language—the greatest ever written—it would be mere print, wouldn't it? But suppose someone translated it for me, and all its beauty became suddenly revealed. You translate life for me that way, Indiana; don't you understand?"

      "Yes, yes, Glen. But if I marry you, that will be the end. You're too much a part of the old life—"

      "The old life, Indiana? Isn't that the best life?"

      "Not for me."

      "You don't know what you're saying. If I live to be a hundred, I want to live true to the old life, to the old ideals and the old truths, even the simple ones I learned at home, when I was a little lad."

      "You're a good fellow, Glen; shake hands with me!"

      "Won't you think about it, Indiana?"

      "No, dear! I hate to say it—but I want to be straight with you. Something tells me it's not the right thing for us to marry. Don't say any more—don't try to persuade me—it's no use."

      "All right, Indiana."

      "Don't look like that, Glen! you'll break my heart. Life isn't over for you, because—of this. It's a beautiful world still—look at the blossoms, look at the day!"

      "It's not the same," said Glen, holding his hand to his eyes. "It'll never be the same."

      "Oh, yes, it will, dear; after a while. I don't want to lose you, Glen; you'll be my dear old friend still. Say you will!"

      "Do you remember when I went to the war, Indiana? You gave me a lock of your hair, and I carried it over my heart. It was a charm, a little yellow lock—it brought me back to you alive. You cried when you gave it to me, and said, 'God keep you, Glen!'"

      "And I say it now! Wherever we both happen to be, until I die, 'God keep you, Glen!'" She broke down, and sobbed on his breast.

      He smoothed her hair mechanically, murmuring, "A little yellow lock—I carried it over my heart, always. They might have found it if I hadn't come back. I wish that I hadn't, now—I wish that I hadn't!"

      "Glen! What are you saying?" She held her hand over his mouth. "We'll go on just the same; you mustn't say anything to the others. We'll keep our own secret, and you'll come to the camp this August?"

      "It'll never be the same," repeated Glen, monotonously.

      Suddenly they heard the sound of wheels, and Stillwater's voice shouting to Jim Tuttle.

      "I must be getting home," said Glen stupidly, like a person just awakened from sleep.

      "Why, aren't you going to the circus, Glen?"

      "Circus?"

      "Don't break up the party!"

      "All right, Indiana."

      It was not a merry circus party, as far as the younger members were concerned, but the others were lively, and failed to see anything strange in their behaviour. Indiana asked someone to dare her to jump down in the ring, and ride better than the lady equestrian, but they all wisely refrained from doing so. Glen sat in the center of the wagon and tinkled his mandolin faithfully, for the amusement of the party. They dropped him at his own gate, to which they drove, singing hilariously, Kitty bringing up the rear in a buggy with Jim Tuttle.

      "Hello, neighbor Stillwater!" called a voice from one of the farm-house windows.

      "It's father," said Glen.

      "Hello, Masters!"

      "Is this what you call 'rest and quiet?'"

      "Well, I don't believe in too much of a good thing; good-night."

      "Good-night; good luck to you all."

      "Merrily we roll along," sang Mrs. Bunker.

      Glen leaned against the gate after they had gone, listening to their voices in the distance.

      "Have a good time, Glen?"

      "Yes, father!"

      The window closed. Glen laughed bitterly, leaning against the gate; then the laugh changed to a sob.

      "I don't want much, I ask so little, dear God; only Indiana."