J. H. S., a native of the State of Illinois, recently a resident of California, and now a citizen of the State "JOHN COOL, Secretary." "An' I saw John Beard, at old White Pine, when he'd whittled his boots off and parts o' his feet. That was in 1866," shouted another. "Bar-keep, dish it up. Boys, nominate the poisons. Ignorance is a local "It's a certificate for fine lyin'!" said crime, and people who haven't traveled several voices. live in darkness. But the next time any "That's what's the matter, an' you man here present proposes to tell the boys know that I wasn't lyin'!" "Of course you wasn't! I've had my toes frosted on the same day that my nose was peeled with a sun-burn," said one. truth, I just want him to remember that I got this paper from the highest ornaments of an enlightened community, as a reward for telling the FROZEN TRUTH." A FANTASY OF ROSES. CONCLUSION. HE cut on the head proved to be, for the first time words of his brought Tthough not dangerous, somewhat painful blushes to her cheek. more serious than had at first been anticipated, making it quite impossible for Louis to do anything for the next few days, except to lie quietly and pass away the time as pleasantly as he could. This would not have been a difficult task, had his mind not been continually perplexing itself as to what could be the reason that Roberta again treated him with such cold indifference. They were just beginning to understand each other, or so he had fancied, and now, without any apparent cause that he could discover, Roberta seemed perfectly unconscious of him. Three days he had been unable to go about except in a dizzy uncertain way, but when once he was himself again, he thought with angry impatience he would know why he was thus trifled with. And so he fell asleep, lying alone; but when he awoke Fay was sitting in an easy-chair beside him. "How kind of you," he exclaimed, in such a tone of evident gratitude, that "I am afraid I awoke you." "No, indeed; or if you did, I am very glad, for I fell asleep from sheer weariness of my own company.” "Have you been alone, then, all the morning? I thought-I felt sure that Roberta came down to stay with you." "No; or if she did, she changed her mind. I have a faint remembrance of her looking in at the door and asking how I was, as one might inquire into the condition of some one at the north pole." Louis tried to veil the bitterness of his feelings behind a smile. Fay, who could not endure that he should think Roberta cold or unfeeling, answered seriously: "You must not think Roberta does not care, or would not do anything for you; but she has never been sick a day in her life, and she does not know how terrible it is to lie and suffer as "As you know it," Louis broke in, softly, thinking that Fay had never been so beautiful as when defending her sis ter. "I don't know about that. I am sure I ought to, but I don't think I really do. One grows used to anything, you know. I mean any bodily pain." Fay spoke with a weariness of which she was not conscious. Louis flashed a startled look at her, then closed his eyes, wondering if Fay could know anything of any other pain. "I wish I could do something for you," she said at last. "You can, if you will. Sing for me; I should like it better than anything. You never sing any more." "Because we can always have so much better music. Let me go and get Roberta, if you want music." "No, I don't want her music; it excites me, and makes me wretched-I mean it would now, and I want rest— something to ease this horrible pain. Please sing that prayer for rest, which you used to sing so long ago." Without further urging, Fay complied with his request. She had a sweet clear voice, not strong or deep, but she sung with feeling, deeper feeling than ever before, and again Louis flashed a glance at her from his half-closed eyes. "Thanks," he murmured, when she had finished; "your singing reminds me of the light delicate shades which you contrive to get even into the darkest shadows of your painting. I always said that through the darkness you made one feel the light beyond." Fay was silent, too happy for words. In the silence there floated in through the open window the sound of voices talking. "Why, yes, he and Roberta were sitting out in the yard." "Ah, yes, I remember now. I think that fall has affected my head in more ways than one, for I don't seem to remember anything. How old is he, should you think? I've often wondered, for he looks as if he had been to the fountain of perpetual youth, and he talks at times as if he were as ancient as the Wandering Jew." "He is about the age of papa, and he is thirty-nine." "Your father looks nearer fifty, while Llorente looks younger than I, who am only twenty-five, though I feel a hundred to-day." Fay laughed at his doleful tone. "Mr. Llorente has made Roberta promise to write some music for him, something about the roses. I shall long to hear it, sha'n't you?" "He thinks a great deal of her," said Louis, evading an answer. "Yes, he was engaged to my aunt Alice, and Roberta is very like her, I think." Louis lay for a long time with closed eyes. It was not a new thought with him, but he had always silenced it before by thinking of the difference of their ages. But Roberta was so different from other girls that now even that objection seemed to fade away, though he could not have told by what course of reasoning a mere fancy became a certainty. When an hour later Roberta came to the room, she found them still talking together. She smiled upon Fay, but Louis had closed his eyes, shading them with his hand. "The air is very close in here," said "There is Roberta now," observed she, throwing open a window. Fay. "O, Roberta, if you have time, will "And Llorente with her?" asked you not play something. Louis has been Louis, with corrugated brow. "I think so-yes." wishing for some music." "A wish that you satisfied," said Louis "Was Llorente here upon the night curtly. of my fall?" "I am glad of that, for I am not in "Then sing," persisted Fay, feeling somehow sure that Louis was longing to hear her. But he interposed: "I beg that Miss Roberta will not be tempted to break any resolve on my account." There was an instant of silence, then Louis rose and left the room. Fay looked after him with wondering eyes, then turned to Roberta. the mood to play," answered Roberta; not take a happiness which would "and even if I were I could not, for I bring sorrow to another. Like a warnhave bound myself by a promise not to ing voice from the past, these words— play until I have finished my Fantasy the words of Sister Agatha-sounded in of Roses." her ear, helping her in the hour of her greatest need. And Louis, would he suffer? Sometimes she asked herself that. Because she refused his love, would he therefore turn to Fay? It was by no means certain. It was the only crumb of comfort which Roberta unconsciously allowed herself, and when she discovered it she almost hated herself. She felt that the sacredness of life, such a life as would only satisfy her, would be forever marred, unless she were victorious over desire and longing, and victorious in such a way that no one, not Fay nor Louis, should dream that beneath the calm a tempest of passion had raged. All the time she was vaguely conscious that no sacrifice was in vain, and so she schooled her heart to simulate coldness and indifference, while unconsciously to herself Llorente's words helped her to endure. Her promise to him she hailed as a welcome respite to thought. Through the long summer mornings, the strange fancies of her brain wrought themselves through hand to paper, and the silent air stirred with unknown unheard music, while the roses bloomed and faded. "You have been out too long in the heat to-day," she said, remarking her exceeding pallor and the heavy blackness lining her eyes. But it was not the heat nor the fatigue of the day which thus betrayed itself in Roberta's melancholy face. It was the record of hours of wakefulness, which made of each night a time of hopeless misery, in which only one thing remain ed clear to her—that she must take a new view of life, must choose for her self or renounce for others upon the threshold the happy joyous existence of which she had dreamed, and knowingly accept the privation of joy. At times she would rise to that state of exaltation where renunciation seems easy and sacrifice has in it more of pleasure than More and more she absented herself of pain. At other times she would push from the family gatherings. Nothing the heavy dark hair back from her throb- from the life without called to her with bing temples and wonder if she were liv- a cry which she heard. Not so much ing over again the struggle of Alice Lin- as a flush of pain passed over her face garde. That Fay loved Louis was no when, looking out, she would see Loureason why to her should be sacrificed is and Fay together; Fay looking so both their lives. Let him choose be- dreamily happy, and Louis-she could tween them. Neither would have the never see his face. Then, upon one right to consider herself wronged. summer's night, the last page of her Then came the thought of Fay's suf- manuscript was filled with delicate charfering-Fay, whose whole life had been acters, and Roberta sat looking it over, one continual strain of endurance; to filled with a sudden wild longing to physical pain would be added mental translate the written characters into suffering, spiritual anguish. Roberta sound. A month had passed since the shuddered at herself. No, she could promise had been given among the ros es, and the heat which had then been so intense was now tropical in its fire. When Roberta went down-stairs Fay was reclining in an easy-chair before one of the windows, which was flung open to its widest extent. Louis was sitting in the window-seat. One lamp cast a dim light in the room, so that at first she did not see Llorente, who was sitting by one of the other windows, until he spoke. "And so you have succeeded in changing the roses into music for me? I am most curious to know what you have made of it.” Roberta started, and asked in surprise: "How did you know that I had finished it?" "Because of the radiance in your face, and I am nearly perishing with longing for it." "Then you shall be gratified at once." Roberta left the room, returning almost instantly with the manuscript in her hand, neatly tied with a scarlet ribbon. She handed it to him silently. He made no move to take it, saying: "It is an unknown tongue to me. My curiosity will be no better satisfied than before, unless” But she would not understand him. "You have it as you wished it, sir. Remember that you refused to let me give it to you in any other form." "But now you will comply with my wishes again, and make it intelligible to me? That is, if it is not too much of an effort for you." Roberta did not stop to answer. She was only too glad that the request had been made. In a moment she had seated herself at the piano. It seemed to her that she could play the whole from memory, so vividly had she been impressed while writing it. But she waited until Llorente had arranged the lamp for her, and had unrolled the manuscript, pressing it out so that it would remain unfolded. Not until he had taken his place behind her, standing with folded arms, did Roberta strike the first notes; low liquid notes, blending with deeper ones of fathomless melody; the breath of roses weighed down with the sparkles of dew, floating up with kisses of light, and rippling together; light and darkness; noon and even-tide; solemn and slow; ineffable as dreams of heaven, sweet as paradise in summer; tuning life to such majestic strains that heroism seemed but another name for life. Yet it was not all glad, exultant, but filled with dim yearnings, permeated with a quenchless melancholy. There were thorns beneath the rose-leaves, forever reaching heavenward; forever the roots, without which life is not, were sinking down into the damp darkness of earth. No one knew how long she played, if even they were conscious of when she stopped, so softly did the last cadence sink away into silence. Fay was in tears, silent, breathless tears, as if the music had enveloped her in a bliss so ecstatic as to be pain. There was a moment's silence, before Llorente, bending down to Roberta, said: "The rose-blossoms are gone now, yet all the music is not written. Another life is stirring out there." Almost mechanically Roberta rose and followed him out through the low window into the piazza, and then down the graveled walks where the maple-trees cast long shadows, for the moon was low down and the stars were pale with heat. Neither Fay nor Louis had heard his words. They only saw the pair go. Louis, who had been listening to the music with the despair of one who feels hope dying out of his life, drew a long breath of relief-the relief which comes from any knowledge, even that of the hopelessness of our fondest wishes. Unconsciously to himself there was also an undercurrent of irritation beneath the calm of his despair, which said to him: "Do you not see how impossible it would be for your love to satisfy such a nature? All the universe would not content her would not be enough for her sweetness, beauty, and genius." And then he turned to Fay with a sudden craving for sympathy and love; bent near to her-so near that their mingling breath floated together-and Fay smiled through the haze which clouded her eyes as the morning mist wreathes the forget-me-nots. "Dear love," his voice sinking to the softest murmur, "the music makes you sad. It is breaking your heart, as mine, with its sweetness. And it makes us sad because we can not have and hold it forever. Dear Fay, sweet Fay, do you divine what the music was to me? It was yourself, for I love you, and life is very sweet." "And to me," murmured Fay, softly, "the roses were also love. O, Louis!" The great tears trembled down. Not tears of sorrow, but the tears which fall lest the warmth and brightness of love and joy should scorch our hearts. So the dew prepares the green earth for the sun's ardent glances. Listening to that sweet confession, touched by its simple faith and pathos, Louis felt that life would not be long enough to prove himself worthy to watch over and care for her happiness. It must be, it was all a mistake, a wild mad fancy which had possessed him for Roberta; as if one should choose to send one's frailest most precious bark over rapids and down cataracts, instead of trusting it to the bosom of a soft gently gliding river. And where the roses had been, where the memory of their sweetness still lingered in the air, Llorente was saying: "If the rose were satisfied with her crown of blossoms, if when those fell she felt that life was done, we should have roses for one brief summer and never after. But see, the flower does not consecrate even one short month to mourning and desolation, for even now the wood is ripening and the buds of another summer are quickening into life. To me the plant is nobler now, has a grander beauty than it had a month ago. All thought of self, of this present life, is put aside, that other branches may also have their crown, and other summers brighten with their beauty." "And the music had not that,” said Roberta, with streaming eyes; "but I meant, I strove to give it place. It is so hard, and everything in life seems so difficult." Here she broke down utterly. Then, when she had mastered a little the agitation which possessed her, she continued: It "I have never had anyone to talk to me in that way except Sister Agatha, and then I did not understand her. all seemed so far off, and my life was spent in such a dreary monotone, that I felt that anything would be better." She paused suddenly, and Llorente asked gravely, but without curiosity: "Tell me about Sister Agatha. What did she say to you? What was she like?" "Like an angel who can not endure the brightness of heaven because others sorrow on earth, and all that I could tell you of her would not make you see her as she is." It was late when Roberta passed up to her room, with noiseless step, that she might not disturb Fay, the door of whose room was standing slightly ajar. She had nearly gained her own door, which opened out of Fay's studio, when a rustling noise staid her steps, and in the window-seat she saw, not a shadow, unless it were the shadow of light, but Fay, all white and gold, as on other nights she looked while she dreamed. But she was not dreaming now-hardly thinking even of her happiness, which clothed her like |
