2-50 



THE AMERICAN BEE-KEEPER. 



Scptcm ber 



ways so desperately in earnest. 1 firmly 

 believe that if the proverbial heavenly 

 visitant appeared in the Albany and told 

 him he wouidn't believe it. And she looks 

 so saintly. What's to be done? Must the 

 domestic virtues bo sustained at the risk 

 of a shock, or shall slie have her lesson? 

 The latter would be the more convenient 

 — and smacks of originality — but it would 

 upset poor old Mas'. Oh, ye friends of my 

 errant youtli, why will ye marry?" 



The result of his cogitation was that he 

 deciiled to \\.irn his friend. He had noth- 

 ing 1)ut a feeling of contempt for the wo- 

 man. It is only fair to say that she did 

 not enter into his considerations. He 

 thought only of the friend who had been 

 his friend through all his life, since the 

 days that they had wandered, with arms 

 around necks, in the old school playing 

 fields. 



The two men met in a favorite restau- 

 rant, with a balcony outside its windows 

 overlooking the crowded and noisy street. 

 Joe Chesney was, for him, strangely nerv- 

 ous and spoke but little; Bernard, for his 

 part, was in the highest possible spirits. 



"Joe, old bo}', " he exclaimed at last 

 rallyingly, "> on are not yourself. Come, 

 tell your old friend all about it. Is she 

 coy, or does the Joseph of my youth fear 

 to tell his love? Who is she? What is she? 

 Tell me." 



Joe roused himself and smiled across 

 the table at his friend. "Your thoughts 

 run ever in the same groove. Max. Are 

 there no other things save women in this 

 life of ours? Ooi's life hold no fairer, fuller 

 goblet to our lips, to drain if we will? Is 

 ambition nothing — friendship nothing — is 

 there nothing, in short, but kisses, and 

 empty smiles, and honi»\-ed words, mon 

 ami?" 



"Ah, Joe," said the other lightly, "you 

 have not been in love — you kr.irw nothing 

 of it. When you have, you will learn a 

 truer, wider life — all things will change." 

 "Will it blind me to things I can see — 

 give mo a fool's hope, a fooi's joy — a bask- 

 ing in the glare of the sunlight, with the 

 thunder cIulkIs hanging above me. Will it? 

 Tell me that ;" 



In his momentary earnestness he had 

 leaned forward acvuss the table and fixed 

 his erstwhile careless eyes upon his friend. 

 The friend startled, looked at him gravely 

 for a moment, and then laughed. 



"Come, my Joe, your cynic nature is 

 souring you. Ymi want some true little 

 woman's bright eyes to lead you to better 

 things— to tiach" — 



"Tell me where I should find her!" ex- 

 claimed the other bitterly, rising and 

 pushing aside hischair and moving toward 

 the open window. "Tell me where, under 

 these stars, she dwells tonipht, and I will 



leek her and own my phil> iphy a blun- 

 der. ' " 



"Such women as you would want are 

 rare," said Bernard slowly. "Such acne 

 as my Stephanie, now — where could you 

 find"— 



"No, no," .said the other hurriedly. "Not 

 such as that woman, your wife. Never 

 that. ' ' 



Maxwell Bernard had risen quickly, and 

 his face was white as he faced Chesney. 

 The room was empty save for themselves, 

 and the whole place seemed very silent. 

 Only the muffled roar of the traffic floated 

 up to them, and the little French clock on 

 the mantels elf seemed to be ticking at 

 an awful rate. 



"Are you mad, Chesney, or have you 

 been drinking?" said Bernard coldly. 

 "Something has overwrought or troubled 



you. ' ' 



"Something has troubled me, Max, and 

 the time has come for me to speak," said 

 the other in a low voice, with all the old 

 indolent drawl gone from his tones. "I 

 have brought you here tonight for that 

 purpose alone, Mas." He stretched out 

 his hands appealingly and then dropped 

 them heavily at his sides again. "Dear 

 old school chum, I implore you, by the 

 memory of the old days when we were in- 

 nocent and light hearted boys together, to 

 hear me. Believe only that I could not lie 

 to you. I — 1 love you too well for that. 

 But if I did not tell you others might do 

 so — others from whose lips the words 

 would be an insult. Max, but that your 

 tiappincss — God in heaven knows I have 

 jiever spoken of this thing — but that your 

 happiness, I say, is more to me than my 

 own, a thousand times, I would not have 

 spoken now. But your wife" — 



"Silence!" broke in the other hotly. 

 "Leave her pure name alone, man." 



"I cannot. Max, you have been blind 

 and deaf. All this fair pretense. O God, 

 will you not see what is apparent to all? 

 She — and Calvert" — He paused, half ex- 

 pecting another fiery outburst, but Ber- 

 nard stood quite still, watching him. 

 "Have you nut seen them together? Have 

 you not heard? Ah, Max, is it not hard 

 enough that I should have to tell you 

 this?" 



"I want no excuses. You have always 

 thought lightly of women. You have 

 dared to add her name to the list. You 

 coward ! ' ' 



"Coward yourself!" cried the other 

 wildly. "In pure friendship I have come 

 to you this night in the memory of the old 

 days, when no fair, false woman stood be- 

 tween us — and ' — 



In an instant Bernard's fingers were at 

 his throat, and his hot breath fanned his 



