156 



THE AMERICAN BEE KEEPER. 



May 



EXOTICS. 



LlUefl that bloom out of season, lilac With nev- 

 er a leaf, 

 Roses that have not the perfume should live 



in the ht-art of a rose. 

 Could ye not wait till the summer? for now 

 is the year at its close. 

 Winter beleaguers us truly, but spring shall 

 soon bring us relief. 



Lilies shall flower in my garden, lilac shall 

 come with tlu; May, 

 Roses shall bloom by the pathways, rose 



leaves lie on the lawn. 

 Could ye not wait till the thrushes woke yen 

 with them ere the dawn 

 Flushed all the west and the summer came 

 with the fullness of day? 



One life was yours, and the summer waited to 

 give you the sun. 

 Warm dews of iiight in the starlight, wonder- 

 ful whispf r of rain. 

 Songs of the nightingale, ever yearning, an 

 angel in pain. 

 ^11 had been yours had ye waited, lilies and 

 roses undone. 

 — H. D. Lowry in New York Tribune. 



CEOSSING THE GULF. 



They were both guests at the same 

 country house that autumn. He was an 

 artist, handsciue, gifted, well born, but 

 poor as the proverbial church mouse 

 and proud as Lucifer. She was an heir- 

 ess, who, on attaining her majority 

 gome three years ago, had come into 

 about 15,000 a year. Added to this at- 

 traction she was beautiful, clever and 

 charming. She was bright, high spirited 

 and very independent, as suitors soon 

 found to their cost. 



"You'll be an old maid, Isbel," re- 

 monstrated the aunt with whom she 

 lived. "You are nearly 24, my dear." 



"I don't care, auntie," laughed the 

 young lady. "An old maid is as good as 

 anything, a tliou«and times better than 

 having a husband one doesn't care for. 

 I'm not in Icve, dear, and so I mean to 

 keep my freedom." 



That was said — and said truly then — 

 some wceki^; lefore she came on this 

 visit to Halcf uibe Grange and there met 

 the artist, Eiic Errington, but could she 

 have said the same as truly now, when 

 the visit \\ as drawing to a close? The 

 lips might perhaps. The heart was an- 

 other matter entirely, and she knew it. 

 She was no tyro of a girl in her teens, 

 but a woman who lived in the world 



and neitber could nor would deceive 

 herself. She knew that she loved Er- 

 rington and he loved her, despite his 

 proud reticence and silence. What wom- 

 an could not read between the lines? 

 "What man could possibly at all times 

 completely guard every look and tone 

 and touch when thrown so constantly 

 each day with the loved one? He is un- 

 conscious how or when his secret is be- 

 trayed to that one. 



But no one save Isbel Brandon herself 

 suspected Errington 's secret. He neither 

 held aloof nor markedly sought her. 

 But there were one or two others among 

 the party who did so, and one day Ma- 

 jor Glyn, the host, said half jestingly 

 to Eric: 



"My dear fellow, why don't you try 

 your chance with the beautiful heiress 

 and win a fortune and therewith a 

 speedy rise to fame?" 



"Thank you, not I," said the artist, 

 with a laugh and shrug, to cover the 

 deeper feelings stirred. "I have no in- 

 tention of being ticketed 'fortune hunt- 

 er' by the world or the fair lady herself. 

 Even a poor devil of an artist may keep 

 his pride and honor untarnished." 



"But, Errington, nonsense!" Glyn 

 said. "Suppose you really cared for a 

 girl who happened to be rich?" 



"So much the worse for me, Glyn." 



"You really mean that you wouldn't 

 woo her or ask her hand?" 



"Never," said the other. 



This had passed on the terrace. 



Some one half behind the lace cur- 

 tains of a window above drew back, 

 with quivering lips and heaving breast. 



"Is this terrible gold of mine to be 

 ever, then, a hopeless bai'rier between 

 two lives?" Isbel muttered, locking her 

 white hands. "He will never speak, 

 never breathe a word, and I — Heaven, 

 what can I — the woman — say or do 

 without shame? And yet — yet — is gold 

 and a mistnken bxit noble pride and 

 sense of hci.-(^r to keep us apart forever? 

 I know he loves me — would tell me so 

 at once were I poor. Oh, it is cruel, 

 cruel! Something ought — must be done, 

 but what?" 



There it was; she, the woman, was 

 so helpless. And shortly after this the 

 party broke up. 



A month later the artist one evening 

 received a letter from Isbel, and, to his 



