AY  6 
MOORE’S  RURAL  NEW-YORKER. 
304 
1! 
A-  Y  . 
llY  Sweetheart  is  coming  ! 
Make  broad  the  highway ! 
My  sweetheart  Is  coming. 
My  heeutlfiil  May ! 
Keeping  time  to  the  rhythm 
Of  each  roUing  year ; 
One  note  in  the  music, 
A  note  eweet  and  clear. 
I  hear  it she's  coming 
M'ith  glad,  flying  feet. 
O'er  mountain  and  valley 
Her  lover  to  greet. 
And  what  will  she  bring  ms 
From  lands  far  away  ? 
O  what  will  she  bring  me. 
My  beautiful  May  ? 
riowere  In  her  bosom, 
And  stiushiue  and  song; 
Will  she  bring.  Oh !  my  Queen ! 
Who  has  lariied  so  long  ? 
Then  hasten,  my  Sweetheart, 
And  make  no  delay. 
Your  lover  stands  waiting, 
O  beautiful  May ! 
fljc  .Storij- 
FOE  THE  LAST  TIME. 
BY  DCDtr  FLETCHER. 
Dear  Mr,  Desmond  1  knew  I  could  trust  you 
not  to  misunderstand  me !  I  thank  you  a  thou¬ 
sand  times  for  the  way  In  which  you  hiive  ac¬ 
cepted  my  letter;  but  why— why  a.slt  me  now  to 
keep  that  old  pjoinise  or  mine  ?  You,  a  man,  can 
afford  to  speak  with  a  sneer  of  the  “  bonds  0l  con¬ 
ventionality;”  but  1 - 
My  window  has  Just  blown  open  and  a  flood  of 
sunshine  has  rushed  In,  chased  by  the  soft  spring 
wind.  The  world  Is  warm,  and  smells  of  vloleis. 
After  all,  why  not  take  that  *•  one  last  rtde”  with 
you  7  Why  not  hid  a  pleasant  farewell  to  my  Bo¬ 
hemian  days?  Let  our  lltMc  Komau  world  talk, 
If  K  pleases!  i  ecfP  go!  Get  me  my  favorite 
Olga,  and  let.  the  horses  be  ready  to-morrow  morn¬ 
ing  at  eight  o’clock.  I  take  you  at  your  word  and 
go,  feeling  quite  safe  from  any  .allusion  to  the 
past.  Your  friend  as  long  as  you  like, 
Eleanor  hardy. 
“Late?  Of  course  you  aro  late!”  said  Jack 
Desmond,  at  o'clock  the  next  morning;  “but 
why  should  you  mind  that  7  J’unctuallty  Is  at 
once  the  most  masi.'n line  and  the  most  umsyrapn- 
thetlc  of  xirtucs ;  bow  can  punctuality  and  Miss 
Hardy  be  anything  but  incompailblQ  terms?  MDid 
you  are  light  v^lth  your  curb  to-day,  MLsh  Hardy. 
Olga  has  not  been  out  tor  a  week.”  He  swung 
himself  lightly  Into  the  saddle;  iJie  two  horses 
threw  up  their  heads  ItnpaUontly,  scrambled  down 
the  bank  by  the  roadside  and  started  gaily  off  In 
the  morning  sunshine. 
Eleanor  glanced  shyly  at  her  companion.  “Is 
there  much  of  this  pavement?”  she  asked,  with 
an  elaborate  attempt  at  estahllshlng  their  con¬ 
versation  on  an  easy  and  impersonal  tooting ;  “  1 
always  feel  a  wild  desire  to  gallop  my  horse  over 
the  stones,  In  spite  or  every  one’s  warnings.  Look 
at  that  dear  Olga  t  she  flnds  It  as  tiresome  as  I 
do,  and  Is  quite  longing  to  make  a  bolt,  at  the  risk 
of  breaking  both  our  necks !" 
“  As  you  are  strong,  be  merciful,”  said  Desmond, 
lightly.  “  Olga  and  yoorself  are  both  in  my  charge 
to-day,  please  remerabor.  and  air.s.  Van  Cordt- 
landt  will  hold  mo  responsible  for  all  your  past 
mlsderaeanora.  Try  to  curb  your  impaUence  as 
well  as  your  hoj'se  until  we  have  reached  the 
chua-h.”  he  added.  polnUng  forward  with  Ms 
whip ;  “  there’s  a  glorious  place  for  a  cauter  after 
that." 
In  a  few  momeuLs  more  they  had  passed  the 
rich  facade,  of  Man  Paolo  fuorl  della  Mura,  and 
had  clattered  along  me  stone  colonnade;  they 
settled  themselves  back  In  their  saddles,  the  road 
gave  a  sweep,  and  In  another  instant  the  horses 
were  cantering  wildly  over  the  strip  of  short, 
dalsy-wlilrened  turf  that  borders  the  foot-path. 
“  All,  this  Is  xvhat  I  like  1”  said  Eleanor ;  “  now 
we  are  out  of  Rome!  "  The  fresh  morning  wind 
blew  back  the  blonde  masses  of  her  hair  and 
brought  a  peach-blossom  bloom  to  the  pale,  flow- 
er-llke  face.  “Is  n’t  this  glorlou.s,  Mr.  Desmond  I 
1  feel  like  an  escaped  prisoner.  Think  of  all  the 
poor  people  who  are  jnst  getting  up  to  dismal  and 
tepid  cups  of  coffee  all  over  town !” 
“Dismal?  Perhaps!  The  sun  Is  overcast  enough 
to  make  an  apartment  la  a  narrow  street  the  re¬ 
verse  of  cheerful,  tilts  morning;  but  why  should 
all  the  coffee  be  tepid,  .Miss  Hardy  ?  Is  there  any¬ 
thing  In  your  being  on  horseback  so  early  to  ac¬ 
count  for  such  a  change  of  temperatui'e  In  every¬ 
body’s  breakfast  ?  Or  do  you  refer  nguratlvely  to 
the  blight  under  which  Home  Is  lying  when  you 
leave  it?” 
“  You  are  pleased  to  be  satirical  as  well  as  Ulcr- 
al-mlndcd,  Mr.  Desmond,”  retorted  Eleanor.  “  As 
though  you  could  hope  to  uuderetand  what  1  feel 
at  the  prospect  of  forty  miles  on  horseback  and 
not  a  call  to  make,  not  a  note  to  answer,  not  a 
stupid  pei-son  to  entertain  and,  crowning  joy  of 
all,  the  whole  day  In  a  rldlng-hablt,  without  one’s 
dress  to  change !" 
“  But  how  you  will  miss  your  aunt !”  said  Des¬ 
mond.  'i’hey  looked  at  each  other  and  both  burst 
out  laughing. 
“  That  Is  exceedingly  wrong  of  you,”  said  Elea¬ 
nor,  becoming  suddenly  grave.  “  I  only  laughed 
because  you  took  me  by  surpiise.  My  aimt  Is 
very  good.” 
“  Very,”  said  Desmond,  quickly ;  “lam  sure  no  s 
one  can  doubt  that  Mrs.  Van  Cortlaudt  is  a  most  t 
Interesting  companion  and  an  Invaluable  author-  x 
Ity  In  case  a  card  Is  not  returned  In  time,  or  the  I 
Van  Rosevelts  of  Albany  are  In  danger— horrible  s 
thought :— of  being  confounded  xvith  the  oM  Van  | 
Rosevelt-s  of  New'  York.  There  Is  nothing  narrow-  i 
minded,  of  course.  In  such  a  view  of  life.”  \ 
“  Indeed,  that  is  more  than  can  be  said  for  your  i 
ideas  of  life,”  said  Eleanor,  flushing  a  little  as  she  i 
spoke.  “  Artiste,  and  people  generally  who  go  In  1 
for  being 'cultivated, ’  always  pretend  to  be  such 
broad-minded,  tolerant  men.  and  I  don't  believe  , 
I  ever  met  one  j'et  who  could  endure  tor  half  an  , 
hou  r  a  conversa  tlon  on  subjects  of  genera  I  Interest  , 
xvithout  being  bored— yes,  and  showing  It,  too!” 
“Subjects  of  general  interoRt?"  said  Desmond, 
inquiringly,-  “and  this  Includes  all  the  artists 
and  ffffei-ofeMrs  of  your  acquaintance?  Noxv  do 
you  knoxv,  Miss  Hardy,  I’ve  always  noticed  that  a 
woman’s  most  sxveeplng  att  ack,  her  most  crush¬ 
ing  generalization.  Is  aimed  at  some  particular 
man.  1  wonder  If  It  is  only  ray  guilty  conscience 
xvhlch  makes  me  remember  that  last  reception  at 
the  Whytes,  xvhero  1  bad  the  ple.asure  of  meeting 
you,  and  xvhei  o  that  pretty  Mrs.  Dulman’s  dress, 
appearance  and  manner,  and  the  momfulous  I 
question  as  to  whether  that  exquisite  complexion 
of  hers  Is  owing  to  cosmetics  or  to  nature,  were 
rnvlcxvcd  and  criticised  allllmtlnae  we  wore  there, 
to  the  exclusion  of  those  other  ‘suhjectaot  general 
lntere.st'by  which  1  and  my  unlucky  friends  are 
supposed  to  be  bored  ?'' 
"  That  is  not  fair,  Mr.  Desmond  1”  cried  Elea¬ 
nor;  “  you  select  a— well,  l  'vlll  admit  It  !--a  par¬ 
ticularly  sUly  conver-satlon,  and  speak  of  It  as 
of  the  type  or  what  wc  Va.k  about  In  society,  You 
artlsuo  people,  as  1  said  before,  claim  to  rnonopo- 
11/e  all  the  tolerance,  and  yet  you  shut  yourselves 
up  In  your  sheUs  like  a  small  company  of  oysters 
who  should  agree  together  to  consider  all  tho 
other  ilah  and  sea-thtnga  like  so  many  Interlopers 
In  their  domains !  You  build  a  Chinese  wall  about 
youraelves,  and  the  rest  of  tho  xvorhl  become  morn 
outeldcrs.  Now  I,  for  one,  am  a  Philistine ;  and 
I'm  not  ashamed  of  it,  either!  I  lox'c  oho  world. 
I  belong  to  It,  heart  and  soul.  l  have  not  made 
society,  and  I  ran  see  a  hundrctl  points  In  which  I 
would  alter  It  If  I  could,  bur  l  can't,  and  so  I  oc.- 
cept  It  and  find  the  xvorld  a  pleasant  place,  as  It 
always  Is  to  the  people  xvho  try  to  please  It.” 
“  Be  witness.  Miss  Hardy.  Ir  w-os  not  I  who  made 
the  dlscuHRlon  a  personal  one !  May  1  ask,  though, 
how  It  Is  that  with  such  strong  convictions  you 
are  not  always  of  this  delightfully  optimist  opin¬ 
ion  ?” 
“  Because  I  am  ‘  young  and  unreasonable,’  as 
my  aunt  says,  I  suppose,”  said  Eleanor,  lightly ; 
“  I  daresay  It  will  pass  with  time !” 
“  I  dare  say  It  will,” assented  Desmond,  gravely. 
“  Honesty  of  ImpuLso  docs  not  live  long  In  the  at¬ 
mosphere  of  a  ball-room.  You  inu.st  have  had  an 
uncommonly  large  qirantlty  to  start  wltli.” 
“800  here,  Mr.  Desmoud,”  said  Eleanor,  facing 
square  round  In  her  saddle,  “  I  won’t  pretend  not 
to  understand  xvhat  you  mean.  I’vo  that  much 
honesty  left,  xvhattiver  you  may  tMok,"  she  went 
on,- Indignantly.  “You  Imagine  hecau.se”— she 
hesitated—*'  because  I  may- well,  pi-obably  IshaU 
—marry  a  man  older  than  myself,  and  very  rich, 
that  I  can  have  no  good  left  In  mo.  Ills  not  true  I 
You  are  hard,  you  are  unjust  to  me  In  every 
thought  of  youra !  Don't  you  suppose  l  knoxv  ray- 
self,  my  own  wants  and  needs,  better  than  you 
can?  Talk  of  giving  up ‘all  for  love  and  the 
world  well  lost’  to  a  girl  accustpmed  U»  a  simple 
life,  and  what  wonder  u  she  listens  to  you,  with 
everything  to  gain  by  It  and  nothing  to  peril? 
'1  alk  of  it  to  a  gU'l  In  ray  poslUon,  brought  up  as  I 
have  been  and,  if  she  is  honest,  she  will  ansxvcr 
you  as  1  do ;  I  am  accustomed  to  extreme  luxui'y, 
1  1  have  no  fortune  of  my  own,  ray  happiness  Is 
'  centered  on  thlng.s  which  are  offered  me  freely  at 
the  hands  of  a  man  for  whom  I  have  the  utmost 
respect  and  xvuo  1  believe  Is  very  roml  of  me ;  why 
should  l  not  accept  them  ?” 
Why  noL  indeed?”  echoed  Desmoud. 
They  rode  on  a  lew  minutes  In  silence.  Ills  ac¬ 
quiescence  had  suddenly  shocked  and  puzzled  her. 
She  had  expected  to  be  argued  with  vehemently 
'  when  she  threw  down  her  gauntlet,  and  now  the 
gage  of  dellance  was  returned  to  her  with  a  polite 
bow  by  her  adversary.  Eleanor  did  not  iindi-r- 
stand  It  and,  being  disconcerted,  began  to  lose  her 
temper, 
“  It  Is  so  unj  ust !  ”  she  said,  speaking  very  fast ; 
as  the  man  xvho  Is  not  privately  conxdnced  that  1 
wore  merit  the  only  test  he  would  never  meet  s 
with  want  of  success.  A  pathetic  "  It  might  have  t 
been,"  the  memory  of  some  hour  when  It  did  not  t 
seem  so  Improbable  tha  t  this  was  to  be  the  com-  o 
panton  of  her  future  IH'c,  oasts  Its  halo  around  c 
many  an  otherwise  commonplace  rejected  lover,  x 
Until  he  becomes  consoled  again,  a  m.an  never  f 
finds  a  xvarmer  (If  need  be,  a  more  unscrupulous)  £ 
partisan  than  In  tho  woman  who  has  Just  assured  I 
him  she  xvas  indifferent  to  his  love.  t 
A  quick  resentment  of  Desmond's  self-posses-  | 
Sion  seized  Eleanor.  “  Very  xvell  I  we  will  see  If  I  * 
cannot  make  him  show  be  cares,  before  the  day  Is  ‘ 
over  1”  she  thought  revengefully.  Andshesmiled 
innocently  and  sxvcotly  the  while,  upon  her  In-  ' 
tended  xdctlm. 
“  Don’t  let  us  discuss,”  she  said  softly ;  “  I  never 
get  tho  better  when  I  quarrel  with  you,  and  so” 
—  -The  blue  eyes  looked  up  to  Ms  appealingly 
and  ended  the  sentence  for  her.  She  laughed  and 
touched  her  horse  with  her  xvhlp ;  they  dashed  on 
up  the  hill,  racing  the  fleet,  light  cloud-shadows 
that  flitted  over  the  fresh  green  of  the  fields.  Tho 
sky  had  the  pale,  xvatery  blue  of  an  April  day. 
Little  guata  of  the  warm  spring  xvind  went  and 
came,  now  bringing  puffs  of  wild,  faint  O-agronco, 
now  wandering  off  until  lost  among  l.he  blossomy 
Holds,  on  either  aide  of  the  road  a  rose- Mushed 
shower  of  perfumed  snow  covered  ttic  bushes  of 
tlnworing  thorn ;  tho  birds  In  t.ho  hedge-rows  were 
txvltterlng  and  triUlng  under  i  he  nneli.cr  oi  i  he 
small  green  leaves,  every  noxv  and  then  a  hurried 
rush  of  wDigs  telling  how  the  tramp  of  the  horses 
had  startled  some  brooding  mother-bird  from  her 
nest.  Behind  the  riders  the  sullen,  tuxvny  Tiber 
rolled  sloxvly  by,  Its  wlt^kcd  and  reticent-looking 
waves  the  only  thing  In  sight  that,  did  not  scorn 
to  feel  tho  gentle  influence ol  the.sprlng  sunshine. 
“Did  you  ever  notice,  Miss  Hardy,”  asked  Des¬ 
mond,  “how  differently  the  Tiber  flows  from 
other  rivers?  On  the  surface  U  looks  smooth 
enough ;  indeed,  tho  strong  tide  harrUy  ripples 
the  yellow  xv.ater;  hut  watch  It  a  little  while  and 
you  xvlll  dlfa-over  that  It  moves  with  a  deep  pulsa¬ 
tion,  a  regular  rhythmic  effort.,  as  though  the 
fierce  old  heart  of  old  Rome  were  still  heating 
under  its  xvaves.” 
“  It  is  a  cruel  river,  and  alxvaya  seems  to  mo  as 
though  it  were  smiling  grimly  at  the  thought  of 
the  next  Inundation  It  means  to  have,”  .said  Elea¬ 
nor.  “  What  do  you  say  Wi  resting  a  moment,  Mr. 
Desmond?  I’m  beginning  to  be  a  little  tired.” 
They  dismounted  and  Jack  led  tho  horses  while 
Eleanor  plucked  long  wreaths  of  the  white  stars 
of  the  blackberry  vine  and  twisted  them  about 
her  hat.  "  What  a  symbolical  crown- thorns  Md- 
den  under  flowers!”  she  said,  with  a  half  sigh. 
They  sat  down  a  moment  under  the  liedgo  and 
listened  in  silence  to  all  the  sweet,  small  noises  or 
the  spring. 
“  I  should  like  to  bo  a  gypsy !”  said  Eleanor. 
A  gypsy  a  la  Watteau,  xvith  pink  satin  boots 
and  a  chateau  to  sleep  In,  you  mean,  ol  course,” 
said  Jack. 
Eleanor  laughed.  “  Well,  yes,  I  suppose  so !  I 
don’t  think  1  shoMd  like  tho  smoky  tiros  and  Short 
rations  of  real  gypsydom.  I  love  the  country,  hut 
then,  my  Ideal  landscapes  are  always  landscapes 
with  weli-drcBsod  people  in  the  foreground.” 
-‘And there  18 Ostia!"  said  Desmond.  “I  won¬ 
der  If  Queen  Eleanor  xvlll  deign  to  alight  and  have 
some  lunch?” 
“  Her  Majesty  Is  graciously  pleased  to  be  most 
I  pleblanly  hungry,”  said  Mias  Hardy,  laughing. 
“  I  shall  make  a  state  question  of  It  If  we  flml  noth¬ 
ing  eatable  at  that  most  unpromising  of  inns !” 
They  rode  into  the  courtyard  under  a  queer, 
pointed  stone  arch.  Half  a  dozen  peasants  looked 
•  up  from  the  bottle  of  wine  they  were  dilnklng  at 
,  a  table  outside  the  door ;  two  or  three  falr-lialrod, 
1  nigged  children  ran  up  to  see  the  beautiful  lady 
;  dismount.  Eleanor  gathered  up  her  trailing  skirt 
;  about  her  and  entered  llio  Kitchen.  It  wa.sa  Mgh- 
'  celled,  smoke-blackened  room;  at  one  end  was  a 
large  brick  fireplace ;  around  the  wall  were  ranged 
rowsoi  table.s  and  chairs;  five  or  Mx  he.ns  wan- 
.  dered  composedly  about  the  stone  floor,  In  su- 
.  preme  Indifference  or  the  old  gray  eat  who  came 
r  up  purring  and  rubbed  against  Eleanor's  feet. 
>  She  sbioxl  tapping  the  table  with  her  xvhlp,  the 
?  image  nf  amused  perplexity.  “  But  where  shall 
-  we  eat?”  shosaid. 
1-  “  There  18  a  room  up-suirs,”  suggested  the  host^ 
esa.  “Clean?  Blessed  Saint  I'Mlomenaj  other 
;  than  clean  l  But  will  the  illustrious  signora  ob- 
“a  TTiHTi  xvlll  give  up  anything,  will  xvork  all  hla  j  ject  to  going  up  a  ladder? 
life  long  to  win  a  position  and  become  wealthy, 
and  you  xx  lll  all  apidaud  him  to  the  skies  for  doing 
It.  And  3'et,  let  a  woman  hax-e  the  same  craving 
tor  poxver  and  influence  and  ease,  let  her  have  an 
ambition  to  be  more  than  a  cipher  in  the  sum,  let 
her  bring  Into  real  life  one  out  of  the  couutleas 
le.ssons  she  has  received  since  she  left  the  school-  | 
room,  let  her  too  make  an  effort  to  gain  her  ends, 
and  where  wUl  you  find  epltliets  with  xvhlch  to 
qualify  her  unwomanly  heaitlessness,  her  mer¬ 
cenary  lack  ol  seutlmont  I” 
Desmond  struck  ms  boot  absently  with  his  whip 
and  smiled.  “There  are  just  a  low  men  in  the 
world  who  do  not  count  money  as  the  crowning 
good  or  life,  and  who  sUll  cling  iai  tho  exploded 
old  belief  that  women,  by  the  mere  fact  of  their 
womanhood,  are  better,  nobler,  purer  than  they,” 
he  said.  “  And  really,  Miss  Hardy,  j’ou  exagger¬ 
ate  !  Who  ever  gave  anything  but  praise  to  a  girl 
who  made  a  ‘  good  match’  In  society. 
The  gentle  mockery  of  bis  tone  stung  her  to  the 
quick.  It  Is  one  LMtig  to  dismiss  a  lover,  but  quite 
another  to  have  him  accept  hla  dismissal  with 
equanimity.  The  xvoman  who  does  not  feel  a  se¬ 
cret  Joy  and  pride  In  being  slUl  “  the  one  fall- 
woman  in  all  the  world”  to  the  man  she  has  just 
refused  to  marry,  and  docs  not  iMnk  of  him  with 
a  tender,  regretful  approval,  is  as  rare,  perhaps. 
Eleanor  hurst  out  laughing.  “Oh,  Mr.  Des¬ 
mond!  ”  she  cried,  “how  can  1  ever  thank  you 
enough  for  bringing  me  here?  Fancy  my  aunt’s 
face  when  I  tell  her  of  the  ladder !  ” 
The  room  up-sialrs  xvas  si-mpulously  clean  and 
bare,  'I'he  only  ornaments  of  the  whllewaabed 
walla  xvcTe  a  bras.s  crucUlx  and  a  cup  for  holding 
holy  water,  but  the  table  and  wooden  benches 
were  spotless,  and  a  cool  breeze  camo  In  a1,  the 
one.  sniall  window.  Their  rtdo  had  given  them  an 
appetite,  and  the.y  did  full  justice  to  tho  provisions 
that  au  extended  experience  of  tiampagna  Inns 
hml  induced  Jock  to  scud  down  the  day  before. 
“  As  though  you  had  been  sure  of  my  coming 
with  you  1  ”  said  Eleanor,  half  pleased  and  half 
provoked  at  the  attention. 
Jack  laughed.  “  Do  you  Imagine  I  could  not 
ndc  doxvn  to  OsUa  without  the  protection  Ol  your 
escort  ?  ”  he  said,  toasingly.  "  I  am  sme  I  could 
have  foimd  somo  one  to  lake  pity  on  me,  had  you 
been  unkind  enough  not  to  come !  ” 
Tho  words  In  themselves  xvere  nothing,  but  the 
mere  fact  that  he  could  speak  Jestingly  of  her 
gave  Eleanor  a  curious  fecUug  of  blank  surprise. 
He  hod  accepted  the  situation,  and  she  instantly 
resented  his  having  done  so;  .she  felt  Injured 
that  having  once  offered  her  his  love  he  should  so 
soon  have  become  resigned  to  her  rejection  of  It. 
With  an  odd,  feminine  Inconsistency,  the  firmer 
she  had  been  In  her  refusal  of  him  the  more  she 
had  aocrctly  gtorled  In  what  she  had  imagined  to 
be  the  .strength  of  his  passion.  There  had  been 
a  bitter-sweet  satisfaction  to  her  In  tho  sacrifice 
of  such  a  devotion  on  the  altar  of  her  worldly  ad- 
vanceruent.  It  had  been  a  sort,  of  tost  In  her 
eyes,  lor  she  had  argued  with  herself,  If  I  can 
give  up  such  love  as  this  so  oaslly,  surely  my 
future  life  promises  me  only  pleasure.  What  is 
there  left  lor  me  to  renounce,  alter  this ?  ignor¬ 
ing  her  own  insistence  on  the  fact  that  all  allu¬ 
sions  to  old  times  xvere  to  be  banished  from  their 
convers-atlon,  she  tried  to  lead  Desmoud  Into  a 
vein  or  half-tender,  hulf-cynlcal  remembrance, 
and  see  It  oven  yet  she  had  not  tho  power  of 
awakening  the  dormant  Ores  of  a  passion  she  had 
held  but  lightly  xvhllo  It  was  still  hora.  in  other 
words,  she  xvas  a  xvonmn,  and  could  pardon  her 
old  lover  anything— except  his  forgiving  her. 
“  How  long  It  seems  since  I  have  spent  a  day 
out  of  Romo  1  ”  she  said.  “  The  last  lime  was  at 
I'orto  d’Anzlo.  Do  you  rotoemher  tho  day  we 
xvero  there,  Mr,  Desmond?  l  have  never  forgot¬ 
ten  It.  I  can  shut  my  eyes  now,  and  hear  quite 
plainly  again  the  wa.sh  of  tho  waves  on  tho  beach. 
Do  you  remember  the  nexmllght  on  the  water, 
coming  hack  ?  "  sbo  went  on  droamlly ;  “and 
'  How  near  to  tho  stars  wo  socraod  that  night, 
XVe  two,  on  tho  NandN  by  the  .tea  '?  " 
Her  voice  had  sunk  almost  to  a  whisper,  her 
cheek  was  resting  on  her  hand,  she  seemed  look¬ 
ing  tar  back  Into  the  (lasl  with  those  sweet, 
wistful  eyes.  Desmoud  glanced  at  her  a  moment, 
his  face  turned  very  pale,  and  Ids  band  clenched 
hard  under  the  tiiblc ;  but  his  voice  xvas  calm  and 
he  smiled  quietly  as  be  answered,  - 
“1  remember  quite  well;  pretty  little  place, 
that  Porto  tl'Anzlo  la !  By  the  xvay,  It’s  a  curious 
thing,  do  you  know,  to  sec  with  what  an  Instinc¬ 
tive  sense  of  the  appropriate  people  always  quou* 
Owen  Mereillth  when  they  apeak  of  dead  and 
gone  flirtations.  ‘  The  Flirt’s  own  Lauroato  ’  ho 
sboiild  be  caUtHt  There  Is  about  as  much  sham 
strength  and  false  sentiment  in  the  one  as  In  the 
otlicr,  I  suppose,”  ho  added  with  a  reflective  air. 
“  Really,  1  ca  tmr>t  siiy ;  I  am  not  good  ali  literary 
rtlscuaslons,"  answered  Eleanor,  coldly.  “  I  am 
not  In  the  habit  of  dissecting  the  things  xvhlch 
please  mo.  This  room  la  really  getting  to  be  very 
hot  and  disagreeable ;  shall  xve  go  7  ” 
The  xvind  had  changed,  and  the  blue  April  sky 
was  hidden  by  <i  gray  veil  or  sirocco  clouds. 
“Now,  MIS.S Hardy,”  said  Desmoud,  “Ostia Is 
all  before  you  whore  to  choose.  About  a  mile 
down  that  rood  is  the  wood  of  Caslcl  Fusano; 
that  pllo  of  earth  and  stones  you  see  there  Is  the 
ontj-anco  to  tho  excavations,  vv  hat  Is  your  choice, 
sunshine  or  silence?  Will  you  spend  an  hour 
under  the  pines,  like  an  IrrcsptMisIble  Bohemian; 
or  shall  we  Improve  onr  inlnds  and  ‘do’  the 
ruins,  like  conscientious  tourists?  By  tho  way, 
'  dill  you  remember  to  bring  your  conscience  with 
you  ?  ” 
“  No ;  1  left  It  In  Home  with  my  aunt,  for  safe 
keeping,”  said  Eleanor,  demurely;  “and  as  for 
i  your  ruins,  Mr.  Desmond,  you  may  visit  them 
<  alone,  If  you  please.  There  are  bettor  things  to 
>  do  xvith  a  spring  day  than  to  .spend  It  in  a  hole 
luiCler  ground,  like  an  invalid  rabbit ! " 
They  turned  down  the  quint,  grassy  lane  that 
’  leads  to  Castle  Fusano.  A  tender,  nall-pathellc 
color  brooded  over  the  landscape;  even  the 
j  stately  old  pines  seemed  to  bend  their  proud 
.  heads  to  the  breeze  and  murmur  half-forgotten 
■  words  to  the  lullaby  of  the  spring  wind. 
“How  1  love  plne-tices ! ”  said  Eleanor;  “to 
,  enjoy  them  fully  one  should  not  look  at  them, 
I  but  Uo  with  one’s  face  to  the  graas  and  only  hear 
t,  their  grand  old  chant  overhead.” 
,  “  The  pines  of  Ostia  have  a  song  ail  their  own,” 
r  remarked  Jack.  “You  know  all  Ibis  ground 
t  about  here  was  the  open  sea  in  the  time  of  the 
-  Romans.  i  always  think  the  trees  remember  the 
I  dash  of  the  waves,  and  to  me  theh-  song  is  like 
1  the  breaking  ot  the  surf  far  away  on  the  shore.” 
“Look  at  my  daisies,”  said  Eleanor;  “I  am 
-  afraid  It  Is  going  to  rain.”  The  crimson  and 
p  white  petals  of  the  floxvors  she  held  were  closing 
I.  fast. 
ft  “  Do  you  knoxv  that  the  Campagna  daisies  look 
l  like  the  Roman  girls?”  asked  Jack.  “Bee  how 
different  they  arc  from  the  little  English  daisy, 
-  or  the  delicate  rose  -  and- wMte  paQuereUe  of 
r  France,  in  spite  ot  iJicir  white  petals,  these  arc 
I-  not  a  blonde  flower.  They  have  a  bolder  look,  a 
deeper  dash  of  red,  a  stralghter,  taller  stem,  and 
that  same  calinly-scrutlnlzing,  wide-eyed,  una- 
a  bashed  gaze  you  see  in  the  contaalne.  They  have 
8  a  cujlouH  association  for  me,  loo,”  he  added, 
taking  up  Eleanor’s  bunch  as  bespoke.  “  Dalslea 
il  always  remind  me  of  tho  llrst  time  I  fell  In  love.” 
a  “Merely  because  they  are  Innocent  spring 
g  things,  like  lambs  or  veal,”  asked  Eleanor,  raock- 
s  Ingly,  “  or  becaiLse  your  tnamorata  wore  them  In 
e  her  hat?  i  think  I  can  see  her  now.  i  know 
n  your  tastes  so  well,  Mr.  Desmond,  l  can  guess  at 
s  what  your  llrst  Ideal  mnst  have  bet-n,— a  china 
B  doll  face,  with  a  simper,  and  marguerites  In  her 
hair ;  all  Innocence,  white  muslin,  blue  ribbons, 
g  and  ami abi e  i mbecllliy !  ” 
If  “ Indeed  she  was  not,”  said  Jack.  “Fair  hair 
has  been  a  latter-day  revelation  to  me ;  in  those 
It  prehistoric  days  the  Corsair  was  my  patron  saint, 
IT  and  1  raved  about  raven  tresses  and  dark.  Oriental 
d  eyes.  She  xvas  a  very  beautiful  girl,  I  remember, 
u  and  1  thought  her  an  angel  at  the  time,”  ho 
added,  laughing.  “  I  wonder  xvhero  she  can  be 
e  noxv  ?  ” 
T  “That  Is  so  like  a  man!”  said  Eleanor.  “Wc 
t.  arc-  angels  as  long  HS  we  don't  care  for  you, 
y  because  our  eyes  are  of  a  particular  shape,  or  the 
d  shade  of  our  hair  pleases  your  lordship’s  tastes; 
0  thou  wc  fall  in  love  with  you  and  become  oi-dlnary 
t.  mortals  on  the  spot,  and  you  stralghtxvay  forget 
