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Redeemed by War. i. ■ »

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Redeemed by War. i. ■ » I Warwick stood on the river bank silently flontemplating the swift-running waters below and wondering if he had the nerve to make the leap. Life had lost all its charm for him. He could see nothing ahead but cold, cheerless pro- mise, and he thanked a. woman for it-a sweet, tender, blue-eyed little woman whom he had often in his day-dreams pictured as his wife. It had never entered his head that she might refuse him. Blind to his own imperfections, he did not imagine that others might see them, and so when to his earnest pleading she had replied: "-N-o. Dick, it's quite impossible," it left him incapable of speech. He could not understand why she would not accept him, faults, dissipation and all. so un- reasoning and selfish is man when his affec- tions are involved. Yet when the cool breeze from the valley fanned his cheek it brought some reason back. It sobered him. It re-awakened his consc'euce, and dimly he becama conscious of his meral delinquencies. Then he remembered why. Yes, she was right. For an instant he admitted it. then his selfishness re-asserted itself, and he blamed her for the encouragement she had given him—that hollow refuge sought by every lover when refused for cause. A single glance at the river sufficed. It was cold and dark and gloomy. No. he hadn't the nerve. He was too cowardly to die. Besides, the vision of his sweet old mother hovered between him and the water, and shivering ha turned and wandered towards the city. He passed hundreds of people without seeing them. And no one heeded him. He walked on 1 and on. scarce knowing whither he went until the sound of great cheering attracted his I attention. He stood an interested spectator of an inspiring scene. They were recruiting men for the war. The intense patriotism was infectious. The fever caught Warwick. For the time his troubles j were forgotten. He elbowed his way inside and was soon under the hands and keen eyes of the examining surgeon. The city was decked in its gayest attire. The streets were choked with people. Bands were playing, drums were beating, and thousands of [ throats added their piercing cries to the generaluproir. The troops were coming home from war' A low, murmuring roar like the approach of a storm in the distance moved swiftly down the avenue and deepened into a mighty cyclone of sound. With heads proudly erect, faces bearded and bronzed, their uniforms ragged and faded and worn, some bandaged, some hollow-cheeked and gaunt, the heroic conqueror.3 came down the path. which was novr strewn with the floral offerings of the maddened people. By the side of this company, with a proud, happy smile on his face, marched Warwick—110 longer but one of the many—no longer the bearer of the prosaic musket, but wearing the shoulder straps of an officer. It was Captain Warwick now. rnder his slouched hat his restless eyes moved from right to left, eagerly searching fcr a. face in the crowd-one face in all those thousand?—the face of the woman he loved. A bunch of flagrant roses fell at his feet. He stooped, picked them Up. glanced swiftly into the throng, and beheld the countenance of her he sought—not white and timid and anguish- stricken now, but red with a rich colour of hope, joy, anticipation, pride. Fervently be pressed the nower- to his lips and smiled back his very soul as the regiment ¡ marched on. ]

THEATRE ROYAL, CARDIFF.

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