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T04MV* SHORT STORY.] Playing…

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T04MV* SHORT STORY.] Playing with Fire. By A. E. SNODGRASS. rall EI-GfcHTS RESERVED.] Madge Sheppard awoke with a start be- tokening trouble dreams. as the bright rays of the early sun struggled to gain admit- tance into her room. She jumped out of bed and raised the blind which barred their way; then opemag the window she let the cool, delicious air flood in and play on her pallid cheeks and lift stray tresses of her tumbled hair. The countryside stretched in verdant fresh- ness before her; the purling brook ran merrily in ceaseless song beyond the orchard; the birds twittered busily on the trees; the voices and footfalls of the servants, already astir in the great yard. came wafting on the a.ir along with a myriad murmuring sounds of re-awakening life. But she noted none of these things. Her eyes had a vacant stare; her ears heard naught. Robert Cadogan had gone, and Shennington ha.d in a night grown a terribly dull place. What a joyless day. she pondered, lay before her! And the morrow and the next day. how should she live through them? There would be no strolls now through the woods, no exquisite "Good-nights," said and said again, no teader longing for the morrow's meeting. Nothing but the livelong solemn days and the endless stilly nights. Time would pass on leaden wings—existence become an aching void. Ah! but there would be his letters, and, besides, she would not be separated from him long. It was only for a little while, so that he could arrange matters for their marriage. Then would she be always by his side. Never a day pass but she would see him; never a day but she would hear his beloved voice. Ah! why had she felt unhappy? Was she not really the happiest girl in the whole world ? A chance laugh came up to her from one of the men moving in the yard. It somehow rang cold and mocking in her ear. She turned from the window and burst into tears. But a flash of prospective sunshine drove the clouds away quicker than they came. and when she was dressed she descended to the great homely kitchen only a little pale, not an atom mis-erable. The day, however, passed in alternating gloom and sadness. She visited the places where they bad met,, and strolled, recalling his looks, his words—all the thousand and one details so delicious to her lonely heart. Yet. amidst all these recurring phases of sadness she never had an instant's doubt as to the untarnished brightness of the future. She was to marry Robert. Sun and stars were not more certain facts than that. Had he not said so again and again? Had they not talked it over and arranged their plans? True, he had not latterly referred to it. "Oh. never mind that; haven't we settled every- thing already?" would say when she spoke of their marriage; but that was because he knew he had to leave her for a while, and the theme thus hurt his feelings. At dusk she went out and stood by the orchard wicket, pretending to be waiting for Robert. If he would only come now? she thought. If he hadn't left the Squire's after all ? Her head fell on her hands as she leaned on the gate with ecstasy at the thought. Presently a hand was laid gently on her shoulder. She started round with his name on her lips. The sound covered her with confusion. "On Fanny, how you startled me!" she ex- claimed. "What's the matter, dear?" asked the sister. "Were you crying?" "Crying! No. indeed," she answered, her composure regained. "Do I look like cry- ing?" She laughed merrily. Certainly her face did not suggest tears present or pending. But Fanny wondered at the "Robert." As the dusk deepened into night they went into the house together. Fanny's arm around her sister's neck. as though to protect her from some unseen, unknown danger The following morning Madge was still earlier astir. She ran downstairs blithe and gay as a thoughtless child. This was the day she would hear from Robert. He had told her so as he said "Good-bye." It was the last promise on his lips. Over breakfast in the gleaming, old' fashioned kitehea she offered to go and bring the letters from Shennington Post-office. "James needn't go, papa," she urged. "I don't see why I shouldn't go every day. It's only twenty minutes' walk, and I haven't much to do, you know. None of you will let I me make myself useful." She ran on talking and laughing cease- lessly. seeming half carried away by buoy. ancy of spirits. Fanny watched her with a curious, anxious impression. She remembered the incident at the wicket, and wondered. The meal was hardly finished ere Madge pulled a sun-bonnet out of a drawer and was off. "You'll be too early for the letters, Madge," her father shouted after her. Her jodlity had not run down. but she felt she must be alone for a while to think things over. Robert's letter might give her permis- sion to tell her parents and Fanny at once of their intended marriage. How should she have courage to tell? Should she confide in her mother or in Fanny first? Then, per- haps, her father would be angry. He hated the Sqaire and everything and everyone con- nected with him. But mother would talk him round. She was confident of that. Her happi- ness of heart beat down every obstacle. She approached Shennington village by a long detour through the fields. The white, dusty road was too prosaic for the romantic mood. Besides, it would bring her to the post-cffice too soon. Now and again she sped over the soft turf. leaping and bounding with the impulse of joy and health. Then she would throw herself panting on the grass to regain breath for another wild dash. She reached the cottage which served as post-office five minutes after the letters had been handed in, and in a minute or two those for the Vale Farm were given her. She hurried out and made for the fields again. She felt frightened to look at the envelopes till she was unperceived. She counted the letters, but without looking at them. There were five. Five! Which was hers? Robert couldn't have forgotten to write. There were rarely so many as five letters at once for home. Forgotten! Why, what made her think that? As if Robert could forget! The fields were not yet reached, but she saw the lane was deserted, and gave in to her curiosity. One, two, three, four-1ive. "All for paparn One, two, three, four-five. Oh! there must be some mistake! She scrutinised each address again, more closely. The result was the same. On a sudden she swung round and ran back to the post-oifice. "Did I get all the letters? Isn't there another one, please? One-one addressed to ane, please, itrs. Maine?" The woman went slowly through the pile Again. No. Miss Sheppard; you've got 'em aU- every one, dear." She turned away without a word, sick at heart. She could not eiiape her thoughts. Her brain seemed numbed. Suddenly she glanced around her. She was in the fields again, and alone. The knowledge Acted instantly. She burst into tears. Day after day was added to the irrevocable past, but no letter came. Each morning found her at the poet-office, waiting pale- faced, for the straggling mail-cart. But it was all in vain. She invented doeens of reasons for Robert's silence. He was tremendously busy, trying to please his father after his long spell of idleness. Or. again, he was coming back to claim her almost immediately, and wanted toO take her by surprise. Then the idea struck her that he was ill, and she felt she must fly to him. But where should she go? He had not given her Kis address. It would be in his first letter, he had said. He had told her, though, the name of the great bustling city. But London was one hundred miles away—a vast place, he had told her, where, doubtless, it would be impos- sible to find anyone, especially one who was ill. Besides, she had not sufficient money of her own. In her simple, girlish way she prayed night and morning for her lover; prayed for his safety, for his speedy coming, for but a scrap of news of him. Her love was all-consuming. Those happy weeks with Robert by her side had ignited a passion in her breast such as her pure young heart oould hardly under- stand. She only knew that Robert was all in all to her—the one being in the wide world who meant to her the attainment of A joy which knew no bounds. It had not been to her. as to him. a pleasant flirtation to while away the lan- guorous summer days. She had given her whole heart, her whole soul. Robert was her idol, her god. All the glowing intensity of the love-springs of am ardent nature were brought into by the impassioned wooing of a romantic youth, who only made frolic with Love as with a bauble. And so, neglected, forgotten, she pined away into haggard bollowness of eyes and cheeks, hoping, trusting, doubting, but loving ever. A moody melancholy settled upon her. Her glance bespoke woe deep- eeated. Her sighs sent a shiver round the old farmhouse. Yet she was perfectly well and happy; ao. in angelic patience of spirit, did she assure her wondering, anxious parents. For months she refused to aro away, as everyone urged her. With the obstinate tenacity of a stUI ?ado-wy hope, &be b?d ??? the poMMMtt at tbe ?tte%

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T04MV* SHORT STORY.] Playing…