Life — September 23, 1897 — page 6: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

246 Our Fresh-Air Fund. Previously acknowledge: In memory of M.S. B... Agnes and Eleanor Keye: Fort As Told by the Girl. IN THREE CONVERSATIONS. (1.) HAD a premonition the moment I heard the quick steps behind me, which was verified by a voice over my shoulder saying: “How d’ye do, Miss Towneshend ? I had no need to turn, for he was at my side in a breath's space, and had joined his step with mine. ‘* What a tremendous stride you've got!” he went on, before I could re- turn his greeting. ‘‘I've been chas- ing you for three blocks.” ‘* Have you ?” said I, witha flutter. “Why didn’t you whistle?” “T would ha I had dared,” he answered, looking down at me in a queer little way that fairly made me tingle—though, thank Heaven! the wind was blowing a gale; excuse enough for flushed cheeks. ‘*Since when have you added tim- idity to your other virtues, Mr. Ap- pleton?” I managed to say, fully conscious that it was a futile remark. ‘Ever since I've known you,” he replied quickly, with anything but an air of cowardice; but, fortunately, just then diversion was at hand in a quarrel that Brute had managed to pick with a cocker-spaniel. (Brute is the most beautiful Boston terrier that was ever bred, and a present from Tim Appleton himself.) Quick and decisive action was necessary, for the little beasts had worked them- selves into a silly fury, and it was furnished by Tim—I have a right to think of him as Tim—who soon had them apart, and Brute on the chain. “You little beggar,” he said, ‘‘aren’t you ashamed of yourself?” Then on we went up the avenue, Brute tugging away with not even an ex- pression of contriteness. At Fifty-fourth Street my errand * LIFE: took me east—I had never known the walk to Kitty's house to be so short—and he bade me good-by with a cheery smile, and an admonition about Brute. Three minutes later Kitty was pulling off my wraps and deluging me with questions. ‘* Did you get my note? Were you sur- prised? Whata dear you are, to have come so soon, Sally. You must stay to luncheon; there's not a soul at home. Why weren't youat the opera last night? Are you going to the Keiths’ dance Thursday?” “Yes, toeverything,” I said gayly, “but the opera—and a raging head- ache kept me home from that.” “You poor thing!” she answered, patting my cheek, sympathy gleaming from her eyes. She's like some deli- cate stringed instrument, responsive to everyone's moods, gay or sombre, happy or sad. ‘*But come,” I said, shaking a daintily crested note at her—we had adjourned to her den upstairs — “what is the meaning of this?” and T unfolded and read: ‘Come to me as soon as possible; it is important. Ever yours, Kitty.” She seemed a shade embarrassed at first, and cast her eyes down to where her foot was tapping at a spot in the carpet, but it passed in a sec- ond’s time, and she looked up and at me quite frankly, though with a seriousness that was new to me. “Sally,” she said, ‘I've known you ever so long; it seems almost ages since we were tots together.” “We've grown up together, and I've come to know in my stupid way that you are not like other girls—" “Oh, Kitty dear!” I interrupted. No, hear me out,” she went on, “then you can have your say.” I subsided, wonderingly, and she con- tinued : ‘‘You look at things in a bigger way than the rest of us; you seem to have the sense of things—you—you —oh, Sally, I can’t say what I want, but you are strong, and honest, and fearless, and I—I want you to tell me.” The poor child was on the edge of tears, and I.drew her down gently beside me. “What is it, dear—are you in trouble?” “The greatest trouble, Sally, and I don’t know which way to turn. If I only knew the right, the real thing to do, it wouldn't bother; but I don’t,” She said this in such a hopeless, despairing little way, that my lips almost quivered into a smile; but I soon had them in order, and replied : ‘And you want my advice?” “Yes, that’s just it,” she answered. ‘*Then tell me all about it.” She followed the seam of her hand- kerchief around three sides with bent eyes, very slowly and very carefully, before she spoke; then it came with a quaver: ‘‘Sally, I'm in love.” “You darling!” I gasped. ‘Is that all?" And I kissed back .the answer three times before it eluded me. “No, it's not all—Ze doesn’t know it,” she answered, dolefully. “Of course he doesn’t know it,” I snapped out. ‘* What right has he to know it?” “No right—no right, I suppose; and that's why I’m so unhappy.” “IT don’t understand—what do you mean?” “T mean that he'll never know— unless—unless I tell him!” “Is he blind?” ‘*He seems to be,” she answered, alinost pathetically, , «And where does my advice come in?” asked I, rather vaguely, really at sea. She stood up before me and spoke very deliberately, her eyes blazing at me and her cheeks like coals, “‘T want you to tell me,” she said, ‘‘whether I can tell him that I love him.” “Kitty!” I gasped. “There, I knew you'd despise me. You do, don’t you?” she questioned, vehemently. “No,” faltered 1, ‘‘I don’t.” “What! you think I might —it would not be wrong?” ‘Who is he?” said I, a trifle eva- sively.