Argosy, Vol. 111, No. 1 — page 63: what you’re looking at

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

A LETTER OF Nevertheless the following Sunday found him seated at the table opposite Miss Thurston. There was no trace of her market-day formality, no hint of doing good on the Sabbath day, only charming cordi- ality of just the proper degree. ‘“‘ Does she really despise me, after all?” wondered poor, .bewildered Bradwell. ‘Well, anyhow, she’s a thoroughbred, if Eden did produce her.” Thus, with the gravest misgivings, Brad- well began his acquaintance with Agnes Thurston. He never saw her excepting at the store or in the presence of her parents. Never on the part of either mother or daughter did he note a word or look of condescension, any suggestion that their friendliness was purely philanthropic in motive. But in exact proportion to the growth of their good fellowship, did the kindness of the husband and father become constrained and forced. It was increasingly apparent that, of all the village, the man who had first encouraged Bradwell to make Eden the scene of his experiment was finding the fulfilment of its terms the hardest. Pride kept the young man from making any sign that he understood. It would have kept him from the white cottage altogether had not the lure proved too strong. Thus swiftly passed the bitter-sweet va- cation season. The night before her re- turn to college, Bradwell called to bid Miss Thurston a formal farewell, keenly con- scious that a dull drab was about to be- come the prevailing color in Eden. Agnes was alone on the little piazza, and invited him to sit beside her. She was evidently troubled. | “Mr. Bradwell,” she hesitated, “ I’m go- ing to ask you to do something for me this winter. I must speak quickly before father or mother interrupt. I hope you won’t think me queer and forward. “It’s of them I’m thinking,” she hurried on. ‘‘ Father hasn’t been like himself this summer. Mother doesn’t see, or pretends she doesn’t, so that I won't worry. They’ve always kept worries from me. These good village neighbors of ours wouldn’t say a word, either. I’m so worried, I don’t want to go back to college and leave them, but DISCREDIT. 53 I can’t give any good excuse for not going. There isn’t anybody here but you I can count on. Would it be too much to ask you to drop me a little line each week and tell me how things are at home? I some- how feel I can depend on your telling me the truth.” | Within his tumultuous heart the young man impiously and ungratefully thanked Heaver- for his benefactor’s indisposition. Outwardly he managed to blunder forth words meant to be reassuring and sym- pathetic. He promised somewhat extrava- gantly to write a full account each week or more often, if she wished, provided she’d drop him a line of answer each time, ‘““to make sure his letters reached her.” At the moment he had no thought of self- abnegation.. In spite of what she knew of him this innocent girl trusted him! CHAPTER XII. THE AWAKENING. "[ HOSE letters through the winter that followed became the motif of Brad- well’s life. Long before ke met the writer, again he knew for a certainty that he was irrevocably in love. He knew, too, that his scruples had fought a losing battle and that he must, if possible, win her love in turn. Moreover, though nothing more intimate than a growing camaraderie had entered into their correspondence, something in her face and the tremor of her hand when they greeted each other on her return the fol- lowing summer, filled him with fearful yet joyful confidence that there was awaken- ing in her the same feeling he had been forced to confess to himself. He found it easy now to convince him- self that he had a right to that love... His self-esteem had been slowly and surely re- turning to normal. Eden had not merely tolerated him. He found himself actually popular. He had risen steadily in the confidence of his employer. He resolved to have a frank talk with Judge Thurston first of all. Contriving one evening to find the judge alone in his garden, he plunged into his subject. GomiGcyoo SS (©)