The Argosy — page 240: what you’re looking at

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

My Saturdays. 223 “No,” I said; “you did not. There cannot be murder without hate. You loved your little brother?” ‘¢ T did—I did, indeed,” she moaned. “You love him still ?” * Ves.” ‘Tf you could have him back, you would do quite differently ?” ‘“‘T would give up everything for him.” ‘Then you repent; and where there is repentance there is for- giveness. You have done Joso no real harm. He is happier now than you could ever have made him, if you had done your very best. When you see him again, you will know that he has forgiven you— that he never knew there was anything to forgive. He is not allowed to speak to you in these ways of your own choosing ; but never doubt that he loves you. Some day he will tell youso. And perhaps, even on earth, you may be allowed some way of atoning.” ‘Oh, how do you think?” she cried, starting up with an eager hope. “TY do not know,” I answered. ‘‘ You must wait and see. But I think there will be a way.” “If there is, I will do it, if it costs my life. Oh, you give me hope. I have known nothing but despair for so long.” ‘‘You must not despair any more,” I said, putting my arm round her, and kissing her. She gave me one long, passionate kiss, and then fled from the room. Nobody was surprised that, after the fatigue of a séance, Miss Graham had too bad a headache to keep her engagement to dinner. ii. We had now come to the end of August, and as often happens in that month, were having an uncomfortable time of wet and chilly weather, which would not have been out of place in October. Garden parties were impossible; my last had been broken up by rain, which drove everyone in-doors, and I determined to issue no more general invitations. But I had announced that I would be at home on all the Saturday afternoons in August; and accordingly, though the last Saturday in that month was cold, showery, and unpleasant, my draw- ing-room was well filled. I had lit one of the unseasonable fires which Charlotte Stamwood loved—merely a bright crackle of wood and cannel coal; thrown open my little greenhouse door, and moved the plants so as to make room for a couple of chairs, obtained as much space as possible in the drawing-room, arranged tea in the hall—so as to be brought in easily, provided some music, and generally made the best that I could of the circumstances. Lena Graham was staying with me. After the scene of last Saturday, I could not let her drift away, and she seemed to cling to me, and eagerly accepted my invitation. She took up her quarters EOMICHOOKS. EO An