The Argosy — page 159: what you’re looking at

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

r44 Many Waters Quench not Love. mo! It was all a mistake that she was crippled and helpless, that life and its abundant opportunities had drifted into the past, and she was only a great-aunt without any nearer ties to bind her. Young, strong and straight—alas what words are those to whom the realities are gone by for ever !—but straight, and strong and young she stood, once more, in fancy. | Was she twenty-three, or twenty-four, or twenty-five P—No matter ; now one, and now the other. She was Dorothy Fielding, with life stretching out before her, fair, as if glistening with the sheen of early morning, and breathing promises to her that surely nothing could belie. Within her stirred ‘Impatient wishes that besieged the sky, Nor disbelief of any miracle, save that life’s longings and its hopes could die.’’ She was Dorothy Fielding, full of love, hope, and a thousand fulfil- ments that half unrecognised came lavishing their joy about her path. The turf sprang under her tread, but her feet sprang quicker. ‘The very best of life, the very fairest of its hours were hers. And who was that beside her, whose look thrilled hers with that first, desperately-sweet, never-to-be-forgotten shock of love’s desire ? Who was it lingered with her on matchless eves of June, when roses bloomed around, surely sending some intoxication into the air? Who was it jested those immortal jests, or holding joy one moment at arm’s length with the very caprice of happiness, followed after it the keener when the graver time was spent ? Ernest Picardy, always—Ernest Picardy. ‘There had been others, many others, who had loved her smiles. What mattered any one of them? ‘There can be but one Jove on an Olympus, and that one was Ernest Picardy. Since time began, all love-making and all lovers had lacked some- what until now. And oh, never again to the voice of love let any heart throb so wildly, so joyously, so regardless of imagined doom! Until now, nobody had gauged it all quite thoroughly. The delightful peril of risking a life’s happiness against half-an-hour’s caprice, was surely until now an untried adventure. And the morning and the evening, the sun- shine, and the rain, the very birds and breezes moved to one refrain : ‘“ There’s nothing half so sweet in life, As Love's young dream.” And years went on, until the bond grew firmer, and Ernest Picardy, handsome, oh, so handsome, young and gallant, ruled over love’s kingdom, and should rule for ever and for ever. Stop there. Even in memory—even now—she shrinks from the pain of living over what came after. The foolish pride, the mistimed offence, the misadventure and misery of it all, when she called wildly on heaven to help her; when she clung desperately to the hope that CONNICLMOOOKS. COn