CONCLUSION.
The maples in front of Liddy's home were just showing the first tints of autumn color when Manson returned. It had been a long three weeks of separation to her, and her first words contained a note of reproach.
"You might have written me once or twice, Charlie," she said; "the days have seemed so long!"
"I could not," he replied; "I was lost to the world on an island twenty miles from a post office, and letters were not in style there. The people are so far removed from the world they do not seem to think communication of any value. It is a wild and romantic spot, and the only thing I do not like about it is every house has two or three tombstones close by."
He seemed in a surprisingly cheerful mood, and described his visit and the friends he had met in glowing words. One incident of his visit, however, he withheld, and for a purpose. The little, half-jesting remark Liddy had made a month previous on Blue Hill—a remark merely expressive of her pride—still lingered in his mind, and he was resolved to test that pride in his own peculiar way.
A short distance from her house and near the brook was a rustic seat beneath the maple. Many hours she had passed there with him, and many more alone with only sad thoughts for company, when the brook's music seemed a voice of sympathy. Even when a child she had learned to love this spot, and the low, sweet murmur of the stream. Early that evening, when the full moon had just appeared over Blue Hill, they intuitively sought this familiar place. Perhaps the joy in their hearts added a new charm, for the ripples in the brook appeared like so many laughing water sprites dancing there in the silvery light. For a few moments they silently yielded to the magic witchery of the time and place, and then she could contain herself no longer. She had noticed his unusual elation—even more than could be ascribed to his gladness at being once more beside her, and, grown accustomed to his ways, knew there was a surprise in store.
"Well, Charlie," she said at last, with a bright smile, "you need not wait to take me up to Blue Hill this time to tell your story. Tell it now. You have some good news, for I can see it in your face. What is it?"
He looked at her a moment in silence, and then answered:
"Yes, I have a story to tell you, and one that will more than surprise you, but first I have a question to ask. Do you remember the promise you made me a month ago?"
The thought of that tender pledge and his now evident intention to ask its fulfillment brought the color to her face, but she bravely answered: "I have never made a promise and failed to keep it. I shall not begin now."
Then, as the question he asked and the answer he received were heard only by the elfin sprites dancing in the brook beside them, so we will leave it to those fairies to tell if they choose. Suffice it to say it was such as filled his heart so full of happiness it could no longer hold a secret, and there, where the moonlight fell in little rifts upon them, and the music of running water echoed their feelings, he told her the strange story of Pocket Island, and what he had found in the cave.
When late that evening they returned to the house, never again in their lives did the man in the moon seem to smile so graciously or the brook sound so sweet.
Then one day—a day bright above all others to them, when nature seemed aglow with joyous color—all those who were near and dear gathered to listen to their vows, and wish them well in life. Whether those kind wishes were deserved or not, and whether the Fates that direct the steps of all human kind led theirs along the pleasant walks of prosperity and happiness, or among the rocks and thorns of adversity, we will leave to the imagination of those who have read this story, for here their history ends.
It is told that when Jove, the mythological ruler of the universe, conceived the creation of the human race, he sent Pandora to the realms of Pluto to bring him the box containing all the good and evil impulses he intended to select from in his creative work. He gave her strict orders not to open the box, lest its contents escape and work woe to the coming mortals. But as woman's curiosity never was restrained by any power, human or divine, since Mother Eve ate apples, and most likely never will be, no sooner had Pandora set out upon her return than she lifted the lid of that fatal box, and the result to the human race need not be enlarged upon. One good result came from her disobedience, however, for, seeing her error in time, she closed the cover before Hope escaped, and so that blessed impulse came to be shared alike by mortals.
Life at best is but an enigma, and like children pursuing an Ignis Fatuus, so do we all pursue the illusive beacon light of a brighter and happier to-morrow—always hoping, never attaining, though striving ever until, wearied of the vain pursuit, at last we fall by the wayside and are forgotten.
THE END
Now Read The Great New England Novel
UNCLE TERRY
By CHARLES CLARK MUNN
"I wa'n't consulted 'bout comin' into this world, an' I don't expect ter be 'bout goin' out."
—UNCLE TERRY.
"I take some comfort livin' an' try to pass it along."
—UNCLE TERRY.
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UNCLE TERRY
The Great New England Novel
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UNCLE TERRY
The Great New England Novel
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UNCLE TERRY
The Great New England Novel
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In Preparation
ROCKHAVEN
The Story of a Scheme
By CHARLES CLARK MUNN, Author of "Pocket Island" and "Uncle Terry."
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Betty Seldon, Patriot
A Revolutionary Tale for Girls
By ADELE E. THOMPSON, Author of "Beck's Fortune."
Illustrated by Lilian Crawford True.
12mo. Cloth. 300 pages. $1.25
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