Her own way

by Eglanton Thorne

"That will be the best thing to do," said her mother quickly. "Good-bye, darling. You must think of your poor uncle, and pray for him. If I find him very ill, I shall probably stay the night, but Hannah will come back to tell you how he is."

So Juliet, subdued and saddened, went to bed, her thoughts following now a sombre and melancholy channel, very different from the thrilling fancies of an hour ago. She even forgot to read the letter which she had thrust so hastily out of sight when she saw that the writing was Flossie Chalcombe's.

Hannah returned home at night without Mrs. Tracy. She brought a gloomy report. Mr. Tracy was suffering from acute pneumonia, and the medical man who had been summoned so late to his bedside could hold out no hope of his recovery. The scant regimen to which for many years he had limited himself, had not built up a constitution which could well resist the attack of such a disease, even if it had not been left utterly unassisted at the commencement of the assault.

Juliet was distressed when she heard the news, and she lay awake for a long while that night thinking of her uncle. She could not bear the feeling of emptiness in the room, which her mother usually shared with her. She hated to sleep there alone, but not for the world would she have asked Hannah or Salome to bear her company; and it never occurred to either of them, though they saw that their young sister was really very poorly, to offer to do so.

For all her apparent courageousness, Juliet was not endowed with iron nerves. Every faintest sound that reached her ears during that night caused her to shake with nervous terror. When at last she fell asleep, she dreamed that her mother was dead, and awoke crying bitterly. The utter stillness in the room seemed to confirm the impression of her dream. Juliet longed for the morning to dawn, but fell asleep again as she watched for it.

When she woke, it was daylight, and a brighter morn than London often knows at this season of the year. The sun was shining: there was frost upon the windowpane. It must be very cold outside, and all the snugger and more inviting in consequence appeared the soft warm bed. Since no one urged her to do so, Juliet decided that she would remain in bed. Perhaps by to-morrow, her horrid cough would be better.

The brightness of the morning inspired her with hope. After all, her uncle might recover. He was not such a very old man. Doctors were often mistaken. Anyhow, she would not give up hope yet. And her thoughts took a cheerful range.

Suddenly she remembered Flossie's letter, which she had never opened. She sprang from her bed to find it; then nestling again comfortably amidst the pillows, she opened it.

To her surprise, the letter enclosed in the envelope was not from Flossie, but from Algernon. Her cheeks burned as she read it. He wrote to tell her how distressed he was at not meeting her on the previous day, and to implore her to let him know if she were ill. It was a lover's letter, though the feeling it expressed was conveyed rather by delicate insinuation and covert suggestion than in plain words. Juliet's heart beat quickly; she trembled with excitement as she read it. Her vanity was flattered by the homage so subtly offered. There were passages which she read and re-read, putting ever more and more meaning into each vaguely turned suggestive phrase.

She was half frightened at his audacity in writing to her, yet could not wholly dislike it. She should certainly tell him that he must never write to her again. But meanwhile it was sweet to hold this—her first love-letter—in her hand and dwell upon its words. It was pleasant to know that she had such a lover. All the morning the letter lay beneath her pillow, when it was not in her hand. She liked the manly style of the handwriting, so utterly different from Flossie's feeble flourishes. It was not easy to read, indeed; but even that seemed as it should be to Juliet then. She racked her brains to devise a safe hiding-place for this treasure. No eye save hers must ever look on it, yet she could not bear to tear it up. If she ventured to put it in one of her drawers, her mother's hand might some day light upon it; and Juliet shrank with a painful sense of shame from the very thought of such a possibility.