“O Phœbe! Phœbe!” he called. “Have yuh really come? Have yuh really answered me?” And hurrying faster, he fell once, scrambling lamely to his feet, only to see the light in the distance dancing illusively on. On and on he hurried until he was fairly running, brushing his ragged arms against the trees, striking his hands and face against impeding twigs. His hat was gone, his lungs were breathless, his reason quite astray, when coming to the edge of the cliff he saw her below among a silvery bed of apple-trees now blooming in the spring.
“O Phœbe!” he called. “O Phœbe! Oh, no, don’t leave me!” And feeling the lure of a world where love was young and Phœbe as this vision presented her, a delightful epitome of their quondam youth, he gave a gay cry of “Oh, wait, Phœbe!” and leaped.
Some farmer-boys, reconnoitering this region of bounty and prospect some few days afterward, found first the tin utensils tied together under the tree where he had left them, and then later at the foot of the cliff, pale, broken, but elate, a molded smile of peace and delight upon his lips, his body. His old hat was discovered lying under some low-growing saplings the twigs of which had held it back. No one of all the simple population knew how eagerly and joyously he had found his lost mate.
THE SECOND CHOICE
SHIRLEY DEAR:
You don’t want the letters. There are only six of them, anyhow, and think, they’re all I have of you to cheer me on my travels. What good would they be to you—little bits of notes telling me you’re sure to meet me—but me—think of me! If I send them to you, you’ll tear them up, whereas if you leave them with me I can dab them with musk and ambergris and keep them in a little silver box, always beside me.
Ah, Shirley dear, you really don’t know how sweet I think you are, how dear! There isn’t a thing we have ever done together that isn’t as clear in my mind as this great big skyscraper over the way here in Pittsburgh, and far more pleasing. In fact, my thoughts of you are the most precious and delicious things I have, Shirley.
But I’m too young to marry now. You know that, Shirley, don’t you? I haven’t placed myself in any way yet, and I’m so restless that I don’t know whether I ever will, really. Only yesterday, old Roxbaum—that’s my new employer here—came to me and wanted to know if I would like an assistant overseership on one of his coffee plantations in Java, said there would not be much money in it for a year or two, a bare living, but later there would be more—and I jumped at it. Just the thought of Java and going there did that, although I knew I could make more staying right here. Can’t you see how it is with me, Shirl? I’m too restless and too young. I couldn’t take care of you right, and you wouldn’t like me after a while if I didn’t.
But ah, Shirley sweet, I think the dearest things of you! There isn’t an hour, it seems, but some little bit of you comes back—a dear, sweet bit—the night we sat on the grass in Tregore Park and counted the stars through the trees; that first evening at Sparrows Point when we missed the last train and had to walk to Langley. Remember the tree-toads, Shirl? And then that warm April Sunday in Atholby woods! Ah, Shirl, you don’t want the six notes! Let me keep them. But think of me, will you, sweet, wherever you go and whatever you do? I’ll always think of you, and wish that you had met a better, saner man than me, and that I really could have married you and been all you wanted me to be. By-by, sweet. I may start for Java within the month. If so, and you would want them, I’ll send you some cards from there—if they have any.
Your worthless,
Arthur.