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village. It lies upon the table as I write, a withered but an eloquent witness of those days of doubt and sadness. A faint fragrance yet breathes from it; in the petals nearest its heart a tender blush still lingers. It speaks of "A power divine

which moves to good; only its laws endure." A fairer flower of the Civil War than this rose in its original beauty, still lives to-day and blossoms in all weathers, and beautifies the whole land,—it is called the flower of Fraternity. (No. 28.)

FOR

PRETTY MAUD

ORLORN little Maud, 'neath the shadows
Of a gnarled old linden-tree,

With her blue eyes full of longing,

Gazed afar on the summer sea.

Not a sail came in from the offing,
To startle the gulls in the bay,

But afar to the dim horizon

They sailed, and melted away.

A breeze veered round from the westward,
But brought not a ghost of a ship,
And with sea-foam the waves were covered,
And with trembling, the maiden's lip.

"Alas, he will come back to me never,
For I sent him in pride away;

Two years? O, I know it's a hundred,
Yes, a hundred this very day.

"O forever and ever and ever,

I've watched by the great wide sea.
Would I were dead, aye dead and buried,
For nobody cares for me!"

"Pretty Maud!" piped a voice from the larches,—
But she bowed her bright head in pain,—

"O robin, you mock me, you mock me,

I never shall hear it again."

"Pretty Maud! Pretty Maud!" close beside her
In the olden-time accents sweet,

Startled the care from her forehead

And shook all the tears from her cheek.

Conway North.

R

BY SARAH R. HEATH

OSES were under discussion at Mrs. Fenwick's dinner. It was quite a remarkable fact that no two of the ten guests had coincided in a preference.

66 Which is your favorite rose, Miss Sylvia?" asked Gerald Benton of Sylvia. Stanley who was seated at his right.

"The wild Castilian," she answered promptly.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because I love it!" she said with girlish enthusiasm. "There were hedges of Castilian roses on the ranch where I was born. The mere mention of one now, reminds me of birds and butterflies, and fields of poppies, and skies that were always blue, and sunshine that never went behind the clouds, and fairies, and a thousand other delightful things belonging to my happy childhood."

The unconscious pathos of her reply touched Benton's heart,-most things about Sylvia did touch his heart, but he said lightly, "You don't have to strain your memory much to get back to your childhood."

"No," she answered simply; "'t is not so long ago, but the rose-hedges seem very far away."

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"I hope the blue skies and sunshine are still within reach, and that the birds and butterflies have n't all flown away." He spoke in a low, sympathetic tone.

"They are probably all within reach, but-" she abruptly stopped speaking. In the interval preceding a change of topic a momentary silence had encompassed the table, and ten pairs of eyes and

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66

flowers. Doubtless the florist had stupidly. lost or forgotten it. But that is immaterial," she reflected, "for, of course, Mr. Benton sent them." Her cheeks rivaled the roses in color as she bent over them.

When his name was announced that evening, it was announced most evenings, she detained him longer than usual while she consulted her mirror. Meantime, the young man contemplated with a puzzled expression a jar of Castilian roses on the drawing-room table. This expression deepened into something very much like a frown when, turning to greet Sylvia, he observed one of the same variety in her hair. Seeing that he had noticed the flowers, she at once gracefully thanked him for them.

"But please don't think that I was hinting for them last night," she added apologetically.

"I never took a hint in my life," he said evasively. "But perhaps in speaking of fairies you unconsciously thought a fairy wish; and you know a fairy wish always comes true."

"Provided the godmother has first been duly conciliated," she said with a laugh. "But I can't recall an instance in my fairy-books, where a godfather had anything to do with the fulfillment of a wish. Joking aside, where did you find these roses? I never saw a Castilian rose here in San Francisco."

Benton might truthfully have answered, "Nor I," for he had wasted hours that day going from florist to florist in a vain search for these very flowers, which a more fortunate man had found and-lost. He rapidly reviewed the situation and determined to take chances. Had it not been for a curious complication, Sylviahe always dropped the formal prefix in thinking of her would have had a double supply; as it happened, his offering was deferred, that was all. Moreover, he could not disavow the gift now without embarrassing the recipient, which last reason alone certainly justified so small a white lie. He was sorry for the other man, of course, and sorry to have to

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Because," she replied with renewed embarrassment, "those people were listening, and doubtless thought me silly. Maybe you did too, for that matter?"

"Silly!" he protested. "On the contrary, you presented to my mind a most charming picture. All day I've had visions of a happy little girl playing with birds and butterflies. Tell me some more about her, for we are now safe from eavesdroppers."

"Happy little girls have n't much to tell," she said. "But in return for your roses I'll take you, if you wish, to the spot where my roses grew."

Benton winced.

As simply and naturally as a child, she told him of her happy child-life and of her sad twice-orphaned girlhood. In the recital she unconsciously revealed much of her inner life-so much, that Benton's white lie assumed in his eyes exaggerated proportions. He denounced himself as a liar, and even a thief; for he well knew that Sylvia had fallen under the enchantment of the rose which he had stolen from another man. The situation was becoming complicated. He could neither recede nor advance; confess neither his duplicity nor his love. To confess his love or seek hers under these circumstances, seemed like resorting to hypnotism, or, worse yet, to a trick.

He spent a restless night,-for, waking or sleeping, he was stifled by Castilian roses. As a lawyer, Benton had dealt with knotty problems, but they seemed simple in comparison with those now confronting him in what he humorously designated the Castilian-rose Case." Again and again he asked himself: "Who sent those roses? Why did he send them? Where did he find them?"

Besides his host and himself there were three men present at Mrs. Fenwick's din

ner, De Valle, Alexander, and Hereford, -all friends of Sylvia's, whom he had occasionally met at her house. Reviewing them, he was forced to admit that the first two were rather formidable rivals, De Valle, being the richest man of his acquaintance, and Alexander the most popular. He knew nothing of Hereford, except that he was a champion golf-player and that he lived in San Rafael.

"By Jove!" he mentally ejaculated, "I believe this is the clew to the situation. San Rafael is the garden of roses; undoubtedly Hereford is the man. I'll bet he brought those roses across the bay himself this morning-they probably thrust themselves into his hand at his very door, lucky dog!" Having reached this sage conclusion, he fell asleep.

The following day Benton and Hereford lunched together at the University Club-not by chance. As they parted, Hereford said cordially, "Why can't you spend next Sunday with me in San Rafael?"

After a moment's deliberation Benton replied, "Very well-with pleasure."

"So far, good!" he thought. "I'll at least find out where the roses grow." Beyond this he had made no progress in his investigations; for he had felt so idiotically self-conscious whenever he had approached the tantalizing subject that he had invariably receded.

There were fresh roses in Sylvia's hair, fresh roses in the vase when he called upon her Saturday evening. He had not seen her in the interval. Benton was savage with jealousy and resentment. It was insufferable presumption on the part of Hereford to send flowers anonymously to Sylvia, and he ought to be thrashed for his impertinence! Then a horrible suspicion crept into his heart. Maybe the second supply had not been sent anonymously. In fact, it was illogical to suppose that it had been; for what could any man expect to gain by persistently making love in such an impertinent fashion? Hence Sylvia had thanked him sarcastically, feeling that he was both a knave and a fool. Well, he would brave it out now rather than confess because he had been driven into a corner. But what a contemptible cur he must appear in her eyes! Why

the deuce could n't that fellow have let well

enough alone? A thousand possibilities and contingencies flashed through his brain, and they combined to make him. as nearly irritable as a well-bred man could be in a woman's presence. Assuming that Sylvia was amusing herself at his expense, he resented her gentle effort to mollify him, whereupon she resented his attitude.

The evening was a dismal failure and he left early, to meet Hereford at the threshold going in as he went out. Had Benton been as ingenious in devising a pretext as his forefathers might have been under similar conditions, he would have challenged Hereford on the spot to mortal combat. As it was, he acknowledged his rival's cordial greeting with a formal salutation, and the next morning telegraphed his regrets that he could not keep his engagement with him.

After this episode, each call that Benton made upon Sylvia but served to widen the breach between them, until their former subtile, undefined relations had vanished, leaving nothing between them but a formal acquaintance. More than once he had nearly succumbed to the charm of her sweet personality, when his glance chanced to fall upon fresh roses in the vase,—never any more in her hair,-whereupon he was instantly encompassed by "myriads of blue devils" that obscured his vision and nearly drove him insane.

Sometimes he seriously felt that his mind was impaired, for, like a horribly insistent refrain, he saw, heard, thought of nothing but Castilian roses and Sylvia. His vow of restitution was still unfulfilled; for realizing that duplication would make his position more than ever ridiculous, he had made no effort to find the spot where the roses grew.

One day, endeavoring to walk off his depression, Benton strolled into the Presidio, where he unexpectedly came upon Hereford and Mary Leigh. Entirely unaware of the presence of a third party, she was fastening in Hereford's buttonhole a rose-a Castilian rose-which she had evidently just cut from a hedge of them, growing near an adjacent adobe wall. He could not see Hereford's face nor hear what he said, but Miss Leigh's

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"So this is where the roses grow," he thought. Then he asked himself, "What the devil does Hereford mean by carrying flowers from one woman to another? He indignantly remembered the rose in Sylvia's hair. By Heavens! if he's been playing fast and loose with her heart I'll kill him like the dog that he is!"

"66

merry

Presently Benton heard a whistle, and glancing in the direction. whence the sound came, he saw Hereford walking briskly down the road alone.

"I'll stop his infernal whistling!" he thought, and with set teeth he impulsively started after Hereford to demand an explanation, forgetting, in his anger, that he had n't the shadow of a right to constitute himself Sylvia's champion.

He was suddenly brought to a standstill by Miss Leigh, who unexpectedly emerged from somewhere. Benton had forgotten her proximity.

"I'm glad to see you at last, Mr. Benton," she said hospitably, naturally inferring that he had come to the Presidio, where her father was stationed, for the express purpose of calling upon her. She turned toward her father's house. Meantime Hereford-still whistling-pursued his way back to the city. With a tremendous effort Benton recovered his self-control.

"Don't let's go indoors," he protested; "it's a sin to waste such a view," and he pointed to the sunlit Golden Gate.

She assented, and with apparent aimlessness he led the way back to the adobe wall. Professional instinct came to his rescue, order evolved out of chaos. By the time that they had compassed the short distance he had formulated a plan of procedure. He now recalled to mind the expression in Miss Leigh's eyes when at that eventful dinner he had deliberately diverted them from Sylvia's face. He also remembered the forgotten circumstance that Hereford had been seated next to Miss Leigh on that occasion. He did not know what significance to attach to these facts, but he determined to find out.

"Come of it what may," he thought, I'm going to ferret out this mystery now, on this very spot.'

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Benton entertained some unusual theories about women, to the application of which he largely ascribed a very successful career. He not only felt implicit faith in their intuitions, but in their discretion. He believed that, when trusted, they could keep secrets. He now deliberated how far he might confide in Mary Leigh without jeopardizing Hereford's cause with her, for he did not propose to interfere unnecessarily with that love affair.

As he approached the wall he said unconcernedly, "I did n't know that Castilian roses could be found on this side of the bay."

"They probably can't be found outside of the Presidio," Miss Leigh replied; "but they seem very appropriate to adobe walls."

They exchanged a few more general remarks on the subject, then he said boldly, "By the way, do you remember at Mrs. Fenwick's dinner that Miss Stanley expressed a preference for this especial rose?" Without waiting for her reply, he continued, "With your permission, I should like to sut a few of these for her."

Instead of the polite acquiescence that such a request might naturally have elicited, she asked, with her eyes full on his face, "Have you ever seen any Castilian roses at Miss Stanley's?"

Instead of disconcerting him, the question restored his self-confidence-relieved him of any sense of responsibility. "Whatever the outcome," he reflected, "she's brought it on herself."

Following her example, he answered her question by asking another, "Can you keep a secret, Miss Leigh?"

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Sometimes," she replied, "provided that I'm not asked by too many people to keep the same one."

Benton laughed, and said, "I'll guarantee that you don't hear this but once; for it's a professional secret. It's in connection with an interesting and extremely complicated case, in which I find myself compelled to call in assistant counsel."

"I don't see how I can help you," Miss Leigh protested, "for I'm not a lawyer, -in fact, I detest women lawvers."

"I think you can help me, nevertheless."

Then he told her his story-told it without reservation, barring the name and identity of his rival.

Without interruption she listened to the end, then said, with a nervous embarrassed manner, "I humbly ask your forgiveness, Mr. Benton."

"Why should you ask my forgiveness?" Benton asked in utter astonishment.

"Because," she said, dropping her eyes, I sent those roses. I'm your rivalI'm the anonymous lover."

"You!" he exclaimed, completely bewildered. "I don't understand-"

"I didn't suppose that you would," she answered, blushing uncomfortably; "and the worst of it is that you will not understand any better after I explain, because, being a man, you can't fathom the intricate complexities of a woman's heart." She hesitated a moment, then continued: "Sometimes, though perhaps infrequently, one woman conceives for another an extravagant, idolatrous sort of a fancy that is unlike any other affection -a sentiment usually built upon ideality; hence rarely confessed and yet more rarely reciprocated. In fact, there is a niche built in a woman's heart for this especial idol that she may worship it in secret. This peculiar form of hero worship does n't usually last long, but the attack is likely to be very severe while it does last."

Miss Leigh's sense of humor relieved the situation, in some degree, of its awkwardness, but she avoided Benton's eye as she continued: "I enthroned Sylvia Stanley on my shrine, and, to cut a long story short, my romantic notions ran away with my common sense."

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