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Show THE LONELY YEARS By MAY ELSIE BARRETT. tMr;.'T.rp?.aiw?r.?Layc" 3 s .-rt?i' -am-.'-. ;:r Tg--.yr -a All the town agreed that Arnold Gresham was Lucy Lane's last chance, and that she might be thankful she had it. At thirty-six proposals may be common enough, but not in small towns among domesticated people. After thirty, as a rule, they are either married or confirmed bachelors and spinsters. Arnold Gresham had come back from the metropolis, where he had gone ten years before, as a young man. He had come back with a comfortable com-fortable capital, to take charge of a large produce business. He was a gentleman, gen-tleman, and handsome. It was certainly certain-ly a good chance for Lucy. Among those who had ventured to hint at what was expected to be announced an-nounced was Dorothy Field. Five years younger than Lucy, she had never been a close friend of hers. Yet she had come in and taken the elder woman by the hands and gravely, very gravely, said: "I hope you and Arnold will be very happy." And Lucy remembered vague talk about a one-time passion between the two. She had wondered; she had been troubled. "Don't make the mistake I the mistake mis-take so many women make," Dorothy had continued. "Don't don't let your pride " Suddenly she had burst into tears and run out of the house. And Arnold, coming in, had met Dorothy at the gate. That was all. It had happened a week before, and Lucy had seen Arnold Ar-nold several times since. They were discussing the announcement. Lucy had not loved Arnold so very much until he asked her to marry him; she " " " happily. So I came back. I did not meet you, and, like you, I would no! inquire about you. I thought you had left the town. Then I met Lucy Lam' and fell in love with her. Not as I had loved you, but still, I loved her. Ai our age love is different." "Yes, it is different," murmure I Lucy, with a sense of guilt at listening, listen-ing, and yet she knew that the knowledge knowl-edge she had gained was priceless. "But I loved her," the man resumed. "Then I met you, and I knew that the old love held fast." "That was all I wanted to know," said Dorothy. "I would not for the world come between you. Poor Lucy! You must never let her know, Arnold." "She shall never know," answered the man. "And you -will be devoted to her all your life," said Dorothy. "And I shall be happy too, thinking that I have your love all the while. Arnold, dearest dear-est " In spite of all that Ld been said the sound of the kiss startled the listener. lis-tener. With a shuddering sob Lucy Lane turned and hurried noiselessly down the street homeward. She could not blame the man. She realized that as she sat in her parlor, waiting for him to come. Nor Dorothy. Doro-thy. One cannot blame love, who shoots where he pleases. But she ought to have known. She should have known. How foolish she had been! She made up her mind in the few minutes before his coming. And in her strength, new-found, she grew strangely calm. She saw the long, empty years that awaited her, a lonely woman in the little gossipy town. People Peo-ple would shake their heads at the woman who had been three times engaged en-gaged and never married. Well, she could bear that for his sake. "But I love him," she whispered, as she rose at the ring of the front door bell. "I love him, too." He placed his arms about her and kissed her, as he had kissed Dorothy Field an hour before. It was a struggle strug-gle to draw herself from his embrace. em-brace. "Arnold," she said weakly, "I want to tell you something. I have been thinking things over, and I have decided de-cided not to marry you." "Lucy!" Even then, under the surprise, she could detect the relief in his voice. "Lucy! Why?" "Because I don't love you as I ought, Arnold." "You will learn to love me," he protested. pro-tested. "Lucy, you will care for me." She listened with dull pride. Yes, he was a gentleman, as she had known from the first. "No, my dear," she answered. "That is my decision. I have taken a long time to come to it, and I have been weak and foolish not to have known before. I hope we shall be good friends always. But I cannot marry you. Don't make it harder for me." She was trembling. Even then. If he had taken her in his arms she would have yielded, would have married mar-ried him without his love. She knew it, and hated herself for it. But he only bowed, turned, and went toward the door. He hesitated. He would not pretend, or lie, but he would not show what was in his heart. "You are sure, Lucy?" he asked. "You are sure this is not " "Caprice? Oh, no, It is my discovery discov-ery of myself," she answered. "Goodnightand "Good-nightand forgive me if you can." As the door closed she saw the lonely lone-ly years stretch out again in all their blackness. (Copyright, 1916. by W. G. Chapman.) Suddenly She Stopped Dead. had even wondered whether she would accept him; but when he spoke she felt a rush of tenderness in her heart and knew that she loved Arnold with all her soul. He had been just the same since that evening, and yet Lucy wondered whether she had really divined that the old passion for Dorothy had been stirred again. Or whether it was imagination. She left the house and walked down the leafy street, still musing. Arnold was to call that night, and they were to make the arrangements. There were two hours, and a sense of the irrevocable nature of the impending meeting came strongly over the woman. wom-an. Mingled with this, and with the wonder about Dorothy, came a vague sense of futility. She had been engaged en-gaged twice before, in girlhood, and each time it had been broken off by her. When Arnold asked her to marry him she had felt instinctively that it would come to nothing. Suddenly she stopped dead. Arnold was speaking. "My dear " he bad begun. be-gun. She thought that he had come upon her unaware, that he was speaking speak-ing to her. But he was hidden behind a laurel shrubbery, and the sobbing answer to his words showed her that she was under un-der a delusion. "My dear, I know," he said. The woman spoke, and it was Dorothy. Dor-othy. Her voice was torn with grief. "If we had not been too proud for a reconciliation, Arnold! If enly you had let me know where ycu were, I would have written to you. But you didn't care!" "I did care, for a long time, Dorothy," Doro-thy," he replied. "But I thought you knew where I was." "Did you think 1 would ask anyone?" any-one?" demanded the girl. "I have some pride Arnold." "We both had too much," he said quietly. The tone of hopeless despair In his voice came like a revelation to Lucy. She clasped her hands against her breast. "Do you love her?" resumed Dorothy. Doro-thy. "Tell me that, Arnold." "I did love her. I had never forgotten forgot-ten you, Dorothy, but you had come to occupy a place " "A forgotten place!" "Never forgotten, but still put aside. I thought there was no chance for the ttiture. I was sure you had married |
