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Show 1 Co tbc Itlemory of tlladge . Margaret St. Ange laid down her book with a sigh and looked out of the window across the tawny strand where the waters of the turpoise sea tossed in the July breeze. "I'm sorry I read it," she said, a little impatiently. "I have only two weeks' vacation vaca-tion and I did not want a moment of it gpoiled. It's a curious book, 'The Wand of the Gentle.' The name is taking enough and all a name should be. It takes the fancy as quickly as it catches the eye. The book itself is glorious! Plot, plotting, action, dialogue, color everything in it is evenly balanced, justly proportioned; artistically and humanly speaking, speak-ing, it is satisfactory, and yet it leaves me dissatisfied. dissatis-fied. Xot the Margaret St. Ange, reviewer and newspaper woman, but the real me the individual -f-for it makes me remember all that I used to be; and w;ish I might have been like her, that heroine who was so brave and true and weet. Ah, me ! 'Tis a' weary, work-a-day world!" And she settled her-' self to write her review of the novel, for it was the last work of one of the best modern writers. Many people thought her all that she longed to be, this woman of five and 'thirty, who was a power for good in her world. She was at the head of the literary department of a metropolitan journal, and she fought ably to keep her share of the public's mental food sweet, clean and wholesome. She worked harder than she needed to, some people said, but these were such as did not know of the dear old mother for whom a home had to be kept, and the younger brother just starting in his profession and to whom sister had always been fairy godmother. But even the soundest of Canadian constitutions constitu-tions and the best-disciplined of nerves will give way sometimes, and her physician had ordered her to the seashore. She must have complete rest, he said, and she had come away to a quiet seashore spot, for a two weeks' visit, bringing with" her no work except a little reviewing of some pleasant romances ro-mances which would help to while away the time. Soon, her review finished, each word of generous approbation or clever criticism, telling in the clear-cut clear-cut English which always fell from her pen (there Were those who said they could always tell when Miss St. Ange reviewed a book herself, or if she gave it to a subordinate), she laid aside' her writing and, book in hand, wandered toward the hill above , the village to watch the sunset. It was a quaint old seaside town. Beside the little church nestled the graves of early "settlers, resting in their last sleep, peacefully upon the daisy-covered, daisy-covered, fragrant hillside which sloped to the marsh. This was green and brilliant, and through its softly waving swamp rosemany a slender blue ribbon ran to the sea. 'i She gazed long seaward, the sun gilding each moss gatherer's hut to the glory of a palace; then, ns the sun sank like a glowing ball or lire into the waves she turned idly homeward, tarrying beside a little grave and watching the lingering beauties of the sunset fall over earth and sea, about her the soft hush which precedes the dying daj Some of the restful beauty of nature passed into her face as she sat there, stilled and tranquillized tranquil-lized by the loveliness of the scene. Hers was a strange face that of "a woman with a story" some said attractive rather than beautiful. Her warm, brown hair was streaked here and j there with threads of gray; the pallor of her cheek I was only now and then brightened by the warm col- j or which in youth had helped to make her lovely; her features were not perfect by any means, -'faultily faultless, icily regular, splendidly null." There were lines of pain about the, full red mouth, but the hazel eyes were wonderfully expressive, and the still, kindliness of her gentle, somewhat repressed manner made those feel at home who came within the pleasant circle of her womanly friendship. Upon the little grave were daisies, yellow and white, nodding in the breeze and whispering all the soft secrets of the summer to the slender grasses and fragrant clovers. Wild roses clambered over the gray headstone, and she found herself wishing to bo at rest in some such lovely spot. ! "Oh, that wo two lay sleeping under the quiet ! sod," she hummed, then caught herself up with a mental shake as she remembered the work she had to do in the world. "I wonder who is buried here," she, thought idly, tracing with her linger tho rough inscription on the time-worn granite. "To ye niemoryc of Madge," she read softly. The rest of the name was blurred and defaced by wind and weather, but at the bottom she spelled out: ."She was marryed one' yr. one mo. A: one drcce" - -. - . '. Quick tears sprung to her eyes and color came and went. Who was this Madge What was her story? Had she been glad to have been, "marryed" but a year, a month and a day. or had parting for i her been anguish, keen and terrible i "Ah, Madge," she murmured, "death is not ' the worst that can come to tho heart of a woman! That had been her name in the old days before trouble had marked her for its own. He had called her so, and when she was teasingly asked if it was "Madge Wildfire" of whom she reminded him, he, had whispered such words as brought the happy, light into her eyes. With a heavy heart she took up the book again and opened it at the dedication. She never read the dedication of a book. That was one of her fads. . ' "It means nothing." she said cynically. "People "Peo-ple dedicate their books to those whom the world thinks they should honor, and oftentimes the name ! of the one of whom they think and dream by day I and uight is locked deep within their breasts."' But the simple Hues on this page touched her strangely. "To my memory of Madge." it read; nothing more. She looked from the book to the grave and smiled a little sadly. There waa but one word's difference in the two inscriptions, and yet what a world of difference it made. His memory mem-ory of Madge was evidently a thing apart from that of all the world. Was she dead, too, and was his great heart buried with her? Who was this man who could write, so as to touch her heart and awake all the old-time music with a harmony that was pain? His books were all signed with. a nom do pine, and the secret of his identity had been well kept. She knew it was a man, for he wrote with touches of power such as seldom falls to the lot of woman, unless it is to one like those mighty Georges an Eliot or a Sand. Then, too, his heroine was unmistakably a "mans woman," aid the action of his plot vigorous enough for a Dumas. "Ah, happy Madge," she thought, "to have such a tribute as this work of genius laid at j-our feet." . She was such a lonely woman ! Successful in her work, sought after, every ambition am-bition gratified, yet what did all amount to? She was a womanly woman, with all a true woman's longing "for homo and love. There were men who admired and earnestly tried to win her hantL Often was she tempted to accept the love she could not give, but ever there arose betAvcen her and the one who sought her, the face of her lover, long since gone from this life. He had been proud and masterful mas-terful and had loved her passionately. She was as proud as he, and when his people told her she would be a drag npon him, that he was far above the daughter of a poor Canadian village doctor, she had sent him away from her. y Then her father had died and left her to support sup-port the little family, and poverty well nigh stared them in the lace. She had come to the city to work, and he, the one for whom she would have given her life, thought that she gave him up for ambition, that she might become famous in the great world. Fame ! Ambition ! What did they amount to i She thought bitterly of it all and murmured mur-mured again: "I wish I had not read the book! But," with a little shrug, "there's a little storv in .it!" So, hurrying homeward, the professional instinct in-stinct strong within her, she wrote till midnight, a story, strong and simple, full of the human interest which makes a story. She wrote it well, with per fect touch, which characterized her work, and which seemed to strike the varying chords of human hu-man emotions and bring forth harmony as a master mas-ter hand evolves flawless music from the bow of the violin. She called her story "The. Happy Valley Val-ley that of Death," and it was of the happy Madge who died, loved and remembered, and of anothef Madge who lived alone. It was only the telling of it which made it great, hut it came straight from a woman's heart, and in writing it she forgot her. , sadness . and grew content. ' ' " . Two weeks after she was back at the office hard at work, her cool, somewhat cynical self again, half inclined to repent the writing of the story until a check from a noted editor and a flattering letter reassured her that it was good. Her busy life went on and the winter came and went. One day in early spring when the maples in the park began to show their tender shoots of pink, and a few snowdrops bravely sought the air, she found in her morning's mail a letter addressed in bold, masculine writing. She opened it with some curiosity as to who was writing to her over her pen name, and read : "Dear Madam: Of all the reviews of my late book, 'The Wand of-, the Gentle,' yours has given me the most pleasure. You seem to read my characters char-acters as though my own eyes, and to appreciate my motive as thought it were your own. "I shall be in your city within a few weeks and should be glad to meet you. A line "to me at myi publishers' will reach mc, if you will allow me to call. Very truly yours, JOHN BROWXE. "Dec. 5, 1900." , : She smiled as she saw the pen name of the great man, wondering. that he had not signed himself dif-ferenly, dif-ferenly, but she replied cordially: "My Dear Mr. Browne : Your letter has reached j me today and I am glad to know that my review-has review-has giveu you pleasure. I shall be happy to see you when you are in the city, and especially as I am indebted to you for the idea of my little story, 'The Happy Valley,' in this mouth's Pacific Magazine. Maga-zine. Very sincerely, "MARGARET ST. AXGE. . "Dec. 7, 1900." She wondered idly whether he would come, and then, in the press of Christmas work, she forgot his very existence until his card was brought to her one day. "Bring the gentleman in," she ,safd to the office boy. rising courteously as a tall, broad-shouldered man. with white hair and. a strong, kindly face, entered. en-tered. ' He closed the door behind him and came swiftly toward her, as she looked at him with eyes in which recognition swiftly grew to life, but she spoke. not a word. " "Long ago I knew that I misjudged you," he said gravely. "Will you forgive mc?" "Long ago I forgave you," she smiled. "I have alwavs loved you, longed for you, even when I doubted," he went on. "For years I tried to find you, but there was no trace till I saw your review of my book. I knew that only you could have so understoo d me. In your story I thought I read between the lines that you were still my Madge. Will you come back to me? Dear, come and bo more than a memory." And she went to him as simply as a little child. When the author of "The Wand of the Gentle" published his next romance people wondered at the strangeness of the dedication, for it read: "To n Reality Which Was a Memory." Mar-garont Mar-garont F. Xixon-Roulet in The Carmelite Review. |