, ' ‘ OF THE Is Abundantly _. . ' Supplied ‘With Material For the Artistic Development of the ANOUNGEMENTS', PLAY BILLS, .BASE BALL. HANGERS,‘ ‘ , ° TENNIS,“ ' ‘ - ETCI" In BIack cr Colored Inks, and at Prices that are Moderate. environ, so CIETI/‘aml m Estimates Cheeriuily Given. , ~175“- WEEKLY , was making that last journey. J1EE. CJJVWILE ,sir,” he said, respectfully, as he filleda ‘A PATHIZI‘IG STORY. Mr. Herbert Osman entered the hotel dining-room with indiiference to its at- tractions written very plainly on his handsome face. And yet there were at- tractions. The little table 16 which the alert waiter ushered him was pleasantly near an open window, through which the evening breeze came softly, stirring the blossoming vines that twine‘d about it and bearing the perfume of honeysuckle and mignonette. The lines in his forehead relaxedalittlevas he took his seat. He was not sentimental, but there was some- thing in the perfume of the old-fashioned flowers which invited quiet thoughts of other days—days which seemed to him very long ago. Eight—ten—surely it was twelve years since he had spent a month in the quiet little village of Sevada, where the air was full of the drone of bees and the scent of honeysuckle, and Where he had dawdled and dreamed and enjoyed the one restful period of his life. He had not had a rest “before—or since, he reminded himself, tossed him into the whirlpool of life to go down'or to work his way into calmer waters, as his strength would permit. He was still in the whirlpool, a little weak- ened by the fight and depressed by his lack of success, but full of the quiet courage which made him grit his teeth and swear that he would conquer yet, each time he came to the surface. The friends who loved him felt sure that he would, even though “Osman’ s hard luck” had, CQme to be a proverb. Fate had had a great deal of quiet enjoyment with Os- man. “I am such an unlucky dog, ” he had confided to afriend one day. - “I’m so un- lucky that it’s really interesting—judged from a scientific standpoint. far out of her way to do me up; You know how things have gone with me for years. Everything I touch collapses. If I should take a fancy to that waiter over there and should send for him to wait on us, he’d have a stroke of apoplexy while he was serving the soup. The elevator broke down twice yesterday while I was in it. crumble around my feet.” “You’re getting morbid, old man,” *his friend had said, easily. “You work too hard and think too much. Take a week off and fall in love with some nice girl.” Mr. Osman smiled over his dinner as he recalled this advice. He had never had time to think 'of love, and how could he ask a woman to share a fate pursued life like his? But to—night the soft lights, the floyVers, the mu1mur of voices around him, were rapidly leading him to a pleas- ant frame of mind. No serious calamity had befallen him for several days. He was feeling very comfortable, when he suddenly turned his eyes towards the next table. She was young and very lovely, and her gray eyes Were looking at him with an ex- pression of girlish sympathy which they had worn many times when they were turned towards “unlucky Osman.” But he had never seen it or them or her before. He saw a great deal now. He noticed the soft blush that covered her face. as she hastily turned her head. He noticed the dark, wavy hair, the small ear, the ‘curve of the lips. He found himSelf admiring the severely plain tailor-made gown she wore, the bunch of honeysuckle at the belt and the toe of a little russet-leather shoe under the table. He heard her voice —a Southern voice, with a deliciously soft accent—and he heard her laugh a lit- tle at something the white haired woman opposite her was saying. The low laugh was so full of mirth, of life and happi- ness, that he found himself smiling in- wardly in sympathy with it. And as he smiled Miss Virginia Imboden, of ‘Rich- mond, stepped quietly into his heart and took a p rmanent place in that big, gen- erous, unspoiled organ. \Vhen she had left the room Mr. Osman made the sur- prising discovery that the perfume of the flowers had gone with her, that the din- ing-room had suddenly become dim and close, and that his dinner was very bad. For the next two weeks life was a dream to the silent man at the little table near the window. It was a very splendid dream, full of color and beauty, but there was nothing real about it to him, prosaic as it must all have seemed to an onlooker. Every morning for half. an hour the din- ing—room was glorified by her presence. Each evening for an hour he sat in his place, every pulse throbbing with the thought of her nearness and looking at her when he dared, with eyes that daily grew more adoring. He did not know who she was: he did not wish to know just yet. There was time enough for that. He only knew that she was sweet and lov- able and womanly above all women, and that just to love her thus in secret added fulness and completeness to life. He de- clined all invitations and spent the even- ings in his rooms, Where he sat with his hands behind his head, dreaming content- edly as he watched the smoke of his cigar curl upward. 'At the end of two weeks he was forced to leave the city on business. \ He was gone a week. On the morning of his return he went directly from the station to the hotel. It was not yet 10 o’clock. She might be at breakfast—she was sometimes late. Possibly he‘might At least he would be under the same roof with her again, which was an infinite comfort. He drew a deep breath as he entered. The week had been a trying one for Mr. Osman. Then, for the first time, he became conscious of a group in the cor- ridor, of an unusually large number of carriages at the entrance, of a subdued expression on the faces of the colored porters and bellboys. Something long and black was borne slowly along the hall. It was covered with flowers—roses and white carnations. and honeysuckles. Hat in hand, he stepped to one side to let it pass, wondering idly which one among the hundreds of- persons in the great hotel “If it had been a month ago I’d have envied the poor fellow,” he said to himself with a little throb of pity. Then he went on to the dining-room. ‘ She was not there. Nevertheless he took his seat ”with a: Sigh of satisfaction. The head waiter hustled up to him “\Ve’ re having a funeral in the house, glass from the carafi‘e. “Yes, who died?” asked Osman absent- lv. He was looking at the empty table opposite. The waiter’ s eyes followed his. “It was1 Miss Imboden, sir,” he said sim- ply. “ Of course you have seen her. She always sat at that table. ”—E.G J. in N. Y. World. ~ ' . Time is Money. 1 “Time is money; ” but it isn’t negoti- able; the fellow who gets six months. from a liberal judge will verify this. -—Rich- grimly, “as he ate his soup. Fate had" \ftVVALIx Fate goes. . . I wonder that the hotel doesn’t ‘ meet her in the elevator or the corridors. ' Con. fed. 10 I..A‘f - ter the day ‘ love (lo/(e. ' The flow’i‘s have fled It can-not be I hear it yet. _ dolce. we can love, we can love, Still Love 0 ‘ o UALI iin - ger yet, I wait And tho‘ the years have drift-ed us al-though its theme be al - tered Come to my heart, and whisper find the si-lence, “Hope , Come to my heart, and whisper thro’ the si-lence, “Hope /‘\ i. has sungits songof sor - row, And 2. Some times myheart grows wear-y of its sad - ness, Some times my life one by one And seem to feel 'Till fears depart, where once we met belov-ed and lis-ten for your whisper \ the golden stars appear, grows wear-y of its pain, 15050 722. . : _thy spir - it still is near. and sunshine comes a-gain. c calla woe that blossom’d in that spring-tide, that we should part for-ev - er, That love's sweet a - sun - der, a1 - tho’ the shadows gath - er, al - tho’ the shadows gath - er, ‘\ on, dear heart, on, dear heart, Cm . mond (Va.) Dispatch. rEnding second verse. lives shall meet‘at last." Hope on dear heart, our lives shall meet at m m . The birds are mute that sang their songs above. song is hush’d for us al—way; Time can-not break the gold-en chain of love. ’Twill reach thy heart and bring thee back again. f 6765. we can hope un-til the clouds be past: we can hope un-til the clouds be past; - (7’35. f‘ l Ending first verse. m our lives shall‘mect at last." our last.
Norwalk Chronicler