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TO-OAY'S SHORT STORY.] Playing…

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TO-OAY'S SHORT STORY.] Playing with Fire. By A. E. SNODCRASS. [ALL SIGHTS RESERVED.] Madge Sheppard awoke with a start be- tokening trouoied dreams, as the bright rays of the early sun struggled to gain admit- tance into her room. She jumped out of bed and raised the blind which barred their way; then opening the window she let the cool. delicious air flood in and play on her pallid cheeks and lift stray tresses of her tumbled hair. Robert Cadogan had gone, and Shenningtoa had in a night grown a terribly dull place. What a joyless day, she pondered, lay before her! The day. however, passed in alternating gloom and sadness. She visited the places where they had met and strolled, recalling his looks, his words—all the thousand and one details so delicious to her lonely heart. Yet, amidst all these recurring phases of sadness she never had an instant's doubt as to the untarnished brightness of the future. She was to marry Robert. The following morning Madge was still earlier astir. She ran downstairs blithe and gay as a thoughtless child. This was the dar she would hear from Robert. He had told her so as he said "Good-bye." It was the last promise on his lips. Over breakfast in the gleaming, old fashioned kitchen she offered to go and brine, the letters from Sheanington Post-office. The raeal was hardly finished ere Madge pulled a sun-bonnet out of a drawer and war off. She approached Shennington village by a long detour through the fields. The white, dusty road was too prosaic for the romantic mood. Besides, it would bring her to the post-office too soon. Now and again she Sped over the soft turf, leaping and bounding with the impulse of joy and health. Then she would throw herself panting on the grass to regain breath for another wild dash. She reached the cottage which served as post-oftiee five minutes after the letters had been handed in. and in a minute or two those for the Vale Farm were given her. Slit hurried out and made for the fields again. She felt frightened to look at the envelopes till she was unperceived. She counted the letters, but without looking at them There were five. Five! Which wat hers? Robert couldn't have forgotten to write. There were rarely so many as five letters at once for home. Forgotten! Why, what made her think that? As if Robert could forget! The fields were not yet reached, but she saw the lane was deserted, and gave in to her curiosity. One. two. three, four-five. "All for papa!" One, two, three, four—five. Oh! there must be some mistake! She scrutinised each address again, more closely. The result was the same. On a sudden she swung round and ran back to the post-ofiice. "Did I get all the letters? Isn't there another one. please ? One—one addressed to me, please, Mrs. Maine?" The woman went slowly through the pile again. N 0, Miss Sheppard; you've got 'em all- every one, dear." She turned away without a word, sick at ieart. She could not ,¡¡.b.ape her thoughts. Her brain seemed numbed. Suddenly she glanced around her. She was in the fields again, and alone. The knowledge twted instantly. She burst into tears. Day after day was added to the irrevocable past, but no letter came. Each morning found her at the post-office, waiting pale- faced, for the straggling mail-cart. But it wa* all in vain. It had not been to her, as to him. a pleasant flirtation to while .away the lan- guorous summer days. She had given her whole heart, her soul. Robert was her idol, her god. All the glowing intensity of the love-springs of a*n ardent nature were brought into pla.y by the impassioned wooing of a romantic youth, who only made frolic with Love as with a bauble. And so, neglected, forgotten, she pined away into haggard hollowness of eyes and cheeks, hoping, trusting, doubting, but loving ever. A moody melancholy settled upon her. Her glance bespoke woe deep- seated. Her irighs sent a shiver round the old farmhouse. Yet she was perfectly well and happy; so, in angelic patience of spirit, did she assure her wondering, anxious parents. For months she refused to away, as everyone urged her. With the obstinate tenacity of a still shadowy hope, ehe had glimpses of the possibility of the letter arriving even yet. But six months slipped into Time's relentless clutches, and at last ehe consented to a. change of scene. Brighton was chosen as supplying sea. a.ir and life, with the enhanced jollities of Lon- don itself readily It was London that formed the alluring bait. Was not Hobert in London? She had an aGl1t in town, a great lady who moved in fashionable society, and who took an immediate liking for the pale, slim girl with the t>atie:it gentle smile and the ahy, winsome manner. Xis. Mountenoy declared she understood the case exactly. Ennui, my dear, simply ennui. The child's been bored to death with your farmyards and your country lanes. Fields are too strong a diet for her temperament. The plough comes to pall, you know." So she took Madge in hand, and first of all marched her to her dressmaker; and Madge quickly iott that dowdy aspect which ever hovere round the country-bred girl. and grew into g, woman who understood the advan- tages of the toilet, and who appreciated the infinitesimal littleness of Shennington and the execrable style of its millinery. But the memory of Robert remained. Everywhere she went her eyes were on the alert for a sight of his well-remembered, handsome face. One night she sat in a box at Cogent Garden with her aunt. It was the entr-acte, and a hum of conversation filled the house, when she heard the door of the box open, and her nwlfl stepped in with someone at his heels. I've brought Cadogan to see you, Helen,' he said, addressing his wife. He's just returned from India. Looking well, isn't he?" How are you. Robert? I am glad to see yxm. Why, I declare you've grown into quite a man. This is my niece. Miss Sheppard—Mr. Cadogan. Madge looked up, pale and nervous. He ahook her hand, but gave no sign of recogni- iïåon. After the next act he came up again from his stall and introduced his great chum," Captain Retford. The two stayed throughout the act. Ret- ford eat next to Madge at the far-end of the box. where they conversed in subdued tones upon aJl kinds of matters. He told her of his experiences in India, and of the country, and her own tongue became untied, a colour settled upon her cheeks, and her eyes lost the last remnant of their woefulness. As for the opera, the music merely served as an aooompandment to their conversation. Whenever she looked round she encountered Bobert'e eyes. They told of half recognition, and, she plainly read, of something more. After this they met frequently, Robert and tthe, and Captain "Retford always accompanied him. Madge lost all her languor, all her aadnees. Mrs. Mountenoy boasted far and wide of her cure. A ball at Mountenoy House was at its height one night, when Robert, with Madge on hie arm, made towards the conservatory doors. "Where are you taking me. pray? I thought rou put your name down for this waltz. "I did. But are you not tired? Really, yiaa Sheppard, I'm sure a little rest will do you no harm." Well, it is so very hot tha.t I'll agree mtb fhey paaøed in among" th0 towering DM-ma and fragrant flowers, and sat down in the soft light of the 3winging lanterns. "How lovely the sounds from bene," ehe said. "It was a good idea. of yours to coane. "I'm afraid it was & selfish idea. -Selfish? Why?" •'I wanted to speak to yon." "About what?" He paused a moment with twitching lips, and then burst out: 0 Madge, listen to me. I beg of you. I remember the days of Shennington. I remem- ber my falseness, my promises. But I loved you not then as I do now. I was young, foolish, senseless—heartless if you will; but now all is different. Madgfe, I love you—love you passionately. Ever since that night I met you in the theatre I have loved you madly. Can you forget the past? Can you let me be your lover once again and for ever?" Madge's face had grown sterner. Her lips were pale and quivering. "The past is forgotten," she replied in slow. soft tones. "The past can be no more. I loved you, Robert—oh, I loved you with a depth of soul I now can hardly realise, for the fire of my passion has died out; there are not even the embers left. It expended iteelf on thin air, burnt itself out, unrequited and forlorn. I can give you no love, Robert. now; I knew that the moment I saw you again. You stirred my heart with love, and I reared you as an idol, as a god to fall down and worship. You shattered the idol your- self. The pieces cannot be gathered. I am eorry, Robert. I am really sorry "Let me hope, I pray—let me wait. Oh, Madge, let "N* o, no; it cannot be," she answered, ris- ing to her feet with a half angry remem- branofe of the agonies she had suffered through this man who knelt at her feet. "No, no; it cannot be. You must know I am betrothed wife of Captain Retford."

Ran Away with Bride

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