The People And New Hampshire Patriot

Sibyl Sartoris' Peril.

"God help me now!"

Sibyl Sartoris, as she stood beneath the grateful shade of the locust trees that sensuous day in June when the kissing winds of summer were balmy with the perfume of the rose leaves that the storm of the previous evening had scattered along the graveled walks of Coastcliffe castle, spoke these words in a dreamy, languid fashion, and yet beneath the indifference of her speech, under the air of hauteur that sat so well upon the finely-chiseled lips, there was a sense of unrest, a haunting, desolate, where-has-the-nutmeg-grater-gone-to feeling that all the insouciance of her Prairie avenue nature could not stifle or suppress.

"God alone knows how I have suffered for your sake, Bertram McMurtry," the girl said, plucking as she spoke a blossom from the bush that was flaunting its scarlet beauties so saucily against the vivid green of the close-trimmed lawn. "And you, little rose leaf," she continued, pressing the velvety petals of the flower against lips that were equally soft and crimson, "you would not, if you could, even whisper my secret to the world, for you, too, have troubles and are buffeted about by the cruel winds that blow so rudely against thy pretty face. Not even the star-eyed pansies, or the modest violets that nod so demurely in the summer zephyrs, shall know my secret"—and with a little laugh that was half a sob, Sibyl started for the melon patch.

But ere the little boneless feet that peeped out so coquettishly from beneath the fleecy white dress had taken many steps Sibyl felt a touch upon her off shoulder. Turning suddenly she stood face to face with Bertram McMurtry. He was a strong, manly fellow, and the rich bock-beer tones of his voice thrilled her very blood.

"Why are you sad?" he asked. The pretty red lips are drooping now, and the hazel eyes dimmed by tears that cannot be repressed.

"Do you still love me, Bertram?" she asks.

"You know I love you dearly," he replies.

"As much as you did last Thursday?"—and the pretty face looks into his with a pleading expression that shows how she has staked her all upon that love.

"Just as much," he answers, drawing her lithe form over in his arms.

"Then," she says, "I will tell you everything. And oh, I am so desolate, Bertram, so desolate!"

"What is the matter, my darling?" he asks, bending over her in alarm.

"All is lost," she says. "All, all!"

"All what!"

Nestling close to the man whose matinee tickets she loves, Sibyl says, in low, agonized tones: "All my chewing gum," and then her head falls upon his shoulder in a storm of sobs.—[Chicago Tribune.