The Roanoke Daily Times

LOVE IS EVER YOUNG.

She had not the least shame about telling her age. On the contrary, she was rather proud to do so. It was something to be proud of. Not that she was 64, but that at 64 she looked not a day over 48, and a blooming 48 at that.

True, her hair was silver, but what a waving wealth of silver! And it was not sent to soften wrinkles either. She wore as many of these ornaments as it is legitimate to wear at 48, and no more. Oh, she was certainly a wonderful woman for her age, was Mrs. Joseph Allestree!

It did not detract from the comparatively youthful appearance of Mrs. Allestree that her costumes always represented the height of the fashion. Quaint, indeed, she appeared, particularly on a certain evening, standing in the old square portico, with the sun shining straight under the trees into her face.

The house at her back was low and long. It stood endwise to the lazy little river that flowed at the foot of the abruptly sloping lawn. On the other side, at the end of a long, shady avenue, was a gate with an old fashioned wooden arch over it, concealed by vines.

It was toward this gate that Mrs. Allestree looked, leaning forward eagerly, like a girl, one hand shielding her eyes from the level sunbeams. She wore white—think of her daring to wear white! She was watching for Joseph.

He had gone down to Stoneton—only a mile distant—for the post at 5 o'clock. That was two hours ago. Joseph did love dearly to gossip with the old farmers and shopkeepers, but he really ought to remember dinner time.

But Joseph had not forgotten his dinner. At this very minute the gate opened and his little gig rolled in, followed by three enthusiastic dogs—a St. Bernard and two red setters.

Mr. Allestree, after embracing his wife, as if he had just returned from a year's journey, went in with her to dinner, and Mr. Allestree was but I will not describe him; simply he was everything that the husband of Mrs. Allestree should have been. Forty-two years had gone by since their marriage, and in all that time they had never been separated a single day.

"Dearest," said Mr. Allestree as they sat down, "I owe you an apology for my tardiness, but it couldn't be helped. I got a letter calling me away on an important matter, and I had to stop to attend to some things in the village. I must go immediately—tomorrow."

"Oh, that Perley affair," she said glancing over the page. "But, Joseph, can't you put it off? Remember the Kennedys are coming in the morning to stay over Sunday."

"I cannot, Henrietta. It's got to be attended to at once."

"But, Joseph, you can't go without me. You know you never did such a thing."

"I am afraid I must do it this time," he replied mournfully.

They sat in silence for some minutes. Twice Mrs. Allestree wiped away a sly tear with her napkin. At length, bravely assuming a cheerful aspect, she asked, "How long will you be gone?"

"I can't possibly reach London, accomplish all I want to and get home again in less than ten days."

"Joseph, it will kill us both."

"Ah, no, my dear," he laughed; "it won't quite do that—at least I hope not. It will be hard, very hard. But think, my love, we were apart for five long years once on a time."

"Ah, Joseph," with a sob in her voice, "that was before we had ever lived together. We only knew each other by letter, you know."

"And a mighty comfort did we take out of those same letters. Isn't it strange that in two and forty years we should never have had occasion to write to one another? Not since you were Henrietta Shower."

"It is a singular circumstance," she replied.

"Yes, we can write. Do you know, Joseph, the thought of it already consoles me a little. It will be such a delightful novelty."

It was a good thing for Mrs. Allestree that she expected visitors. But after the guests had departed her condition was pitiable. Especially as no letter had come.

Mr. Allestree had gone away early on Saturday. Now it was Tuesday. She had managed to be patient over the Sabbath, but on Monday morning, when Jimmy came up from Stoneton empty handed, she had refused to believe that he had not dropped the letter or that the postmaster had not overlooked it.

There were only two deliveries in the 24 hours, and at evening the same performance was repeated.

On Tuesday Mrs. Allestree went herself to Stoneton and delivered a severe lecture to the postmaster upon the general indifference of government officials, thereby greatly annoying the poor man.

Mr. Framwell began to dread the hours of delivery. Twice a day, whatever the weather, Mrs. Allestree presented her handsome, anxious face at the window.

When he handed out the post to her, and she found not the letter she longed for, an angry face it was that peered in at him, and a stern—albeit well bred—voice that demanded of them to hunt through every box, lest perchance he had made some error in distributing.

The deserted, neglected wife must blame somebody, and she would not blame her husband. She did not at first even dream of blaming Joseph.

By the middle of the week her whole mood changed. She felt hurt, deeply hurt. There seemed to be no reason, no excuse for such neglect. To think that this, their first separation in so many years, should be unbridged by a word!

She could not have the consolation of writing to him, for he had left no address, there being an uncertainty about the very part of London in which that troublesome Perley was living.

It was the way of men, and he, it seems, was no better than the rest of them. Once out of her sight he forgot—forgot all the love and daily devotion of 42 years.

By Saturday morning Mrs. Allestree was ill—ill enough to go to bed. Jimmy had to fetch both posts, and, after delivering in person the first one, which consisted of papers only, he vowed to Molly that he would not approach Mrs. Allestree again while Mr. Allestree was away.

All day Sunday Mrs. Allestree lay silent in a dark chamber. Molly could not get a word from her, nor would she eat.

It was almost restful to be so weak. True, she was in despair. She had given up all expectation of seeing Joseph again; but, compared with the bewildering tossings of vain conjecture, her present state was one of quietude and peace.

But by Monday morning she was suffering torments once more. She felt that if Jimmy returned without either Joseph or a letter she would surely die. And indeed she nearly died as it was.

When the wheels sounded again upon the gravel, Mrs. Allestree sat up in bed. She was whiter than her hair. No voices were heard below. She clutched her heart and gasped. But presently a door opened and a step came up the stairs.

It was the step of Joseph. As he entered the room she fell back among the pillows.

"My dear Henrietta, what's all this?"

He looked round almost accusingly upon the two frightened women as if he had caught them in the act of assassinating their mistress.

"Didn't Jimmy tell you?" she murmured.

"You know Jimmy never tells anything. He did say you weren't well. But have you been very ill, dear?"

The women had withdrawn, and he seated himself upon the bed.

"Joseph, you might have sent me one little line!"

"Wh—what? I don't quite comprehend. A line?"

"Yes; it wouldn't have hurt you to write a line."

"Henrietta, I wrote to you every day, and sometimes twice a day."

They stared at each other.

"But I never got a solitary letter," she said presently. "I sent to every delivery—went myself until I became ill. Mr. Framwell said there was nothing from you. It nearly killed me, Joseph."

"However," he muttered, "they couldn't have all miscarried—I—Henrietta! I have it. Wait; I'll be back in 20 minutes," and the gentleman fairly ran out of the room.

He laughed all the way down stairs, and she heard his ha, ha's between his shouts for Jimmy to bring back the trap.

In a few minutes they rattled out of the grounds, and within the time he mentioned they rattled back again.

Mr. Allestree tore breathless up the stairs, bursting boy fashion into his wife's room. He carried a package of letters, which he spread out in a circle on the bed. There were 14 of them, and every one was addressed to Miss Henrietta Shower.

For a short space nothing was said, and then the two aged lovers began to laugh, and they laughed until they cried.

"Joseph," she said, "it's very funny, very, but it was almost the death of me. How did you come to do it?"

"Why, Henrietta, love, when I once got out of your dear, familiar presence the old days came back completely. You were little Retta Shower, and"

Mr. Joseph Allestree blushed; he did not often quote poetry—

And our two-and-forty years
Seemed a mist that rolled away

—Pearson's Weekly.