Told in a French Garden - August, 1914 by Mildred Aldrich
page 50 of 204 (24%)
page 50 of 204 (24%)
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great haste. But before she left the theatre she bade every one "good
night" with more than her usual kindliness, not because she did not expect to see them all on Monday,--it was a Saturday night,--but because, in her inexplicably sad humour, she felt an irresistible desire to be at peace with the world, and a still deeper desire to feel herself beloved by those about her. Then she entered her carriage and drove hurriedly home to the tiny apartment where she lived quite alone. On the supper table lay a note. She shivered as she took it up. It was a handwriting she had been accustomed to see once a year only, in one simple word of greeting, always the same word, which every year in eighteen had come to her on New Year's wherever she was. But this was October. She sat perfectly still for some minutes, and then resolutely opened the letter, and read: "Madge:--I am so afraid that my voice coming to you, not only across so many years, but from another world, may shock you, that I am strongly tempted not to keep my word to you, yet, judging you by myself, I feel that perhaps this will be less painful than the thought that I had passed forgetful of you, or changed toward you. You were a mere girl when we mutually promised, that though it was Fate that our paths should not be the same, and honorable that we should keep |
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