Motion Picture Magazine (Aug 1914-Jan 1915)

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50 MOTION PICTURE MAGAZINE fragile flower, "then they have come?" "Yes, in the drift back of the corral. Won't yon let me find one for yon?" It all came so suddenly — her walk with the Captain to the little hollow just ontside the Post, and his imprisoning of her hands. "Miss Graham— Alice," he burst out, holding her hands tightly, "the mad spring air has forced this upon ITS THE CALL OF SPRING, HE VOUCHSAFED me, and, oh, how I have waited with the patience of an Indian ! "I meant to speak to you," he went on, "before Warren became your guardian — a silly piece of business, by the way — and I would have been honored with your dear father's approval." The girl trembled" as tho facing rifle-fire from ambush. "Alice, my love has been stifled, thwarted by Warren's old-maidishness, and I have tortured myself into impassiveness. I 've been coldness itself to you all the while my heart has been " "Please dont go on," the girl entreated, very white and shaken ; ' ' you dont know how you pain me. I, too have a confession to make. Surgeon Warren is more than my father's friend, more than my guardian — I love him." Gordon released her hands and squared his shoulders. ' 1 1 might have known," he said gently; "pray God he will be good to you. ' ' They walked back to the Post, sadly, the forgotten anenome still unplucked in the sod. It was over a week before the breath of spring touched the laggard heart-strings of Surgeon Warren. At length he sought her out, and the call of spring shone from his tired eyes. ' ' I know where the first anemones are peeping," she hinted. "Show me," said Warren, who never had time to waste words. Their hands met and clasped over the pale yellow blossom. "Alice, my dear little girl, is it possible?" " I 've loved you wildly ever since I wore pigtails and you used to drive me 'round by them, ' ' she confessed. 1 ' Unmitigated ass ! I never even dared dream such a thing!" ' ' But dreams come true, dear Oliver," and her happy eyes took on all the color of the western sky. Captain Gordon braced Ms boots against the dash of the buckboard and wrapped the reins around his wrists. The horses sprang townward, and his busy thoughts leaped ahead of them. Like unbroken mustangs, two women raced thru his brain — the one at the Post, and she whom he was going to meet. A different breed was Sally Ward, of the Palace dance-hall, antecedents otherwise unknown, and her welcome would be warm, and she