Pictures and the Picturegoer (October 1915 - March 1916)

U'm K BNDINO 1915 2G9 pic TURKS ANu rHE pic i uh::go::r little oues to go," lie assured her, though liaiin 1. . .■ in ■■ Itci 1 < in 'How can 1 let j 011 star\ "Something tolls me thai you mual ■ leas e ns,*' she pei sisted ; " thai it we keep together nothing can hnrl na \ii> much. Supposing you should never return?" And, with a shudder of horror and dread, Agues buried her in lii— sleev e. But John endeavoured to laugh awaj us. ■• I cannot doubi thai il 1 h ?st for me to go, little woman \\ hit danger can there be P Tbiuk of the hundreds and thousands of men who com.' and go safely on the high was These feara of yours are nothing to me, except thai they arc your fears and cause you pain ! And bo at length the day came for bim to go Agnes, then all outward courage ami .-miles, clnng to him for the last time, and l«'t him go, bnl Btood a long while on the sandj shore wavine, ami watching the last dipof thevanjsninu' sail and weni home weeping fur him. The weeks passed bj and there came no news of John, " Surely I may see her now may be of comfort to her,'' argued Walter, to whom John had entrusted his dear 1 during liis absence. Be knocked at the <lo.>r of the little house nestling half way up the narrow street that clambered to the mill. and. receiving no reply, entered the room where Agnes sat. desolate and in tears. " Agnes, 1 came to ask you a favour." " A favour." she responded. " from One so sad and forlorn as 1 am ? " " I came," he said, seating himself by her side. " to speak to jon of what John wished. You chose the best among us — a Btrong man who. ' having put his hand to the plough, never looked back.' And why did Be go this weary way and leave yon lonely !J Not for pleasure or to see the world, hut for the wherewithal to give his children a better bringingup than had either you or he. And it would vex him in his grave to know his Uttle .ones were running wild like eolts upon the waste. So, Agnes have we not known each other all our lives ? let me put your boy and •rirl to school, and when John returns he shall pay me if you wish ; but the mill is working well and I am rich.'* Agnes turned and let her tearful eyes rest with gratitude upon this friend in need. " I seem so foolish and so broken down." she said. '* Your kindness seems too much ! But John lives; lam quite sure of that. lie will repay you ; money can be repaid-but never all your goodness and your trouble." " Then you will let me. Agnes? " She smiled and nodded her assent. And Walter put the b >y and girl to school, bought them needful books, and did his best to fill the place of father in their If vi 1 1 fearing the la of the port . he -.l,|. .11 indulged hiw ho 1 1 dearest n tsli 11 ighl of \ bui inste id sent aifl h\ t ho children, fruit and roses from ln> garden and with some pretext of Hue is in the neal. an offering of flour sometimes from his ou 11 null And bo the t one went bj ; days, weeks, months, and eveu years rolled alo Kut not a word from John. Ship after ship entered tile lit I le hail 11 'HI', but not one scrap of news could Ague's gather of her husband, until vague rumours reached her thai wreckage had I a seen in the distant Pacific bearing the name of John's ship All the Village mi urned him then as dead; bnl Agnes in her heart never gave up hope. she waited t, n long, long years, ever hoping for his return. Her twochildren had long since looki d upon Walter as their second father, lb joined in their sp irts, looked after their island fo I lie char running had 1 1 from ^llt tel 1 1 1 •_• lilt lie »Ull, \ 1 Ural incredulou mid am men listened to hoa he had 1 n recked in mid Pin 1 ic he and othei like upon ih<> shore ■ if t he t ins island . flrsl one then t ho "i hei of hi oompauii >n died he was I. ft alone, u I thou uids of miles from I and all he loved then, full of pity, tliej took him with them to their ship, ga 1 e him clothes, and the k indlj oompanii mship thai fi lone could l halo his isi ilal i' in from him. The voyage was a tedious one, with long delays; but in fancy he was back again in that fishing haven, with Agnes and the children in thai little home on the climbing street, long before the ship reached port, landing him, to his delight. in his native county, within a few hours' walk from those he loved and so much longed to see. The glow of the fibeside shone and reflected the happiness in that little home education and wants, and at last, convinced that John was dead, pleaded his love with such earnestness that Agnes was touched with his years of constant devotion. And they were wed. The bells rang merrily in that sunny little port, but in the woman's heart there was no merriment, only grief and care. # # # * "A sail! A sail! Saved at last ! " A strangely-clad man, long-bearded and tanned with many a summer's sun, ran down the wooded mountain slope, and, muttering almost idiot-like to himself, awaited with feverish impatience the ship's crew sent to the unknown wr best girl to COMMUTERS But Agnes and children were gone! The little house stood empty and cold. Driven forward by instinct or intuition, he came to Walter's, home by the mill. and. peering through the window in the dusk of evening time, saw Annie and Walter, and — yes, they were his children — his own little girl, so like her mother used to be; his own son -what a fine, straight-limbed youth !— in a happy group about the little one whose arrival in their midst had swept all the shadow from its mother's heart and made Walter her all-in-all. The glow of the fireside shone and reflected the happiness resting in that Httle home, and the Btranger drew back, his heart almost breaking. For all that human happiness could give him was centred there, and he trembled lest he .shouted and broke the spell, to bring hopeless misery on those he loved. Summoning all his strength, he turned