Motion Picture Story Magazine (Feb-Jul 1911)

70 THE MOTION PICTURE STORY MAGAZINE ly to his purpose, grieving for her grief, but looking forward to the prosperity which this enterprise should bring to them. The boat was sold, and Enoch himself fitted their little sitting-room with shelves and cupboards for the goods he bought, whistling merrily at his task, striving to coax the smiles back to Annie 's anxious face. Bravely she tried, for her children's sake, to share his hopefulness; but when, on his last morning, he bent over the sleeping babes in tender farewell, she broke forth in frantic weeping. "Oh, Enoch!" she sobbed. "You are wise ; and yet, with all your wisdom, I know well that I shall never look upon your face again." "Nay," said Enoch, soothingly, "these are foolish thoughts. Be comforted. If you fear, cast all your cares on God. The sea is His; He made it. Look to the babes. Keep everything shipshape, and I will come again before you know it." Then, fearful lest his own composure should fail, Enoch hastily caught up his bundle and joined his waiting mates. From a tall cliff, Annie, with a heart full of sad forebodings, watched the vessel to the last dip of the vanishing sail. And from a tower of the mill which stood high up above the little home, another watcher looked out. It was Philip, still faithful in his friendship, pitying her grief. Days, weeks and months passed, but no message nor sign came to the young wife. Faithfully she tended her babes, her home and her tiny store, striving to be brave and patient. But Annie was not born nor trained for trade and barter, and her business did not thrive. It was but a scanty sustenance that she gained, and often she reproached herself, thinking sadly of the bright plans Enoch had made for his children. Her cheeks lost their color and roundness, her lips forgot their smiles, her eyes grew dim with weeping and watching for the news which never came, while the slow years crept by. Philip was greatly troubled at the signs of want and distress in the little family, yet he held aloof, fearing, tho longing, to offer aid. But when he heard that the youngest babe had died, his true heart smote him. "Surely," he said, "I may go now to offer help and comfort. ' ' It was a changed Annie whom Philip found in the tiny cottage, so changed that his heart cried out in pity, and his lips found ready words. "Annie," he began firmly, "listen to me. I have come to speak to you of what your husband wished. He went away because he loved you and his babes, to earn the wherewithal to give them a better bringing up than his had been. Is it not so?" "Yes," assented Annie, weeping, "it is so." "Then," said Philip, "when he comes again he will be vexed to find the children running wild and so many precious hours lost. I know that what I ask would be Enoch's wish. Have we not been friends from childhood? Let me provide for the little ones, put them in a good school. I am rich, and shall not miss the money ; but if Enoch comes again, he shall repay me, if it is his wish. ' ' "I know that he will come again," said Annie. "Something tells me, daily, that he lives. His dearest hope was to educate our little ones. Since you have always been his true friend, I will take your aid, as he would wish, and bless you for it. ' ' So Philip cared for the children, supplying them with every needful thing, as if they were his own, but keeping aloof from the mother, lest village gossip touch her. But Annie's grief deepened as the years passed. "He lives; something tells me he is yet alive, ' ' she moaned daily, while her step grew slower, her form more fragile, and her face more white and wan. One autumn evening, coaxed by her children, she went to the hazel wood. By chance, Philip, wandering that way, came upon her, sitting on the bank where she had plighted her troth to Enoch. The golden head, so