Motion Picture Story Magazine (Aug 1912-Jan 1913)

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THE WILL OF DESTINY 59 There was a rustic seat under a maple which shaded the window of John's room, and she sank down upon this, her mind in a whirl of grief and despair. At first she could only weep, wildly; but at last, out of the whirling tumult of her thoughts, her courage and conscience asserted themselves, and one idea stood out clearly. "I must tell him now," she thought calmly. "It is the only way. He will never forgive me, I know ; but I can deceive him no longer. If his sight had been restored, his gladness might have reconciled him to my deception, and he would have gone away feeling grateful to me, perhaps. But he must know the truth, now ; he is blind and alone, and I can do nothing for him ! Oh, if he only loved me, how gladly would I give my life to him now ! ' ' As she entered his room, John lifted his head, the bandages still in their place. ' ' It was good of you to come, Frances," he said quietly; "I wanted to talk to you. You have been very kind to me, and I shall not trouble you much longer now." At sound of the loved voice, speaking so calmly in the face of his awful trouble, Mary's self-control vanished. She threw herself down beside John, and, in a voice almost smothered by her grief, she sobbed out the whole pitiful story. She could not see the tender, quiet smile on John's face, she could not see the eager longing with which he bent over her, as she talked, her face hidden in her arms, which rested upon his knees. But, suddenly, she felt herself lifted ; she rested in his arms, her head upon his shoulder, his gentle hand smoothing her hair while he spoke. "I knew all this, this morning, Mary," he said gently. "How?" she gasped, bewildered. "I felt the bracelet upon your arm — I found the ring was missing. I guessed the truth, right then. When your father came, I demanded an explanation, and got it. I made him promise not to tell you that I knew. I wanted you to tell me yourself — I knew you would!" "And you are not angry?" questioned Mary, fearfully. "Angry! Did you not do it all for my sake? You are the truest, sweetest friend man ever had ! Do you remember what I said to you this morning — that I loved you better than ever before — that you seemed different ? I never loved Frances as I love you. I must tell you this, dear, that you may never feel shame or selfreproach for what you have done for me. But, of course, I have nothing to offer you now ; I must go away, thanking you, blessing you, loving you all my life, carrying with me the dear memory of these days that you have feigned a love for me." "Not feigned, John," exclaimed Mary, speaking from the generous fullness of her heart; "I cannot bear