Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 152: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

508 weeping, and the catch and the panting of her breath stirred against his cheek. ‘“‘T have heard everything from that dog, ° Marberry,” he told her. ‘“ I know it all— T know everything of your sweetness and goodness—of my blindness—” “ And I, Michael, know only this—which is that I love you, i love you, my dear- est—”’ Afterward, they could speak of lesser things; they could descend out of the sweet- ness of their lovers’ heaven to the dull and foolish earth and light a taper to aid their eyes. And then she gave him a letter which Ipswich had left with her for her husband when he came. He tore it open and read within: CLOVELLY : I have made your peace with the king. You are no longer an outlawed man. There ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. is only one punishment for having doubted the blessed angel who has been foolish enough to love any man—that 1s to find her in a dark house alone. In the meantime, know that that house is yours and everything in it. You will see that if I sometimes pay much for the services of a crafty man and an evil woman, I shall pay much more for the friend- ship of a strong man and a good woman. God bless you both with happiness. She is a dear child. I blush for my folly that I should have dared to doubt her. The scoundrel Marberry must be left to me. G.I. When they had read that letter, they blew out the taper and sat silently in the darkness again, watching the moon rise over the woodland and then pass into the fra- grant gloom of the chamber where they sat, creeping across the floor until their feet were bathed in silver, and the tendrils of the vine which swung at the window were little branches of purest silver also. THE END U U HARBINGER OF AGE MY years are not many. To tell the truth— Well, fifty and some odd, then. But what is that in these days when youth Lasts on until threescore ten? I know that my hair is the least bit gray, And possibly thin on top. But, goodness me, I can golf all day Or waltz till the players drop. I don’t eat gruel and I need no cane, And I haven’t grown sour nor staid. My hearing’s good and my teeth pertain, And I still have an eye for a maid. To-day at the Smythes—Betty Brown was there— Nineteen, and an imp for fun; And some one bet that she didn’t dare To kiss me. Well, Betty won. She kissed me light as a whisp of spray— Not giggling, nor shy, nor bold— But quite in an every-day, thoughtless way, And I know that I’m getting old. TCoimilc books c =