LOVE WINS LOVE.
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��was coming back for you? That city- chap could not care for you a tenth part what I do and always have."
" I am so sorry, Frank. I never thought you cared for me in this way, murmured Josephine, bursting into tears of real sorrow.
'* No, little girl ; I see how ioolish I was. I might have won your love had I told you of my own before Lee Courtney turned your head with his soft words that meant nothing to him, but which won your heart at once. Oh, Josephine ! I can't realize it yet, you know — I can't believe I have lost you. I have loved you all my life, little girl."
There was an earnestness in the words and tone of Frank Clyde's voice that the girl had missed in the smooth, honied words of Lee Courtney, and it struck her more forcibly than ever before as she contrasted the two — the one rough and uncultured, but so good and noble, the other rich, handsome, well educated, but yet lacking something which she could not define, but it gave her the heart-ache nevertheless.
" Oh, Frank, don't talk to me any more about it, for it can never be, you know. You must always be my brother just the same, and we will try and forget you ever cared for me in any other way."
'"Forget you, little girl? I shall as soon forget the sun that shines as to for- get the love I have given to you. I shall go away, but 1 shall always love you just the same. Good-bye, little girl." His voice grew husky as he spoke, and rising from his seat by her side, he threw both arms around her, held her one mo- ment to his heart, pressed a long, linger- ing kiss upon the flushed forehead, and turning quickly he hurried away, not pausing or looking back. It was years ere they met again.
It was a lovely day in autumn when at last Josephine stood in the door-way of her humble home, ready equipped for her departure. Her mother stood near by, wiping the fast falling tears upon the corner of her calico apron, her heart filled with grief at this parting. There had been expostulations and entreaties
��when her daughter had made known her determination to leave home, but they had been of no avail, so at last the wor- thy farmer and his wife had set about preparing tor their daughter's departure with sorrow-filled hearts. The day long dreaded had arrived, and now the hour of parting had come. Her father carried her to the village, where she was to take the afternoon train for her destination, a large flourishing town in New York. Old ties were broken now, and a new life, new associations, were to be formed. Her heart beat high with hope, notwith- standing the real grief she felt at leaving home. I would gladly follow her through the weeks that came, but space will not permit. I will simply say that her school life proved all that she had anticipated. She learned easily and rap- idly. Letters came from home every week, and from Lee Courtney occasional- ly. She stiflled any fear she may have felt at his coolness, and time passed quickly away.
It was in the early spring-time when she knew at last that the one hope of her life had crumbled, as it were, into ashes. Several weeks had elapsed since she had received a letter from Lee, and her companions had noticed that the sweet face had grown paler and her hap- py laughter no longer rang out in unison with their own. One evening the mail- bag had been carried into the long din- ing-hall to be opened and the contents to be distributed among the many pupils assembled there. There was no sign from Josephine, when at length it was emptied and carried away, that she had expected a letter, yet she had felt so sure that she should hear from him that night. Her head ached and throbbed terribly, so, arising, she asked to be excused and left the room and sought her own, where she knelt down by the window — an old habit which clung to her in her new life — and gazed wearily out upon the grounds surrounding the seminary. A long time she knelt there, but at length- her room mate, Ellen Weston, entered the room with a song upon her lips. She carried a paper in her hand.
" I declare, Josephine, what has come
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