586
DALLAS GALBRAITH.
possession of what was to him a royal inheritance. Within there, knowledge would come in the very air, breathed in
the midst of ease and luxury.
Within,
there would be a chance—poor, improb able, but yet a chance—to win her. Without, there was an aimless journey into the world, without a penny in his pocket or a friendly face to meet, to con quer knowledge in poor, meagre morsels,
struggling for life at the same time. There was an undue share of mulish perverseness in Galbraith’s blood. At this prospect, without any show of rea son, his muscles stiffened and he began to breathe free. Honora and her world
became less fair to him. “ Will you come in P” she said, softly. “Home is waiting for you. It will be the old story of the prince found among the herdsmen. But we will keep the secret to ourselves of the coal-pits at Scranton,” growing hurried and unsteady ‘ when she saw that he did not move.
She remembered then that the choice for him to make was for life, and stood si lent. Once she half held out her hand, and then let it fall, trembling. It mat tered more to her life than his, she thought, after all, whether he went away. When he remained silent, looking out steadily, she spoke to him again: “ Will you come in ?”
“ No,” slowly, looking her in the face as he spoke. “ It is not home to me. I will come back when I am fit to take my place among you.” She shook her head: “You will never come; or it will be too late. Death may come to any of us.”
“And you may be gone. You will do as other women do—marry.” “ That may be,” with a laugh, but growing suddenly pale. “ It would be but natural,” with a long
breath, turning away.
He was grave
and stern, as though it was his own
death and not life he was planning. “ If you have decided to follow your whim, then, and go—” “It is not a whim,” slowly. “ It seems even to me like the choice of a madman. You suppose I do not know what I am giving up. I do know.
Um
Chances which—which you would never think of, Miss Dundas. These things matter more to a man than a woman.”
“ You have your own reasons, doubt less,” coldly. “I have this reason,” turning to her quickly: “ I have not moral courage nor strength enough now to live among you and be myself—to tell my own story hon estly and boldly. Later, it may be differ ent. If it is n0t,I never will return.
And then there is a sort of gloss and polish over all the world you live in--an imitation of each other, a hiding of one’s self. It is hateful to me; but if I went
among you now, I know that I would try to gain it. I would begin to borrow my opinions on this side and on that. I would soon be quite contented to smother up all my past life for ever.” Honora listened intently. “ Am [false
and factitious P” she said, leaning forward in her eagerness for his reply. Dallas hesitated. But the sincere eyes before him commanded the answer:
“I had an odd feeling about you, Miss Dundas, since the day I first met you,”
he said, smiling.
“ Something of that
with which one wants to strip the husk and silk from an ear of corn and find the kernel inside. But the husk and silk with you—”
" Are borrowed.
Now that is true!”
earnestly. “ I’ve tried to give myself a good character so long, you under stand. I did not suspect you of shrewd ness. But no matter! Have you told me all of your reasons for going?” “ No. I have been hampered all my life, and I want to feel my own feet un der me. I would rather earn my bread and butter than sit down as your new
found prince to have my lap filled with gold. And I believe I would rather, when it comes to the choice, hammer out for myself bits of knowledge up on the hills yonder than receive it all here without any effort. It is a vain and a
doltish feeling, but I must work it out. I am a born boor, perhaps.” “ Then that is all. I can do no more,” said Honora.
“ If it is possible,'I wish to see my mother before I go.”
'
