"MILADI." Katherine Arthur. (Continued from page 13.) It was twelve o'clock when Fred "If I want to escape alive, I had returned. Miladi was still waiting for him, and Bert was with her. "Repetition, repetition!' I have lost my 'repetition,'" quoted Bert in mournful, Cassio accents. "Look in your vest pocket," suggested Miladi. "What has my consistent brother to say about keeping a certain young lady from sweet repose when he expects her to have rosy cheeks and unusually bright eyes tomorrow?" "That's different," answered Fred. "You're not engaged." "Oh, I can take a hint,' broke in Bert. "Miladi, will you be mine?" "This is so sudden," giggled Miladi. "I'm too young. Papa says I can't get married until I'm thirtytwo. Still, if you insist," very coyly, "I must say no." "Ah," cried Bert rapturously, "how happy you have made me!" "Bless you, my children," added Fred. "May you live happily apart, Both of you have good judgment." "My candid opinion is that if some fellow doesn't marry Miladi, he's a fool," said Bert, gazing at her with admiring eyes. "And if he does, I suppose that Miladi is a fool," said the girl quietly. "Miladi, that tongue of yours would be better at lunch time served in a tin can. A fellow needs his Armour on to meet it. Ha, ha, that's a good one, isn't it?" better go at once," groaned Bert. "Good night, Miladi. Good night, Fred, old fellow. I'll congratulate you beforehand, and wish you all the happiness you deserve." "Thanks, old boy, though you might have wished me more," said Fred, as their hands met. "I hope you'll get as sweet a girl as June.' "Amen," Bert answered heartily. "I'll see you at the station tomorrow. Au revoir." "Come in and have a glass of milk and a biscuit, Freddie," said Miladi. "We'll be a tired looking wedding party, I'm afraid." "I don't want anything, thanks. It would seem like sacrilege to eat." "Now, don't do that, please," implored Gladys, as her brother began to pace nervously up and down the path. "You know it grates on my nerves." "I can't help it," he answered excitedly. "I've got to rant or die. She put on her wedding dress, Miladi. If you had seen her! I could hardly come away. Oh, I love her so, I love her so!" "You took that out of the song," inal in your next. answered Gladys. "Be more origthat's a good boy." Come in, now, "Talk about the night being lovely!" he went on. "There never was a night as fair as she. June, my June! She is like June, too. There are roses and lilies and pansies in her face, and violets in her breath. and "Straw in her hair," finished Miladi. "You've been reading The Golden Treasury of Song!'" He paused by a white rose-bush, and, circling one of the half-blown blossoms with both hands, bent his face over it till his lips touched its pale petals. "She is a white rose; beautiful and pure and fragrant. And she loves me! Oh, Miladi, you don't know what happiness is!" "If you are in a state of happiness now," said Gladys, "you'll excuse me if I cling to misery. Love seems to be a synonymous term for raving lunacy. I'm not unsympathetic, my dear brother, but this isn't good for you, you know. Let's go in." "No," he answered, drawing her towards a rustic seat. "Let's sit here." The selfishness in our natures will assert itself. Miladi's eyes were sad. She had given to this brother the best love of her life. She was so little to him now beside that other! When should they two ever sit like this again? She felt as if she were saying farewell to something very dear that she should see no more. So they sat hand in hand, and watched the round moon hurrying across the sky to meet the morning. CHAPTER II. A Letter from Miladi. Messmates, ahoy! And of course, you have missed me. Really, I am not much to miss, but I'd feel bad if you didn't, you know. If our friends loved us only for our deserts, it would be a dried-up old world, wouldn't it? ment," would now say, "Gladys!" in sage. Then at night Nothing could be prettier than a sailing vessel at sea. It moves along, quickly and silently as a phantom, and stands out from the blue-sky background like an exquisitely cut cameo. Isn't it Longfellow who calls sail-boats "white-winged birds of the ocean?" there are many phosphorescent shrimps (shrimps isn't the right word, you know. Look in the dictionary, I'll never tell) in the water. It looks as though a bit of the sky had sunk itself in the sea and the stars were shining up instead of down. And the propeller flings the waves aside as if it were saying, "Away, vain ocean; what are you to man's ingenuity?" Now, I am going to warn you of one thing: If any of you ask me, "Were you seasick?" I don't know what I won't do to you. It is a subject too sacred to be discussed. Neither is it a poetic theme. I'd defy Milton ever to write a divine epic on seasickness. But, as I have thrown up everything else, I might as well throw up the subject, too. That last is not a right elegant re- And the sailors, poor fellows. mark. Whoever first nicknamed me Some of them are surly. Most of Miladi because of my apparent ten- them have a hopeless, life's-notdency towards "exorbitant refine- worth-much-anyway expression. Sea captains are absolute monarchs, and When the tionally pretty dress. crowd was going out, she pressed me with her elbow so hard that it hurt We were packed in so that me. it was impossible to get away from I asked her politely not to her. crush me. "The stupid thing! She wouldn't move for anything!" she "Oh, it's Jack, go here, an' Jack, go answered roughly, giving me a push curse you, Jack, move there, an' quick! An' it's never give the man a word, but just the dog a kick. Just the dog a kick, my mates, just the dog a kick, But 'e'll do 'is dooty, cap'n, an' 'e'll do it like a brick!" I have a spite against Fred and June. They weren't a bit ill, the mean things. They tried to cheer me, but I was ungrateful and told them to "go away and leave me alone.' Then when they did, I wished they'd come back again. You see, you are not in a very settled conThe dition when you are seasick. first day I brightened up, I went into the steerage. Poor things, I felt so sorry for them! There were a number of quite respectable people. You'd be surprised. But most of them looked poor and unkempt. Some of them smiled as if they were glad to see me, and some of them scowled as if they thought I had A number of no right to be there. the coarser ones brushed against me intentionally and pushed me aside rudely. Why do people do these I have noticed things, Aunt May? If a wellit so much at home. dressed, out-of-the-ordinary looking man gets in a crowd of common people, he is knocked from all directions purposely. The crowd seems to he object to him simply because looks like a gentleman. Ladies are often treated in the same manner by their less genteel sisters. Did I ever tell you that one of those "less genteel sister" kind almost sent me into the next world once? It was in a very large gathering, and the woman I sat next to was angry with me apparently because I had on an excep with both hands that sent me I some The bad smell in the steerage As I came made me queer again. up onto the deck, I stumbled against somebody who took entire possession of me and put me into a chair. Here is where the romance comes in. I can see Doris straighten up and Of course, the look very interested. somebody was, with the exception of Fred, the best-looking young man He is tall, and has beautiaboard. ful brown eyes and clean cut features. You know, the heroines always stumble and the heroes catch them. was just that way with me. was very kind, and has since been company for me when Fred and June were on the other deck vowing by the moon that only pie crust made with lard should ever separate them. It He There were a number of bon ton What a difference people on board. there is between really nice people and the ordinary run of mortals, if This little some folks do deny it. company crystallized out from the others and formed an especially fine nodule. (Now say that I don't understand my geology, if you dare. Wouldn't Professor Turner be proud of me?) I called this crowd the C. C. That means cultured clique. The men of the C. C. neither blocked the passage,nor puffed smoke in your face. They thought of all the little things for your comfort before you thought of them for yourself. And they had nicely kept finger nails. The C. C. ladies were as different from the rest of the women as Spitzenbergs are different from crab apples. They were "well groomed." I have often wondered why it is that most rich people are more comfortable to be with, from a physical standpoint, than the less wealthy class is. I have come to the conclusion that it is because ordinary people think it a waste of valuable time to take a daily bath, put on their clothes properly, brush their hair and attend to their finger nails. These four things make "a deal of difference." There's no denying it, people who are used to having things nice show it. Oh, Aunt May, I am glad that prosperity came to my father so that Fred and I could be surrounded with every refinement. I'm glad for father's sake, too. When a man has struggled for so long, wealth must seem good. Only I wish that my mother had lived to enjoy it, too! Speaking of the difference in people, here is an instance. Some one spied a porpoise very near the ship. Everybody wanted to see it and crowded to the side of the boat. One man leaned so heavily on me, in his efforts to catch a glimpse of that porpoise, that I gasped for breath. I partly turned to ease myself, and he took advantage of the slight gap to crush past me and push himself directly in front of me. I couldn't stand the pressure, so I joined the C. C. group farther up. They were all very close together, but there was no pushing there. One of the young men, who was quite a stranger to me, glanced back and immediately made room for me to stand in front of him. "I thank you," I said, "but I'd rather not take your place." "Why, I can see quite as well over your head," he said, smiling down on me. Wasn't it good of him? Most people would have been so interested in looking over the side that they wouldn't have given a thought to those behind them. I took the place. I had left my cap in cabin, consequently I was bareheaded. The young man was so pleasant that I ventured a remark. the "Does my hat obstruct your view?" I asked. He bent a little to hear what I said, and one of my stray locks, buffeted by the wind that bloweth where it listeth, caught him in the eye. "The feathers tickle me somewhat," he answered, winking hard and wiping a briny drop from his cheek. "Alas, that my eloquence hath moved thee to tears!" said I. Not a very brilliant conversation, was it? But it lost me my heart. His deep voice charmed me and his "bright smile haunts me still," but "alas, my heart, 'twas naught but idle seeming; alas, my heart, it was not thus to be." He is married! Of course I know that since he has seen me, he wishes heartily that he wasn't (ahem), but that doesn't alter the case. On Sunday we had church in the dining room. The services cheered me considerably. The chaplain made a short address, and, being an Englishman, he told us that we must not he too hard on our "herring" brothers and sisters. Things are usually a little fishy out at sea. Then a woman who sat next to me had the voice of a trumpet and the musica! ear of a sparrow. She went up, with a "whoo" like a steam engine, |