Way Down East | Page 3

It seemed to her as if she must cry out with the delight of seeing
him again.
"Look, Grace," said Mrs. Standish Tremont, to the younger of her
nieces, "there is Lennox Sanderson."

"Play!" called the referee, and at the word the Harvard wedge shot
forward and crashed into the onrushing mass of blue-legged bodies.
The mimic war was on, and raged with all the excitement of real battle
for the next three-quarters of an hour; the center was pierced, the flanks
were turned, columns were formed and broken, weak spots were
protected, all the tactics of the science of arms was employed, and yet,
neither side could gain an advantage.
The last minutes of the first half of the game were spent
desperately--Kenneth, the terrible line breaker of Yale, made two
famous charges, Lennox Sanderson, the famous flying half-back,
secured Harvard a temporary advantage by a magnificently supported
run. "Time!" called the referee, and the first half of the game was over.
For fifteen minutes the combatants rested, then resumed their massing,
wedging and driving. Sanderson, who had not appeared to over-exert
himself during the first half of the game, gradually began to turn the
tide in favor of the crimson. After a decoy and a scrimmage, Sanderson,
with the ball wedged tightly under one arm, was seen flying like a
meteor, well covered by his supports. On he dashed at full speed for the
much-desired touch-line. The next minute he had reached the goal and
was buried under a pile of squirming bodies.
Then did the Harvard hosts burst into one mighty and prolonged cheer
that made the air tremble. Sanderson was the hero of the hour.
Gray-haired old men jumped up and shouted his name with that of the
university. It was one mad pandemonium of excitement, till the game
was won, and the crowd woke up amid the "Rah, Rahs, Harvard,
Sanderson."
Anna's cheeks burned crimson. She clapped her hands to the final
destruction of her gloves. She patted the roses he had sent her. She had
never dreamed that life was so beautiful, so full of happiness.
She saw him again for just a moment, before they left the park. He
came up to speak to them, with the sweat and grime of battle still upon
him, his hair flying in the breeze. The crowds gave way for the hero;
women gave him their brightest smiles; men involuntarily straightened

their shoulders in tribute to his inches.
Years afterwards, it seemed to Anna, in looking back on the tragedy of
it all, that he had never looked so handsome, never been so absolutely
irresistible as on that autumn day when he had taken her hand and said:
"I couldn't help making that run with your eyes on me."
"And we shall see you at tea, on Saturday?" asked Mrs. Tremont.
"I shall be delighted," he answered: "thank you for persuading Miss
Moore to stay over for another week." Mrs. Tremont smiled, she could
smile if she were on the rack; but she assured herself that she was done
with poverty-stricken beauties till Grace and Maud were married, at
least. For years she had been planning a match between Grace and
Lennox Sanderson.
Anna and Sanderson exchanged looks. Robert Maynard bit his lips and
turned away. He realized that the dearest wish of his life was beyond
reach of it forever. "Ah, well," he murmured to himself--"who could
have a chance against Lennox Sanderson?"

CHAPTER II.
THE CONQUERING HERO IS DISPOSED TO BE HUMAN.
"Her lips are roses over-wash'd with dew, Or like the purple of
narcissus' flower; No frost their fair, no wind doth waste their powers,
But by her breath her beauties do renew."--Robert Greene.
The dusk of an autumn afternoon was closing in on the well-filled
library of Mrs. Standish Tremont's Beacon street home. The last rays of
sunlight filtered softly through the rose silk curtains and blended with
the ruddy glow of fire-light. The atmosphere of this room was more
invitingly domestic than that of any other room in Mrs. Tremont's
somewhat bleakly luxurious home.

Perhaps it was the row upon row of books in their scarlet leather
bindings, perhaps it was the fine old collection of Dutch masterpieces,
portraying homely scenes from Dutch life, that robbed the air of the
chilling effect of the more formal rooms; but, whatever was the reason,
the fact remained that the library was the room in which to dream
dreams, appreciate comfort and be content.
At least so it seemed to Anna Moore, as she glanced from time to time
at the tiny French clock that silently ticked away the hours on the high
oaken mantel-piece. Anna had dressed for tea with more than usual
care on this particular Saturday afternoon. She wore a simply made
house gown