For a moment she was silent, but she did not appear angry.
"You mean the story you told me was not true, that you have no friend who is an explorer?"
"Yes, and no," he replied smiling. "The story was really a trap to get you to marry me. I knew you loved me, but did not know it yourself. And vet the tale was not entirely fictitious, for it is all true except the ending which was an anachronism. It happened over two years ago."
"You went to the jungle and found your friend?" she asked, softly.
"Yes," said he, simply.
She nestled into his arms. "Now I love you better than ever," she declared. "But what would you have done if I hadn't offered to become your wife?"
"Then I would have gone to Mombassa," said he, emphatically.
And that's all of the story except that by gaining a wife. Gordon Sloan lost a good customer, for he was the president of The Park and Tompkins Drug Co.
The One Artist
By Amos R. Wells
A window-pane; bare boughs against the sky:
How Doldly intricate the branches lie!
What prodigies of fancy! what a wealth
Of poet color and of sculptured health!
A, Phidias, ah, Raphael, Angelo,
And all the other artist-gods we know,
Poor is your best beside the lifted fane
Of any bough through any window-pane.
