The One False Step

“Do you now, Walter, it is exactly one year today since we first met? Just of it. One year today!”

“Yes, Ella, darling; and one year hence we’ll be old marri—”

But here a dainty hand was blushingly applied to the daring lips. And the glowing prediction remained incomplete. The subject was changed with a promptness that seemed a simultaneous inspiration, and along the summer lane the handsome pair joyously jaunted in their cosy basket phaeton.

Walter Carleton was a rising young merchant, the junior member of a New York firm. He was of British birth, and his dark complexion, crisp, ebon curls, and deep black eyes he derived from his Castilian mother.

Ella Goodrich was an Una-like creature, in the first flush of her gorgeous womanhood. She was a dark-bred blonde, and the only daughter of old Dr. Goodrich, of Kirkland.

Walter had received his earliest heart-wound from the dart of Ella’s beauty at a Saratoga hop, and since then the course of their love had run as smoothly as two enthusiastic hearts could make it. Dr. Goodrich, besides closely observing the young man, had made the necessary inquiries respecting him, with the result of thoroughly satisfying his amiable partner and himself on the propriety of their daughter’s choice.

It was really a pleasant afternoon—late in the summer—and the grey pony with the basket phaeton and the pair of turtle doves jogged along with a sort of “sober certainty of waking bliss,” as Milton happily phrased it.

The miles flew by on angel’s wings, and when Walter consulted his watch, lo and behold! It was within a few minutes of the Kirkland dinner hour; and they were a good five miles away!

“We must make all haste back,” cried Ella, “pa dislikes to wait for dinner, Rufe, old man,” this to the grey pony, you must put your best foot foremost;” whereupon Rufe’s mistress… Read More