New Britain Herald Newspaper, August 7, 1915, Page 9

QUILLT, self-contain- ed maiden lady, coming from some- where down in Corn- wall—and bringing with her all the wonderful arts of cookery and house- keeping for which that county is well known—there had been a time when Miss Tapscott was a power in her small way, and her se- lect boarding house, for young women filled to overflowing, while applicants Wwaited three deep for any chance va- dancy that might occur. But the removal of the factory from which she drew her clientele, and, finally, the opening of bigger and more up-to-date boarding houses— where they took young men as well as young women, a thing Miss Tapscot} would never do—had cut into her cus- tom and clearly proved that not all ttne delicious turnovers, pasties, ete.. of which she was justly proud, were of the least avail against the charm of nightly dances in the parlor with mas- culine partners, and a landlady who didn’t care a fig whether you were in- doors every night at 9 o’clock or not. But if her fortunes failed, her con- science didn’t, and she simply couldn’t bring herself to cut down expenses by diminishing either the quality or the quantity of the food she set before her arders; and as retrenchment had to be made somewhere, she diminish- ed both the quality and the quantity of her own instead, dismissed her servant, took double work on her own shoulders, and went on struggling and pinching and starving and hoping and never wholly lost heart until today. “Well, I suppose I've got to face it, whatever it be,” she said forlornly, as ‘,.he put the broom behind the door, hung her apron upon its accustomed peg, and spying a few crumbs under the table, brushed them carefully up and put them in the coal scuttle. It was close on 10 o’clock when she arrived at the far end of Lincoln’s inn, and with a sinking sensation about the heart, opened the door and crept guiltily into the outer offices of Messrs. Stetlow, Barnes & Burns’ establishment, and made known her business by extending the senior part- ner’s letter and saying to the clerk who came forward. “I've come about this. Be the gentlemen in, or hev’ I come too early? It’s worried me a gbod deal, and I thought I'd better git it over as soon as I could.” “Mr. Stetlow is engaged just now, but he’ll see you presently. Would « you care to look at the morning pa- per while you are waiting?” “I don’t think I could read it if I tried,” admitted Miss Tapscott wth unconscious pathos. “I'm too nerv- ous and upset. I'm afraid. I suppose you couldn’t tell me whether it's Mr. Blinks, the butcher, or Mr. Havens, the landlord, that’s a-suin’ could you? It ‘u'd sorter relieve my mind to know.” _“I haven’t the faintest idea,” replied thp clerk, with the calm indifference o¥his kind. “Sit down, please, and as soon as Mr. Stetlow is disengaged I'll tell him you are her: In a state of trembling nervousness, Miss Tgpscott sat down on the very edge of one of the big leather-covered chairs, squeezed her hands together hard, and waited. And so she was still gitting waiting when, at the ex- piration of 20 minutes he came back and ushered her into Mr. Robert Stet- low's presence. . “ He was a large, sunny-faced, portly man of middle age, so that she took heart of grace, and fired the burning question at him point-blank: “Be it Mr. Slinks or Mr. Havens that's a- suin?” she inquired tremblingly. “Whichever it be, I don’'t know how I'm goin’ to pay 'em till times gits bet- ter; I don’t indeed, Mr. Stetlow. But mebby it's both of ’em a-suin’ togeth- er? Is it?” “Quite to the contrary, my dear mad- um,” responded Mr. Stetlow cheerily. “You haven’t been brought here in reference to a lawsuit. but in the ca- pacity of a beneficiary.” “A which?” said Miss Tapscott, wrinkling up her brows in a puzzled way. “I'm afraid I don't jist under- stand.” “Remember having a lady named Berkenshaw boarding with you some seven or eight years ago—a Mrs. Mar- tha Berkenshaw ?” “Law! yes,” replied Miss Tapscott. “A widder lady she was. Come from somewhere up in Yorkshire, lookin’ after a niece of hers—her dead sister’s darter as she’d lost sight of. She took with pneumony while she was a- boardin’ with me, and I nursed her. I thought once she was goin’ to die, but she pulled through.” “Owing to your careful and tireless nursing.” “Well, T can’t say as I ever thought that.” “She did, however,” said Mr. Stet- low, “and she has done her best to prove it. She had a house and some property in Yorkshire, Miss Tapscott, when ‘she ‘died six weeks ago; and in return for your kindness to her, she has left you half of her possessions, together with the sum of 100 pounds in ready money, and you've been sum- ’Tzned here this morning to receive The reaction was so great that for a moment she trembled on the verge of crying. “You're sure I'm wide awake? You're sure this ain’t all a dream?”’ she said doubtfully. “Quite sure,” he answered. “Yours and her niece’s together. There’s a fine, large farmhouse and 12 acres of land. and you and Mrs. Thornburn are to share and share alike.” “Mrs. Berkenshaw’s niece. She married against her aunt’s wishes, it appears, and they were estranged shortly after being together. But the old lady secems to have repented at the last and linked her name with yours in her will. I am expecting Mrs. Thornburn here every minute with her little boy. Her husband died three months ago and left her in rather straightened circumstances. She has been supporting herself and her little son by giving music lessons since Mr., Thorburn’s death. She is not in very good health, although she is young and extremely good looking. You will like her and her little boy, I am sure.” “I ain’t fond of children and I de- test boys,” said Miss Tapscott with an amount of bitterness which made him arch his brows and look at her in surprise. “I don’t care for young widders nuther. I never would take one in to board even in my hardest times.. And a young widder with a boy! I hope she won't want to live in the house. I hope she’ll rent me her part. I want to live alone. I couldn’t stand a boy. Boys is only men getting ready to grow up; and I hate men! I wish I'd never seen one —I wish I'd never hev’ to speak to one again to the day of my death!” Mr. Stetlow suppressed a whistle. “Forty-five, if she's a day,” was his mental tally. “With an incipient mus- tache, a face like a hatchet, feet like a grenadier, and yet—she's had a ro- mance. His reflections were cut short by the sound of a piping, childish voice, mingled with the rustle of a woman’s skirt, which proceeded from the outer office. He turned sharply to the door, opened it, and held out a welcoming hand. “Ah, good morning, -Mrs. Thorn- burn,” he said. “I thought I recog- nized our young inquirer’s voice. You are just in time, Mrs. Thornburn. Al- low me to have the pleasure of intro- ducing you to your colegatee, Miss Josephine Tapscott.” Miss Tapscott, who had sat silent and motionless, glanced up. A young and radiantly lovely woman, with fair hair and blue eyes, was standing be- fore her arrayed in widow's weeds, and extending a small kid-gloved hand in smiling greeting. A little knot of o Solving | RS. VERALOUR and I sat talking of old times when the subject drifted to the marriage prob- lem. “I wonder,” said Mrs. Veralour, bit- ing her lip, “what makes some men marry?” She look- ed at me expectantly. “What makes any man marry?” 1 i asked, as it seemed to be my turn. “What?” said Mrs. Veralour, with parted lips. “Good heavens, I don't know,” 1 ried hastily. “I didn’t know we were playing questions and answers. What doeés make them? You've been married—you ought to know.” Mre. Veralour seemed, however, a trifle uncertain. “Well,” she said slowly. | some marry for love.” Y I paused in the act of lighting a cigar and regarded her. | “D'you mean to say that if a man eally loved & girl he’d ask her to mar- vy him? Do you think that can be real love?”’ “3ind youn don’t s e “I suppose brn your fingers su1d Mo g considerately. “I suppose, if a man feels he can’t be happy without a girl, it’s only natural for him to think she can’t be happy without him. Don’t you think so? Pretend you're only human.” “It may be a selfish form of love,” I allowed, after reflection. “Of course, the great majority of men marry be- cause they see the girl so often they want a change. Propinquity is the doorstep to matrimony. You've only got to trip over it once and you never recover your balance again—bank bal- ance.” “Lots of girls marry,” said Mrs. Veralour reflectively, “so that they can c¢haperon—themselves. To a great extent, too, it’s the spirit of adven- ture—much as lots of men go lion hunting.” “I've always been disposed to pity the poor lion,” I said happily, “even before I heard your parallel.” “A good many men marry because they're uncomfortable in lodsings. Later on they rcalize there are worse places to be uncomfortable in than lodgings. I vote we have an interval for refreshments now, Mrs. Veralour. Don’t you think our conversation is gettng a bit too much like a duet?” wThat's the very word I wanted,” violets was on her breast, and a boy of between 4 and 5 years of age was clinging to her skirt. “Indeed, I am glad to meet you, Miss Tapscott,” said the young widow in a singularly musical voice. “In the days before I offended her by—by marrying Walter, my aunt used to speak often of you and your kindness to her when she was so very {ll. This is my little boy, Miss Tapscott—Wal- ter dear, say good morning to Miss Tapscott, and tell her you are pleased to meet her.” “Dood mornin,’” sald the child obe- diently. “Pleased meet you—O, mum- my dear, did all those funny ‘ittle curls over her ears grow like that?” Mr. Stetlow diplomatically clapped his hand over the young questioner’s mouth and drew him away. “Please forgive him, Miss Tapscott.” said Mrs. Thornburn, blushing with mortification. “He’s only a baby. He doesn’t mean to be rude. I am sure you will learn to love him when you get to know him better. Don't you, Mr. Stetlow?” “Humph! a reg'lar man-trap. Won’t hev’ one around unless he's dancin’ attendance on her,” comment- ed Miss Tapscott mentally. “I'm not partial to children,” she said aloud, as she laid the tips of her fingers in the extended hand and let them slip away again—a compro- mise with the laws of etiquette. “And boys in partic’'lar I can’t abide. I'd ruther live alone, if it makes no dif- ference to you, and I wag jist sayin’ to Mr. Stetlow when you ceme in that I wondered if you'd mind rentin’ your share of the house to me. I don’t think me and you and that boy ’u'd be altogether comfortable livin’ together, and if you and him 'u'd like to lives summer else’— “Oh, Miss Tapscott! please don't suggest it,” said Mrs. Thorburn with a frightened look in her soft eyes. “If you knew what it means to me I am sure that you wouldn't. My lungs are weak, the doctors-tell me and I must get out into the fresh air of ‘the coun- try as soon as possible. Oh, I am so sorry, so sorry! I thought we should be such company for each other,” Even Achilles had a vulnerable spot in his heel; but whether Miss Tap- scott’s was in her heel or her heart, no matter, she weakened. “I don’t want no ‘company,’” she replied grimly. “But I ain’t one to stand out when it’s a question of a body’s health. So, as you don’t want to give up the house, and I don’t nuther, I reckon the best thing we can do is to partition it off even; you live in your half and I live in mine, and no interferin’ one with the other. If that’s agreeable, all that's left is to decide which half youwll take and which I'm to hev’. I ain’t never seen the place. Hev’ you?” “yes,” replied Mrs. Thornburn. “I was there yesterday. I think I should prefer the east side; but that wouldn’t be wholly fair to you, because all the roses grow on that side, and I love roses—they were Walter's favorite flowers.” Miss Tapscott’s face set squarely and hardened. “I hate ’em!” she said with exceed- ing bitterness. “The very sight of 'em makes me sick, and I wouldn't trust a man who was fond of ’em as far as I could throw him. I never knowed but one man who really and truly loved ’em, and he was the vilest human critter that ever lived. You kin hev’ the roses if you want 'em—I don’t. I'll take the west side for mine.” So the matter was settled; and Miss Tapscott left the offices of Stetlow, Barns & Burns with a step that was positively elastic. Her first duty was scrupulously to settle all her bills and to obtain re- lease from her landlord, then to gath- er together such of her household goods as she wished to retain, and send them to Yorkshire, selling the rest to the second-hand dealers for what they would bring. Two days later the farm people passing in the neighborhood of the late Mrs. Berkenshaw’s house were treated to the spectacle of an alert, shrill-voiced female superintending the erection of a high board fence, which completely divided house and grounds into two even sections from the front gate clear down to the rear boundary wall. Pasged the spring and came the summer, flower-crowned like a bride. Miss Tapscott, proud in the joy of pos- session, lived her life of isolation in the green open. Not once in all the weeks she had inhabited her half ot the divided property had she come in contact wtih her colegatee, or caught even so much as a passing glimpse of her or her boy. Sometimes, it 1is true, Miss Tap- scott could catch the sound of child- ish laughter or the soft murmur of a woman's voice from the other side of the high board fence which divided the two gardens; but it was not until mid-June that anything occurred to disturb the peaceful serenity. of the spinster’s isolation. A storm overnight had found a weak spot in the garden fence, and leveled a portion of it far down by the rear boundary wall, making a gap in the thick screen of morning glories and scarlet-runners and climbing nastur- tiums which Miss Jo had planted to mask the grim bareness of the un- painted boards. But other eyes had spied it if hers had not; and Miss Tapscott, busy pruning and tying up her mangled plants, was suddenly startled by a voice saying close to her elbow, “Your chewberries is all comin’ off the twees by themselves; so I bwinged 'em home to you—see!” and, glancing sharply up, she beheld standing beside her a small bareheaded figure, with a red- stained face and a looped-up pinarore half-filled with luscious windfalls. “Now,"you march right straight out of here this instant,” exclaimed she, “double-quick now; and tell your ma that this is agin’ agreement.” “0, ho; what funny big scissors!” laughed the child, totally unusued to being repulsed or spoken sharply to and therefore failing to understand Miss Tapscott’s ire. “Does your mum- my let you play wiv scissors? Mine don’t. Here's your chewweries. I eat- ed some.” “Well, you kin eat the rest, then; I don’t want ’em,” snapped Miss Jo ungraciously. “Git along now. and go back where you belong. How’d you get in here I'd like to know? Did your ma hev’ the cheek to let you come?” “Mummy don’t know. Mummy's lyin® down. It’sone of her ‘bad head’ days,” replied the child plaintively. “And I didn’t have nuffin’ to do but jiss walk in the garden and play wiv my kitten. It was kitten what finded the hole in your fence first.” “A hole in the fence?” “0, ho! Look! Here's a big, big chewwery. ‘Open your mouf and shut your eyes, and I'll div you somefing to make you wise.’ You mustn’'t look. Jiss bend down and open your mouf.” “0, get along with you! I never see sich a pesterin’ critter. What's that hole in the fence, hey?” “‘Open your mouf and shut you eyed, and I'll div you somefing to make you wise.”” “0, well, then, there, you pesterin little nuisance! I suppose there ain’t no other way of gittin’ rid of you; and if—" A big cherry dropped into her mouth, a shower of others fell upon the grass at her feet, and at the same moment she felt two little clinging arms wrap themselves tightly about her neck, and a pair of warm, soft little lips press themselves to hers. And at the same time, ‘I getted first kiss! I getted first kiss!” laughed the child, releasing her and clapping his hands joyously. “Now, you dot to pay ‘forfeit’ and be my hosie. Dit app!” “Well, of all the— Land sakes alive! The Cook Qu cried Mrs. Veralour. “What—Trefreshments’?” “No, of course not. What do you want, tea? Or will you help your- self? No; ‘duet’ That’s exactly what a marriage should be—a duet.” “Mm,"” I said. “Mind you, the pro- gram is usually subject to alterations. It more often turns out to be a solo and an accompaniment.” ‘Without replying, Mrs. Veralour threw herself back in her chair and gurgled. Much flattered, I smiled re- sponsively. “It was rather smart of me,” I said appreciatively; “I'm very bright and sunny today, aren’t I? Ha, ha!” “What on earth are you laughing at?” demanded Mrs. Veralour, star- ing. “We—we're laughing at what I said just now, aren't we?” I answered, somewhat discomfited. “That thing about a solo and an accompaniment. We thought it was rather clever, don't you remember?” “I didn’t hear you say anything. I was laughing at something I'd just thought.” “Anybody can do that,” I said. “It's a poor humorist that can’t laugh at something he’s thought of. Being able to laugh at something you've said is the true test of wit. thinking of?” “I don’t think I ought to tell you,” said Mrs. Veralour, regarding me doubtfully; “It was told me in confi- dence.” “All right,” I said, knowing there was no chance now of avoiding the story; “go on.” “Let me see,” began Mrs. Veralour, “I think you know him: Mr. Peters- fleld—that funny old man.” “I don’t know him; I've met him. A bit of a gourmet—as we say on our return from Paris—isn’t he?” “Yes, he was. Have you noticed anythng strange about him lately?” “N—o; 1 don’t think so. At least, the only thing strange is that one has noticed him. He dines out a lot now, % They say he's always begging for din- ner invitations.” “Yes. At one time he never went anywhere. He was positively rude if any one asked him to dinner. He had a marvelous cook—she’d been with him for years.” “I know,” I said. *“Murchison—you know the man I mean; the fellow who doesn’t mind admitting that he -car- ries his Temple about with his waist- coat »~\'.'cll,’ he told me Peteraficld's cook was ‘the greatcsi artist in the What were you what on earth Let go my skirt. 1 At gych times Miss Jo would always never see sich a perseverin’ little Imp swoop down with her grenadier stride in all my born days. The Way your and catch the young Intruder, and “al- mother’s brung you up is somethin’ low” grimly that “You ain’t got no scandalous.” right to come in here, and I'll hev’ to “Dit app!” reiterated the laughing remember to nail up them boards, but child. “I'm doin’ to dwive you to Ban- now you are here you may as well bury Cwoss to see the hole in the stay "and help me do my weedin’ to fence. Dit app! It's ‘forfeit’ and if pay for {1 Sz'ou don't pay ‘forfeit’ you has t!0 gei; 00 kisses and cawwy me up to was due to w; out in- in your arms, you know; same a5 to the urde:}‘_’\\;‘lg.“_‘r"a;‘::o‘& ol mummy.s bundle boy and kitten back through “Good land!” exclaimed Miss Jo In the gap ang ungraciously submit to & dismay, “T never see sich a child. parting kiss as she ordered the child There ain’t no shakin’ you off nor git- to “Be off now about your own busi- tn’ rid of you nohow; you jist pester ness. And don't you dare ever come and pester until a body has to give in. in here unless it's to plck up winde Where's the hole .in the fence? O, falls. I'm goin’ to nafl up this hole down that way is it? Well, come oD, goon’s ever T kin get time to remem- th;n. and be done with it!” iee TN ber it—I really am.” rom the first {t had been Miss Tap- ut, althou, scott’s firm determination to put the cnie “dhdeeg;-e::dmn:;l;e“d 'm[d :,':-‘3; child on the other side of the fence | ...~ . memory never -p?::irpd to and to nail up the boards as soon as Jog her with regard to that particular the breach was pointed out to her; but, oddly enough, when they came to Piece of mending, and the gap was it at last her whole.attention seemed stiil' unclosed. to be claimed by the large quantity of But, more wonderful than this, the cherries which the storm had stripped Windfalls — continued without the from the trees, and which now lay Slightest intermission, no matter what scattered thickly on the close-cropped the state of the weather overnight grass. might be; and when the cherry season “It’s puffickly sinful for all that Was over these marvelous trees frult ta go to waste,” mused she. dropped apples or plums or peaches, “"Pain’t hurt a bit, and it'll make @&s the mood seized them, with a dar- beautiful cherry pies. Be you fond ing deflance of nature which could of cherry pie, babby?” have deceived no one but a child. “0, I love it! And sc does By the time September with its my.” grape-scented air, filled Miss Jo's gar- “Ye do, hey? Well, jist you run up den with rafts of white and red and to my backdoor and fetch back that purple china asters, Wally boy’s visits little wicker basket you'll see settin’ —beginning with one per diem, and on the winder ledge, and we'll pick growing thence to two, had increased these cherries up and you kin take to three—one in the morning, one di- them in to your ma when you go. Hur- rectly after noon, and the third just ry up now—I've got my geranium beds before twilight came—for “mummy’s” to attend to quick’s ever I kin get headaches had increased in frequency, back to 'em.” until “mummy” seemed to pass most But even then the gap in the fence of her time in sleeping these days. still remained unclosed; for the un- “I ain’t no patience with her, lollin’ tidy state of the grass under the trees around and lettin’ you take keer of where the fallen leaves and the broken yourgelf,” commented Miss Jo one day twigs lay appealed to Miss Jo's love of when the child came toddling up the neatness, and she and the child busied orchard walk with his pinafore awry, themselves in collecting them and hig hair at sixes and sevens, and the bearing them away to the rubbish cheek against which he held the kit- heap. ten all smudged with blackberry It was while they were in the midst gtaing, of this operation that an anxious “ : voice sounded, and a pale, frightem:d gul:’gr::nedmt:rm:g :}f“‘:fl::!‘:..nh: I;Jt:lt;e:rcnemnu aopeazedfatithel &SRR LY pisoulop my mind. It's puffickly scan- ¢ dalous the way she lets you go. A “0, Wally boy. how you frightened . me, dear!—yI woke up and couldn’t goog ‘°“Sdh",’lk'“‘ ";’ is ;Vhlt she find him anywhere, Miss Tapscott. ;J,ex: :‘sstc:men;m n’ to get it, too, or i 't go in - Come back, dearie. You mustn't g Tall i Cinaanes it B ectosts e there— mummy promised that you wouldn't. Please forgive him, Miss coh:‘l?ed l?tuulhfl set to .ndu':l‘da n:;g SR t it never occurs C a e more presen e; and, Tapscolt:iLll fmeciths this done, she marched down the or- “E;:'ho ain’t hurtin’ nothin’, and he’s chard and through the gap, and, with sort of been company,” admitted Miss fire in her eye, bore down on the Jo grimly. “T'll allow it's ag’in reg- Porch where Mrs. Thorburn slept in a ulations, but I guess it won't kill no- deep old rocking chair, with her thin body for once. The storm blew down hands loosely folded and a bunch of the fence, and his kitten ran in here. late-blooming roses in her lap. I've give him some cherries to make She awoke at the sound of Miss Jo's a pie of. He says him and you likes coming, and looked up with her great cherry ple, and—well, there’s more hollow-ringed eyes and her faded and fruit than I kin use anyway, so you're wasted face; and at sight of her all welcome to it.” the fires of resentment died out of the “Thank you so much; it's very kind spinster’s breast and a great pity—a of you—Come, Wally dear.—Can’t we great fear—filled it instead. send you some of our roses in return, “For heaven’s sake, child, why didn’t Miss Tapscott? They are in the very you let me know you was sa bad as perfection of bloom.” this?” she exclaimed contritely. “What “I've told you once I hate roses!” on earth be you a settin’ out here for, snapped Miss Jo resentfully. “My in your state of health? My goodness! bread’s in the oven, and I ain’t got you look as though you was on the no time to talk. Good morning.” p’int of givin’ up the ghost.” The gap in the fence was not mend- “I sometimes think I am,” sald Mrs. ed that day, nor yet the next, nor the Thorburn pathetically. “I don’t think next again; and, although no storm I'd mind if—if it were not for my came to strip the cherry trees of their baby. I miss Walter so much! I've scarlet treasure, each morning unfail- missed him ‘every day since we were ingly there was a scattered mass of divded.” “windfalls” lying on the grass beneath “Missed fiddlesticks!” sniffed Miss the trees at one particular spot—an Jo contemptuously. “There never was utterly irresistible temptation to the a man yet that was wuth a woman lonely little figure that went past the a-dyin’ for. What you want more'n gap in the fence at the hour when all the Walters that ever hampered up “mummy slept, and her head was the world is a mustard plaster, a bed bad,” and Wally boy and “Kitty” were and a bowl of hot gruel; and I'm goin’ left to entertain each other in the gar- to give 'em to you, too. Ugh!”—with den. a sudden shudder of repulsion— And always—just before mummy mum- estion world. He had to pay her a fabulous suggested. “Such people make ideal By Annette Angert w “chuck them dreadful ro pity’s sake; the smell of sick—makes me hate eve world—everythin’ and e “They were always Wall ites,” replied the widow love them for that as mue their beauty. He was such man, Miss Tapscott, so kind der and true, and his p roses was almost worship.” “I never knew but one that, and he—well, hangin® good fo? him!” asseverated her face darkening and hards the creases tightening mouth. “Killed a woman whol did; and there ain't no worse'n that. She was a @ him, and had a little money Made her think he loved her)] got her to draw out her give that and some trinkets been her mother’s into his the day before the one that set for em to be married. see him ag'in after that. roses—that man—they was passion with him. I tell you I trust a man who loved ther'n I could see him after # “You would if you had kng ter, Miss Tapscott; I'm would. Wait! Let me show had the noblest face, the nobl acter, that ever was. Look! up from its hiding place a g fashioned, flat gold locket at a fine thin chain—"he ga when we were married. dead mother's. Here's stands far Thorburn, "™ Miss Jo did see. Her thin grown oddly white; her nost expanded and her mouth until it looked like a little r set in a face of dough. “It's Walter's picture. Co one look into a face like that love and trust it, Miss T\ “I dunno,” replied Jo, ing ber lips with the tip of h and speaking in a queer away sort of voice. “I ain't a judge of people’s looks. 'S I've jist remembered I've got @ comin’, and I belleve there fi now.” Then she turned and went down the garden walk, p the gap in the fence, caught placed boards, and with a ed them back into position The afternoon wore away; light came and went; the with solemn hush and the : twinkling stars; then, all of & there sounded a mighty crash, ed again and yet again; and Thorburn, startled by the 86 Walley's bedside and came the veranda, a shower of fiyli cut through the air and e the rose bushes, and there moonlight stood Miss Jo, beat! banging and cutting into the | fence and leveling it from end “0, Miss Tapscott, What in #i are you doing?” exclaimed burn in amazement. “Sort o’ comin’ to my sen) on,” replied Miss Jo, as she ax round and sent another ing. “It ain’t nuther Christian fe yet' common sense for us f wimmen to go on livin’ like # need a nurse to brace you fetch you round to health I need—the boy! I guess | somethin’ of the mother feell a woman's heart and nature W she’s cut out for an old maid Anyways, this here fence I8 down, for good and all, and 3 you is goin’ to bring up that gether and make a good, Go honest man of him.” “Like his dear father, bless “Better!” said Miss Jo, as she the ax with redoubled least, better if better kin b from what you say, I dofi't kin!” the a tersfield offered to double her salary to keep her. Murchison sald confidants.” he would do anything, short of going hungry, to get her into his service. Petersfield, he swore, used to guard her as if she was a priceless jewel.” “It’s a fact,” agreed Mrs. Veralour, with a nod, “he did. He had special locks out on all the doors so that peo- ple couldn’t break in and steal her. On her evening off, he used to take her out himself. They made a quaint couple. She was one of the plainest creatures you could ever imagine, while old Petersfield would walk along holding her arm, positively squinting through trying to look two ways at once to see that nobody was coming near her.” “I never saw them,” I sald sadly. “They must have attracted a lot of at- tention.” “They did. They were such a fright- fully unattractive couple. The reason I know all about this,” she went on to explain, “is because old Mr. Pe- tersfield used to come around and tell me all his troubles. For some rea- son, people always do confide in me. I wonder why?” “Perhaps it's bec ten to_what anybo you 1 y clse is say! “Then one day,” she said, dramatic- ally, “the blow fell. Old Petersfield went home one afternoon and found his cook in the drawing room, and this Mr. Murchison on his knees in front “It's a fact. And what do you think he was saying?” “In that attitude, his prayers?” “No; he was asking her to be his wife.’ “Wife! Old Murchison asked her to be his wife?” “Yes. He'd already asked her to be his cook, and she’d refused. You see, to prevent her leaving him, Mr. Pe- tersfield had already promised to give her whatever anybody else ever of- fered.” “What did the old man do?" “Mr. Petersfield? O, I believe there was a frightful row. They nearly fought. He called Mr. Murchison a ghoul!” She paused and waited for my start of horror. Then she re- sumed: “When he came round to see me the next day he was quite broken up. [t appeared his cook had decided to ac- cep Alu ,hi:gp;_;_ offer, Mx. Pe- salary, I suppose you'd call wha got. But it was no good. Sk being a cook wasn’t a settled jo being married. Any day her & might get dyspepsia, and she’s b of a job; but if she was mal would be a permanency.” “Well, 1 suppose practically ¢ 80, with a woman -of her unattr ness. Go on.” “There was only one thing vise him to do,” pointed out M ralour; “that was, either to get &i er cook or marry her himself.” “That was about a month resumed. “He was here only ¥ day afternoon, begging me to to dinner. He said it was eiti or a restaurant. He couldn’t food he got his own home. swore that his new cook didn't the difference between a potato turnip. He wanted to know if could die of indigestion, and how it took. It was really pathetie, was nearly in tears.” & “But, hang it,” I said, 80 much to heart all that, didn't he take your advice and o hig nld cook . He did,” she sald softiyy,