New Britain Herald Newspaper, November 23, 1928, Page 40

e [ittle Yellow House ICE BURTON -- RELEASED BY CENTRAL PRESS ASSN. © 1928 READ THIS FIRST: ‘ Qver the poverty and discontent in | the little yellow house broods a mother's love, which transmutes the dingy home to a palace of love and beauty. Emmy, the only daughter, is disappointed with her surroundings. envious of her wealthy relatives, eager to try her wings. She goes to work at her first job. And there a new man, Wells Harbison, enters her life, very different from quiet, hard- working Robb, who loves her but who represcnts to her only a moneyless boring future. She decides to get away from dinzy Flower street and live her own life in a lit. tle apartment of her own, where she can entertain as she likes. So that Emmy will not leave, Mrs. Milburn decldes to give up the little yellow house, and they can go to live at Grandmother Pentland’s big man- sion, where things will be finer. Mrs. Milburn did not tell the children that in order to get the chance she had promised to do about all the housework, the servants at the Dbig | house having left. (NOW GO ON WITH THE STORY) PR | They shook on that quite solemnly. mmy, you've always had a home,” Robb said, “so you don’t un- derstand how I feel about your all going away from here. Even before I knew you people I used to walk past this house every day and look for the snow-white curtains and the eranjums in the front window. I used to wateh for your mother when she was out sweeping the sidewalk or weeding the flowers in the front vard. She always was just the kind of mother—" He choked up. To Emmy it was dreadful to see him this way. A surge of pity swept through her and her heart ached. She put her arms around him and held him close—not as a woman holds her lover, hut in the beautiful and tender way that a mother holds her child. Dan and Mr. Milburn, on their way home from a pic oW, came up the front s a curiously through the curta they unlocked the door. Emmy and Robb sprang apart. “Well, well, no lights in here!” Mr. Milburn said, coming to the door. I think we'd better have some |light.” CHAPTER XXXII Emmy never knew what promises or pleas her mother had made to Grandmother Pengland on that rainy Saturday in March. She nmever found out just how she had worked the miracle. But, as the last days of the month went by she began to see that she had made her certain promises without any doubt. *“Dan, you'll have to learn to use door at your grandmother's se,”” she would say when the boy came bounding into the hall of their | own little yellow house. “She’ll never ! let you track up her fine rugs with your muddy shoes.” On the last Saturday in the month, while she and Emmy were wrapping their dishes in old newspapers and packing them away in barrels, she let another cat out of the bag. “It'll be child’s play: ping a few bed- rooms in order,” she said herself, and then stopped & and flushed. “What do you mean?” asked Em- my. “Well—I told your grandmother 1'd never let her keep an upstairs | maid while I was in the house,” she sald without meeting Emmy's eyes. She bent over and pretended to be very busy in the bottom of the bar- rel. “I'm going to do the mending, 100, she ran on cheerfully. “There won't be much, and I used to be able to do Marianna’s without any trouble. I'd be ashamed not to do any work around the house, when we're paying your grandmother so little toward the household expenses.” Well, that was fair enough, thought Emmy. “I hope father will not have any of his ‘neuralgia’ spells,” she said, “after he gets into Grandmother's house.” “I'm sure he won't,” Mrs. Milburn answered, without the flicker of an eyelash, “He's been very much bet- ter lately.” He had. Ever since he had heard the great news that they were all going to live in the big red brick house on Prospect street he had been a model of good behavior. *“Yes, we'll give up our home” he had remarked graciously, “and go to live with the Old Lady. It's the least we can do.” “You'd think he was doing her a favor,” Emmy had said to hersclt, wishing that Perry were at home to enjoy all this. On 8unday.night Robb came down to the house to say good-bye. He was very blue, “Aren’t you silly, Robb?"” Emmy asked him as they sat side by side on the burlap-covered piano hench “Anybody’'s think we were going to the North Pole instead of just over here on Prospect street. We shall the same."” dark, handsome 'l never be the same azain,” he sald. “I'm not going to Mrs. Pent. Jand's house very often. She docen't like me, and I'm not 5o thick-skinned that I can’t see it. . . . No, I've lost you, Emmy. You're chang He looked up and as his eves met hers something hard and col in he seemed to melt—some inditf rer toward him th: within her e the d Harbison walked into the building office of the comp: “Robb, I'll er chang you” she comes Into m the very hest world, outside my own f no matter what trouble I think 1'd e to you first with it Robb Hollis ‘MO‘I‘H ER "TGRAY'S SWEET gOWDERS CHILOREN successful- ly used by for over 30 years. Children who tn:e cold easily, e peevish, fretty and feverish, or suffer from consti- mon Or worms, get quick re- from this tested treatment. Mother Gray's Sweet Powders are plessant to take and give quick eatisfaction. Wise mothers always keep 8 package on hand for use been rsi tow frien AT L T Tt Sold by alt druggists. notion of his daughter, Em- my, having a sweetheart had always been distasteful to him. She was so young. . And besides, a daugh- ter was the one to stay at home and be a comfort to her parents in their old age, he always sald. “Time cnough for Emmy to marry when Mother and I are lying over in Woodland Cemet he would say sometimes. “She'll be about 60 then, | it luck’s with us, Mother.” He was a great humorist. On Monday morning before Emmy left for the o at the house. The furniture was to be stored padded with burlap and wrapped with heavy gray paper. But Mrs. Mil- burn could tell what each piece was as the men carricd it past her into the van. With an old sweater of Perry's around her shoulders she stood on | the porch watching g0es my pie-crust table,” Emmy heard her say; “and that's Emmy’s little white bed.” In omre corner of the bare and cmpty sitting room were the few odds and ends that she was going to take with her to G land's big house; a b her red geraniums in pots, the Dying Gladiator, Mr. Milburn's blue tobacco jar, and the thermos jug that always stood on his bedside table. He drank them, “There great quantities of water—especially | after his att of neural “I've glven your doll's tea set to nd T didn’t have the heart to say | o to them, poor little things. . . . 1 hate the thought of leaving them.” Her blue eyés became misty and her face crumpled up as if she were go- ing to cry. “Mother, T do believe you're un- happy about leaving this horrible little place,”” Emmy said to her. “You're doing it for me—and it's breaking your heart.” ot miine!” her mother answered with such staunchness that Emmy believed her. “No; I've thought it all over. It we stayed on here, T should be paying rent to Jim Tello, and 1 don't believe I'd enjoy that very much. You I 1 was en- gaged to 1 Tello before I met your father.” Emmy's eyes popped open. “You wers could hardly believe it “Don’'t you often fecl sorry you 1idn't marry him when you see him n his big car? I'll just bet rn an't question liks not sorry! just bet T don’t! Emmy, even have answered that. Of course, I Why should 1 be a man like sorry your Kiss At th 1 her and started off foot of the strect she minnte and gave it a 1 look. “I hope T never 4 addr s parting to work. set foot § od it, 1 with an old « By the April the Mil- i ir small imother Al plain nursery 1d were e And r—upstairs.” s windows as | ndmother Pent- | sket filled with NEW BRITAIN DAILY HERALD, FRIDAY, NOVIMBER 23, 1928 she had swept into tne parlor with a great rustling of black taffeta skirts, closing the door sharply be- hind her. 'ry night at nine o'clock she would send for Mrs. Milburn to help her get ready for bed, to bring her a glass of warm milk, and to read her to sleep. About twice a week three of her old friends—Mrs. Brett, Mrs. Derby is gone.” Miss Dunlap was his secre. | tary—e sandy-haired, high-nosed spinster of middle age. With a wildly beating heart Emmy ran down to join Lucille in the dress. ing room. “Mr. Harbison wants me to take | some letters for him this afternoon!" she sald, “and I've got to be back here at one, 50 we'll have to hurry.” “Watch your step,” said Lucille, briefly, slangily, and straight to the point. “What do you mean?" “Watch your step” Lucille repeat. ed, fluffing cream-colored powder all over her little sharp-featured face. “Wells Harbison has & perfect- ly good secretary of his own to take | down his letters—" | “She's gone home!" Emmy broke !in. “He said s0.” and Miss Bunts—came in to play a rubber or two of bridge with her in 1 tiny card room behind the library. On those nights Mrs. Milburn stay- ed up, until 11 o'clock, When she served'them a lunch of sandwiches and weak hot tea and then helped her mother upstairs to bed. Grandmother Pentland seemed to lean on her a great deal these days, except in those rare moments when she became her old war-horse self again and made some quick sarcas- tic remark that was like the sting of a whip. She makes a regular body servant out of your mother. T don't like it.” Mr. Milburn complained to Emmy one night when they sat in the sew- ing room. “This was a fool move if ever there was one—to come here to live. Your Mother does the work of two servants around here, and we pay board besides. But we're treated like a lot of hangers-on.” Emmy knew that, in all probabil- ity, they were paying very little board money to Grandmother Pent- | land. She began to see that it really was Mrs. Milburn who was paying their way in the house. As her father said, she did the | work of two servants. | She planned the meals and went to market for the food. She did all jthe mending and took care of Grandmother Pentland’s black taf- away in a warehouse, and it was all [¢ta9 and velvets as if she were her lady’'s maid, besides waiting hand, foot and finger on the old lady her- sclf. She counted the things that came up from the laundry and put | them away in the lavender-scented ! closets of the linen room. “Mother, you work like a slave in this house, don't you?" Emmy asked her one night when she came in to kiss her and tuck her into bed as she always qQid. “Father says you work harder here than ever you did at home, and he's right. You do—and it hurts me to think that you're doing it for me.” 0N, fiddle-faddle! What work 1s there in making a few beds and look- ing after your grandmother? It's just child’s play to me,” Mrs. Milburn an- | swered. “Just child’s play!” She turned at the door on her way out of the room. “You're happy here, aren't you, Emmy?"” she asked anx- iously, mmy was happy. Just to be out of Flower street was a joy in itsclf. And besides, she had a brand new interest in life. | By the middle of April she was so deeply infatuated with Wells Harbi- son that he colored all her thoughts from the time she opened her eyes Lucille raised her darkened eye- brows. “He could have kept her to- day it he’d wanted to,” she said ip | her worldly wise way. “He knew he had those letters to get off. The last | morning mail came in at 11 o'clock.” | “Listen, Emmy Milburn; I've | worked around offices a lot longer 'than you have, and it never does.a girl any good to make eyes at her boss. The smartest thing she can do is to stick to her job, and—"" | “Don’t you talk like that to me!" Emmy interupted her again. *I | haven't made eyes at Mr. Harbison!” | “Oh, yes you have.” Lucille calm- Iy contradicted her. *“Maybe you {don’t realize it, but you do it every {time he comes into our office. You never take your eyes from him." Lucille shrugged her shoulders. | | “All right don’t speak to me if you tdon't want to!" she said. “But I'm | Just trying to be a friend to you. You don’t even know whether Wells Har. jbison is married or not. Nobody around this place does.” ] Emmy slammed the door of the ' | dressing room behind her and walk- | ed across the Public Square to the | hat store with her chin up and her cheeks burning with indignation. Of course, Wells Harbison waa not mar. ‘ried! He had told her how ‘few peo- i ple he knew in town and what e, the movers were | Of the upstairs work. She did all of 'lonely life he led only a few days ! before when he had met her in the ' i elevator and walked with her as far s the Square where she caught her [street car. He had even asked her ! how she spent her evenings, and she had been walking on air ever since. | “I ought to take the hat off,” she ' | had told herself in the dressing room, | “but it's so becoming—'" | It was only ten minutes to one ’ { when Emmy stepped into his big | luxurious office on that Saturday aft. (ernoon. She had bought the gun- | metal choker beads and the black | hat, and she was wearing them, Harbison was sitting at his desk walting for her. As soon as she sat | down with her pad on her knee he got up and began to walk up and down the long room. He always walked when he was dictating any- thing, with his hands clasped behind ' his back. | At the end of 20 minutes he . finished, and Emmy went out to her own desk in the outer office to type the lctters. When she took them | back to him to sign, he had his hat and cane on the desk before him. “I'll walk down to the corner with vou, Miss Milburn,” he said, picking up his pen, “and we'll drop these into the mail chute on our way.” | (TO BE CONTINUED) i in the morning until she closed them | at night, And in the middle of April there | came a Saturday of sunny blue skies, racing clouds, and warm high winds | —a day that scemed to have been stolen from the golden heart of sum- | mer time, “If this isn't a day for buying a ' straw hat, there never was a day for it.” Lucille Ingham observed when the noon-tide whistles began to blow and she locked up her desk for the week-end that was her Field day, as she called it. “Remember the spuzzy little red turban we saw yesterday? 1 think I'll go and catch it this noon. | | Want to go along?” For a week she and Emmy had | !heen window-shopping up and down clid avenue from the Public square to Twenty-second street, during their lunch hour. “Yes, 1 saw a black hat that T'd like for myself,” Emmy said, and be- gan to lock up her own desk; “and some gun-metal choker beads with a sapphire ¢ It seemed wonderful to her that she could go out into the shopping | district and buy these things for her- scIf. The things she had always wanted: chiffon--silk stockings, 1ds, high-heeled slippers, pert lit- tie satin turbans that were as smart were sl Things that be- | 4 just to her, as Marianna's old es never had seemed really to ng to her. © had $17 left for herself every After she had given het mother for her hoard, and $17 were riches to Emmy, who seldom | 17 cents, i passed Wells Harbison's | t Saturday noon it opened ne out. He stopped her, | his watch from his pocket. | oing to lunch, Miss Milburn?” ! sked .and Emmy answered that | was, in a voice that was much | calm than she. Will you try to be back here at | one?” he asked. Then: “I've some | tters to get out, and Miss Dunlap | Pimples Cleared Away Muncie, Ind.—*Resinol Soap h: worked wonders for me. f.hld been bothered for a few years with pimples on my face and had tried various soaps and Iotions in effort to overcome this condi- tion, but without success. 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