Norwich Bulletin Newspaper, January 10, 1920, Page 14

UNT MABEL had just gome back to her stitching in the sewing room after having been up and down over the stairs for at least 20 times that afternoon. Before sitting down at the sewing machine she stepped to the window, to make ‘sure that the boys had moved their lemonade stand into the shady spot she had recommended, when she heard neighbor Gray’s 6-year-old Bob- by say “Freddy, isn't your Aunt Ma- bel good to us? I think she is awful- 1y pretty, too.” & “She's good,” responded Freddy, ju- diciously, “but she isn’t pretty. You ought to have seen my mother when she and father started for the races this morning. Father whistled when he looked at her, and said, ‘Well, gir- lie, my wife is the handsomest woman I ever saw!'” “But, Freddy,” persisted the loyal Bobby, “It is always your aunt that stops to help us fix things. She's nev- €r too busy to bother.” “You bet she’s good, but father said the other day that she was a—a"—and the.pause Freddy made while he tried to recall the phrase only caused it to sound a bit more cruel, when it came, “a back number, and mother laughed and said, ‘poor old Mabe, that just de- scribes her.’” The cold drink venders now spied prospective customers, and , Waving their hats to arrest the progress of some automobilists, shouted, “Nice cold lemonade, five cents a glass.” They did a thriving business for the. next two hours and soon forget their discussion, but not so the unintention- al ‘eavesdropper. Mabel Osgood's cheeks flamed, and tears stood in her eyes. Was she a back number? If this were true—who had made her so? ‘When her only brother and her two sisters had married she was 23, just out of college; athletic, musical; so wide awake and laughing that she was the life of every social gathering. That wag nine years. ago. “Am T the life of society events to- day?” And she laughed dens{vely at her own question. As she went on and on summing up evidence as to whether the verdict she had heard quoted was just or not, she began to see that perhaps the ‘hateful name fitted her, after all. And she determined to sift-the matter to the bottom, . % Mabel was always a lover of chil- dren. When her small nephews and nieces began to arrive, she became their instant adorer and slave. Of course they loved her in return, and gradually in all three homes there was an increasing demand for “Auntie Ma- bel.” No one thought up such clever games, no one had such funny stories 10 tell, with dancing and singing all mixed in, 'she was dependable when there was sickness, she invariably took charge of the families when the parents wanted to get away on a real good rest, and she was a good cheery soul to have about at any time. Oh, Mabel was always a welcome visitor. Freddy's remark recalled chilly re- proofs from various friends. When Mabel failed for the third time, that very month, to joln some of her college friends for their annual hike in the Adirondacks, Betty Smythe had said “You know, Mabel, we shall get tired of asking you by.and by. It seems to me that every time you've been scheduled for something particu- larly interesting, for the past five years, some of ‘your young relatives have been teething or measling, or scarlet fevering, or the land knows what, just at the moment we most wanted you. And pretty soon you will be 1€tt out of our plans, for what's the use? You are always needed as a nurse or housekeeper, or entertainer at Ned’s, or Bertha’s or Laura’s.” It hurt, oh, it did hurt, when she realized how completely she'd shut herself off from her former sports, out- ings and friends, only to be dubbed a back number. The next day Mabel anxm\mced that she was talled to New York on busi- ness. Bertha appeared rather injured that her sister should take just this time to go. “You know'I was plan- ning ‘to run down to Bar Harbor for the week end—but perhaps you'll be right back. IS it business that will take only a day or two?” Mabel shook her head. fancied she might weeks.” “Not weeks, Mabel, surely you don’t forget that the 31st is the ‘date on which we three couples tak: the mo- “No, she be away some 7o P tor. trip up through the Berkshires!” “ Still Mabel could not set the dnte of her return. Laura telephoned that evening rath- er petulantly. Ned, who was always for .temizqriz- ing, said “Oh, don't get in such a frenzy. She’ll be back "in no time. She can’t keep away from the chil- dren.” But Mabel's months. ‘When Betty Smythe returned from a shopping tour in New York she brought back the news that Mabel— Aunt Mabel—was really “going the pace.” She laughed when Bertha de- manded what -she meant. “Why, I mean nothing more than that she is getting to look and appear like her cld self. Her gowns make people look twice, and sha is dancing, riding horseback, golfing and growing hand- some every day of her life. 1 tell you, Bertha,” and Betty laughed a bit ma- Hciously, “Mabel is the most fetching, up-to-date creature you've seen in many. moons!” Betty also quoted Mabel to Joha stay lengthened into Rodgers, the wealthy young widower, who was onsidered the greatest catch in town. He had paid marked atten- tion to Mabel, for some time, but as she grew busier and busier with the nieces and nephews, he gradually invited oth- er, freer girls to accompany him to places of amusement, Still he did not marry. In New York, however, John Rodg- ers found Mabel a very different. per- son. While business kept him there scme weeks what more natural thing could happen than his asking her to attend theaters, operas, dinners, etc.? She was at liberty to go, always lively, and faultlessly gowned. She kunew just what he ought to buy to carry back to his small 'daughter, and en- tered interestedly into his discussions about the child's educaticn. He found her so exactly to his liking that when he returned home Mabei was wearing an engagement ring. “Mabel,” asked John Rodgers, a few weeks before their marriage, “I have often wondered just why such a change came over you all of a sudden. After liking you tremendously it all at once scemed to me that you did not care for The Return of the Lost 1SS ANSTISS CARR was hav- ing a bonfire in " her back yard. She had brought out &n apronful of rubbish, flung it into a M heap and touched a match to it. Now she stood over it with a long stick, prodding the reluctant flames into greater activity. OIld letters and old photograpbs. byurn slowly. Today she was forty years old, and fihe felt that she had come to the part- 8t youth was over d :faced her, She must put away the things of that roufhr and iavest herself with new, un- romantie mleru's She must resign Rerself to her. spinsterhood. So as a preliminary to house clean- ing lfi w-lahnfixw mementos of her d#ad youth!” She had risen early and unlocked the drawer that held tkem all. She had emptied the con- tents of the drawer into her apron, not daring to let her eyes linger upon any .coc thing, Those _precious, long- -hoarded leiters and photographs, with talentihes and holiday cards scattered emong them! They told the story of three years’ romance—a romance had continued to live in spite of every hindrance, like a candle flame burning brighter in every draft. It was her own hand that had at last extinguished the candle flame. What was the use of having it burn longer? There were her bed-ridden mother and her dead sister’s little: daughter to be cared for.” 'How could she marry a man poorer than herself and inflict so great a burden upon him? They had parted quite calmly. He went away and she stayed at her post.. She had her memories * and her ~drdwbfful of mementos and she made them do for Seventeen years. In the meantime her useless, life-weary mother died and the little: Anstiss grew up and married very well. Anstiss was free. But freedom bhad come too late. = ""So mow on r fortieth birth- day, she was submitting the material portion of her dear romance to the flames.. By so doing, she hoped to ad- Jjust herself mentally to the new con- ditiors of ‘her life, which were yet the old «eonditions,” only without the sav- fiig grdce ‘of hope, “He had gone at her word—gone never to come back. She had known it would be so when she sent l;i;n‘iwa'y. Yet for seventeen years she had dreamed of his return. His face leaped from the holocaust, his happy, smooth, young face stirring with a smile as the flames licked it. She shivered and turned her eyes; catching a glimpse of words starting forth upon a:shriveling page, “Always true” i = A breeze came flirting across the garden and pounded upon the bonfire. The lcose papers scattered into a swirl. One blow against Anstiss' cali- co skirt. Tn. an.instant she was on fire. There-was a shout and 2 man hurled himself across the yard toward her. He flung her upon the damp earth, snatched off his coat and cov- ered her with it. The flames died im- mediately, and she rose sofled and blackened, with her skirt and -apron in fringes. The man was getting into his clean but shabby coat as best he could with one arm. The other arm was gone at his shoulder, Anstiss put ocut her hand and helped him. “Thank you, lady,” he said. - “No,” Anstiss sald. Her breath was coming back. “Thank you a thousand times over. You saved me from being burned up.” “Oh, I don’t know,” said the man. He was stooping to pick up some packages of needles which had fallen from the pockets of his coat. He was very, very thin, and most of his face was hidden under a graying beard. His cap came down over the rest. There were only-his eyes clearly visible— blue eyes, tired, but with plenty of hu- mor in them still. “Do ~you sell needles?’ Anstiss asked. He fished a package out of the very edge of-the bonfire, which was fast becoming an unrecognizable, charred mass. “Yes; I sell needles,” he re- plied. ‘Folks object to straight beg- ging nowadays, else I suppose I'd be called a beggar.” “How did you lose your arm?” Ans- tiss persisted. She felt very kindly toward this poor fellow, who happen- ed along just in the nick of time— “though I suppose I should have had wit enough to lie down and roll the fire-out,” she had thought, “My arm, lady? It got crushed in the mill where I worked, and the doc- tor had to take it ofi—¢lear up to my shoulder. ty well. It was only my left arm.” “And that’s why. you—" Anstiss paused. She could not go on with what she had started to say. But quickly he seemed to read her thoughts. “No; that isn't why I'm begging. There's lots of things aone- armed man can do, and I've been do- ing them for years, ever since I lost my arm.” His blue eyes twinkled. “I'm out on a little vacation now, go- ing round among the places I used to know when I was a boy. So far not a soul’s known me. And they mostly buy my needles, too. There’s lots of worse things than bejng a beggar, miss.” “Yes, there are,” Anstiss sighed. She looked at the dying bonfire unconsci- ous of the fact that man’s blue eyes, grown suddenly keen, were scrutiniz- ing her. “Burning up old keepsakes, lady?” ke queried. “Well, I don’t know but that's- 4 good way to do with things when you've done with them. But 1 ‘was never one to do so. I-got a pic- ture in my pocket I've ‘carried for nigh a score of years, and shall carry See? But I got along pret- till I die. I'd beg round the world for the chance of seeing her face 2gain. And I suppose maybe she made a bonfire of my picture long ago. Women can't hold to an idea the way men can, someway.” Anstiss turned on him. Beggar or no beggar, he must be put right. “You don’'t know what you are talking about,” she said fiercely. “Women do hold to an idea. But what's the use? When they're bound down by circum- stances, and have a conscience, they keep their feelings to themselves. And then after twenty years or so they make a bonfire and try to face the fu- ture without a heartache—if they can.” “So!” said the beggar. He looked at the package of ngedles in his hand, then held it out to her. “Take it,” he said, and his eyes twinkled more than ever. “An sew you a new dress apd apron with-them: - And before I go I want you to taks a look at her pic- ture.” ¥rom an jnner pocket he drew the little clasped case and laid it in her hand. Anstiss opened it and look- ed upon her own young face. “Even after seventeen years I couldn't make By Phil Moore my Society—you bad 50 many excuses for tuming down all my invitations, And you scrt of lost your sprightii< ness. He added ‘perp!.exadly "'nen how you blossomed cut!”, Mabel told of the conversation ks had overheard, and how it had hurt her feelings: “I decided to u-y ‘anottw er life for awhile.” “But, my dear girl, aren't you. aflcr all, going to settle right back in tha same dilemma—become agajn a_back number—by marrying me, a ‘widower eight years your senior with a ¢hild to ‘take care of In the bargain?* And~ he looked a bit troubled. . ‘Why, you dear old goose, fan’t you see that it was simply vanity on my part? I only wanted to show them that 1 could really bz as up to dale as any of them, if I took the time and opportunity.” And, with a peal et laughter, she added, “To tell the truth, 1 was terribly lonely for the small folks. I am but a poor tmitaglan of a social butterfly. I'd rather: have a child on my knee than my fcet in a stirrup, or my hand| on' a,temnis racquet.” a bonfire of that, Anstiss,” the beggar said. She gave him a wild look and lmew him. “Emmett” she gasped. He patted her shoulder gently, “There, there, Anstiss,” he said, ten- . derly. “You see it wouldn't have dono for me to come back on you unawares any other way, and I knew it, Besides, I wanted to see how you'd receive me minus gne arm. It has taken m'e years to get up courage to come back to you, loving you though I did all the while.” “Y'd given up hope,” Anstiss whispe ered. “Oh, I'm so glad you've coms back. * Beggar or no beggar, you're Emmett Hall to me and always vm be.” The twinkle in his blue eyes was ob=: scured by ‘tears. “There now!” ha cried, and his voice shook. “If I was a beggar I'd be rich enough after those words. But I'm no beggar, girl Look!” He thrust a bank bock into her hands. But Anstiss never locked at the re- cently drawn balance, the figures of which might have made any Woman glad. She was looking at hkim, and her face was very joyful. ‘Showing Her Character By Abner Anthony HE had been in the city all day S shopping with Mrs. Hazen. They had talked about the trip for three weeks, but the weather had hindered. Then came a succession of mild, bright days, and they seized upon one for their purpose. Chrystal had arisen at 6 o'clock, and at 7:30 ghe sat in her car at Mrs. Hazen’s door. It had been the usual day. Chrystal had bought two hats and three gowns at MacNamara’s, luncheon at the Geor- giana, gone to the matinee, shopped a little more, had a cup of tea and bowl- ed to the station in a taxl. Her head ached, but she was not worn out like Mrs. Hazen, who looked pale with fa- tigue as she leaned her head against the cushions, And yet Mrs. Hazen had bought glmost nothing at all—a few thngs for.the children, perhaps, but scarcely anything for herself. For the first time all day she re- membered her husband. She felt a tiny prickling guilt, He had been looking so tired and serious for a few days that she had been glad when he had gone away on busi- ness yesterday. He needed a change. She wondered eagerly what he would bring her. Last time it had been a diamond cluster ring.. She had fings enough, but she did want a new muff —sable preferably. Probably he would bring her the muff; he never forgot any hint of hers. And she had not got him a thing in Benningsburgh. She had had six cargless, pleasant years with him. Hers was the finest house in town, the finest car, the finest clothing. And she was the most beau- tiful woman. If she ever worried at all it was how' to spend more money. That was really her happiness. And she spent it all for herself. She was selfish, possibly, but why not? Life conspired to make her so. “I'm thinking,” ~Mrs. Hazen said, rousing herself, “how pleased my lit- tle girls will be with what.I've got for them. I.can hardly wait'to get home and tell them. They'll be wild when that express parcel comes tomorrow, and such a time they’ll have opening 11 “I'll be wild, too,” said Chrystal, “until I find out whether they altered my sand taffeta to suit me.” Strung along. the adjacent darkness were twinkling home lights. Mrs. Ha- zen looked out. “I always ' wonder which one’s mine,” she said. “Tom will be at the station to meet me, of course.” ; “I don’t expect Edmund, even if he has returned,” Chrystal replied. “But there’ll be the car. I'll take you home.” A moment later she said, “There’s our car! and Ryan! Come, my dear.” “And there’s Tom!” cried Mrs. Ha- zen. Chrystal went to the car and left them to follow slowly. “Mr. Paige home?” she asked the chaufleur. “He came this morning. “He’s not well, I think. He’s been at home all day}' “It’s his stomach,” Chrystal thought, “He ought to doctor for it, but he won’t.” She left the Hazens at their door and sped to her home. She entered from the porte cochere, started up- stairs and then turned toward the door on her right. study course. He was there. He lay on the couch It led into Edmund’s and he would be there, of with his face to the wall and his arm over his head. She feit an instant’s alarm. He must be really “Dear!” she said. She went to him, bent over him and tried to move him. “Dear!” she said again. And then she saw his. face. It had a look that frightened her. “Edmund! Why didn’t you have them call the doctor?” she cried. He shook his head. “Mine isn't a case for the doctor, Chrystal.” “What do you mean?”’ He sat up wearily and rubbed his head. “Never mind now. I'll tell you later.” She sat down beside him. “Tell me iy now! I must know. Oh, Edmund you can’t be ill!. I can bear anything but that.’ * “Can you?” he muttered. “Anything!” Chrystal said. ~She put her arms about him and drew him to- ward her. She had never seen him ke this, and she was moved to ex- quisite tenderness. “You'd not rather I'd lose my mon- ey?”’ “A thousand times rather.” He drew a long breath. “That's it, Chrystal. I've lost about everything. stoeks went down yesterday to the bot- tom. - I guessed wrong for the first time in my career.” “I'm sorry,” he said, wistfully. “I'd rather have died. But, of course, I can begin over again. Lots of men do. I'm énly’ forty-three. If you'll hLave patience, darling, I'll win it al} back for you. I guess I was too ea:ger tc make money. If only I'd let-well cnough alone. It only—" : “Hush!” She put her hand over his roouth. “Of course you'll begin dyer again,'and I'll help you. There shall be two of us to play the gaime now in- stead of one. Heretofore, I've been merely a spectatqr and a spender of the gains, but now we’ll go into it to- gether. Aren't we partners in life, tho bad as well as the good?” He put his arms about her, His heagi lifted; his face shone. “I never dreanr= “ed you were this kind of a ‘woman,” ho And: I'll be worthy of such a nobleress. ) Shy felt beaten but now—why, look at me!” * said. “You're noble, Chrystal. he laughed. “I could fight the world and conquer it, too!” By Joella Johnson where she was seeking refuge from the heartlessness of an inconsiderate world, Constance pulled out the letter for the hundredth time that was the immediate cause of her fllsht from trouble. : “Dear Connie,” it sald, "when you read this I will no longer be of this World, therefore beyond argument. So for once, dear little granddaughter, you ¢an not wheedle the old man into ebangng his mind. I'm afraid that I've ON the train to the fishing village, ) done wrong, always allowing you to @o as you wished, for you are impul: sive and, some time, 'm afraid, will i run your head into a noose that may, tighten. The thing I have in mind 15 } marriage. You are old enough now to think of a husband, but not old enough 1o think of a suitable one. You are ro- mantc and sentimental, which, of course, isas it should be—a girl ought to be thnt—and if you had a parent I should never worry about it nor take thé step I now éonsider necessary for’ your welfare. Unless I do you'll like- Iy marry some one for his eyes or his voice or" his uniform, and not consider the rest of him. Then when it's too late you'll be sorry, . e hd‘en&en to mk your sterling all through. Now Tom is poor, and as his grandfather was my friend I feel as though I owe something to the boy. “It’s this way, Connie. You and Tom get married and you get all of my money—the.two of you. If you don't— well, the only way I can see to pro- tect you from fortune hunters is to leave my money to the war reliefs.” There was more which does not ¢con- cern us;and ‘which there is little use of - relating; but Constance had “bolted” —taken the first train from the city 3 to the haven she always sought when in trouble, her ofd nurse, Becky, who “had married a fisherman-and lived in’ a little town on' the Connecticut coast. “Tom Phipps—Tom Phipps!” Con- stance scorned. “I don’t like the name to begin with, and I'll die in the poor- house before I marry him!” Then one day she discovered some- ‘thing. - One of the flying objects was Dot a gull at all. It was an airplane— Which thrilled her to the ends of her romantic toes. And it was headed for shore, which excited her still more. Nearer and nearer came the plane, straight in from the sea. It was so close now she could hear the drum of its engine, the quick staccato beats growing louder every instant. -Now it was overhead only a hundred yards or so up. Constance watched it, fas- Suddenly & man leaned out, called something she did not hear, and threw an object to the ground. Constance closed her eyes in terror, expecting something dreadful to happen, but nothing more deadly occurred than an innocent “putt” on the ground at her feet. Slowly opening her eyes, she discovered a small canvas parachute with a weighted wallet attached, the kind used in dropping code messages in France. Inside was a folded paper on which was written, “Please find Miss Constance Harrington and tell her to signal me at 12 tomorrow. Wave white flag yes—red flag no. Leave for France on Monday. Thomas Red- fleld Phipps.,” Constance ~redd it twice, petrified. By that time the airman had turned and was headed out to sea-again’ to- ward a newly established government aviation base. Thomas , Redfield Phipps!- Tommy Redfield she’d always played -with! She was puzzled over the last ilnmg until she remembered that an English uncle had died and requested him to take the family name, as he was the last of the line. That accounted for it. To think of it! = Tommy Redfield coming after her in a flying mdchine. Could anything be mare romantic? After all, that is all that concerns us except a telegram and a letter flut and may ttke a notlon’ mg':gmy old Mr. Travers was chuckling over” in his office about an hour after Con- ' handiers * stance had waved a white chief to & man in a circling airplane on the Connecticut coast. The letter : - had been taken from the safe. It w: onme from his old friend and client, Constance'’s grandfather, 3 % “As to the young ., people,” it ran, “there won’t be any. trouble abant them, Sm Only Cq&xme i;’wi isn't pleturesque enoug! X rleg ;g, sure ab. likes hhn. but y gether a"a.in ia some u:n.:nbm Cock up something diYeréntZand” f will all be over but the eerfim