Norwich Bulletin Newspaper, July 4, 1921, Page 2

F Queen Louise could have stepped I from her heavy frame and vied with Louise Bragdon as she de- scended the stairs where the portrait of the world-famed soverelgn hung, sbe would have found that her queenly grace and clinging charm had indeed found a rival. To the girl madly climbing the so- cial ladder while she wrested with the perplexities of the newly rich, the por-' trait was the only pleasing, euphonious note from their obscure past, but then, Louise had been too young to remer- ber the day her mother had jubilantly brought it home along with her pur- chase of a $2.50 palr of shoes, and lat- er had bought the handsome frame from an itinerant framer of pictures; and deavy, indeed, must have become the heart of the Iittle queen which her graceful fingers upheld through chang- tng years as tho old furnishings 204 Gecorations one by one faded into the dagpised pust. Soun after Mr. Bragdon had sudden- iy fallen upon the hold of his {ncom- ing “ship,” fashiom luckily cast her whimsical shadow across their pretty street; one by one those of too modest means had sold their homes; one by ono those homes sprang from the magic touch of the master architect into things of beauty, and while the Brag- don home retained its outward contour, ness had given way for airy rooms where overstuffed mahogany and gleaming black walnut abounded. Louise glowed from tip to toe with satisfaction and winked saucily at her life-long emulation, for the gowns which she had just been trying on were exquisite enough for the taste of any queen, whether she ruled a realm or only & tiny coterfe such as the exclu- sive Lathrope Club, of which Louise was president, and tomorrow night would be the night for which her soul had hungered and thirsted through long ages. Tomorrow night her Prince Charm- ing would enter the chamber of her heart and she must be regally decked to meet him and wideawake to greet him ; for somehow she was very sure that Joyce Keating’s cousln, who had studied in foreign lands for years, and whose name everyone breathed with something very like awe, would be in truth her ideal. And—she caught her breath, while the crimson dyed her soft cheek—when he should ask to paint her portrait. She was very sure he Riches and the Cure would ask. When he did she would be descending a broad staircase, as grace- fully draped and carefully posed as any queen of any age. “Louise, dear please come here and see if these hang straight.” The girl was startled from her day dreaming by her mother’s voice. She dashed into the spacious living room. “Mother!” she exclaimed aghast, “oh, mother, you are actually draping thoge curtains standing on that awful stepladder right in front of the win- dow! Oh, suppose, just suppose some of my Lathrope Club should see you! Why, why do you insist on perform- ing menial tasks? It's a crying dis- grace. . Mrs. Bragdon wanted to lnugh at the tragic intensity. “Do not forget, dar- ling, how very recently I did all the work. Delia has a toothache and of course Maggie is needed at home.” “It isn't our concern that Maggie's little brother was injured,” retorted the girl with a petulant stamp. Mrs. Bragdon had held her rare common sense and enviable poise high above the tide of their onrushing wealth, and an overpowering desire to literally shake the nonsense out of the daughter wallowing in the foam of the golden breakers made her forget her insecure perch. A thud, a quick ery of mgnhh ‘swept the pout from the girl's full lips and kindled her eyes with symathetic con- cern. Capably she helped her mother to a couch, anguishing in tender so- licitude. Gone was her supercilious foolishness and only warm, throbbing, girlish sympahty gushed clear and sparkling from her tender heart. Mrs. Bragdon smiled through her pain. “Oh, Lou, sometimes you are so discouragingly foolish that I'm apt to forget what a genuine heart is hidden in your lovely body. Fetch me the remedies, dear, and I'll soon have this painful swelling in subjection.” Mrs. Bragdon stopped short in her twining of the antiseptic gauze around her anguished ankle. “Darling, you'll have to take Aunt Prudence to fill her appointment with the oculist. Her eyes-’ are paining dreadfully. She must go at 10:30 and it’s 10 now. Burton drove dad in town this morning, so you can't use the car, and you know auntie never, mever ‘would consent to 2 taxi, so you'll have to go on the street car.” “Oh, mother, can't Maidie—" she be- gan, ‘but her words fell flat, for she heard her sister’s voice mingling with a masculine voice at the door, and knew that a $5 an hour musical in- structor could not be juggled with a girlish qualm. A sudden whim sent her to the hid- den corner of her closet, hunting a lit- tle three seasons back dress. She re- called how everyone had complimented her on that particular dress. She couldn't say just why she chose that little out-of-date thing rather than an ultra chic frock. Perhaps her new ‘set’ would” not recognize her so readi- Iy. Ot course she loved Avat Prudence. She was a dear, dear old lady, and when at home among the fine old fur- nishings of her own room which Louise had named Auntie’s Renais- By Joella Johnson . sance Boudoir, there, within her habi- tat, Louise loved to fetch her friends. But on the street—impossible! The old-fashioned cape, bonnet; why, oh, why wouldn't Auntle go to Madam’s and be prqperly gowned? The girl for- got how Prudence Bragdon had sacri- ficed that her little orphaned brother might be educated; fqrgot that, be- cause her aunt had given up lover, of wedded bliss, pretty clothes, every- thing dear to the heart of a normal girl, she, Louise, and the other mem- bers_of the family, were now billowing over fortune’'s waves, and that while Auntts waited here, resting from the past strenuous years, roundig out her allotted time, that fashion's call could not penetrate the wall which self-de- nial had builded. Bo she stood with old-fashioned Aunt Prudence, waiting for the street car, feeling frumpy and abused. A roadster was approaching, she would not look, she might be recog- nized. So she did not see Joyce lean uderstandingly back in the deepest corner, or Joyce’s companion lean Joyce's party was pronounced a suc- cess, Louise didn't think so. In fact . she was disappointed. She'd expected 10 meet a prince full of foreign allure and courtly grace, before whom she'd preen her queenly charms; but Hamer Keating was disconcertingly ordinary, and, yes—rather commonplace. How- ever, her outraged vanity was molli- Mbyhhnm-llullflunry next evening. He did call, mamdwmmm Prudence in her Rensissance boudoir of which Joyce had told him, and he asked to paint her sitting in that room, he also asked Louise to pose in the picture wearing the little muslin dress she had worn the first time he had seen her; the day she waited for a street car. By the fime the picture—which the artist named “Renascent”—was fin- ished, all the foolishness had been brushed from the heart of the girl, and at the end of the year two struggling young artists were jubilant over schol- arships. They didn't know, of course, that those scholarships were bought with the savings from Louise Brag- don’s dress allowance, and at the same year's end two other young hearts—a male and a female—were beating as one, its Interior kitty-cornered, cutup cozi- ELLO! you three wise guys,” H Burton entered the sametum of Stedman, Stedman & Sted- man with the familiarity due to long friepdship. Mr. William Stedman, the oldest member of the firm, flecked the ashes off his cigar and elevated his eyebrows slightly. “Why the joyous 'salutation, Bur\- ton?" he asked.. Burton dropped into = chalr opposite the speaker. *“Turn around, you two,” he demand- od. And as the other chairs faced the circle he went on. “Well, boys, why 1 dubbed you the three wise guys, was for the corking, little tip you gave me sbout that copper deal. Pulled off a neat bit, mighty handy just at Christ- mas, take it from me. Going home for Christmas, and of you! If you do (end of course ome of you will), I want to send your mother a holiday gift. I tell you one thing lad's, she's a star, your mothef is. Well,” burton arose and stretched lazily, “I'll send over your mother’'s gift by a messenger when I get back to the office, give it to Ber with my compliments. It was perhaps some five minutes Iater, that Mr. Jambs Stedman broke the silence. “It's three years since So long,, “I haven't written for six months,” Mr, Edwin Stedman studied the pat- tern on the carpet with down-cast eyes. “He hit it right, mother is a star,” Mr. Williém Stedman’s jaw squared a bit more than usual. “Boys,” he faced the other two sud- denly, “there isn't one of us. whose family will miss him, and even if they should we can't let anything stand in the way.” Almost impatiently he reached for the phome. “T'welve o'clock tonight,” they heard him say. “Good; yes, for three; good- dy.” He turned to the other two. “There’s a train goes at midnmight. {'ve phoned for reservations. We can all go home, explain matters and we'll reach mother’'s Christmas Eve. We had almost forgotten that mother was a star, hadn’t we, boys?” He put a hand on each of their shoulders. “Did you hear what be called us?” Mr. Wil- thm's voice was @ trifie shaky. “He called us three wise men.” "ngl?" questioned the others. “Were we not told that the three wise men went to pay homage to the star? Was Burton right when he called us wise men, lads?” Three pairs of eyes met. “You bet Burton was right” And though Mr. James and Mr. Edwin both spoke, it wes as if ome man had uttered the words. Mrs. Joe Stedman stood back and surveyed the work of her bands with almost childish delight. The clean white muslin curtains were draped back with strips of gay scarlet cam- bric. In one window burned the Christmas: candle, but ‘twas the other window that held the master art. The little old lady’s eyes gazed on it with deepest admiration. “Joel,” she asked, a flush on her withered cheek, as her husband came into the room, “ain’t it just beautiful outside.” The old man brushed the smow from his coat. “It sure is, Martha, why I saw it a half 2 mile down the road; where did you get it, anyway?” His wife poured their coffee and drew the hot biscuits from the oven. “It was Johnnie Watson's idea; he made it out of his ma’'s old washboil- er. First he traced a pasteboard star and then cut it out of the tin with his jackknife. But wasn't that the dearest thing how he thought of punch- ing holes in it, so’s the big light would show through. I was plumb surprised when he gave it to me to hang in the window, and I was so pleased, too. “Joel,” her hand reached 'over and found his. “Johnnie says the star will shine and shine, and bring a stranger to our door. And Joel, I've felt sort of queer all day and perhaps the stranger will be one of our. boys.” Her hus- band patted the toil-worn little hand, but his brows knitted into a frown. “I wouldn't bank on any of our boys showing up, Martha,” he said bitterly, “a stranger might come, but the boys, nevér. There, there, mother, as her, chin trembled. “I've writ and writ, 1 might as well tell you, and even at the last, when I found we'd have to go farming out at separate place; for the rest of the Winter. Well, I put my pride in my pocket and asked each of the three for money. I told 'em I'd be stronger in the Spring and I'd pay back. Bill wrote, ‘affairs were tied up some, but he'd send money in a week or two.’ That was six months ago. “Jim sald he'd be down and fix us up, but he never come. “Ned wrote, ‘he expected to make a big deal and he wouldn't forget us,’ but he did. Mother, dear;” his arm went about the quivering little figure. “We're not going to be sorrowful our last holiday together, are we? We're going to be strong and pray that, when the winter is over, somehow we’ll be stronger again. And who knows, Martha,” he tilted her chin and smiled into the faded old eyes, “a stranger may come to our door to- night and trouble and bitterness must not welcome him.” “Perhaps, Joel,” she said, “the star will even find one of our Dboys and bring him home.” It was most 11 o'clack when three men, fairly loaded down with packages, stood in the little dingy depot of their home town. “Merry Christmas, Jason,” called Mr. William Stedman to the old station master, “how's everything?” “Merry Christmas, yourself,” return- ed the old man; “never expected to see you boys in this town again. Things ain't adoing very smooth with your folks. I'm glad you've come to take 2 hand.” “Jason,” they told him, “we were a long, long time coming, but we are going to make up for it.” Down the road they saw it gleam and beckon, and when they had fol- lowed its light they looked in the win- dow of the little white house and saw them hand in hand watching the star. A Soft Answer. “Sometimes you talk to me as if my head were solid ivory.” “Charlie, dear,” breathed young Mrs. Torkins, “do you think it is as valuabls as all that?" - - T— Mrs. Newbride—When you found that you couldn’t accept the invitation to our wedding, why didn't you send your regrets? Miss Ryval—Oh, I thought you'd have enough of your own pretty soom, dear. T've been home,” he sald. 8. 8. BIRMINGHAM, Lisbon, Portogal. U ® “Dearest Dollys “] can not begin to tell you how giad I am again to be writing you, guess I acted like a cad about Ted Corling—hut at the same time you must admit, little girl, that you gava some cause for anger. Dear, can’t eall it quits? And as for—" The letter fluttered from Molly's fangers. Who in the world was writing to her like this? Why, she had never bad & sweetheart in all her lonely life, and out of a clear blue sky;—this. 8he flished guiltily ae she thought of the “little girl,” and hurriedly picking up the scattered sheets, finished reading. The rest of the leiter was filled with thrilling tales of travel, bits of hu- " merous adventure, and-—between the lines—a man's yearning for home and “his” girl. It was signed “Monty.” Moliy's life had been singularly un- eventful as far as men were concerned. Evor since she could remember she had ltved with her mother as her only companion—the mother whose soul and mind were buried deep in a past of which she never spoke. Molly passionately loved to read and she had early manifested an unusual and beau- When a Body Needs a Body By Parke Whitney titul talent for writing. Of a shy, sen- sitive disposition, she sought no com- panions but her books and writing, gnd thus grew to womanhood—a bit lonely, perhaps, but gtill sweet and true. Her mother had furiously denounced the {dea of college and steadily re- fused to aid her, so Molly, with her characteristic gentleness, had quietly but firmly held to her resolution and was now working her way through college. The day the letter was received she had been, for her, unusualiw blue and lonely. She could not help feeling in her se- cret heart that the letter could not possibly be for her, and yet—it was rather nice to be called “dear”— Molly hastily snatched up the envel- ope, and as she scanned it a second time the smile died from her face; “To Miss Dolly Roberts, Sargent School, Cambridge, Mass.,” she read. So that was it! She had frequently been confused with Dolly Roberts be- cause of the similarity of their names, although they were as different as night and day. Pretty, frivolous, fickle Dolly—-whr, the whole school was talking about her now fer eloping quite dramatically a week ago! Yes, and the man's name had been Corling! A lump rose to Molly's throat and threatened to choke her. Never before had she realized quite how lonely and alone she was. She sat quite still. A daring thought had entered her mind; this Monty was a safe distance away. Dolly was cer- tainly beyond caring—School would be closing now in a week and Molly could send him her Summer address. Who would be the wiser if she wrote to Monty, pretending she was Dolly? She could typewrite her letters, so that Monty would not suspect; he was too far away to hear of Dolly’s latest caprice. Molly, at this moment, was far froiy the placed being her school- mates thought her. The plan was carried through with- out a slip. Molly wrote one of her intimate letters—clever, humorous and sensible. An answer came in time, then letters flew back and forth all Summer and Fall. A new tone had crept into the man’s letters—wonder- ing, insistent, that had not been there before. To all his love-making she was steadily impersonal in her letters; what was breathed into her pillow o'nights Molly never revealed. Thus mattcrs stood until one erisp morning in early December. As Molly wasg leaving the school building, a tele- gram was put into her hands, and with a sinking sensation in her breast, she tore open the envelope. The, words stared up at her through a blur: “Meet me on 2:35 train today. Must see you—Monty.” Molly stood dazed; her little gvorld #touch on her arm, and a deep voice was crumbling about her feet and she ‘was powerless to stop it. Monty here! Bhe repeated it to herself dully, again and again. He was so fine and hon- est, he would despise her, think her a cheat, a liar, she told herself miser- ably. She wished vaguely that she might die, but instantly put the thought from her in scorn. No, the only thing to do was to meet him and confess the whole wretched business. As the hour approached, Molly’s sen- sitive soul’ shrank from the.task, but somehow she found herself at the sta- tion, waiting with a heavy heart to break her poor bubble into a thousand crystals, The train rumbled into the station, the great gates swung opep, and a throng streamed through. Molly, sick with misery, turned away and leaned despairingly against the iron gate. Suddenly she was startled by a said a bit unsteadily: “Molly, you were—so good—to come,” In her distress she did mot notice that he called her “Molly”; she did not even stop to wonder how he knew her. She had only an instant’s impression of a tanned, rather good-looking face, and earnest, smiling eyes, then— “Oh,” she cried, “you—it's all a hor- rible mistake—I lied to you. I opened your-letter to Dolly by mistake—and I was lonely, and—" The pitiful' recital ended in what sounded suspiciously like a sob, and the tall young man-in the ensign’s uni- form patted her shoulder-clumsily. “There, now,” he soothed gently. “I knew all the time—and I'm glad Dolly did elope, because now I have you.” Indignantly Molly shook off his hand, and demanded warmly: “You—knew ?* “Well, you ses,” explained the young man genially, “when I received your first letter I knew that somebody quite different from Dolly had written it. I made guarded inquiries of my sister Peg, = senior at Sargent, and she told me about Molly Robbins, who was always being confused with Dolly Roberts. It sounded reasonable and so—well, I've been busy falling in love with you ever.since. Why, I knew you the minute I stepped through the gates.” Molly’s opposition was fast @imin- iehing. She allowed herself to be led to the street, but once thers ghe stopped suddenly. “We havem't been properly intro- duced,” she declared, primly, “I dos't really know you.” “What you don't know,” declared ths young man magnificently, “won't hurt you!” N —_— Obsessions. “You go to your desk regularly of late.” “Yes,” replied Mr. Dustin Stax. *1 rdto play golf to take my mind off rk. But I got 80 interested in the game that now I have to go to work 1o get my mind off golf.” LD Nat Abbott, his ruddy face beaming with an important secret, covered the (frosen country voad as though his clumsy shoos wers eight-league boots. He had Sust made an unexpected eale of winter wegetables and the hand in his coat potket clutched tightly a little leather Bag from which iesued forth & plessant fagle. “Gosh, won't Emmy be pleased,” he mused boyishiy. “I'm good and tir of that old one with the red feather. Seems as though everybody in town must know It's nearin’ its sixth birth- day. Guess Emmy’s good and sick of the red feather herself or she wouldnt have tucked it away somewheres. Well, she won't have to think up new ways of trimmin’ it any more,” he finished” napkin ring. resolutely as he mounted the cottage The delicious aroma of hot ginger- brond almost made him forget his setret, but there was Emmy, all uncon- selous of the impending oceasion in Ree sombre life. He smiled to himselt, and with studied deliberation washed up and took his place at the head of the table. “Btorm brewing, mother.” “What 2 pity. The Ladies’ Ald hold a rummage salé tomorrow, and folks won't come if it storms. They need more money then ever this Christmas, too.” “Perhaps it won’t snow,” he answer- ed nonchalantly, and then as she still busied herself about the kitchen, “hur- Ty up and sit down, Ma.” She brought in the dish of steaming stew and almost spilled it over the ta- ble as she noticed the familiar little leather bag reposing jauntily in ‘her’ “For the land's sake, Nat, what on earthb—?” she lmed atit in bewilderment. He was grinning like a schooiboy, “‘Twon’t bite, mother, open.it.” Gingerly, as if handling precious jewels, she spilled the contents of the bag on a corner of the table, and in silence piled the quarters above the halves and topped the heap with a pin- nacle of dimes. “What's it for, Nat?” He beamed gally, “Guess, Ma.” Fioger on lip, she thought deeply, “A new ofl stove for the sewing room," she guessed eagerly. N0 Again she pondefed. the dining’ room?" “Curtains for “Nope.” gayness, Suddenly she thought of a recent visit of her daughter and family, “I knew Pa, skates for Bobby and a doll carriage for little Louise, for Christ- mas?” “No,” his smile had vanished and his fingers were nervously picking at the table ¢loth. “Well, then, let's see.” The old lady was getting puzzled.. She wanted to Buess correctly and please him, but she could not think of the all-impor- tant need of the moment. “I don't know, Pa, unless perhaps it's & donation for the Ladies’ Aid Christmas dinners,” she finished wist- fully. Nat’s voice was losing its anything yourself? fThat's for a new hat, Emmy.” “A hat?” she gasped, as she looked at the leaning tower of possibilities, “why, pa, mine'll do this year yet. I fizxed it over. Didn.’t you notice?”. “Notice? Course I did, and so aid averybody else in town. It's the an- nual town puzzle—where’ll Emmy Ab- bott put her red feather this year? You buy a new hat, mother.” Quietly she gathered up the money again. “I can't, Nat, not thig year, there's too much real need in the world. Why, the little Blakes over here haven't any coats to thefr backs.” He waved aside her arguments. That money’s for a hat, Emmy Six years is long enough for any ‘shape,’ much less a red feathered one.” She shook her head determinedly, “No, I can't, Nat.” . Without gouching the raisin ginger- bread, of which he was very fond, the and went out, the silent closing of the door testifying to his pent up feelings. Having dreamed of Emmy's delight in a new hat, her utter refusal to pur- chase one encompassed him in deepest gloom. She watched him as he strode down the walk, and was struck as never be-* fore, by the bent shoulders and the silvery hair that curied up around the edges of his old cap. “Poor pa,” she sald suddenly, “I was wrong. "Taint the gettin' of a new hat that counts, but the pleasin’ of him.” Bhe thought a moment, and then laughed. “I'll do it.” She hustled in- to her coat and an old fur cap, and tueked the red feather hat into a bag. She took another look at the bent fig- ure plodding in the direction of the town, and then she slipped out the back way to take a short cut in, through smelly woods and stubbly woods and stubbly fields. “No, it ain’t. Don't you ever want.old man picked up his coat and hat Old Nat sauntered into the village an hour later. His brow was puckered in an unusual frown, and the friends he met wondered at his brusqueness. He had passed tte drug store and the lit- tle cobbler’s shop, when his eyes, wan- dering aimlessly toward the next win- dow, stared and opened wider in amazement. His mouth gaped, too, as he moved closer to the window. A hat, suspended gaily from the gas jet, was the object of his wonderment. A hat with a red feather ‘tucked away some- wheres underneath.’ Am elaborate red inked card bore the price, 25 cents, There was not another hat like that in town. Spellbound, he watched it gyrate before his befuddied brain. A light touch on his arm brough him to his senses, and turning he ecoun- tered the blue eyes he loved so well and above them the rim of a soft brown hat, which recalled courtship days. “Do you like this one better, Nat?" she asked wistfuily. He gave one last look at the spinning red feather, and ‘then turned and tucked “his-arm— through hers. “There ain't no cum-. parison, Emmy; folks won't have to hunt for the red feather any more.” Old Mrs. Nat smiled happily to her- selt, and it was her turn to pat a pocket where reposed the remainder of the vegetable money, enough to pur- chase one of the Ladies’ Aid dinners for the little Blakes' Christmas. Sl BN A In Father's Footsteps, Mrs. Smith—Does the baby take aft- er your husband, Mrs. Jones? Mrs. Jones—Yes, indeed. We have taken his bottle away from him, and the other day the little darling tried to creep down the cellar steps. —_—— A Quarrel Averted. She—Before’ we were married you used to send me flowers and choco- lates every week. He—Very well, dear, this week, as a great treat, you shall have sugar sad » potatoes. i The Bare Truth. He—After all, where would woman be without all her finery? She—Presumably in her bath.