The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, February 14, 1904, Page 5

THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL. &l s 7 74 - Miss Lee— ed out of the open “Yes, 9% ghtn't to try your eyes =0. you know."” t. But needs must, you vhen a certain gentleman be dead broke when I get 4 I'll have to go to s the do ‘ And—and there’s no t evervthing will be ail right, octor 2" wope for the best,” returned doctor cheerily, his' tone a very in itself, aithough his words re not especially so. He passed out the door hutriedly, preventing fur- questions, ‘and beckoning to the 'se as he did so to follow him. A few the corridor he halted. ¢ he sald with a worried look face, “do you know whether itient has any relatives near s dowr m sure he has not,” answered the girl readily. “I've talked with him re- peatedly and learned ajl about him. He n't seem to have a relative in the ‘he doctor's face grew graver. “How T for monex?” just told me that he would be dead broke' when he got out of here. He said he must at_once go back to work." “Back to work at once! He'll be lucky if he ever gets to work again.” The nurse grew white. “Why?” she gasped. “I thought the operation was a certainty.” ““A certainty! Yes, it is a certainty almost—but in the wrong direction. There isn’t one chance in a hundred that he’ll ever see again.” With a mighty effort the nurse mas- tered her emotion. ‘“‘But, doctor,” she gasped, “what will become of him?” “Become of him?"” echoed the doctor, come of him? What be- men who have no friends We'll keep him as long as we ¢ then I suppose he'll have to to the poorhouse for the rést of his life.” A flush of anger succeeded the pallor of Miss Le face. "“Why have you deceived him?” she demanded indig- nantly, with utter disregard of the re- quirements of discipline. “He is sure that he get well. He is building on it absolutely. If he doesn’t"— The doctor looked curiously at the and no THE Rev. Mr. DINSMORE -3 | By Rob. McCheyne 1 04, by R. M. George.) CROGGSFIELD was have & new minie- The whole, vil- was Interested, although there were several churches in the e hamlet, lage for, e generation. committee had 4i- ject, some favoring a ng man and some an older and Brother Williams had e scale by threatening to 1is subscription unless a d “progressive” man should ngly, after much lobbying t part of the Ladies’ Ald Socls t was announced that the Rev. n ore, a young student of di- been selected, and that he occupy the pulpit on the fol- ing Sunday. , day morning came, and, as the new er had not yet put in an appearance, the village was on the alert. He would surely come that day. They were not disappointed. When the 1:10 train pulled into the depot 2 stranger stepped out and presented himself at the ticket window. He was & most affable young man end was jauntily dressed. “Good merning!” he said, and he put such en emphasis on the first word thet It sounded almost llke a chant. Miss Williams, the operator, looked up from her lunch and quickly slipped e half-eaten egg into her apron pocket. “Can you tell me, madam,” said the gentieman, esmiling, “everything I want to know about this historic and progresstve city of Scroggsfield?” “]—]—why, yes, I think so, if you please, sir,” she stammered, quite overcome. “Well, that's lucky for stranger exclaimed “Now, if you will,” he continued, “just tel! me where the new church is locat- ed, and, I swear, I'll remember you in my delly prayers.” The operator had begun to resent his manner, but now she understood. It was the new minister. “It's on South Main street—the church is,” she said, “right mext to Farnham’s drug store and hat empo- rium. But mebby you'd better go down to our house and see paw. He's on the deacons’ committee and can tell you anything you want to know.” “Thanks,” replied the affable stran- ger, pushing his Panama on the t his head and winking boldy at hed and flustered girl. “P'raps E but not "specially when your Oh, by the way, Miss me,” the 1, home. she said. s Willilams. Well, now, Miss tell your pa I'll meet the at the church this evening That’s a good girl. Thanks. Now, here'ssthe hotel?” 2 s Williams looked askance. “The erance House is right across from rch,” she said. stranger gulped hard and went n five utes the deacon’s ad managed to get the word and the village soon knew e new minister was in town. Deacon Williams started d to tell the rest of the commit- tee I et the indignant president of the Ladies’ Aid Society upon his door- step. ‘What kind of a man is this young t»,nsm;:e?" she demanded. “If he preaches to-morrow you can drop my name from the subscription list. The deacon stared blandly. “He's been throwing kisses at my daughter from the balcony of the enthusiastically. @ - -3 Grandview Hotel,” she continued, “and, what's more, she's been throw- ing them back.” The deacon looked pained, and re- fused to believe it; but, at the first cor- ner, he was stopped by the village post- master. “Huh!” says he, “that's a nice kind of a minister you've picked up. He's jes' won five dollars off Barney Miller on a dog fight.” The deacon turned to go. “He says he’ll save that church from bein’ struck off the face of the airth with a thunderbolt,” called the post- master. “They told me Rev. Mr. Dinsmore had original methods,” mused the deacon, “but bettin’ on dog fights an’ sparkin’ with the girls in public’s too original.” At Brother Andrew's he met three members of the Ladies' Ald Soclety, all talking at once. From the medley of voices he learned that the new min- ister had been seen to drink five whis- ky high-balls within a half-hour; that he had tipped the barber ten cents and that he had asked the buxom widow Carewe to go driving with him. The ladies were still talking when the good deacon made his escape and set out for the house of another commit- teeman, whither Brother Andrews had diready preceded him. The brethren met him with reproach- ful silence. Brother Andrews was the first to speak. “Well, deacon,” he said, “you see what your progressiveness has cometo.” The deacon shook his head 1n sclemn self-reproach. “Well, Brother An- drews,” he sald finally, “I'm afraid this young Dinsmore’s too progressive for Scroggsfield, but we'll have a chance to sound him. He’s asked me to gather the committee at the church this after- noon. That's what I came around for.” The three old deacons started sol- emnly off for the church. In the strest there was & great commotion, as two teams went dashing up and down the main thoroughfare, neck and neck, the drivers hallooing In lusty tones and brandishing their whips. As the foremost team passed the three deacons Brother Andrews recog- niged the widow Carewe, smiling gayly from her place beside the dauntless Dinsmore. In another instant . the #porting parson had turned his horses and was drawing up at the church door. “‘Hal™ he exclaimed, slapping the dea- ons one by one upon the shoulder, “I'm just in time, I see. Fine church this"—he waved his hand affably. (‘Come in, come in; I'll not detain you but a minute,” and he led the way into the little anteroom, where the rest of the committee sat awalting an oppor- tunity to pass on Rev. Mr. Dinsmore. “Now, gentlemen,” he said, turning and shifting his hat to the back of his head, called you out here to talk to you about the salvation of this church. I tell you, gentlemen, you're to be commended and congratulated in hav- ing built so fine an edifice to the glory of Scroggsfield, - But, I tell you, gen- tlemen, you've built this church in de- flance of eternal laws—laws that are not to be defled by man. I wonder, gentlemen, that our magnificent build- ing hasn't been struck down by a thunderbolt from heaven. I- B A meek mannered stranger, wearing thick glasses and carrylng a badly scuffed gripsack, had entered the door and was approaching timidly. The speaker stopped in the midst of his harangue and the newcomer stood looking from one to another. “I am the Rev. Mr. Dinsmore,” he sald apologetically; “can you tell “What!” cried the six, starting to their feet. said “Dinsmore,” the stranger faintly. “Then who are you?” demanded Deacon Williams of the first stranger. “I beg your pardon, gentlemen—my card,” and the speaker graciously pre- sented one to each of the committee. “‘J. P. Rowser, Esquire,’” he went on, proudly, “representing the great- est lightning rod establishment in the world. I tell you, gentlemen, your magnificent bullding is in eternal dan- ger from the fierce and vengeful rav- ages of- = But the committee were busily en- gaged shaking hands with each other and with the Rev. Mr, Dinsmore. A girl, then a sense of comprehension came over him. He sighed; he was an old man, but not a callous one. “If you want him to see again, Miss Lee,” he said, “be sure to keep him thinking so. In that lies his cne chance. Keep him cheerful at all hazards, and pos- sibly"'— ¥ The dector turned away, and the nurse slowly retraced her steps to Scott’s roor.. She had known Henry Scott for a vear or more and had liked and admired him from the first. iIn the month that they had been thrown together by the accident that had forced Scott to.enter the hospital this == = 1) 1 PR Hospita AS ONE OF THE FAMILY By James K. Hearne (Copyright, 1904, by M. Wood.) S VERYBODY {n Greenville regarded Manning as “one of the family.” He was the confidant, adviser and friend of man, woman and child, from old Grandfather Pennel (who declared him- self to be & hundred and two, though he was born in 1817) to little Robert Sefton’ Browne, who had arrived in Greenville only three months befors, under the guidance of a friendly stork. On envelopes and billheads he was “Mr. Willlam Manning.” At all other times he was “Bill,” or “Uncle Bil,” according to the age of the speaker. Manning had no particular business to ococupy his time. His father had left him an independent income, and he had only the affairs of others in which to take an interest. It was the universal- ity of his knowledge that made him so good an adviser; he could indulge both sides instead of only one. This had continued for some years, ‘when suddenly Miss Amanda Penrose came to Greenville. She was a distant cousin of Grandfather Pennel's’step- daughter, and this she considered suffi- clent reason why the Pennels should take her under their roof tree. Mrs. Pennel III declared hotly that consider- ing the fact that Lilllan Douglas, who had been the daughter of Pennel’s sec- ofd wife by her first husband, had been dead for three years, Miss Penrose had no right to claim relatifonship. Grandfather Pennel smiled amiably at the disputants, but In the end always decided in favor of Miss Amanda, in- clined thersto by the fact that she was willing to admit that he was a hundred and two, even though she knew better. In the course of time the pitched bat- tles between Susan Pennel and Miss Amsndu ceased. Miss Amanda, silent and smiling, was far too much for blunt, outspoken Susan. In the end she bowed her head to the affliction and suffered, if not in silence, at least with- out direct opposition to the intruder. Having gained her victory Miss Amanda unwisely proceeded to make life as unbearable to Susan as pos- sible only to a woman. In a short while Miss Amanda had driven Susan to revolt. BShe sought out Manning and found in him a ready sympathizer. He was already beginning to feel that this assertive spinster threatened his do- main. She had subdued the family of Pennel, and from certain Iittle in- dications it seemed to him that she thought to dominate the domestic af- fairs of the rest of the village. “I wouldn't complain,” said the weeeping Mrs. Pennel, “but you see, ‘William, you're like one of the family, and I feel that I must tell some one.” “That’s all right, Susan,” he sald, cheerily. “I'll look in in the morning and see what can be done.” She took her departure, still snif- fling, but visibly comforted. Manning sat down to look over the situation. Here he met a foeman worthy of his steel. From all accounts she was energetic, resourceful, somewhat dom- ineering, but for all that well balanced and alert. It appealed to Manning as a case of strategy. He decided that it would be wise to first ascertain the position of the enemy, observing the probdble force he would have to encounter, He put on his hat and strolled over to Grandfather Pennel’s for dinner. He was used to dropping in anywhere for dinner. Miss Amanda met him at the door, for Susan had not returned. She was somewhat flushed, for she had been arguing with Grandfather Pen- nel, who insisted that the War of 1812 4id not happen, since he did net re- member it. He had figured that he must have been ten or eleven years 0U LOVE ME ? . OH DAl 1 10VE You So! el e old at the time and could not under- " stand how sach a war had been fought without his finding it out. Ordinarily Miss Amanda was discreet and waived disputed points, but her an- cestors had fought in the War of 1812 and she would not admit even to Grandfather Pennel that it had not occurred. She was rather flustered at finding Manning on the doorstep. She had heard much about him, and in a way feared his control of public opinion. Manning had not regarded her- yery closely heretofore. Now he scrutinized her very carefully as he handed her his hat and prepared to enter the sit- ting-room. She was a more attractive woman than he had supposed, he ad- mitted to himself. The heat of the ar- gument had left a pretty flush upon the withered cheeks, and even Susan would have admitted that she had good eyes. ' Manning soothed Grandfather Pennel by assuring him that he remembered the old gentleman telling about the war of 1812 years ago, and suggesting that he had probably forgotten all about it. This was an adjustment sat- isfactory to both sides and gave Miss Amanda a respect for his skill as an arbitrator. Having settled the old man Manning turned his attention to his prospective foe. She had been a school teacher in her younger days and was better read than the average. She was a fluent talker a8 ,well. Manning was almost sorry when dinner was announced, even though Susan Pennel's dumplings were supposed to improve any chicken stew ever made. After that ke found that an opponent required more studv than he had sup- posed. He was regularly at the Pen- nels; so regularly that at length Susan took him to task. It was over at his home, and he sat in the cozy arm chair where he had heard the confessions of half the village. “I don't like to speak of it, William,” she was saying nervously. “I don’t suppose I had any right in the first place to ask you to get that woman out of the house, but you see you're like one of the family, and I thought you might help me.” “Amanda’s & mighty flne woman, Susan,” he answered, nervously plck- ing at a loose button on the chair arm, “a mighty flne woman, but you see she’s never had any husband to demi- neer. You can’t blame her when you realize that, you know. Now I think the best way will be to get a husband for her.” Susan sniffed. “You don’t happen to know of any one who wants her for a wife, do you?” she asked scornfully. Manning blushed. “No one,” he said slowly, “that is, quest no one except—myself. You ses, I've Dbeen like one of the family to the ‘whole town so long that I never be- fore realized that it would be nice to have a family of my own.” A \ S, T - CiC S5 feeling had grown to something strong- er than liking. For some days she had known what he would say as soon as he could see again, and had known what she would say in answer. In common with the rest of the world around her, she had never doubted that all would be well with his sight. Now came this blow. Never to see again! poorhouse and there To go to the drag out his days! Never! He shall not! He shall not! ¢ But what could she do? Too well she knew Scott’s spirit to suppose that he would accept anything from her that he would ever say the words she longed to hear; the words that would give her the right to care for him unless his sight was restored. She must get that right before the ban- dages were removed. She must lead him on to speak—but no, what good would that do? If he were to be really blind, she knew he would re- pudiate the bargain. She must marry him that very day, before the bandages were removed. Her heart stood still at the thought. ‘All that was womanly in her revolted. But then—the poorhouse! Ah! she would be so proud to work for him, to care for him. She had no one depend- ent on her and she earned enough maintain them both. She must do i There was no other way. Her thoughts had traveled like lightning. In the few steps between the doctor and the door of Scott's room she had thought it all out. Stead- 1ly she entered and went close to him. “What was it you were saying a mo- ment ago, Mr. Scott?” she asked softly. “Saying?” The man was puzzled for the instant. “About me?” “Oh!" with instant comprehension. *“Oh, Gertrude, do you really want hear it?” He groped for her hand. caught it and drew it to him. “Ger- trude, it isn’t right for me to speak yet, but I must, I must. Oh, darling, I love you so! I love you so! De you love me?” The girl bowed her head on his breast. ‘“Yes, yes!” she sobbed, “‘more than anything else in the world.” “Thank God!” The man grasped the bandages around his head and reck- lessly tore them off. T “I must see you! he cried. “I must see you! Oh, Ger- trude, how beautiful you are But the nurse flung up her hands in horror and strove to cover his eyes. “Don’t! “Oh, oh, oh!”™ she wailed. You'll ruin your last chance. But the man clasped her wri held her from him. “I see you! you!” he cried. Neither noticed the doctor standing at the door, but at the last words he advanced into the room. “You see, do you?” he asked. “I do!™ Tre nurse turned with clasped hands. *“Doctor! Doctor!” she cried. “Is it a success? Will he see?” “Why, of course he will!” answered that gentleman briskly. “The opera- tion has evidently been an entire suc- cess.” —— s By Troy ® HER INSPIRATION -# Allison | R . by K. M. Whitehead.) 1SS SEVIER was wor- ried. She sat at the front bedroom window im- patiently tapping the arm of her wicker rocker with one hand and using a finger of the other to keep place in the book that hung the length of a listless arm on the other side of the chair. She was tired of teas. She had amused herself calculating just how many gallons she had drunk in-the ten years of her soclal career. At 20 it had seemed highly elating to put on her newest gown and drink tea with a crowd of people. But at 30 she forgot to pin on the vio- Jets, even when there was a huge bunch in front of her on the dresser, unless her maid suggested that it would improve madame’s tollette. She sighed in recognition of the fact that real life doesn’t work out like nov- els. Some of her energy finally communi- cated itself to the other hand. She threw the book on the table near and commenced an energetic rocking that kept pace with her thoughts. “Money is the root of all evil, and T've always had too much of it. I won- der which is the worse, a deficit or an excess. I belleve that as a child it was a pleasanter feeling to want more can- dy than to have eaten too much. “The worst feature of this money is that it has always attracted a crowd of flatterers and worthless friends, and has caused so many that I really cared for to let their pride come between me and them. 1 have known John Car- rington for five years, and would cata- logue his possessions—one estate in Vir- ginia, ylelding an uncertain income; one fine tenor voice, and enough proud reticence to supply all the F. F. V.'s ever heard of.” ‘When she mentioned Carrington’s name the hero of the discarded novel gracefully acknowledged the better man, and accepted her lack of interest in him with a humility uncommon to a star of a second edition. Miss Sevier's restless glance took in the novel. “That fool in the novel had a tenor voice, too; but he wasn't handicapped by a lack of self-appreciation. “If I had asked him to sing ‘For you it is a rose, for me—it is my heart,’ at least 300 times in the last three years; if T had played his accompaniment and put in it all the feeling a longing heart could possibly show when supplement- ed by my poor technique, that hero would have understood the hint, would have forgotten all about my money and asked me to marry him. “I know he loves me, but I don’t be- lieve he will ever muster enough cour- age to tell me, unless I donate all my money to a hospital, or do the propos- ing myself.” There was a tap at the door, and Miss Sevier's young niece came rush- ing in. Esther always rushed, so her imme- diate family were never much startled by het sudden entrances and exits. 2 tie,” she tried to make her-re- and explain her plan all at once, “may I write and ask Tom Carter to take me to the party to-morrow night, the girls are all going to ask, and I ‘wanted to know If I might” “What's the cause of Mr. Carter's sudden popularity,” her aunt asked, (Copyright, with a decided amW@unt of astonish- ment in her eyes. “Now, auntie, you know we are not all going to ask him, but any one we would like to take. It's a leap year party, you know.” “I see,” returned Miss Sevier slow- ly, “and you simply want me to under- stand that one Mr. Thomas Carter is the—very nicest boy among your ac- quaintances, eh?” “He’s really nice, the very nicest,” Esther answered, a red flush spread- ing to the roots of her fair hair. “May 1, auntie, please?” “If all the other girls are of the same opinion, perhaps you would be wise to get your note written at once,” teased her aunt. The girl gave her an impulsive kiss and then looked at her with a twinkle in her eye. “I would like awfully to write it on a sheet of your best paper,” she coaxed. After her 16-year-old niece had dis- appeared, having taken some of the best paper and the sealing wax to match, Miss Sevier went back to the window and stood gazing abstractedly at the house across the street. The house had been there for years, but she seemed to study it with in- tense interest. “I know he loves me,” she mur- mured, and she may or may not have referred to the grocery boy that was Just then ringing the bell of the house opposite. She went to her writing desk and cut a very creditable looking heart out of a piece of the best paper that had Been the object of Esther’s admira- tion. Across the face of the heart she printed in faint scrawling letters, “To you it is a rose,” and then rang for her maid to get out her street dress and tell James to have the carriage at the door in twenty minutes. ‘When John Carrington reached home after a trying day in his down- town law office he found that his landlady had put a long florist’s box on the window ledge, where it would keep cool. He opened the box with an expression of curiosity that the masculine countenance often wears when its owner is sure there is no one to see it. There was one long-stemmed American Beauty, and Carrington’'s sensitive face turned crimson when he saw that its stem was thrust through a hastily cut paper heart. That night Miss Sevier's listless mood seemed to have passed away. and she showed an unusual amount of interest every time the doorbell rang. When she had almost decided ths it was too late to expect a caller, Ca rington walked into the room. He had let himself in without ringing and stood before her, still in his overcoat. his hat in his hand. On the lapel of his coat was the half-blown American Beauty. “Frances, I have never had the cheek necessary to ask if you could care for so unsuccessful a lawyer as I have proved,” he said slowly, “but I would like better than anything on earth to know that you sent me this rose.” She drew a paper from the folds of her dress and showed him the sheet from which the heart had been cut. A second later she rubbed her slen- der. patrician nose the rough shoulder of his overcoat.