The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, July 16, 1905, Page 10

he country when neighbors get inquire of one an- ever became of old They know what be- they hundred times, they “What her have discussed but the cuestion as to » prompts some one about him, stories that heard so often as to be able foretell what is coming, word for afternoon. Beneath headed out, was Off in the sky a buz- leepily ated, like a somber memory in nd otherwise clear. Along the v ox cart creaked its dry-axel- ay. Old Limuel sat on the ground against an oak. A ban- ¢ cerchief showed red in his beside him. On the sward se £ fellows were sprawled, . Jlding a tuft of grass in o f be were too lazy to s§ )Id Brisintine was talk- & r of shoes that had r mo an a year when ncient resident, with hairy chest exposed, a glimpse of winter stut quired as to what ever be- came Rodney Salem. Every one im. The old man spoke fe could ask more ques- s than a boy out with his grand- father. would naturally argy that be to never did. result in wis- he'd compelled but he iiry did t result in anything but ect once that an I reco nglishman to the town of Purdy, t one that was eyer seen re, T reckon. He wasn't dressed so differ m other men, but the min- everybody stopped to a good deal, all he was an aveled , but with it ort of a man. Hg was sitting n front of the hotel when old Rodney Salem came along. He sat down on a i asked the Englishman if he t think it was going to rain. The answered that he didn't ile and then asked him “*Ah, , what's the news in your settlement?’ “The Englishman started as if a d raked him; ‘I don’t know, I'm Rodney studied for a moment. ‘Old town, ain’t it?” he inquired. Heavens, yes, ma’ 1 'lowed so from all T'd been able ain’t it? to gather. On a river, Yes, on the Thames. Suffer much from high water?' ‘Not at all’ “‘Have no trouble with June rises? * “‘None whatever, sir.' tre * ‘Cypress , I re growin’ along the “The Englis looked at him and £ald nothing. Old Rodney went on: ‘I "lowed they must be June for I hearn somethin’ about a tower there and I thought mebby it was bulit so as to give the folks a chance to git up out of the way of the freshet.’ “The Englishman looked at him pity- ingly and sald: ‘No one knows when the tower was built.” “ ‘Mighty nigh as old as the river, I reckon. Ain’t there a man livin® there named Gladrock? ‘Do you mean Giadstone? Well, yes, u might say he lives there.’ ‘About the emartest man ain’t he? *A very able man, ‘Ggt mortgages on the whole nelgh- borhood, I reckon.’ ““Really, my dear si very peculiar I must say Veedn't say it unless you want to, May I ask what your business is here?’ he Englishman started again, but an- swered: ‘I'm here to look at timber.’ ** ‘Political timber? Wall yander goes on, candidate for Sheriff, about d timber as we've got." rises, in town, you are very, **‘Oh, trees. Don’t want to buy a 'pos- m dog, I reckon.’ ‘I do mot." e got one that never told 2 lie in life. Is the Queen a right sociable of an old lady, sir?’ **'Sir,” exclaimed the Englishman, you are unendurable. I am a guest of this hotel. Evidently you are not. Therefore, will you please leave me?’ “*Excuse me,’ said Rodney. ‘I dldn’t want to tech on anythin’ unpleasant. If she ain’t soclable mebby it ain’t her fault. See the Prince of Wales right fregently, I take it.’ ‘I have seen him, si ** “Along about six feet, ten high, ain't he?' *“Will you go away and leave me?' * “Excuse me if T have pried into family affairs, but I'm sociable. Did you hap- pen to know Shakespeare? They tell me he iz 2 great writer. But I'll bet you our county court clerk can come up to him. His name is Withers, and he can write all day without makin’ a blot. Do you know * “The Englishman jumped up, selzed Rodney by the collar, wheeled him around and kicked him into the street. Rodney got up, takin’ his own time about ‘If you ain’t busy next like to hire you to it, too, and said: week, mister, 1'd thrash my wheat.” “But you were asking what became of this feller. He kept on asking questions, year in and vear out, and apparently @ * A WILLFUL WIDOW = e O altogether I'm in a deuce of & fix,” copcluded Carruthers. He sprang to his feet, looking for all the world like a big, per- turbed boy, as he paced rest- lessly across the library floor. He was so well-formed, with his straight should- ers and the fine, flexible lines of his body, that he appeared to be ten years younger than the thirty-five allotted him by the family Bible. The his brown hair would curl—even at thirty-five. “I understand,” sald Claridge. In truth he did not understand at all. He had no children of his own. Indeed, he found the caprices of his fashionable wife quite sufficlent to absorb his attention. But he liked Max Carruthers, and it did seem to him— “They’re such adorable little things, Max! And you're so absurdly wealthy. 1f it were not for our house being closed for the summer and Clotilde doing Europe for the 'steenth time, I'd ask you to let us take the tots. One fancies that & man with your money would have no difficulty in finding a person—"" A rather desperate laugh interrupted him. ““Ah, the ‘persons’ who are willing to take care of my little people, Claridge, are the bane of my existence. I've ad- vertised. I've met and talked with them. Harples, all. Some would undoubtedly give the children proper care as far as physical requirements go. But that isn't enough. I want to find some woman who would really love them for their own sake.” “That ought to be dead easy!” growled Claridge. “‘Of course, I think so; but then they’'re my bairns. I want some one who will give them a bit of mothering—kiss the THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALI. By HKate place to make it well, and that sort ot thing.” “I have it!” exclaimed Claridge. He brought his fist down on the arm of his®chair with a bang. “The most idyllic old home in the country that vour eyes ever rested upon. It's a big, rambling house, almost covered with Virginia creeper. There's an tmmense, well-kept lawn, and clematis across the porch, and the house itself is just filled with the most delicious scents. The bedrooms are perfumed with laven- der. And as for the food—why, it's something to set an anchorite sigh- ing “But what makes you think the pos- sessor of this ideal home would wel- come into it two rather lively chil- dren? If it's only a question of mon- ey— Claridge shook his head. “Go slow! That's the difficulty—it isn’t a question of money at all. And my powers of persuasion may be less effective than I think with Mrs, Var- ine, but I'll try.” “Your friend is a widow, I presume?” Claridge smiled—a dry, slow, curious smile—his legal smile, Carruthers calleq it. ‘““Yes; she happens to be a client of mine, mine. Oh, yes!” he repeated, as though convincing himself of the fact, “‘S8he’s a widow!"” * ‘When Carruthers called a few days later, to ask if Claridge had heard from. Mrs, Varine, the latter jumped up briskly. £ “It’s all right, Max. You are to settle ~ the question of payment with me. Mrs. Varine says she'd rather take nothing. She’s very lonely, is awfully fond of children, .and is delighted at the thought of having the youngsters with her during their vacation. You'd bet- . ¢ RSPRG0S M. Cleary ter take them down next Thursday. Oh, by the way, there's a condition. Mrs. Varine does not wish to meet you personally!” “What's aghast. “Well, she doesn’t!” reiterated Clar- idge doggedly. “Maybe she has no rea- son but a woman's réason. —Anyhow, she’s entitled to her caprice. Her aunt, Miss Howard, will meet you on your arrival and show you over the place.” “Queer,” muttered Carruthers. He looked up sharply. “You say you know the lady—that everything is all right?” “I say she's one of the sweetest women God gver made, and that you may bless your stars she is taking your children into her home—which means her heart!” He had spoken with warmth. Carruth- ers held out his hand. “Thanks, dear boy! You're a mighty good friend.” < It was at the close of a perfect June day when a little party reached Celar- ville. A surrey, drawn by two fat white ponies, met them. About two miles out- side of town the driver turned off into a wide carriage road, that wound up an avenue of ¢ims and oaks, till a .turn brought in view a great sweep of emerald lawn, beds of scarlet geraniums, a foun- tain flashing in the golden light, and a sleepy, old vine-covered house, that looked hospitable and picturesque. “Let us out, papa!” implored Eustace. “Is it fairyland?” queried Dorothy in a timid, entranced whisper. " The gentle, faded woman who received the travelers had a face.like a cameo, " and appeared to harmonize admirably ‘with her old-fashioned surroundings. She showed Carruthers the rooms the children were to occupy—airy, immaculate rooms, ‘with blossoras nodding in at the windows. She offered him luncheon, which he de- clined, apologized for the invisibility of _her niece, and appointed a day each week that?” cried Carruthers never knowin” more than when he start- ed. 'Finally he got all the information he could get about here and then took his load of Ignorance off down somewhere in Alabama. And when he was down with his last sickness he wore out the doctor with his questions. One night he sald: ‘Deck, do yow think I'll live till morn- in’?” The doctor told him that it wasn't likely. ‘Then about how long? Till 12 o’'clock? Say, then, ten minutes to 12. T ought to live till then, oughtn’t I? What particular part of my machinery seems to be givin’ way most at this minute? ‘Why, I feel putty strong—but I can't 3 Al- surroundings, they let him go without a protest. When he came down the next week it was to find the two rosy, radiant and he was to come to visit the children. ready charmed by their ecstatic over their environment. He took them info town, bought them some small trdasures, and listened to their raptures about “Florence.” She had/made a mull dress for Dorothy; she had gone fishing with Eustace; she played the piano for them while they were having a game of hide and seek, low or loud, as they Were “hot” or “cold.” And they were going to have a party one of these days, with luncheon served under the biggest oak. “But who is this lady who is so kind to you?” “She's just Florence!"” they answered In chorus. “She’s good as a real mamma, only she plays like she was just a little girl."” Always he heard these tales; and al- ways, it scemed, the playmate, Florence, was the center and source of their joy. Later In the season an important business summons made it imperative that If he were to sce the children before his trip West he must run down at once. ‘Walking up the avenue he stopped short at the bend of the path. For on the velvet sward a game of tag was in pro- gress. A slim, graceful young girl in a pink lawn gown was the pursued. “You're it, Florence!” cried Eustace triumphantly, as he succeeded in touch- ing the fleeing figure. And jugt then, as the victim paused, flushed, breathless, her copper-gold hair loosened from its pins and falling in a bright shower below her waist Dorothy caught sight of the pew- comer, and set up a halling shout. “It's papa! Here's papa!” she cried. The captive made one wild movement toward flight, but the victor manfully held on to her. And, after a laughing protest she came over to Carruthers, where he stood bareheaded, his eyes -~ hear very well. Between my ears and everything there seems to be a silence so thick that it can’t be plerced through. Lean down, dock, I want to ask you a question.” The doctor leaned owver, but Rodney didn’t say anythin’; and the doe- tor. looked at his watch and said: ‘And it ain't 12 o'clock—quite.” ™" One of the young fellows remarked: *“But, Uncle Lim, how is a. man ever to know anything unless he inquires?” “My son, there’s a difference between inquiry and questions. Inquiry is silent; questions are generally asked, not for the purpose of gainin’ knowledge, but be- cause some feller wants to hear himseilf talk. The inquisitive man is usually the idlest man. Questions are a form of lazi- ness breakin' out. The laziest man is usually the greatest talker. Wisdom 1is sometimes so busy with itself that it keeps silent. You ean always hear ignor- ance. It asks questions when it can’t in- vent anythin' else to say. The worst thing for a young man just startin’ out is to want to hear his own voice. Be- cause his employer is polite enough to listen he imagines that his talk is winnin® a place for him, but nine chances to ona. he'll be the first feller discharged. The habit of not askin’ too many ques- tions is a sort of wisdom °itself. The readiest talker ain't the best com- panion. The man that causes you to think s the best companion, for there is nothin’ more pleasant, more thrillin’ than the birth of a thought. Whenever an old man conceives a new thought he is for the moment young again.” “But, Uncle Lim, how fis it with woman? Is her best companion the one that causes her to think?” “Look here, young feller, Rodney Saleni kin to you?" “He was my grandfather.” The cld man arose. “Much obliged to you for the information,” he said. “Good day.” (Copyright, 1305, by Opie Read.) [Coa O gleaming with admiration, and held out her hand. “I've been doubly caught, I'm afraid, Mr. Carruthers! I did not dream you were coming to-day. or I should not have been found engaged in such an undignified pastime. My name is Florence Varine.”” He leaned forward. “Mrs. Varine's daughter?” “No,” she colored deliciously. Mrs. Varine,” she explained. “Impossible!” exclaimed Carruthers. He looked at her amazed—mystified. Why, she could not be much over twenty! And Claridge had said that she was a widow! “I was a very distant relative of Mr. Varine’s,” she explained. “He wished to leave me his property, but there would have been contention and litigation on the part of others more nearly related were he to do so. But when he knew he was dying he asked me to marry bim, that he might legally will me all he possessed. He dled an hour after the ceremony was performed. Mr. Claridge was present.” “But,” stammered Carruthers, “why didn't Claridge tell me? Why was I not to see you?” “Oh, I was afrald if you knew how young and irresponsible I was you would not let me have the children to take care of. Mrs. Claridge had told me what darlings they were. And I was so lonely down here. We've had such good times together.” She paused, gathering up her shining hailr. She looked at him with luminous gray eyes, grown suddenly ap- prehensive. “You won't take them away now that you know?” she entreated. “Assuredly not!" he made quick re- ply. “They're the most fortunate chil- dren in the world. For the first time since the death of their mother I have felt quite happy about them.” It was astonishing how easily the im- portant business matters of Mr. Car- ruthers could be set aside. He grasped at the invitation to stay to dinner as though that meal were in truth to save him ~from starvation. And when he finally did discover that if he would catch his train back to the city he must exercise all haste, it was with positive dismay that he left the three who stood on-‘the terrace, waving him farewell. The next morning he walked into Claridge’s office. “You'll have to take a run out and attend to that Montana matter, Clar- idge,” he sald. “I can't go.” “Can’t, eh? What's up? Something more important?” “Very much more important!” He was smiling like a boy, and his eyes were shining. “Fact is, I've not been seeing enough of Eustace and Doro- thy. I'm going to take a room at the hotel down there—they tell me there's good fishing to be had—and I'll see more of the children.” Claridge stared at him. Then he nodded and laughed. “You've seen that willful little widow down at Cedarville.” Carruthers went off laughing. ‘When he came in a few weeks later the tan of country wind and sun was on his cheek. He walked llke a con- queror, with his head up. And his voice had a ring good tq hear. “Congratulate me,” he commanded. “The children are going to have the loveliest mother in all the world!™ Claridge gripped the other's hand warmly. “You're a lucky dog, Car- Tuthers!” “I know it, Claridge! There isn't a king under heaven I'd change places with! And those children—" Claridge laughed leniently. “You infernal fraud!” he said. (Copyright, 194, by Kate M. Cleary.) wan't old “I am