The evening world. Newspaper, March 25, 1916, Page 11

. le The Romance of (Coprright, 1914, by Bobte.Merrill Co.) SYNOPSIS OF PRECEDING CHAPTERS, A New York woman suddenly tired of 5 of the. than, why r all" por old™ te ‘sud take down imcetiits, calling henge Baar ‘ thg miracle of as tory Y Hig ep the” poet himself ‘ap Vonton ani Itita meet. by woods, They \are old acxuilnt- knew the oties was at Sweet ‘of a shameful eecret in \ s id Grows fo hate ‘hie, \ CHAPTER XX. 2 (Continued.) A Revelation Is Made. Spring Lady sat close by her and held the wasted needle-pricked fingers. There was a wind stirring among the flowers outside —tt swayed the window curtains Ughtly, shook the old door latch gently. The house was old and full of faint creakings and tiny noises, Because of this neither the dying ‘woman nor her watchers realized the presence of another, just outside the partly opened door. The white-clad, white-faced girt @tood very still, It was only when Martha sank gray and spent on her pillow that she moved. Then she set \ her little basket on the hall stand noiselessly and went outside. Her face was drenched with pallor, Stricken, stern in expression, \\ By the gate an old bench stood 5 soared by tall day lilies, She sat ] down here like a figure from which ‘ youth had suddenly departed. Her ‘ face looked older, tragic, disillu. > sioned, She sat without moving for a long time, like @ symbol of devastaiing grief, too terribie for tears, ‘The wind brought her flower perfumes, scent of the pine forest, the sw . of blossoming fruit trees, but she id ‘ ys was conscious of nothing. NAfter a while—minutes or hours knew not which—Seraphy Ba yened out from Martha's w 4 closed the shutters sof:! te later Rita Ashe, pale and me out on the porch with din her arms. As the girl rose from her scat ft out through the gate. Vlooked straight ahead as sic id she walked like one with w Y Purpose. People seeing her own the street from axe said in low voic ce girl's dead 4 CHAPTER XXI. The Plain Truth. YNTHIA had no trouble to find Paul, In an upland pasture she knew he wa superintending the ciearing out of brush and stone by Sime Hathaway and several oth Even before she spoke he read sor hostile tidings in her eyes, for his * face sobered, For 4 moment sho could not utter a word, then she said quietly, “I came to find you to tell you. Martha is dead.” He started and whitened under hi tan, There was the briefest paus You know “What are you gol! found volon sf last, tried to do?” “Ive done my duty, What any man would do, She might have had en allowance for her child.” "Your child.” There was a hard note in Cynthia's voice look at her uneasily he said sulle jan't a pretty subj ; by discuss. I'l! do my duty-finan- elally, if that’s what you ask, But u=-why, Cynthia, you've been my Helena. Can't youe-you don't know the world—the man's world. You see the sentimental side, Why should you bother?” She stopped him suddenly, “That's what | want you to kno he said in a lowmvoice. to do?” She Wait have you r she said steadily; “why 1, a girl, came to tell you. It was not only to tell you that the boy—your son neads you now, has only you--nor to tem, you that ‘we know-—what you are’—he winced—"“but to tell you ething else as well. “PF came to tell you becuse it has @ special meaning to me to know you, find you out, You see, it's hard~ est on me, of all, bocause-—I loved 7eTne man opposite put out his hand ‘out volition, eried Cynthia harsh: me. It's “Don't speal “don't misunderstand f Tis T came to talk about, to let you know. This thing that was, but isn't Oh, Paul, it meant so much You'll never ecting love me to feel- y should you? now. to me-loving you { know. It wasn’t an it was just enough f ‘You never myenaee 1 WAYS 80. PY ae young face. was neither soft mor pretty now, but the man did #7 not neo. His face was livid his eyes still on tho ; bay or fooled me," she cried tensely, “fooled all of us—but most of “all, me, That's why I eame to tell you, For you killed something of mine—something that was lovely and precious and worth while~-to me. It isn’t only Martha who died to-day-— it's some one clxe that was dearer to me than life. Some one who had nothing despicable nor ba about him, ‘This is what I wanted you Yo know—ob, Paul, if you could saved me that—to—to Know that you could be—tgnoble and unworthy,"— her voice broke, faltered. Richter’s face was ashen, He moist- ened hig dry lps. “My God," he whispered. * “It’ isn't that maf may not sin Cynthia's young yolee rang with Judgment; “one might even forgive te ut to break a life-—and to ha iy To let a light 9 out, after all the bitterness, and ‘o the consequences~to conceal Stat one's done, to skulk under a 3 mask—that's why I loathe you now, “That's all,” she said wearily, “all that I camo to say. For the rest— you Must do what is best, What is \ hide by safe and snug, i) Who Made a Strange Experiment. The Evenin a New York Girl he repeated in a lifeless voice; then, white and silent, she left him to his seeming contemplation of the dis- tant mountains, ‘There was a flat rock along the water's edge, screened high by cat- tails and tall marsh grass. In her childhood Cynthia had played on it often, She sought it now. “To help others,” she vowed, She had always been a “helping hand" but she meant now to live for this, And suddenly she had her first literal opportunity. For Van Vorden came down to the water's edge. His clothes were torn and his face was bleeding from a split lip and an ugly cut above the temple and one of his eyes was closing fast; and Cynthia forgetting her own eyes, started up. “What has happened?” ‘she asked breathlessly. “Ive been fighting,” he managed to say; ‘I've been trimming your pillar| of respectability—the Vessey person." | “You've been fighting with Portcr | Vessey!” cried Cynthia, scandalized, “Licked him, too,” he bragged, “But—in your condition? And he's so big. How in the world did it ever begin?” Dh, I began it," said Heiney; “I ked him down, to be exact. He de a remark to me I didn’t Uke —concerning a party I admire. I've owed him a few scores for some time and L tucked in a few for Rita Ashe. I had my hands full, too—be- ing off form, He's a meaty beggar— with a rush like a bull She ministered to him as only her deft experienced hands could, and presently the blackness and mist left him and he looked up at her and saw her eyes. “You were crying when T cam he said; “why did you cry, Cynthia She told him simply, unaffectedly. He was very still when she had fin-| ished kn we felt it was that way, all) along. And now you know your {dol has feet of clay. The clay hangs to all of us, Cynthia. Time will help you.” ° “Perbaps,” she said, but her tone) denied it “God know I hope so. Cynthia,| if I could only tell you how much] I'd give to spare you the slightost heartache, How much even to give you back this precious Richter cured | of his fault"—— u're a good friend,” she said. | No,” he said, “I'm not. 1 led in| the beginning. I said I wanted your, inter friendly interest, but I did, not—I wanted your lovesand that's} madness, isn't it?” He had taken her hand and she made a sudden move to withdraw it ait, Cyn- thia,” he said, “wait just a littie— Cynthia, T can love as I fight. I don't know when i'm beaten. Listen, dear—you don't believe it, but time! will make all the difference—it will heal anything. That's what I'm go- ing to wait for. My doctor telis me) I'm going to pull through—with ni | And then—don't look at me, Cynthia I'm @ hideous mess—f know it's nc the time nor the place when you'r still crushed by this thing--but, de this is all 1 ask now: that it will never make any ence to you-that you want go away and let you forget all about me—that there neve? may be a time when LH be necessary to you—mind, it binds you to nothing—it you teol this--then—take your hand away, Vi know then. She began to cry softly. “How can I tell?) How can I know? Oh, Heiney, don't desert me now. Life r if you teel differ- seems wretched cnough—but | need you, Per) s—voh, [don't know what will co But if you cure to Wait—you may keep my hand, Heiney She let him hold it and they sat very quiet, After a little he raised it to his broken lips and kissed it. She made no sign. Her thoughts were still wrapped in shadow—griev- ing over the broken fragments of her ideal, But Heiney's heart was full of peace, When Cynthia left Paul Richter did not move for a long time. It was only when Sime Hathaway shouted at him that he roused to make a gesture of dismiasal and stride down the hill side, He went to Martha Bruc cottage, Rita Ashe opened it to him and this made it harder than he had expected, but he saw it through. “I've come,” he said loarsely, “to 1 think he will she sald gravely, “he's erled Himself to sicep, poor little fellow But when he wakes he will be glad. Won't you come in and wal She held the door wide and he pagsed in silently, CHAPTER XXII. A Discovery. HE two women came up the hi very slowly. They came froin the little graveyard where Martha had been buried an hour before, and, each busied with her own thoughts, cared Seraphy at | little to speak. t broke the silenc ‘Anyhow, Martha's at peace now —an' litle Rob looked out for. Everything's right side up at last.” “Everything,” agreed the other, but ber voice was listless, and Sera- phy looked at her sharply. “f am going away,” went on ote ho old woman's face looked strangely while, “You don’t mean” trouble with her breath—"you ain't thinkin’ of leavin’ me?" “But I've got to, Seraphy, I—you understand—1 can't stay any longer. J must go back to the city. 1 couldn't very well take you along’ She tried to speak lightly, but her voice faltered in spite of her. ‘craphy did not look up for then she said slowly why b to stay d love to,” said the girl simply, “but it's-money. I can't afford it” phy breathed a deep sigh of abe had a litte mo- What » you Buin’? Don't you relief, ‘So that's it, Money, Now s'pose you listen to me, I got a littl myself an’ there's my place, not much, but somethin’, An’ the tenants ts goin’ first o' next month you can't meet the rent here, what you say tu you an’ me goin’ there a while? s* long’s I've got anything, wo e to h g World Daily Magazine, Saturday, March ae, ae a Barrel Skirts «x«ecws Barret BARREL SKIRTS ARE THE LATEST VERY HANDY For TEA TyPEWRITER GIRLS BARREL VERY CONVENIENT WHEN IN A HURRY oR TiRED ae B SHE'S SHE DION'T NURS GONE SEE US SEE HER sf ‘ 4 5 7. The gurden'd furnish to give tu. tan’ I can chore around plenty to a little Rita uttered a little cry and ran to her, “EL must think—I'm not angry things aren't as you think the Only lot me think" She brushed past of God in it, of a mighty and aw/ul Volve speaking from eternal spaces When tho first swift whispering suddenly and moved toward the door, came, the girl looked up from where Seraphy--you old) dear—do you “You ain't goin’ out? An’ you so she lay on the pine-needles and s think I'd live on you?" , tired—un' they's a storm a-comin’ that the sun had A: to: ehing "Ed be real glad to have you." soon. I'll make your tea, You'd best the lace-like edge of th There was a quiver in Seraphy's stay here.” Seraphy shrilled the words he lave-ili t voice and suddenly the younger at | sudden agony of alarm in was din always here in Woman threw her arms around her her face. “Don't go out now—L e'n aloofness of the pine wood, “L believe you. You're the kindest hear it thunderin’ ". ’ but the dusk of it began vo give place hing ule ustn't, £ She made ‘0 follow, but Rita PUb the dy thing. But J couldn’t—1 mu he made as If to follo LoPECHUALUIBE eR eavieETiLne aivalvote palit of night, and the sound of the old woman throug: wood, It the cool haven't any money, but 1 couldn't do motioned her back with an imperative I'll go away and make some—" hand Low'll ye make it? “I want to be alone, Seraphy- thunder reached her. It grew cooler don't know" —— want to think” Before } The alr-currents, — moving “And what's. the need we face, and strangely shining ey Avong the slim sentinel trees, touched could git along? Look a’ |i Her aphy fell back. her 4 Was coming harsh old face worked with sudden She watohed the slim figure disap re lay, close to the t emotion, “L ain't got nobody on God's pear through the garden into the road ‘ shioned on a carpet earth to set store by. Once | had with a heavy heart. of yleluing softness, woven of intin a little sister—a white little thing “Can't be she knowed,” she mut- !le Weathered needles, soft cobwebs with hair like yourn—and the Lord tered. “Lord God,” she whispered, aid tino silt of the earthy Bi didn't even leave me her. All My “fix it all right fer her—let it come Watched it coming and was glad years has been spent in workin'’=Just’ right in the end." After the swift rush of emotion that Arudgin’ along—till you come, An’ — Sfechanically she picked ww the bluy Mild everbowered her; that Lad driv you're so pretty an’ gentle-like—it's iereup ene re quietly into ee Chrough long iniles of unciiaking, | bien just fun to work for you, I'd ding action, sho 4 now, its place. une ¢ fingers to the bone fer ye. 1 | P ’ actached ih spirit f¢ her dont care what folks thinks or ays. 9 Twenty minutes after durk riders lito--trom, even th fact Catal nai tniabe wath f you Of cloud moved across the window that had come into her lif only wouldn't leave me. Seems like Panes and a heavy wind, blowing jike © curlous unconcerned 8} from westward, thrashed the elm tree { t the gate, tore from the creepers and bushes in the garden a myriad als, white and pink, to wir y there won't be nothin’ left if you go away,” she said miserably “LE couldn't forget you, ever.” Rita was crying now. “Hew cheek on hand, sie waccuved threatening sky cr Wood and saw ug down, » Up Seraphy: me Oe them in endless eddies’ across putli soug of the pines, mighty and en knows home one~I feel 89 and lawn, Far off acrosa the. fiver ind ible, was like wre u wre tein fdo"——= the thick, yellow ray fox meant rain, to } Neither darknes “You could try it, You could wait while from the cloud-bank piling up troubled her-—nor br @ while an’ se If it's only money outsh the rumbl of thunder crew oof ther intainside where you won't want for a livin’, Atte more and more freque It was apt alor This Was what ward—when you're real strong—then to be dump in the house after a storm, Preseutly when she had. 1 if you had to, "Pain't as though you — With deft nervous fingers Keraphy tho storm was above she would need care about folks, | won't—if laid @ fire ready for the mateh, drew into the. fuller understatdl! you'll stay with me, I'll take good close the windsor chair, placed dress- sought, and would know what to do. care of youeand you can stay closo ing gown and house shoes in rea Af r a litle a drop of water pleveed with me tlt everything's over"— : ness. And between while her anxious through the thick shelter and she Slowly Rita's hand dropped from yes explored the darkening valley jnew it must be raining ou ; she the old woman's arm and a curtous Tad, watching the keen wind whip could feel it like am impalpable’ veil transfixed look crept into her eyes; the distant river into sullen combers. of moisture creeping into the wood the color stole from her face, Tt grew so dark shortly she lighted So she fastened her coat about her What do you mean? “Tili—every- the lamp, and to be quite ready ani crept close to the foot vf a tree thing's over?" She faltered and put 8Pread the cloth, measured the And suddenly, while the voico of the out a hand to the back of her chair Put out bread and cake and cur m orang through the trees, she tor support. Jelly and thinly sliced ham, fueed her reality at laat; the voice A strange, pitying, half wondering But her hands trembled as shoe o! her heart spoke clearly and fully expression came into Seraphy's Worked. I) Was as though she saw into the rugged face, She took a step toward When she had finished she stood jcternal Heart that beats bencath virl, her hands outstretched ten- Close by the window and waited. It every troubled experience, and she y was so black she could hardly see— jnew no r. “Don't you know w T mean?” Save for 4n occasional flash of Hight vis thing which had c to her, she asked in a low voice; “you poor ing. Presently there came a quick which haa lifted her out of herself, ehild, you ain't decelvin’ yourself, be &DKTY Spatter of drops, and in amin out of het constricted, frivoius life, you? Or just tryin’ to deceive me? We & heavy curtain of rain blotted brought with it now a’sudden clearer Don't you think I've knowed long OUt everything, vis Much that had meant noth ago? Hadn't you ought to tell me, _ “lf 1 knowed where to find her," she jig, or at most perplexity, grew rich dearie? Hadn't ought to tell old Whisp: with meaning Seraphy somethin’ At 4% o'clock the rain stopped and = ‘This was Nature's gift that was to The other neither spoke nor moved the storm d nd back with sullen co ind it’ had led her t to for a little, Then her p lips moved &rumblings, leaving a black soaking Na Bur it Was not all hers not as though she would speak, but no Werld outside: thought of her lu words came, and suddenly’ a great ,)No lshts showed save a tiny speck jy nd pondered what it wou trembling selaed her and she swayed ‘a! marked the Sweethills station ean to him as though she would faint Sul ‘why waited, When an ‘py was no one of her fric to “so it's true?” she whispered as Your had passed, she turned dully and why would have been wel though to herself, went over to the unlighted fireplace. nop ntly to thelr men, Herselt Mechanically she turned to where Her oyes shone with a strange hag- vhile since! She had alwa her ulster had fallen on a chuir, She 84rd Heht. | i hatred! Hibked It Oh’ GHinT SUTABline Ramone » ain't come hack,” she said tos Chat was why she had had and tried to draw tt round her sho ain't come buck.” And s niv t Lway--to get close to Eurt raphy watehed her, keen eyed 8 Slipped down into the chair and god its creat rebirth and know t and anxious: commenced to ery with harah unac- true iieating of life—the great ey “What be you goin’ to do?” she Customed sobs r nd death, which is only Uy asked hoarsely yu ain't angry Fused ep to rebirth ui with fer speakin’ plain? You CHAPTER XXII. And Larry, her husband! ‘The hus- ain't a-soin' away now, be yout Not _ bund she really loved. He must ki when T can help you? You ain't The Voice of the Storm. ' No inatter, what had gone be angry? We can understand each a a troen foro-~this theirs in common. tt other, ean't we, an! leave other folks HW wind 1p tho pine troen i his right to know, to have a part say What they please?” first told of the stor in the ed life-plan, She clasped her rough old hands nearness, ‘There is some © haw Known little religion, litt together until the sinews whitened thing majestic In the soft comiaunion of the spirit, but 1 through the gnarled flesh 4 ho pine tree's whis, Shirt spoke now. Her heart an The other {ooked at her strangely. est of the pine tree's whis- ity a joy mightier than tho storm T couldn't talk about {t now pers, but Its storm-song is more than wind that rocked the pine-boughs. Her breath almost failed that. It bas something of the quality she looked? up at them and suddenly , By Maurice Ketten } ALLow she felt close to ¢ . the God of Storm and Stress, of Sun and Peace and the fathomléss comfort eame to her that she was in safe-keeping It was 11 o'clock when the Sweet- hills operator in his tower heard a Kno his lower door and ambied sleepily down, light in hand, to tind a we ther@, She was orm splinked from head to foot, he Barme vxiden with rain and mud, Heneath her tumbled ha her face Was pallid, her eyes were bright. bho Wanted to send a telegram— to New York. she it through for her looked at her curiously ay wrote her message on the ye Hie tried to make a iitue conve n Tt was a bad ni y thought, agreed, but was non-committal tanything else, Sho would have been pretty he thought tf she had not beon #0 pale and her eyes so peculiar, He thought about “her for some time whem she had left. He was a ranger in the village and had never rd of the Spring Lady Would he Ho was the last, but one, who should wee her in this role, When she had bidden him good night, she ent on through the darkness—and she went as she had come into Sweet- hills, afoot, wet and weary, It was impenetrably black, Every step or two she sank into a morass of mud or was drenehed h cold wa r from the thick trees that lined th way. But xhe stumbled on, trustin blindly to find her way back to th familiar hill road, Rut after a while her strength 1 and she could go no further, Through the darkness to her right she made out a darker blurred mags, # house presun She turned ta toward It despe e did so a Li fi nt flashed out froin an upper window and ule recom. n the place. The old Franklin house-—off on the edge of town, far removed from her cottage and Ser- phy! Surely she might find refuge 6 She was t he porch, to tap the rusty old kno After a moment shd heard feet nding the stairs, the grating of yin the lock, @ eautious turn- » knob, Then ageinst the lighted hall, an old ace looked out What is it?) My lands—~* “1-I've been out—in the storm," d the girl; “may I come tn—to rely able to 4 re My lands, you,"" the other trembled and threw wide the door to the drag- gled figure. It was such « hall as ehe had imag- ined, Old-fashioned, oaken, comfort able, an antlered deer-head ‘abov rack, a tall clock In the corner, yond brown curtains, she saw the dim forms of the bi easy chairs she had dreamed of, the spacious lines of comfortable rooms sank wearily into @he big hall hot fit to to come In ( old woman was trying Wet coat t blankets au’ a wra) mpper tea, right off, “We'll get you right ho was saying, to bed" Hite smiled at her faintly “Ll knew you'd take me in, You're » kind, and J don't even know your name.” Debby Wheeler," the woman an- wered, bringing @ great horse blan from the closet; “you put this wround you an’ TH take your shoes oft" I thought nklins @ ain't no Franklins, that is, your name was 25, 1916 and Te is m wer that can ing only one, an’ he hardly counts. I'm Jest the caretaker, I lived here with old Mis’ Franklin an’ when she died an’ the estate was settied | was hired to stay on. Tho Sweethills Franklins are all dead, but there was a New York fam'ly an’ it went to them or, to the boy. He used to come he: when he was a little feller, but ain't come sence He's too tony I guess, but it's all his’—— Suddenly the girl sat erect and pushed aside the old ministering han “pid you say—what is his name? ‘This New York Franklin, whose place is this" —— But even before the other answered she knew. Forgotten, carelessly ut- tered sentences stirred in her mem- ory, Unheeded things—the old aunt's place up-State, where boyhood visits had been made, “It's Mr. Laurence New York owner when he was littie’— “Oh,” cried the girl, “then I've come home, haven't T, and may come in and rest? You seo, I'm Mra. Laurence Franklin, CHAPTER XXIV. Franklin, tho een him’ once Larry. HEN the afternoon train came into the Sweethille station there was an un- wonted crowd on the plat- form, ‘Tho congestion was thickest about two Individuals who were obviously about to embark and whose condi. It n was equally manifest by the amount of white ribbons and rive present, by the pro- | fusion of cigars being smoked tn and | about tho station, and the arch and knowing glances of the feminine con- | tingent. | For Sweethills's public man, man of eloquence, man of position and popularity had taken unto himself a wife, at last. ‘The ceremony had been performed with some haste, if not secrecy, owing to an unfortunate epl- sode which befell the groom some days earlier, It was the idea of the groom to depart without ceremony and return only after a reasonable re~ ‘tirement had permitted public mem- ory to dim, Hut somewhere a slip had occurred possibly the bride herself had bee indisecreet, At any rate there wero méay abroad to note tho fashionable lines of the new costume, and the blushing ¢ wour of her co beneath the cloud of violet veiling. It cannog and old sho be sald that the new Mrs, Vessey looked unhappy aiid the circle of ag, badgering and (here and ¥) derisive village but the legroom looked fil at case, He was 1 bis states- and attir omewhat the effect of great strips purt plaster on his Jaw and the like purple of one eye. Waen the train came to a standstill ho fairly shook bis tormentors off and ran for shelter, And so intent were the bridal per- secuturs that in the absorption of the moment, the questing usually so ke upon the newly arrived, missed all count a man who alighted from the smoker and turned briskly away toward the village, fie was not a type common to Sweothills, even as a visitor, He was a man in the middle thirties, slender, well-set-up, alert and poised’ in man- nor. His clothing was the expressioa of 4 sartorial standard widely differ- ent from. villay perience, but more than this, by some odd quirk of man- her or carriage, he suggested the city almosphe Rut dress a ler than his wont, marred by of ur ove all things, pervading h d tnanner, both face and body A anxiety, some vital worry. Jt jay in his glight frown, in the tired eyes, the line of the shoulders, It seemed to be accentuated as he hur- ried on, When ho had forsaken the main street and reached a familiar turning he was almost ranning. Moro than twenty-five years had Passed since Laurence Franklin had Played In the streets of Sweethills as a boy. Tho expertence, overlatd by #o long a time, Inid away in lav- ender, as it were, almost forgot be- neath the interests that consumed him since, awe nly quick and vivid as he sight of the Franklin house, So little it had changed he might have been that boy of yesterday, with his hand on, the opening gate, and an odd lump formed in his throat, The house looked smaller, the hemlock grove rustier, but beyond this! There was the old locust where he had fastened his swing; and the little side door he had used to slip through on his fishing jaunts. A dozen mem- ies flocked all at once, of that lon. » child whose feet knew the kt ‘ool grass but who had since trod- y the paved ways and who ame in den had forgot Then his anxiety gripped him again and his hand was on the door-lateh ix eyes on the old Debby waiting for him He knew where to find her, Tt had been his aunt Abigail's room, and at was “unchan Debby told him, A nice old room with a quaint “bow window," old-fashioned, satin wood furnishing and chinte urtains with bp ks walking up and down But when he reached the door he hesita & moment, Then lke a man bracing himself he turned the knob and entered She was sitting In a low chair in the sunny window, a At silver bowl, filled with early roses, beside her. Vrom somewhere Debby had produced a quaint old-fashioned neg- ligeo of cashimere—an odd turqolse shade—and this with the great braids Did You Ever Hear of Any One $ Telegraphing With a Fan? | A Woman of Mystery Causes Queer Complications That Way in } Dead Man's By Quiller-Couch, Next Week’s Complete Novel in The Evening World “DEAD MAN'S ROCK" is as famous in "Treasure Island,” and (for the same reason) it oc own wa) « charm never die. -y well worth your reading—or re-reading. of burnished hair falling on her shoulders gave her an almost barbaric brightness, There was nothing pale or wan in | her face as he had expected—only a sudden riotous flush that marked the roses, as she turned to him. Her hand went up to her throat with the famailiar little gestur But he did not move. He stood and looked at her silently and all of the pain of the past months spoke in his eyes for him. Reading it, the color drained from her face suddenly. ‘Then he moved to her, half-blindly, and took her in his arm: “Rita,” he whispered, “my girl.” She began to cry. “Larry -my poor bo: Ho held her close and when she had wept a while he tried to silence her with Mttle petting gestures. “Thero--there,” he said. She looked up at him and smiled faintly and saw how ravaged his face was—how wretched, and with @ little cry she clung close to him, “Larry,” she began, “can you for- give me--over?” . ‘There's no question of that,” he said hoarsely, ‘but—oh, Rita—these months. And you never told me why. could only wait—God! He struck the table savagely with his hand, and his face worked harably. “I didn’t know, myself,” she fal- “I thought I hated you—that we had ceased to care, Lite didn’t, seem worth while—but I know better now—it was something else. That's why I sent for you. Toto tell you what it means—Larry—will you care what will you say?— re going to be different from all our friends—we're going to have a ehild.” She thrust him back from her with both hands aud peered up into. his face. He grew pale before her glance, “You're-not mistaken,” he said. She contd feel him tremble under bee pant ‘You mean—you'll If e whispered, . sichises) bias ‘““T've—always hoped for it, Rita, “You never eaid anything,” ebe cried, “No—I—thought you n and we never had time to tale ner things. We were always going somewhere!” hat's what I want to under- stand—that's why 1 came aways tt '€ hands drew me away— seemed away from the noise and distraction—- to the ery & quiet place, I got so tired, Larry, And I thought you'd not understand,” ; ‘ 4 never tried me,” he said. No,” she answered, and sud she cried aguin and ‘he stroked her wott hair, “When you're sure you've forgiven me—wholiy—I will tell. all about it—if you care*—— He seated himself in the big chair and she slipped down beside his knee, and held is hand dn bers, Go back—to that first day,” he said, Ho shevtried to tell him—now halt- ing at a word, now speaking with vivid phrase—all that had be- fallen her, Now and then as she re- lived the last two months his hand tixhtened over her, * “I am glad I came,” she said prese ently, “in spite of the pain I caused you—will you let me be glad, Larry? ~-For something tells me we will know: each other better for it than we ever did—and—I_ know—how much I love you--you care for that—don't you?” “I—care," he said huskily, They sat a long time in silence, for the first time in real communion of the spirit, And it seemed to both as if an infinite happiness brooded in the room, At twilight Debby Wheeler stole in softly with @ tea-tray and slipped out again, It brought them back to real- ity and Rita poured her husband's tea und fussed hospitably with the tea. things, “You're looking so well," he eatd, “IT scarcely know you—you've positively husky—and what a bi- ceps,—lord!" she boasted proud): “I'm strong,’ “I've become a hill-woman and gardener and all sorts of things.” He looked at her face against fading sunlight. His own wai bh 4 shadow and she could not see the Kindling light in his ey “You're all right, Rita—no ter what you are—for me. But thinking what will we do with you back in the city—you'll miss these things"—— She looked at him quickly, te “But I'm not going back to city. You don't want me to?’ “You mean you'd like to stay? Of course, for a while’ “For @ long while,” she interruj quickly. Suddenly she rose and drew him with her to the bay-window, “Why can't we stay, Larry? Isn't this place yours? You played here when you were little—woulda’t you lke to come back, to lve relaxed? “You'd like me to turn farmer’— “Wouldn't you like to try it? Is the other so worth whil habit's “But [ might be a failw trong—it's been so many years, need some- ‘hough Lord knows I thing different—something to human- ize me—to rest me, The pace has all but killed me lately “That's it, Larry. We could give it a trial, anyway. I'd help so hard and there's the other thing—think what it will mean to look out on the lawn and see the child-—our Iittle kiddie playing among the dandelions with old Seraphy”—— ‘The little beggar,” he whispered. "And afterward—if we lked—we could go back, when we'd learned a better way to live—and you could teach it all the things you know, fishing and swimming, and I'd teach it the things I've learned in the woods Oh, Larry, I want 90 for Us to be ® natural man and womaa, Instead of two lay figures’ He pressed her to him and her glowing cheeks, ‘We'll give it a try," he vowed. Vm all for your game, Rita,” Look, Larry,” she said, “how pink it is in the west. It's going to be clear to-morrow. Our to-morrow!” THE END.