The evening world. Newspaper, July 1, 1922, Page 13

‘T was an. ugly cat. It stood at the top of the dark staircase, its arched back and bristling hair silhouetted against the yellow gaslight that shed a dismal e _Slare from the one small jet on the Barrow landing, over the worn stair- | carpet from which all trace of pattern ~ had tong since vanished, and flickered olor of which was almost obliter- _ ated by dirty finger-marks and jagged es. ‘The yellow eyes of the cat looked— in the half light—like miniature re- ie of the gas jet, only more ; 1, and the girl, dragging her tired feet wearily up the steep stairs, Paused involuntarily as she met their gaze. As her eyes grew more accus- tomed to the ill-lit darkness, she dis- tinguished the outline of the cat's body and smiled. “Poor puss!’’ she said. She held am inviting hand to the outline. She had only been one day in the third-rate boarding house, or she ‘would have known that the poor waif on the top stair, enmity expressed in every line of its thin body, had too often yielded to the invitation of coax. ing hands and been deceived to evince ahy particular friendliness now. The arched back grew even more sharply defined; the coarse hair seemed to bristle stil! more, while cunning crept into the yellow eyes. It reminded the girl of the face of a woman she had once seen—a woman whom trouble and lack of love had forced to regard the whole world with enmity, to believe the hand of every, ‘oné to be against her. ‘Tired as she was, something humor- ‘ous in the comparison appealed to the girt and she smiled. “Poor old woman!" she sald gently, an@ going up another stair stroked the cat's head. » After the first start of nervous shrinking, the poor thing seemed ab- solutely bewildered to find that the inevitable cuff or kick was not going to foliow; then, with a pitiful little noise, as if of deprecation, it wiggled ite ugly head again into the girl's . soft palm. “Poor old woman!" she said again, and this’ time there was nothing but in her voice. She put down the parcel she had been carrying, and sat down on the top atair beside the cat. waifs! A girl—shabby, hun- , footsore—and a cat—ugly, half- starved, and friendless; merely toler- ated in its wretched home, if ‘home’ Mt could be called, because it was glad to appease its hunger by killing the few stray mice who were foolish enough to appear on the premises in search of food. ATURE had intended the cat to be white, but it had long since forgotten the fact, and had given up trying to make anything approaching a toilet, till now it was an unwholesome, rusty sort of drab-gray, with a thin, wretched tail, ® and long, absurd whiskers. It was a quiet time of evening at the boarding house. ~ Faraway—out in the street—the noise of traffic sounded blurred; and downstairs—in the regions where the machinery of the shabby house grind- ed out an existence—a hard, shrill voice floated up the staircase, mingled with the savor of cabbage water and © vi The cat had climbed into the girl's lap now, and was fawning over her hands, emitting a rusty kind of rum- bling sound that had once, doubtless, been @ purr, but which had long since been thrown out of tune by disuse; and so they remained, these two friendless creatures, till the noise of a door opening on the half-landing above roused them both. ‘The girl started, and the cat, ceas- ing in its pitiful attempts to purr, was more on the defensive. A man stood on the landing above, looking down at them. He was a fine-looking enough man, if width of muscle and length of limb counted for anything; but there was a don’t-care defiance about his face and whole personality that struck one somehow rather unpleasantly. “What the’’—— he began irritably, and broke off. The gitl rose to her feet, picking up the parcel. She had forgotten the eat, and made a Movement to pass the man and con- tinue her way up the shabby, steep stairg®*to her room on the floor above. + Ag ‘she passed him, he moved im- patiently aside, for the landing was narrow. “Thank you," sald the girl. She raised her eyes to his face for the ‘@erest second, and met the hard, un- miterested stare of a pair of blue eyes; ‘en she passed on quickly, once more cunscious of her weary feet. She had not gone more than a dozen steps when the sound of a scuffle ar- ted her—followed by the fall of some heavy object and an animal whine of pain or anger. She stopped, listening, and suddenly remembered the cat, and the ugly, soft head that had snuggled so con- Adingly into her hand. She turned and went swiftly back dgwn the few stairs to the half-land- ing. ‘The young man was there, and the ugly cat—crouching away from him in the furthest corner. Not @ yard away a heavy book lay with its pages scattered on the floor. “What are you doing?’ “It's that beast of a cat," he ex- plained; ‘I hate the thing! She prowls round the house and into my room; she's a thief" Ilo broke off, his eyes twinklin, I threw a book at her,"’ he added. e "A very manly thing to do, certain- said the girl cuttingly. “And as to the cat being a thief, ° alain Sh tin a cs Vaca ih Aa mens amen iaaeeaene _SSTSAPL NN eS perhaps you would be the same it you were half-starved. “I am—oceasionally, dryly. The girl looked at him scornfully; then she stooped and lifted the cat in her arma. , The young man watched till the bend hid them, then he picked up tho book and went back to his own room, * said the man | Over the ugly wallpaper, the original_banging the door behind him. HEY met on the stairs the fol- lowing evening. It had been raining hard, and the girl's dress was heavy with water; drops still dripped from the brim of her hat. ‘The man was just comi stairs, buttoned up to his down the throat in a shabby mackintosh, preparatory to braving the elements. After the first glance the girl averted her head, but the man blocked the wa: “I haven't thrown books,'’ he submitted. “Please allow me to pas girl icily. There was # second’s hesitation, then the big, mackintoshed figure was pressed against the dirty wallpaper in stiff dignity. “If you gather your skirts together tightly,"’ said its owner with sarcasm, “I think you can manage to squeeze by without touching me." ‘The faintest ghost of a smile twisted the girl's lips, and was instantly re- pressed, but she did as he suggested, and went on her way. + She thought of the bare room await- ing her with a shudder. Home!—the only home she had!—a miserable top bed-sitting room, fur- nished with bare necessities. She pushed open the door of the room reluctantly, its hinges yielding as if with rusty protest. ‘The little creak was followed by a soft thud on the floor within, and a faint ‘‘mieow,”’ as into the radius of light on the landing the ugly cat thrust itself. “Old woman!" sald the girl. She stooped and gathered the little crea- ture in her arms. Its soft body some- how seemed to hold comfort; there was a welcome in the rusty purring. The girl carried it with her into the cheerless room and shut the door. ‘The following morning, when the girl opened her door, the man was just passing it, on his way down the stairs. He carried a large parcel which looked like manuscript beneath his arm, and he was whistling cheerfully. The girl paused, with the door half open, waiting for him to pass. He glanced at her, a half smile in his eyes; then he stopped. ~“T haven't got the plague, you know,"" he said whimsically. ‘‘And it seems that we are bound to come across each other, 80 couldn't you manage to say ‘Good morning’ some- times, or ‘Good evening,’ or whatever time of these endless days it is?” ‘The girl looked at him steadily. “T don't know you," she said; “and I don't care for people who ill-treat dumb animais."’ For a moment he looked puzzted, then he laughed—a laugh of genuine amusement. “Hayen't you forgotten about that ly cat yet?" he asked. ,"" said the girl, ‘I have not. And it isn’t a beastly cat; it's been ill-treated, and that's why it’s so wild, But when you get to know it, it's a dear."’ “Perhaps if you got to know me, 1 shouldn't turn out to be so bad, elther,"’ sald the man soberly. ‘‘But a fellow gets:a bit rough if he lives in places like this all his life. I haven't spoken to a lady for months!"’ ‘The girl said nothing. HROUGH the half-open door behind her the ugly, thin body of the cat had thrust itself, and now it came close to the girl, rubbing its head against her skirts, She looked down at it. “You see?’ she said triumphantly to the man. ‘She's not a bit wild with me now!"* He followed the direction of her eyes. “No; I didn’t mean to hurt the creature—only it used to steal from my room. Puss, puss!"’ He stooped, holding one hand te the cat concillatingly. Theré was a second's silence, during which the rusty purring stopped abruptly, the thin back grew arched, and then with a flerce spitting sound the cat flew back to the shelter of the girl's room. The man stood up; noyed. “Ungrateful beas' ly, coloring. The girl smiled. They walked down the narrow stairs together, the man a few steps behind. “I'm not anything," he told her; “but I always imagine that some day I am going to set the Thames on fire by writing a book that will be sold out in less than a week, or something like that. Meantime, I am starving— more or less,"’ he added conscien- tiously. “Fame is a long time some people," said the girl. She thought of a drawer full of manu- scripts in the room upstairs—rejected manuscripts, all of them—and it was cheering to know that somebody else besides herself was hoping on in spite of defeat. They were out in the street now, and, without asking, the man fell into step beside her. ‘I am going in for that first novel competition the Curwen Publishing Company are offering,”’ he said con- fidentially. ‘If only I could get that, I believe the rest would be easy. It's a hundred pound prize; and look what it-would mean afterwards — look at the advertisement!" any more said the he looked an- "he said boyish- coming to THE EVENING WORLD, SATURDAY, JULY 1, 1922, “BY RUBY M. AYRES ‘ILLUSTRATED WILL B. JOHNSTONE SURI SS BN TOOMRAAONE g WIC TSG “Yes'' — the girl looked at him— “yes,"’ she repeated. ‘‘I———"’ She broke off. ‘‘I dare say there are ever so many people going in for it, who want to win quite as much as you do," she said half resentfully. He did not answer. ‘They were at the corner now, where the dreary street which sheltered the ugliness of the third-rate boarding- house joined the busy main thorough- fare. ‘The girl hailed a passing ‘bus. “Goodby,"’ she said. He looked rather disappointed, and the girl smiled, as she might have done at a disappointed child. “I am glad I didn’t tell him," the girl thought, as she climbed to a seat on the top of the ‘bus. ‘‘He seemed 80 hopeful,’ arid, after all, only one of us can win the prize."’ HE girl had been kept the office. The particularly flourishing company promoter who paid her the munificent salary of five-and- twenty shillings a week for taking down his seductively worded letters in shorthand and typewriting them afterward, had seen fit to require her late at services for an extra three hours that evening; and her eyes ached and her head swam with sheer weariness as at length she dragged herself slowly up the three flights of stairs to the top floor but one of the shabby boarding-house. e A cheap, wheezy clock on the half- landing struck eleven as she turned the bend in the where the man had thrown the book at the old cat on the night of their introduction eight weeks before. A door on the landing above was opened, and the man looked down over the balusters. “I wondered what had happened to you,” he said. He came down the stairs two at a time to her side. “How tired you — lool Have you been working late” I did not leave till a quarter- past ten, Oh, I suppose I need not have stayed''—as he would have spoken—"but Mr. Stories asked me to oblige him, and if I had refused— well, there are plenty more ready to sel! themselves for twenty-five shill- lings a week,” she laughed wearily. The man looked at her and away again “IT wish""—— he began, and broke off. “What do you wish?" she asked, “Oh! that I were a rich man, or that you hadn't to work so hard, or that I might win this Curwen compe- tition, and oh! heaps of things that will never come true,'’ he added sadly, looking at her tired face with tender- ness in his usually careless eyes. She looked up at him. “It doesn't do to hope too much for things,"” sie said slowly; ‘tit makes the disappointn so much harder to bear, “I know; but I can't help feeling somehow—I know you'll laugh at me, but all along I've had a sort of pre- monition that I am going to win this prize. My luck must turn some day, and why not now? The book's the best thing I've ever written; it's tak~ en me months to write! Why should- n't I win?” “1 hope you will,” said He laughed excitedly girl, “And in another or two we shall know. ‘The result was to be published this week, It isn’t often I feel sure of a thing; but this time somehow''- He turned suddenly, catching her hand. “It means such great things to me," he added, “such great things! Some day perhaps I'll be able to tell you.” i His eyes were upon her, but she would not lift her own, and her hand was cold in h He loosed her suddenly. “You are tired out. What a selfish beast I am, keeping you standing out here. Good night.” “Good night,’ said the girl. She opened her door. Instantly there was a delighted little “‘mieow’’ from with- in, and a soft thud as the cat dropped from a chair to the floor. The girl stooped and lifted the cat in her arms. “I love her,’* she said, her soft face against,the cat's ugly head, “because, like m€, she's alone in the world, with nobody else to love her.’* The man made a sudden mdvement, but checked himself “Good night,” he said, almost roughly, as he turned away and climbed the stairs again to his own room. HREE days later, when the girl came home from the of- fice, a typewritten letter lay on her table in the circle of yellow lamplight She did not see it at first; was a soft flush on her chee iced there and a light in her eyes; and as she closed the door behind her she lifted to her lips a bunch of sweet-scented violets she held in her hand. Overhead she could hear the steps of the man from whom she had just parted on the stairs outside. He loved her—she was quite sure of it now—though he had not told her so, unless his eyes had spoken for him when he bade her ‘good night;"” unless the kiss he had left on her hand had carried straight, to her heart a message of all that he would some day tell her himself. She stooped her, flushed face to the soft head of the ‘old cat, which had climbed on to the table to gently ob- trude its rusty welcome, and kissed its peaked face. “He loves me, old woman," whispered; “and now you will just have to make friends with him, too, to please me, hecause— perhaps—if he wins the competition—well, who knows what will happen!"’ Then her eyes fell on the letter, lying in the circle of yellow lamplight. She stood up slowly, with # Tiitie throb at her heart; then she put out a hand reluctantly, as one might do to a repulsive object, and took it up. Overhead the man’s steps were silent. The girl broke the seal slowly, and drew out the inclosure. But she knew its contents before she read them. Somehow, all a she had been sure that it would co this letter—come with just such news she uch good news, as it would have n two months ago; but now She thought of the man's eyes, as he had looked her when he bade her “Good night,’ and she thought of his words “My luck has turned now; IT am sure of it—sure—and soon, in a few days, I shall be able to tell you all that I must not tell you now."" She knew what he was thinking of, and she had asked him half fearfully: “And if you do not win? If some- body else should'*—— And he had interrupted her, almost angrily, flercely “You must not say that; I shall win! I must! I have’ counted on it 80; nobody can need to win so much as I do!" And now! She looked down at the letter in her hand. “Dear Madam:—I have great pleasure in informing you that you have won the prize of one hundred pounds offered by Mes: Curwen & Co, in the First Novel Competition, your novel— “The Solitary judged the best. yours faithfully, Way'—being” ad- ‘We are, madam, “JOHN WEBB. “For Messrs, Curwen & Co." The girl put the letter down me- chanically, and stood staring before her, palefaced. She had not even told him that she wrote. She had been shyly ashamed to tell him that she had dared to com- pete for the prize. And, besides, had he not so often spoken of his dislike for women who wrote?—so often ex- pressed the wish that she did not have to work for her own living? And now—oh! was ever success more unwelcome—ever so unwillingly received! She had deceived him—ever so un- wittingly—but still, tt had been de- cet. She had listened to his hopes, shared them with him; and yet, all the time, deep in her own heart had been @ presentiment that was almost @ dread that this would happen. Why, oh why, had she not told him? She shivered as she looked down at the letter. What would he say? What would he say? And then, as if in answer to her thoughts, she heard his door open above—his step on the stairs. Her heart beat so loud she thought he must hear it, as she stood waiting as his steps came nearer—now they were on the narrow landing, now out- side the door, now—he had knocked. Twive she tried to answer, but her voice died away In her throat; then she went forward mechanically and opened the door. He walked past her into the room, and she followed, shutting the door behind her. ‘There was a letter in his hand, and he held it to her, half blindly. “I've lost," he said, and his voice sounded like the voice of a stranger. “I've lost! The luck has not turned, after all. I've been beaten! beaten! beaten! "* He laughed—uncertainly. The girl went forward. ere were tears in her eyes, her lips were trembling. "What does it matter?’ she sald. “Oh, it doesn't matter. I am sure your book was the best, much the She was sobbing now, and unconsetously she had linked her hands about his arm, and bent her face to his coat sl “Oh, don't mind! Don’ sobbed desolately. ‘It ‘doesn’t ter, It doesn’t matter." He lifted her face and held it, his nd beneath her chin, looking down it her with miserable eyes “Doesn't matte he mirthlessly, ‘Doesn't matter? Why it meant everything to me—every I have been a fool, but I was I felt somehow, so sure that 1 was going to win, Doesn't the luck turn? 1 thought mine had at last n I met you, and I've been waiting bes repeated thing! sure. for it to tell you that I love you. I'v loved you ever since that first eve- ning We met on the stairs, when you would hardly speak to me, and I've and waited'’—— silence, then passionate hoped, and waited, His volee dragged in jdenly he burst out in and disappointment. all gone been And now it's gone Jost. everything! — I've agein, and by a woman! rhe girl gave a little away from him, face in her hands. He knew, then, She waited trem bling for him to speak again phen, then, you are not angry with me; you know I did not mean to deceive you?" broke off breathlessly. I've beaten cry, 8! hiding her and that he had not not know now, had robbed him He looked at her wonderingly, in 4 flash she saw did whe known, that he that It Was she of his success, For the moment she had forgotten that “The Solitary Way" had been written under a name other than her own; forgotten that he could not rec- ognize it, even if he had heard it. She pulled away from him, steaty- ing herself by the table. “Then you do not asked slowly He made no andwor, but the wonder grow in his eyes. She made a violent effort and forced herself to speak. “It is I who have won the Curwen Competition! It is I who have beaten you. I wrote the prize book. 1 wrote ‘The Solitary Way.’ I never meant to deceive you, but I was afraid after what you sald—afrald.to know?" she she saw tell you. I—I. Look! Here the letter. It came this evening.” She held it to him, trembling: There was a terrible silence; she heard the letter flutter to the ground; then she heard him move past hei, heard his fingers touch the door handle. She looked up then, flew across to him, caught his arm. “Don't go! Oh, don’t leave me like that! I did not mean to deceive you. “A MAN WITH A WOMAN CLUTCHED TIGHT TO HIS BREAST AS HE TOPPLED FOR- WARD." At first I never thought I should win it. 1 never wanted to after I knew you. ‘Then I was afraid to tell you— ‘The man looked at her. His face was white and there was a cold, cruel look in hin eyes, which reminded her of the night he had thrown a book at the cat—the night she had first seen him *T must congratulate you," he said, and his voce was harsh. “I must congratulate you. You must have en- foyed many a laugh at my expense. I will wish you /'Good night.’ ” ‘The girl's tears dried in a sudden scorching flush. “You are going?’ she asked “Yes,” said the Mn, “I will wish you ‘Good night.’ The door opened and shut between them. The girl stood where he had left her for a moment, staring at the closed door, then she laughed hystert- again cally. “I might have known,’ she told herself. ‘I might have known." A soft paw touched her hand as she stood leaning heavily against the ta- ble; a soft head was thrust against her wrist, Turning, she saw the old cat push- ing itself against her, heard its rusty purr. She stooped, gathering the lit- tle friendless creature in her arms, burying her wet face in Its fur. “You love me better than he does, Ol4 Woman," she said, trying to laugh. Then she broke down, HE man stood back mechani- cally as the fire engine came dashing around the corner, the horses straining, the men shouting He looked after it with uninter ested, weary eyes The London streets were very quiet—almost deserted~-and the sud- den rush and thunder of the engine seemed to break the night stillness with terrific more deadly the shouting died in the heart of the sleeping city The man walked slowly He was footsore and weary was hardly conscious of it heart and brain felt numb. for silent and to leave it the as the clang and away, swallowed up but he for his He had built for himself a castle and it had fallen about him, for its foundation had been nothing but a slender hope, and the at wind of disappointment had come sweeping along over its battlements and had thrown them down He had been beaten in the struggle for success and happiness by a woman—-a woman he loved He had dreamed of a time when could lift from her shoulders the burden she carried, when he could take away the necessity for her to work--when, with own might! ness, he could make enough for them his THE EVENING WORLD’S COMPLETE NOVELETTE IN: THE 3S TAIRS both, smiled, And now she had quietly and un- Assumingly done what he had meant to do—and had won without a word the thing he had lost in spite of all his optimistic boasting. In that moment when he had looked at her before he shut the door be- tween them he had almost hated her. All that was cruel and brutal im him had come uppermost when he saw the tears in her eyes, heard her words. All along she must have laughed at him. Of course she had smiled to herself at his optimism, even while she encouraged it. Failure, surely thai hardest to bear of all the world’s misfortunes, stalked grimly at his side as he aim- deasly walked the dreary London and she had listened and streets, face to face with the biti ness of his disappointment. Beaten, and by a woman! Beaten, and by the woman he loved. If only it had been somebody else. A chureh clock struck 1 with miuf- fled note. The chime seemed to be far away overhead above the clouds, as if up in the stars a spectre hand were tolling the hour. The man turned hie steps home- ward. He had been walking the streets for hours, hardly conscious of what he was doing, deadened to all feeling but the overpowering one of disappoint- ment He thought of the girl—she wan probably asleep, and smiling in he: sleep at the thought of her success and his failure. Smiling, when she had cried to him so broken-heartedly. When she had begged him not to leave her. The sluggish blood in his veins seemed to thaw, and flow stowly again. What had he said to her? He tried to remember, but {t all seemed a blank; only in the darkness, before him as he walked, he saw her tear- stained face, her pleading eyes, hi voice asking for forgiveness. Forgtveness! For what? For sue- ceeding where he had failed? A ating of self-contempt’ stirred the man's heart He watked on more quickly. SUDDEN longing to get back to her selzed him. He thought with dread of the hours that must stilt’ pass before he could see her, tell her he was sorry, ask her to forgive him. He was quite near the dingy street now, where the third-rate boarding- house hid its ugliness. It was but a few hundred yards away round the corner. But how noisy the streets had sud- denly grown. There were people hur- rying along, tunning, men and boys, even women with shawls and wraps about their heads, looking as if they had dreased hurriedly. And what a curious light in the sky. The man stopped, looking about him wonder- ingly; then he remembered. Of course, it was a fire somewhere, the engine had just passed him. How people always turn out for a fire! He walked on again. » Where was it? He wondered idly. It would help pass the time if he went to see it; help drag away the iater- minabdle hours which still Iay between him and the morning. He caught the arm of a atreet urchin cunning by. “Where's the fire?" The boy jerked a dirty thumb for- ward, ‘ “Darn ‘ere; jist round the corner. It's a boardin’ ‘ouse, Burning like old 'Arry. Five engines there.’ The man stood still for a second, then suddenly he began to run; a quick, nameless fear had gripped his heart. A boarding house, What boarding house was there down in this direction but the third-rate one where he him- self lived—where the girl lived? His heart seemed up in his throat stifling him. He tried to console himself. ‘There was no reason for the sudden panic which had seized him, it was so seldom now that lives were lost in a fire. Of course, everybody would be safely out by this time, even those who were on the fourth floor,-where the girl's room was, But he ran lon, fear clutching at his heart. And now he had crossed the mai: road and turned the bend; now he was in full view of the burning house, and the narrow, ugly road, black with a crowd of curious spe tators, the dense volumes of smoke from the fire engines, hideous wit! the hiss and fall of the water, the deafening roar of the flames, the vicious crackle of the burning timber; and it was the third-rate boarding house where he lived—where the gir! lived. He pushed his way through the rowd to the side of the stout con- stable, who was endeavoring to keep back the crowd, “Everybody out, constabl His breath came gaspingly ‘The officer of the law slowly turned his head and stared at him, as if making up his mind whether he should answer or not The man repeated his question agony of impatience in his voice “Is everybody out, man?” “Yes, Leastways, they was; but I did hear there was a young lady, she wanted to go back for some pet she'd left behind. They brought her out once In the escape, but she said she'd left a cat upstairs, that she must go back for the cat. She fought like a wild thing when they tried to stop her and broke away. 1 don't know whether she's hout now or whether she got hin. Keep back, there."* The man fought his way nearer "I know every inch of the place,” an he panted. “There's a back way, out on to the roof. Let me go! 1 must save her. I tel) you I wifl go.’ He broke away from those who would have held him. He felled one to the ground, arid now he was free- free to risk his life in that seething. burning cauldron—where ehe was, the girt he toved: the girl whose for- siveness she had yet to ask. How eould he let her die when she had Rot forgiven him? How could he live if it were too late now to ask her pardon? Outside the crowd waited with suspended breath. “They're lost, sur¢ enough,” said man solemnly, and a woman at his side began to sob, ‘Then suddenly a wild shout went up from a hundred throats. A ruah forward was made, a score of Willing hands were stretched to Diack - ened, scorched figure of a mam that staggered and reeled through the burning doorway—a man with a woman clutched tight to bis breast aa he toppled forward. “T've got the cat, too,” he said thickly. ‘They were both on the stairs, It scratched mt, the beast; but I've brought them both out.” He laughed stupidly, lurched and fell heavily to the ground. HE room was so dark when the man entered that for a moment he stood blinking un- certainly before he saw the girl lying on @ sofa by the window, propped up by pillows. He went forward thes and stood beside her silently. She was awake, her eyes open, smiling up at him. “Please don't look so frightened,’ she said weakly. ‘I'm nearly well now.” She lifted one bandaged hand trom the coverie' “It's only this," she said. “Your right hand,” said the man hoarsely. “Yes.” She Iald it back on the quilt with a Httle breath that sounded like a sigh. ‘It might have been so thuch worse,"’ she added bravely. ‘‘I might never have got out at all if you hadn't come. It was so terrible. [ tried to get down those stairs, but the cat was struggling so." She shiv- ered. “She scratched me when I tried to pick her up," said the man. ‘EB then, you see, she could not forget her hatred of me.” He laughed « Uttle mirthlesaly. “LT have told her that she is to be friends with you," said the girl. “‘I think she quite understands. Puss, ‘There was a faint stir from a cush- fon at the foot of the couch, and a faint apologetic “‘Micow” as the old white cat, rose stiffly and shambled ‘along the quilt to the girl. The girl's eyes challenged the man to laugh. “Speak to her," she commanded. The man stretched his hand across the couch gingerly. “Puss.” The animal looked at him, opened its mouth to spit, but apparently changed its mind and sat motionless with flattened ears submitting to the touch of his hand. “You see,” said the girl triumph- antly. The man stood upright again, frowning, “T did not come here to make friends with the cat,” he sald. “I came to" —— He broke off, then sud- denly he dropped on his knees beside the girl. “I came to ask you to for- give me,” he aid humbly, ‘That night, I think I was mad with di appointment, I know it isn’t any e: cuse, but if you could forgive me some day—I'll wait as long as you~ like—I'll work, I'l! do anything, but don't send me away; if you don't care for me there isn't @ soul in the ~ world who does. 1 sound like a cow- ard, I know, but you must forgive me, you must’’——— The girl lifted her bandaged hand and gently touched his bowed head. The hair by his forehead was it singed, and the girl smiled tenderly as she looked at him. She thought of the day she had first ween him, the day he stood smil ing arrogantly above her on the siaits after he had thrown a book at ine ce., and her heart ached for the chanse him. ‘ He had been so full of hope, then, vith his wonderful schemes for briag- ing the world to his feet, whereas now-—— “There isn't anything to forgive, * she sald. ‘‘And--and—oh, dear," she adided, half orying, “Il wish you would not look so sad, Do you think? Don't you think,’’ she asked mischievously, trying to laugh, ‘that you could max- age (o smile if 1 let you—Jjust for once throw a book at the cat?’ . The man looked up then—a sudden gleam of the old audacity in his eyea, i» something else I woud uch rather cd he said, beading is face to hers, May I? It was fully an hour later when the man remembered the doctor's re- strictions about a “ten minate visit,” and he started gulitily, Something soft and warm was curled cosily 'n the bend of his arm. He looked down wonderingly, (hen he laughed. It seem: he sald, hat I have no more worlds to conquer, He gently stroked the disfigured head of the “Old Woma: “She won't purr, anyway,” the gir declared in pretended jealousy, « They both listened breathlessly, then suddenly the silence was broken by @ rusty kind of rumbling sound that had once doubtless been @ purr, The “Old Woman" had signed the declaration of Pea (Copyrights, 1082, Metropolitan Newepasem, PyFtEMe Mgeivies, N- ED &s % 0 ae { { | i i ocnetneienaetgaainemencniiemamaetnniaatiatin