I
CHAPTER XII?Continued
?lit?
"Baldy," Evans said, "I don't
agree with you that it was?the money.
That may have helped in her
decision. But I think she cares?"
"For Towne?nonsense."
"It isn't nonsense. She knows
nothing of love. She may have taken
the shadow for the substance.
And he can be very?charming." It
wrung his heart to say it. But almost
with clairvoyance he saw
the truth.
When they returned to the house
Baldy found a message from Edith.
He was to call her up.
"Uncle Frederick has just told
me." she said, "that Jane is to be
my aunt. Isn't it joyful?"
"I'm not sure."
"Why not?"
"Oh. Towne's all right. But not
for Jane."
"I see. But he's really in love
with her, poor old duck. Talked
about it all through dinner. He's
going to try awfully hard to make
her happy."
"Then you approve?"
He heard her gay laugh over the
wire. "It will be nice?to have you
?in the family. I'll be your niecein-law."
"You'll be nothing of the kind."
"You can't help being ? Uncle
Baldy. Isn't that?delicious? And
now, will you come in tonight and
sit by my fire? Uncle Frederick is
"I've sat too often by your fire."
"Too often for your own peace of
mind? I know that. And I'm glad
of it." Again he heard a ripple of
laughter.
"It isn't a thing to laugh at."
She hesitated, then said in a different
lone, "I am not laughing. But
I want you by my fire tonight."
It was late when Evans went upstairs.
He had spent the evening
with hie mrtthftp rt i cm iee i r< n mUk
some matters where his legal knowledge
helped. They did not speak of
Jane. Their avoidance of the subject
showed their preoccupation with
it. But neither dared approach it.
On the bedside table in Evans'
room lay the valentine he had
I bought for Jane. There it was, with
its cupids and bleeding hearts?its
forget-me-nots?and golden darts.
Arthur Lane and Sandy talked it
over. "I wonder what has happened.
He looks dreadful."
The two boys were on their way to
Castle Manor. They wanted books.
Evans' library was a treasure-house
for youthful readers. It had all the
old adventuring tales. And Evans
had read everything. He would simply
walk up to a shelf, lay his hand
on a book, and say, "Here's one
you'll like." And lie was never
wrong.
But of late, Evans Follette had
met them with an effort. "Look for
yourselves," he had said, when they
asked for books, and had sat staring
into the fire. And he had not
urged them to stay. His manner
had been kind but inattentive. They
were puzzled and a little hurt. "I
feel sorta queer when he acts that
way," Sandy was saying, "as if he
didn't take any interest. I don't
even know whether he wants us any
more."
Arthur refused to believe his hero
inhospitable. "It's just that he's got '
things on his mind." '
They reached the house and rang :
the bell. Old Mary let them in. '
"He's in the library," she said, '
and they went towards it. The door i
was open and they entered. But 1
the room was empty ... j 1
That morning Baldy had had a let- I
ter from Jane and had handed it to
Evans. It was the first long letter
Eincc her engagement to Towne.
Baldy had written to his sister, flam,
ingly, demanding to know if she
were really happy. And she had
said:
"I shall be when Judy is better.
That is all I can think of just now.
Her life is hanging in the balance.
We can never be thankful enough
that we got the specialist when we
did. He had found the trouble. The
question now is whether she will
have the strength for another opera- 1
tion. When she gets through with j
that! Well, then I'll talk to you,
darling. I hardly know how 1 feel. ;
The days are so whirling. Mr.
Towne has been more than generous.
If the little I can give him !
wili repay him, then 1 must give it,
dearest. And it won't be hard. He
is so very good to me." I
THE CHEROK
DIM 1
HPLE BAII
>UBLISHING COMPANY ?WNU SERVICE
And now this letter had come after
Towne's second visit:
"Baldy, dear, 1 am very happy.
And I want you to set your mind at
rest. I am not marrying Mr. Towne !
for what he has done for us all. but
because 1 love him. Please believe I
it. You can't understand what he
has been to me in these dark days. !
1 have learned to know how kind he
is?and how strong. 1 haven't a
care in the world when he is here,
and everything is so?marvellous.
You should see my ring?a great
sapphire. Baldy, in a square of dia- !
monds. He is crazy to buy things !
for me. but I won't let him. I will
take things for Judy but not for
myself. You can see that, of course. j
I just go everywhere with him in
lj44l? t- ~ ? ?l I
in; uicc|j nine uuuivo, iu uie uieu- |
ters and to all the great restaurants, !
and we have the most delectable
things to eat. It is really great i
fun/'
Since he had heard the news of
Jane's approaching marriage, Evans
had lived in a dream. The people
about him had seemed shadow- ;
shapes. He had walked and talked
with them, remembering nothing
afterward but his great weariness. |
He had eaten his meals at stated
times, and had not known what he
"I can't stand much
excitement."
was eating. He had gone to his office,
and behind closed doors had
sat at his desk, staring.
And now this letter! "You see
what she says," Baldy had raged.
'Of course she isn't in love with
lim. But she thinks she is. There's
lothing more that I can do."
Evans had taken the letter to the
ibrary to read. He was alone, ex:ept
for Rusty, who had limped
ifter him and laid at his feet.
She loved?Towne. And that set- i
tied it. "I am marrying Mr. Towne
cecause I love him." Nothing could
oe plainer than that. Baldy might
protest. But the words were there.
As Evans sat gazing into the fire,
be saw her as she had so often
been in this old room?as a child,
sprawled on the hearth-rug over
some entrancing book from his
shelves, swinging her feet on the
edge of a table while he bragged
Df his athletic prowess; leaning over
ivar-maps, while he pointed out the
fields of fighting; curled up in a
corner on the couch while he read
to her?"Oh, silver shrine, here
utrill T ttllfn mv reel "
He could stand his thoughts no
longer. Without nat or heavy coat,
he stepped through one of the long
windows and into the night.
As he walked on in the darkness,
he had no knowledge of his destination.
He swept on and on, pursued
by dreadful thoughts.
On and on through the blackness.
... No moon ... a wet wind blowing
... on and on . . .
He came to a bridge which crossed
a culvert. No water flowed under
it. But down the road which led
through the Glen was another
bridge, and beneath it a deep, still
pool.
With the thought of that deep and I
quiet pool came momentary relief |
from the horrors which had hounded ;
him. It would be easy. A second's
struggle. Then everything over.
Peace. No fears. No dread of the
future . . 1
LEE SCOUT. MURPHY. N. C.. THURSD>
LANT1
LEY ?=
It seemed a long time after, that,
leaning against the buttress of the
bridge, he heard, with increasing
clearness, the sound of boys' voices
in the dark.
Hp Hrpw hank amnno thp chaHnwe
It was Sandy and Arthur. Not three
feet away from him?passing.
"Well, of course, Mr. Follette is
just a man." Sandy was saying.
"Maybe he is," Arthur spoke .
earnestly, "but 1 don't know. I
There's something about him?"
He paused.
"Go on," Sandy urged.
"Well, something"?Arthur was
struggling to express himself, I
"splendid. It shines like a light?" ,
Their brisk footsteps left the
bridge, and were dulled by the dirt
road beyond. Sandy's response was
inaudible. A last murmur, and then i
silence.
Evans was swept by a wave of
emotion; his heart, warm and alive,
began to beat in the place where
there had been frozen emptiness.
"Something splendid?that shines
like a light!"
Years afterward he spoke of this
moment to Jane. "I can't describe
it. It was a miracle?their coming.
As much of a miracle as that light
which shone on Paul as he rode to
Damascus. The change within me
was absolute. 1 was born again.
All it-- -I J f ? -
rtii me uiu lears Slipped trom me
like a garment. I was saved, Jane,
by those boys' voices in the dark."
The next day was Sunday. Evans
called up Sandy and Arthur ard invited
them to supper. "Old .vlary
said you were here last night, and
didn't find me. I've a book or two
for you. Can you come and get
them? And stay to supper. Miss
Towne will be here and her uncle."
The boys could not know that they
were asked as a shield and buckler
in the battle which Evans was fighting.
It seemed to him that he could
not meet Frederick Towne. Yet it
had been, of course, the logical thing
to ask him. Edith had invited herself.
and Towne had. of course,
much to tell about Jane.
Evans, therefore, with an outward
eflect of tranquillity, played the
host. After supper, however, he
took the boys with him to the library.
On the table lay a gray volume.
He opened it and showed the Cruikshank
illustrations.
"I've been reading this. It's great
stuff."
"Oh, Pilgrim's Progress," said
Sandy; "do you like it?"
"Yes." Evans leaned above the
book where it lay open under the
light, and started to read to them.
That night Evans found out for the
first time something about his mother.
"You look tired, dearest," he
had said, when their guests were
gone, and he and she had come into
the great hall together.
"I am tired." She sat down on
an old horsehair sofa. "1 can't stand
much excitement. It makes me feel
like an old lady."
"You'll never grow old." He felt
a deep tenderness for her in this
moment of confessed weakness. She
had always been so strong. Had refused
to lean. She had, in fact, taken
from him his son's prerogative
of protectiveness.
"You'd better see Hallam," Evans
said.
"I've seen him."
"What did he say?"
"My heart?"
He looked at her in alarm. "Mother!
Why didn't you tell me?"
"What was the use? There's nothin?f
to bo wnprioH aKnn*
_ __ ? uwwuk. wiujf lie
says I must not push myself."
"I am worried. Let me look after
the men in the morning early.
That will give you an extra nap."
"Oh, I won't do it, Evans. You
have your work."
"It won't hurt me. And I am going
to boss you around a bit." He
stooped and kissed her. "You are
too precious to lose, Mumsie."
She clung to him. "What would I
do without you, my dear?"
He helped her up the stairs. And
as she climbed slowly, his arm
about her, he thought of that dark
moment by the bridge.
If those young voices had not
come to him in the night, this loving
soul might have been stricken and
made desolate; left alone in her
time of greatest need.
CHAPTER XIII
Once more the Washington papers
had headlines that spoke of Delafield
Simms. He had married a
sienocraDher in Frederick Towne'a
ERN
ofF.ce. And it was Towne's niece
that he had deserted at the altar.
And most remarkable of all, Edith
Towne had been at the wedding. It
was Eloise Harper who told the reporters.
"They were married at the old i
Inn below Alexandria this morning,
by the local Methodist clergyman.
Miss Logan is a Methodist?fancy.
And Edith was bridesmaid."
But Eloise did not know that Lucy
had worn the wedding dress and
veil that Edith had given her and
looked lovely in them. And that
after the ceremony, Delafield had
wrung Edith's hand and had said.
"I shall never know how to thank
you for what you have been to
Lucy."
"Gee, but you're superlative."
Baldy told her as they walked in
the garden.
"Am I?"
"Yes. And the way you Carried
it off."
"I didn't carry it off. It carried
itself."
"Are you sure it didn't hurt?"
She smiled at him from beneath
her big hat. "Not a bit."
The moment was ripe for romance.
But Baldy almost feverishly
kept the conversation away from
serious things. They had talked seriously
enough, God knew, the other
night by Edith's fire. He had seen
her lonely in the thought of her future.
"When Uncle Fred marries I
won't stay here."
He had yearned to take her in his
arms, to tell her that against his
heart she should never again know
loneliness. But he had not dared.
What had he to offer? A boy's love.
Against her gold.
So he talked of Jane. "She doesn't
want her engagement announced until
she gets back. I think she's
right."
"I don't," Edith said lazily. "If I
loved a man I'd want to shout it
to the world."
aiicj wKie sming on a rustic
bench under the blossoming plum
tree. Edith's hands were clasped
behind her head, and the winged
sleeves of her gown fell back and
showed her bare arms. Baldy wanted
to unclasp those hands, crush
them to his lips?but instead he
stood up. looking over the river.
"Do you see the ducks out there?
Wild ones at that. A sign of spring." j
She rose and stood beside him.
"And you can talk of?ducks?on a
day like this?"
"Yes," he did not look at her,
"ducks are?safe."
He heard her low laugh. "Silly !
boy."
He turned, his gray eyes filled
with limpid light. "Perhaps I am. 1
But I should be a fool if I told you
how I love you. Worship you.
You know it, of course. But nothing |
can come of it, even if I were presumptuous
enough to think that you
?care."
She swept out her hands in an
appealing gesture. "Say it. I want
to hear."
She was adorable. But he drew
back a little. "We've gone too far
and too fast. It is my fault, of
course, for being a romantic fool."
"I'm afraid we're a pair of romantic
fools, Baldy."
He turned and put his hands on
her shoulders. "Edith, I?mustn't."
"Why not?"
"Not until I have something to
offer you?"
"You have something to offer?"
"Oh, I know what you mean. But
?1 won't. Somehow this affair of
Jane's with your uncle has made
me see?"
"See what?"
"Oh, how the world would look at
it. How he'd look at it."
"Uncle Frederick? He hasn't anything
to do with it. I'm my own
mistress."
(TO BE CONTINUED)
Head-Hunters Hate White Men
The head-hunting Marindanim
tribesmen of Dutch New Guinea, natives
of the island lying north of
Australia, practice head-hunting as
they have for hundreds of years.
The Marind-anim, inhabiting the Digoel
river district, are the most savage
and successful of the head-hunting
tribes on the island. They regard
all other tribes as implacable
enemies and raid them continually
for their ghastly human traphies. So
intense is their hatred of the white
man that few whites ever venture
near them. The Dutch government
makes persistent but fruitless efforts
to stamp out the habit of head
hunting.
'Tiros High Time to Call 1
Half, Thought the Lady 1
Former Senator Fess was p#. 1
demning in Atlantic City the I
talk that is troubling the world. I
"How unreasonable war is," he I
ended. "It is more unreasonable I
than the prize fight seemed to ti, I
old lady. An old lady said on bet I
return from the big city: 1
" 'One evening mv son-in-law I
took me to a prize light. I neve I
saw such a thing. The two mi I
came out on the stage and shook M
hands like the best of friends, thes I
they began to punch each other
all for nothing. They l-.ept oe I
punching till a "
? ui me cornet I
yelled "Time" ur.d nobody I
swered, so I pulled out my wS|A I
and yelled, "Ten o'clock"!'" I
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