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Bellefonte, Pa., Nov. 30, 1900.
EE ————————————————————————————————
A THANKSGIVIN’ TURKEY.
*Cindy, reach dah ’hine yo’ back
*N’ han’ me dat ah almanac.
W'y Laud !—t'morrer’s Thanksgivin’!
Got to git out an’ make hay—
Don’ keer whut de preachah say—
We mus’ eat Thanksgivin' day,
Us sho’ uz you's a-libbin’.
You know whah Mahs Hudsor libs?
Dey’s a turkey dah dat gibs
Me a heap o’ trouble.
Some day Hudson g'ine to mis’
Dat owdashus fowl] 0’ his;
I’s g’ine ober dah an’ twis’
’At gobblah’s nake plumb double.
Goin’ pas’ dah t’ othah day,
Turkey strutted up an’ say:
‘‘A’gobble, gobble, gobble !”
Much uz ef he mout remahk :
“Don’ you wish ’at it was dahk?
Ain't I temptin’ 2” 8’: “You hahk,
Er else dey’ll be a squabble,
“Take an’ wring yo' nake right quick,
Light on you lak a thousan’ brick,
*N’ you won't know whut befell you.”
’N’ I went on. Yit, evah day,
When I goes by that-a-way,
*At fowl hab too much to say;
'N’ I'm tiadh uv it, I tell you.
G'ine to go dis bressed night,
An’ put out dat turkey’s light,
'N’ Pll lam ‘im lak a cobblah.
Take keer, 'Cindy, lemme pass;
Got to do ma work up fas’
Ain't a-g’ine to take no sass
Off 0’ no man’s turkey gobblah.
THE ARTIST ON THE TOP FLOOR.
I
Christine frowned. It was not the mo-
ment at which anyene would bave wished
to meet a young man. A saucepan, under
the most favorable circumstances, could
scarcely be called a personal adernment ;
and several sancepans, though held by the
daintiest and whitest of feminine hands,
were enough to make anyone look ridicu-
lous. If'she had only left‘the sancepaus to
Hester and carried up soft sofa cushions,
or something picturesque and interesting,
herself! But—sauncepans! It was exas-
perating ; and she nearly stamped with
vexation . as she stood half-way up the
staircase, wondering why the stupid fellow
did not pass her and continue his way
downstairs.
narrowness of the staircase and the angle
at which she had held the sancepans com-
bined to prevent him.
**I—I beg your pardon! she said has-
tily, and took a step upward. So did the
young man—to save his person from the
dangerous proximity of the saucepans ;
and they stood precisely as before.
“*Won’t you let me help you?’’ he sug-
gested. It was a pardonable offer, consid-
ering that there seemed no possibility
otherwise of his getting downstairs ; but
Christine, already ruffled and embarrassed,
was pleased to think it officious. His
manner, she decided impulsively, was ef-
fusive ; and she hated effusive men. She
was, by way of being a serious young wom-
an herself, serious enough to play at earn-
ing her living because she thought it right
for a woman to work, and young enough
to think that all men should be strong,
manly, large-minded, great-souled, and—
reticent. Effusion, therefore, had no
place in ber ideal ; and as for a fair mus-
tache that hid a perpetual smile—that was
altogether out of the picture. ;
‘‘No, thank you! she said, and strug-
gled to dispose of the saucepans more con-
veniently.
‘“*You’d better,”’ advised the young man
as the stubborness of the largest and black-
est of the three saucepans again threatened
his personal safety. He had no idea that
he was expected to be great-souled or any
of those things ; and it seemed quite rea-
sonable to him that he should want to ex-
tricate a very charming girl from a very
delightfully unnsnal predicament. But
Christine only saw the smile; and that
finally condemned him, from her point of
view.
‘No, thank you,’ she repeated—crossly,
this time, for the biggest saucepan was
torturing her maoscles up to the shoulder.
She made a desperate effort to swing the
thing around and so end the absurd situa-
tion ; and she succeeded in lengthening it
considerably.
“Now you must allow me!" cried the
young man triumphantly, as the sudden
removal of the principal obstacle in his
way enabled him at last to pass and spring
downstairs, two steps at a time. He was
preceded by a clanging, rebounding,
blackened object, that rolled and tumbled
and jumped and banged its way down:
ward till it was brought up, unintentional-
ly, by the skirts of an elderly lady, who
was letting herself into her flat on the floor
below.
‘It is your property, Mr. Merrington ?”’
asked the lady with some severity. The
immediate appearance of the young man,
subsequent to that of the saucepan, led her
to this conclusion, and also prevented her
from rubbing a smarting ankle with a
soothing hand.
Mr. Merrington contrived to remain
smiling and unabashed.
*‘I was just endeavoring to make it mine,
Miss Lindsey,”’ he answered, picking it
up gingerly. ‘I sincerely hope my care:
lessness——’
‘Not at all I’ Miss Lindsay shot at him
in much anguish, and she limped inside
her flat and shunt the door sharply.
Maurice Merrington returned upstairs,
Swinging the saucepan and whistling gay-
“‘Don’t trouble.’’ said Christine faintly,
as he kept possession of her property and
waited for her to lead the way.
“No trouble, I assure you!’ cried the
young man, following her upstairs.
‘Nothing T like better than saucepans,
really ; and this one is such a particularly
nice and harmless—?? !
“It’s a horrid saucepan !” interrupted
Christine indignantly, She supposed he
thought it amusing to ignore the short-
comings of this burnt and scarred veteran
of her kitchen, and she was determined to
show him that in this as in all things she
preferred frankness to flattery. But Mr.
Merrington rattled on unconsciously.
‘Ob, don’t be hard on it,”’ he said,
swirling it round cautiously as he spoke.
oi mayn’y be much to look at, Ey
nt—
‘“Thank you,’”’ said Christine, holding
out her hand for it as they reached her own
balf-open door. ;
‘Pray allow me——'’ began Maurice
eagerly, but she still held out her hand,
and he yielded with all the grace that
was possible. | :
“‘Is there anything else I can do for
you?’ he continued, lingering on the
threshold. ‘“‘I suppose you're just moving
in, aren’t you?” :
‘*You surely don’t suppose it is my cus-
Then she realized that the
tom to walk about carrying saucepans, do
you ?”’ cried Christine, begging his first
question by answering his second. Then,
conscious that there had been a touch of
raillery in her tone, and quite convinced
that she had no wish to encourage a young
man with a smile and no soul, she added
immediately by way of polite explanation:
“I have been occupying a spare flat down
stairs till my own wasready. That is why
I am moving some of my things myself.
am sorry if I have taken up your time.”
And she shut the door on his protesta-
tions.
Her maid, coming in five minutes later
with more utensils, found her sitting ab-
sently on the edge of a coal scuttle, read-
ing a letter that had come for her two days
before. The particular paragraph that re-
quired this sudden and inopportune study
ran as follows :
‘By the way, Teddy knows an artist on
the top floor who might be of use in help-
ing you to place your drawings. I forget
his name at the moment, but he does a lot
of illustrating and is very nice, my boy
says. Would yon like Teddy to give him
an introduetion to yon? He is engaged to
a sister of Ted’s great Oxford chum,’ etc.,
ele.
‘Please, Miss,’’ said Hester for the third
time, ‘‘the men want to know where they
are to put the sofa.”
Christine listened to her without hear-
in. “On the top floor !”’ she answered
vaguely, still looking at her letter.
II
It was pouring with rain, and Christine
shivered as she looked out from the front
door and scanned the deserted street. Not
a cab was in sight, though Hester had gone
to search for one more than ten minutes
ago. Even the smell of warm, moist
greenness, and the reviving life in the
trees opposite, which had drooped so mis-
erably only yesterday, did not compensate
her for being kept waiting on a wet after-
noon in this most deserted corner of
Chelsea.
‘Might I trouble you? Thanks !"’ said a
voice from behind ; and Maurice Merring-
ton stepped past her and scanned the empty
street in his turn. He raised his hat
slightly, which, of course, was demanded
by bare politeness. He also glanced at
her, though, as if he courted recognition
as well ; and this, Christine thought, was
entirely uncalled for. However, as he did
not seem to be going, but pulled a whistle
out of his pocket and began blowing it,she
accepted the inevitable and bowed. It
seemed as though Fate had destined her to
‘be sandwiched with this tiresome and ir-
repressible young man in drafty and
cramped corners.
“You won’t get a cab’’ she remarked
discouragingly. ‘‘dester has been look-
ing for one eversolong. And it’s so wet,’
she added somewhat fatuously.
‘Rain is wet,’’ admitted the young man
even more fatuously. Seeing a frown
gather behind her veil he hastened to re-
pair his silly jest. ‘‘Chelsea is not a good
place for cabs,’”’ he said with exceeding
gravity, and blew a louder blast thau be-
fore. It was answered this time by a wel-
come clash of bells in the distance, follow-
ed by a jumble of hoofs and a slide, which
brought the desired hansom to the end of
the street, where it paused doubtfully.
Assailed by vigorous signs from the rain-
bound couple in the doorway, it gathered
up all its resources for another prolonged
skid and a slither, scraping the curb with
excrutiating sounds all along the street,
and ending with a terrific stumble on the
spot where it was intended to stop. Hav-
ing survived these successive perils with-
out disaster, it stood still in a cloud of
steam, and opened all over. But nobody
accepted the invitation.
‘Please take it!’ begged Mr. Merring-
ton, spreading his umberella over Chris-
tine’s new hat.
“Oh, no !”’ objected Christine. *‘It is
distinctly yours, and you are probably in
a hurry.”
‘Not in the least,”’ declared Maurice.
Only a private view in Broad strect ; and
views can always wait.”’
Christine opened her mind impulsively
to say something—and said something else.
‘Hester will be back with my cab directly,
you see,”’ she pointed outlamely.
“Then I will take yours,”’ said the
young man promptly.
This was unanswerable ; yet it seemed a
shame to leave him to the doubtful issue
of Hester’s search. She glanced at him
sidewise. He looked very well, in an or-
dinary smart London manner, and for the
moment his appearance pleased her. She
forgot he was effusive instead of reticent,
and that he lacked soul—and she burned
her ships.
‘I am going to a private view in Broad
street, too,’’ she confessed. ‘‘It seems a
pity, considering the scarcity of cabs—and
the rain—and everything—that we
shouldn’t both——"’
And when Hester did return with her
cab she was just in time to see her mistress
drive off in another cab with a strange
young man ; and for the next few seconds
Hester endured language.
In the retreating hansom Christine was
listing impatiently while her companion
made commonplace and wholly unnecessar,
remarks ahont the position of Chelsea. It
was 80 stupid of him, she reflected crossly,
not to see that she wanted to explain her
reasons for acting in such an unconven-
tional manner. Maurice, of course, had no
idea that there was anything to explain;
but his was not a reflective nature.
The remarks came to an end in time,and
Christine seized her opportunity. ?
“‘Mrs. Howard ‘wrote me that her son
Teddy was going to give you an introduc-
tion to 'me,’’ she began ; “‘so I was expeot-
ing that you would call on one ‘my
Thursdays. They knew that your flat was
over mine, and —"’ } :
A certain blankness that came into his
face as she said this made her stop and
hesitate. Decidedly, he was the most
duction had not reached him, he need
not have looked as if he had never heard
of his best friend. han
“Well, you do live on the top floor,
don’t you ?”’ she demanded a little crossly.
‘“‘Certainly, yes—to be sure !’* answered
Maurice readily. He wished he could
have acquiesced as easily in what she said
about the introduction ; but the name of
Teddy Howard was quite unknown to him.
Before he had time to say go, however, she
had jumped to the illogical conclusion ‘that
he did not wish to continue an acquaint-
ance for which, so far, he was distinctly
responsible ; and she became furiously
anxious av once to explain to him that she
was equally indifferent, and would not
have mentioned the subject if Mrs. Howard
had not placed her in such an awkward
position. i i {
‘“To be quite frank,’’ she resumed hur-
riedly, ‘‘Mrs. Howard ‘thought you might
be good enough to give meé some advice
about placing my drawings. I was at
school with the Hazlewood girls, too, and
she knew I would be interested in your
engagement. Which one is it? The little
dark one? = , ¢
She was quite pléased with herself for
being so composed ‘and natural. It there-
tactless of young men! Even if the intro-
fore disconcerted her greatly to find that
her companion was shaking with laughter.
Ridicale from a young man whom she
was endeavoring to patronize set her ting-
ling with wounded vanity. hat had
she said that was so enormously diverting?
Naturally, she had no idea that her inno-
cent observations had explained the whole
mystery to Mn Tbe: He realized now that
she mistook him for Tom Ingleburg, whose
1 | flat he had merely taken for the summer ;
and for the moment the humor of the situ-
ation overcame him. But when he turned
to explain things to her he found her star-
ing at him with such a hurt look on her
face that he immiediately forgot everything
else in a desire to humble himself and
bring back her smile again.
“Have I been so amusing, then ?”’ he
found her asking him in a cold, hard, little
voice.
‘‘Please forgive me! It wasn’t you; I
ought to be ashamed of myself—something
I saw in the street we just passed ! Awfnl-
ly funny place, Chelsea, don’t you know,’
he stammered, lying feebly in his confu-
sion.
‘Oh 1”, said Christine indifferently,
looking straight in front of her.
He was a good-natured fellow, and he
could not bear to think that he had wound-
ed her by his idiotic laughter. She was
so young and so pretty, too, that her little
spasmodic attempts at dignity only in-
creased his interest in her. He certainly
did not wish to disconcert her further by
‘explaining the mistake she had made.
Perhaps, too, he was not unwilling for his
own sake to keep up the deception a little
longer. Afterward, he could not imagine
what had possessed him to think that it
would be amusing to play her such a
schoolboy’s silly trick, or that it would be
possible for any length of time to keep her
from finding it out.
“It’s odd, now that you should know
the Howards, the Hazlewoods, and all
those, isn’t it?’ he pursued recklessly.
‘‘Young Howard has never sent me that
introduction, by the way. But it doesn’t
matter, does it ?”’
If he had not been such a boy at heart,
in spite of his twenty-eight years, he could
never have done it. Anyhow, he was in
for it now, and it was something to see that
her face was already softening.
“Isn’t it the little dark one ?’’ she asked
again.
Maurice refrained rigidly from smiling.
He had forgotten in his haste that he was
also letting himself in for an engagement
to some one he had never seen.
‘Yes,’ he said boldly ; ‘‘the little dark
one.” He glanced at ber as he spoke.
Christine was dark, too. ‘‘At least,”’ he
little head she kept so resolutely turned
away from him, ‘‘she‘s got that sort of
dark hair that’s black in the shadows, and
just glistens with brown shades where it
catches the light. And she’s a winsome
little creature !’’ he wound up. enthusias-
tically. r
She turned and smiled at him then.
‘“Tell me about her,’’ she said in a friend-
ly tone.
This, however, Maurice seemed in no
hurry to do. It had just occurred to him
that if he had to play another man’s part,
it would be well to find out first how much
she knew about the other man.
“Oh, that can wait,”’ he said, as he had
said of the private view. ‘‘What else did
Mrs. Howard tell you about me, I won-
der?”
“She didn’t tell me your name,’ ob-
served Christine. ‘Did she tell you
mine?”’
‘‘Rather !"’ answered Maurice shameless-
ly. Fortune was certainly playing into
his hands more kindly than he deserved.
would not tell her he was the wrong man,
while he had an advantage over her in the
possession of hers, which he had gleaned
from the porter. ‘‘Miss Christine Berwick,
illustrator in black and white! Isn’t that
it?”
He went on to tell her his own name;
and then, wondering what his chances of
detection were, he asked if she knew any
one else who lived in the flats. He maut-
tered something to the cab horse when he
heat that Miss Lindsay had zalled on her
the day before.
“She pokes her finger into everybody’s
pie,’’ he told her. Thinks she can call on
every newcomer because she’s the oldest
tenant in the block. Awful old gossip!
Don's tell her too much-”’
Christie chuckled to herself in a rather
demure, amused sort of way that was in-
teresting to hear. ‘‘She won’t come
again, I fancy,’’ she said, and laughed out
right. :
“Why not ?"’ asked Maurice, feeling re-
lieved notwithstanding.
Christine’s characteristic frown rested on
her face an instant. ‘‘She began by asking
me what rent I paid,’”” she answered,
“Then——="7
**Well ?”’ nrged : Maurice, becoming enr-
ious.
“*I—I don’t think I can tell you,” said
Christive, her demure look returning.
‘*Can’t you ?’’ said Maurice in an inter-
ested tone. He glanced out of the window
they were horribly near Broad street.
Perhaps, if you shut your eyes and try
hard —"*
‘‘But, you see—you see,it’s about yon!”’
explained Christine. She, too,glanced out
of the window. In another moment they
would reach Broad street, aud the oppor-
tunity for telling him would have gone
by. :
“That's an additional reason for letting
me hear,’’ declared the tempter, rejoicing
as a block held them for a moment at Al-
bemarl street. He never sat in a hansom
again on.a wet day, blocked by the traffic,
without hearing that low, nervous little
voice in his ear, through the drip of the
rain and ‘the drone of wheels and the clat-
ter of uncertain hoofs. / 3
$I—I'm afraid it wouldn’t be right,”
she protested Teshiy: iE Bans
~ Maurice played his last’ card cunningly
as the traffic melted away in front of them.
‘Of course I shouldn’t wish to make you
ell me anything that you would sooner
eep to yourself,” he said gravely.
‘'Oh, it isn’t anything like that !’’ ex-
claimed Christine with a flutter in her
voice. re only sil=vel) she didn’t
say anyt! , only she began gossiping
about all the people in the house, and
when she came to you——"’
aay When she Same . me —? re-
peated Maurice encouragingly, as the blush
spread over her cheeks Ee y
* Christine gave herself a shake and ended
her confidence breathlessly. ‘‘Well, then
I told her I never allowed anybody to say
horrid things about the people I—about
my friends, you know ; and it seemed to
upset her rather. That was why I didn’s
even hear your name, because she got u
and went away. I opened all the windows
when she’d gone I’ added Christine with
another chuckle. :
She was staring straight up Broad street,
but she knew he was looking at her, and
her blushes were beyond her control.
““That was very nice of youn,’ said
Maurice, and for once his manner was not
continued, gaziug at the poise of the dainty’
It was something to know that his name!
a bit effusive. ‘‘Your friendship is worth
having, if you stick up for your friends
like that.’’
‘Oh I’ eried Christine, making a frantic
attempt to justify herself. ‘You see, I
didn’t know how to stop her otherwise ;
and—and—there: was Mis. Howard—and
the saucepans —"’
**Just so,”’ laughed Maurice as he flung
back the doors of the hansom. ‘By all
means let us put it down to the sauce-
pans!’
That evening a forlorn little figure of a
girl stood hy the window of her flat in the
faint light that came from a departed sun
set ; and in her hand was again a letter.
“I am sorry to tell you that Teddy's
friend, Tom Ingleburg, has let his flat to a
Mr. Merrington and has gone abroad, so
you must put off meeting him for the
present.’’
The letter floated out of her hand and
lay neglected at her feet. ‘I knew he
wasn’t a nice man !"’ she murmured with
a catch in her voice.
She stood by the window, pondering till
it grew quite dark. Then she switched on
the light suddenly and smiled in a myste-
rious manner.
“I'll pay him out by keeping up the
fraud 1’ she said aloud ; and Hester, who
inadvertently caught the remark won-
dered.
IIT.
sively, ‘‘yon are the least energetic person
I ever met.’
“Why have I got to be energetic?”
grumbled the artist in question, who lay
stretched on the turf a few yards away
with his hat tilted over his eyes.
“Look at that view!” commanded
Christine, and she swept her hand compre-
hensively around the Surrey Valley that
lay below them. ‘Only look at it!”
“I am looking at it,”’ he said ; which
was not strictly true, for the range of vis-
ion bounded by the brim of his straw hat
was blocked at that instant by an erect
little person in a bicycle suit, sitting up
against the blue sky, with two small and
very white hands clasped over her knees.
ing that parcel behind? I'm sure there’s
cake in it, and cake is more important to
me than all the rest put together! If we
don’t make haste, too, we shall never get
to Guildford by tea time.”’
She said this very rapidly, without
knowing exactly what she was saying.
She only knew that she wanted to stop bis
explanation, for some reason that she could
not quite make clear to herself. Her man-
per broke the spell, and the young man
turned on his heel and picked up the dis-
carded parcel.
‘Wrong again !”’ he retorted, keeping
his back turned to her. ‘It’s jam puffs,
the three cornered things you said you
liked so much the other day. I say, why
do you always complain of my being frivo-
lous, when you won’t let me be serious for
a moment ?”’ .
**Why do you always complain of my
being strenuous, when you won’t let me
he frivolous for a moment?’ Christine
laughed back; and they left the further
discussion of the subject and turned to the
Joie gras. .
Somehow, that bicycle ride was the jol-
liest of all the expeditions they had plan-
ned together during the last three months.
The other expeditions had always ended at
tea time; but today they dawdled so long
over luncheon that they missed their train
at Guildford, and were obliged to dine to-
| gether and catch a later one back to town.
“For an artist,” said Christine impres- |
- ‘Who would say that you were the suc-
cessful illustrator, the great man I was so
terrified of meeting three months ago?’
laughed Christine as they skimmed home
from Victoria along. the wood paved
streets.
“Or that you were the demure and con-
ventional young lady whom I did meet on
the staircase three months ago?’ jeered
Maurice in reply.
‘*Conventional ?”’ cried his companion
indignantly; ‘I’m sure I wasn’t!’
‘*Never mind,’’ said Maurice soothingly;
‘‘nohody can call you conventional now.”’
‘‘What do you mean ?’? demanded Chris-
tine just as indignantly. ‘I’m sure I
| couldn’t be more conventional than I am.
I think you're perfectly horrid this even-
“Then why don’t yon get up and make a | ing.”’
sketch of it?’ demanded Christine.
*‘My dear friend,’”’ he remonstrated, ‘I i groaned Maurice.
am not a cinematograph.
“I wish yon were!” said Christine fer-
vently. ‘‘Just wouldn’t I turn the handle
and make you work ! How can you see a
picture like that, all around you, without
putting it straight on to a canvas ?”’
“If it’s a panorama that yon want,’ he
observed, we’ll go to Earl’s Court next
time, and——""
‘‘Are you never serious ?’’ sighed Chris-
tine.
“I trust mnot,”’ said he.
wouldn’t like it, if I were.”’
She glanced at him critically, and won-
dered. It was gnite a long time since she
last told herself that he was the exact op-
posite of everything she thought a man
should be. She glanced slowly away again
and her eyes fell on the spot where his bi-
cycle lay prone on the ground.
“If yon didn’t mean to work,” she
cried, pointing vo it. ‘‘why did you bring
your sketching materials with you ?”’
*“That isn’t materials,’ answered the
voice under the straw hat. ‘‘That’s lanch-
‘And you
eon.
Christine fairly gasped. ‘‘And all this
while you’ve heen pretending it was—"’
she began, and then stopped to shake her
head disapprovingly at him. ‘‘And you
call yourself an artist!’ she concluded
with a shrug of her shoulders.
‘Excuse me, I never did ! It was you,”’
said Maurice; and having made this ex-
ceedingly true remarked he tilted his hat
a little further over his face and smiled.
Christine kept her countenance—and her
secret.
‘It was old Mrs. Howard,’”’ she amend-
ed solemnly. ‘I was also told that you
were tremendously successful, and that
one word of recommendation from you
would get me as much work as I could
wish. And I find that yon never do any
work at all, that nobody has ever heard of
you, and that I may whistle for your rec-
ommendation ! It’s a little hard on me, I
must say !”’
“Very hard,” admitted Maurice, smil-
ing in a provoking manner. ‘‘But then,
you shouldn’t believe old ladies in the
country; they never have any sense of
proportion.”’
“Now I come to think of it,’’ continued
Christine thoughtfully, *‘‘she even mention-
ed the paper you were on—the Pastel.
Now, I never see anybody's name in the
Pastel except—except—what does he call
himself 2—isn’t it Tom Something ?’’
“Oh, I dare say,’’ said Maurice. “A
man with a name like that is suie to be
successful.” |
‘‘Now, don’t be jealous because I hap-
‘pen to mention the name of a man who has
fought his way in the world, and toiled
and slaved and slaved for an ideal I’? she
cried.
“It’s time for luncheon’ remarked
Maurice, risingto his fect. ‘When you
begin to get strenuous it always means that
it’s time for luncheon.”
Christine tossed her head disdainfully.
“Iam sorry for the girl you're going to
marry !"’ she remarked.
‘‘Are you?’ said Maurice, looking at
her a little queerly before he stooped over
his machine. ‘‘Soam I.” :
‘Why ?’’ asked Christine, making little
holes in the turf with her finger.
‘ “Because I'm afraid she thinks I'm a
good-for-nothing.’’ ;
‘What a shame !’’ said Christine invol-
untarily. Then she stopped short and
langhed a little nnmeaningly.
“‘Why is it a shame ?’? inquired Maurice
tossing sundry paper parcels toward her.
*‘You’ve known me just as Jong a8 she had
when I proposed to her. And you think
I’m a lazy brute; so why shouldn’t she?”
“+ Foie gras—hurrah !"? answered Christine
peering into one of the packages. Then,as
she was opening the next. ‘‘But it’s dif-
ferent for her,’’ she resumed casually, ‘‘be-
cause she—she cares I"?
‘‘Doyou think that makes a difference?
Look out—this is claret !”’ ;
‘“‘Any seltzer? Good! It makes every
difference.”
Maurice unstrapped the last package and
weighed it in his hand meditatively, stand-
ing straight up and looking down at her as
she knelt in the heather and deftly untied
his clumsy knots with her white little fin-
gers. Her hair was all light brown shades
today, for the sunlight was upon it. He
thought he had neverseen such bewitching
hands or such charming hair; and he drop-
ped the last package suddenly at his feet,
and took two quick steps across the s
of tinted turf that divided them. z
She felt him coming and looked up sur-
prised, Something in his face told her
hat the game they had been playing to-
P | gether for three months was coming to an
end.
‘Look here !”” he said in a gruff voice;
‘‘there’s something I ought to tell you.
I’ve been rotting all the time, and——’
‘Of course you have! So have I,”’ she
answered lightly. ‘‘But.do, do sit down
now, acd have luncheon! I'm simply
starving; and what do you mean by leav-
‘Who's going to please a woman?!
‘*Who? Oh, who?”
Ride as they might, they could not reach
the flats before the front door was closed
and the gas on the stairs extinguished.
They-had a good deal of fun over carrying
their bicycles down to the basement in the
dark, and then Maurice insisted on light-
ing her up to her own door with his bicy-
cle lamp, a feat that excited Christine to
fresh merriment, because either he or she
managed to get in the way of the smoald-
ering flicker and so made it of less use than
before.
“Good night !"’ he said, holding out his
hand when she had unlocked her door.
“It’s been all right, hasn’t it ?’’
‘‘Splendid !’’ she responded warmly; and
she went in and he went up.
No one conld have said that their fare-
well was ineriminating: but Miss Lindsey,
whe had soltly opened her door below to
see what the laughter was about, heard
every word and condemned them both.
1V.
“My dear,” said Miss Lindsey, nodding
two black feathers and a velvet nasturtium
with vigor, *‘I am older than you are, and
I know !”’ }
On occasions like the present, when any
advantage was to he gained from it, Miss
Lindsey never minded owning to her age.
Christine did not contradict her, and she
went on.
*‘That young man is not to be trusted,’’
was her next shaft.
“No,” said Christine calmly; ‘‘so I have
discovered.”’ aid 3
Miss Lindsey started. ‘Do I: under-
stand you aright ?’’ she said stiffly.
“Probably not,”’” answered Christine,
smiling a lictle. *‘I said Mr. Merrington
was not to be trusted. I think you said so
too, did you not?’’
‘‘But—but in that case,’’ said the amaz-
ed lady, ‘how is one to interpret——?’’
‘Is anybody to be trusted ?”’ continued
Christine as if she did not notice the stam-
mering comments of her visitor. ¢
‘I sincerely hope so, Miss Berwick,’ re-
plied Miss Lindsey drawing herself up.
“Well, I don’t know,’’ observed Chris-
tine rather more briskly. “I fancy there
are a good many people going about who
gleam all the information they can from
every one, so that they can turn it into
scandal aud make mischief between good
friends. Those are the people who are not
to be trusted, I think.’
Miss Lindsey moved a little nervously
in her chair. There was something in the
way this Miss Berwick tixed her with those
cold, dark eyes of hers that was extremely
uucomfortable. ‘‘It hehooves us all to be
circumspect, ’’ she remarked, trying to lead
back the conversation to its original chan-
vel. But Christine had had as much of it
as she meant to endure.
“I don’t think so,”’ she said bluntly.
“If we've got to be circumspect, it generally
means that there is something that we are
obliged to conceal. I hate hiding things,
and I never mean to be circumspect as long
as I live!” :
Miss Lindsey's little green eyes gleamed.
This was just the opening she wanted.
‘‘My dear young lady,’’ she said solemnly,
‘‘don’t you think it is wise, when one is
alone in the world, like you and nie, to be
a little—circumspect? Of course I am the
last person to suspect evil; but people will
talk you know, and one or two of the
tenants have already remarked on the un-
usual, the—the very unusmal intimacy
that exists between Mr. Merrington and
yourself. As I said before—"’
““Then—then don’t say it again, please!"
the gossip of the other tenants interest
you—"" aol ni at od
“My dear,” said Miss Lindsey with a
patient smile, ‘‘don’t be offended with an
old woman. ' I came to see you today as a
friend. There is a httle mistake I feel it
my duty to correct in your mind. Yom
told me before that this Mr. Merrington
was known to your friends, was engaged
to one of them, in factk—" i ;
*'Oh, yes !’’ said Christine, yawning be-
hind ber hand. She was thinking how
delicious it would be to pull the two feath-
ers and the nasturtinm out of their black
velvet setting and crush them all together
till they were indisiinguishable. i
*“Then let me tell you—he isn’t !’’ cried
Miss Lindsey, and she shook all over with
suppressed triumph. ‘‘You have mistaken
him: for Mr. Ingleberry.”’
‘Is that all ?’’ smiled Christine. ‘‘Why
I found that out the day after you last call-
ed, three months ago !”’
Miss Lindsey’s countenance fell. ‘You
knew—that ?”’ she said slowly.
‘Christine nodded wearily. She wonder-
ed how long it would be before she ol
to be rude to the intolerable old mischief-
maker. ra
‘Of course you know your own affairs
best, dear Miss Berwick,’’ resumed her vis-
itor, recovering herself again, “but I muss
say it surprises me to hear that your ac-
quaintance with Mr. Merrington did not
cease When you had explained your mis-
interrupted = Christine imploringly. “If |,
take to him.
A sudden desire to be reckless and to
shock Miss Lindsey at any cost possessed
Christine. .
‘‘As to that,”’ she said airily, ‘‘I never
did explain my mistake to Mr. Merring-
ton. I found his friendship so entertain-
ing that I went on pretending I believed
him to be somebody else, so that we could
still be friends. Probably it is for the
same reason that Mr. Merrington still poses
to me as Mr. Inglebury. But it doesn’t
interest me ta find out. Yes, the time has
flown, hasn’t it? So kind of you to look
in.
For, with agitation written all over her
Miss Lindsey had hurriedly risen to her
feet and extended a thin, black gloved
hand to her hostess; and was gone before
Christine had time to guess the reason for
her anxiety to be off.
Upstairs, a few minutes later, Maurice
Merrington was wondering where some
women bought their bonnets. But he had
very little leisure in which to study the
vagaries of the nasturtium and the two
black feathers. For his visitor gave him
no peace until she was quite sure that he
had learned everything she came to tell
him. She might have felt less satisfaction
over what she had accomplished bad she
seen his face when he at last found himself
alone.
© “Little wretch !”’ he laughed softly to
himself. “I’ve got her at last !”’ .
**Then you’ve never heard of the How-
ards, or the Hazlewoods either ?’’ said a
very dignified little person, standivg up to
her fall height in the recess of the bay win-
dow, and looking the wronged and injured
woman to perfection.
“Pardon me, I never heard of any one
elee, in the early days of our acquaint-
ance,’”’ the man on the sofa ventured in a
weak voice to remark.
Christine made an expressive gesture
with her hand, to indicate that this was no
laughing matter.
“And yow don’t really live on the top
floor at all ?”’ she said in a tone of deep re-
Sentment.
‘‘If you put it in that way-—no,’’ admit-
ted the offender.
The injured woman made another effort
and increased her height by nearly balf an
inch. She fully realized, as she did so,
that the crimson curtain made the most ef-
fective background possible for black hair
and a rose-colored gown. ¢
*'You are not even an artist,’’ she said,’’
turning her great dark eyes upon
him with a wealth of pathetic reproach in
them.
“No,” said Maurice Merrington, looking
at his boots.
‘‘And—and—I don’t believe youn’re en-
gaged to anybody!’ cried the woman he
had deceived, her wrath kindling afresh at
each proof of his duplicity.
The culprit looked up. His expression
was still contrite, but the extremities of
the fair mustache were twitching.
*‘That,’’ he observed deliberately, ‘‘is a
defect that with your permission I propose
immediately to remedy.’’
Christine fairly gasped at his presump-
tion. ‘‘After everything you have just
told me !”’ was all she was able to articu-
late.
‘‘Have I your permission ?”’ asked the
man on the sofa. :
“I should thiuk not, indeed !’ eried the
injured woman, after seeking wildly for a
better retort and finding none. ;
“Why ever not?’ he asked, appearing
surpised. ‘‘I’m not bad-looking, am I?’
Words failed her completely, and he
went on.
“I don’t drink er anything, and after
a close study of your charming moods for
more than three months I find I can treat
them all with equal equanimity. It would
be an ideal match, I assure yon! What is
your objectien to it ?’
Again it was difficult to find a retort
that was not ridicnlously feminine and in-
effectual.
‘You have deceived me abominably,’’
she cried, tapping her tiny foot impatiently
on the polished floor. .
. “I ‘have,’’ said Maurice. t
‘‘Here I have been treating you all this
time with the greatest freedom and frank-
ness—"’
‘You have,’ interrupted Maurice.
‘‘——thinking you were engaged to my
old school friend,”” concluded Christine
hastily.
“No doubt that was the reason,” said
Maurice. :
‘‘And yet you venture to suggest that I
shonld—that we shonld--that—that——'’
“Quite so,’’ said Maurice mildly. “I
do venture.”’ : :
‘‘But you—you've deceived me shame-
fully I’ she repeated with much vehem-
ence.
“You said that before,’’ observed Mau-
rice. ‘‘And if it comes to that, how about
you 27 ; . :
‘What do you mean ?"’ she asked with
sudden apprehension in her tone. Mau-
rice arose dramatically to his feet and
looked down at her sternly. His moment
had come at last. :
‘‘Haven’t you known all this while that
I was the wrong man, that I was only pre-
tending to be somebody else to shield you
from the consequences of your own original
mistake, and that I never painted a stroke
in my life?’ he demanded with tragic
emphasis. ‘‘Haven’t you been leading me
on, ‘and encouraging me, knowing perfectly
well that I was not engaged to anybody?
Haven't you— ?”’ :
‘Stop 1’? implored Christine, frantic with
the desire to explain everything and prove
to him that she was not the dreadful, de-
signing person he was describing. But
Maurice was enjoying the situation im-
mensely and meant to keep it up a little
onger. 4
‘‘Haven’t you deceived me shamefully 27?
he inquired, looking as injured as a fair
mustache and a generally frivolous ‘‘make-
up?’ allowed him to'look. ‘“‘And here have
I been treating you with the greatest free-
dom and frankness—'" Caer ae
. “Oh, dostop !” sni.i Christine impatient-
ly, and she tarned aronud to hide her
blushes and study the design on the crim-
son curtain. aa a Laine
“It’s no good trying to slide out of if
like this,”’ resumed Maurice, struggling to
keep his voice steady. *‘‘You simply must
marry me now ; there’s no other way of
saving your reputation.’ a :
I do hate bullies,”’ said Christine to the
crimson curtain. ;
‘You prefer artists, don’t you ?”’ inquir-
ed Maurice blandly.
“I prefer m. : who do something with
their lives,” ciied she, remembering her
lost ideals sadly. : ;
“I’ve done plenty with mine in the last
three months,’’ observed Maurice. ‘One
private view, one ride in a bansom, four
walks in the park, two matinees, seven
bieycle rides, seventeen quarrels—-'’
~All at once she turned around and faced
him. ' *‘I—Iwish you wouldn’t,”’ she said
in a different tone. ~~ Gn
The smile was gone at last from under
the fair mustache.
“I won’t—if you will,”’ he said gently.
And she did.— Evelyn Sharp in the Satur~
day Evening Post.