Bemorai aka
Bellefonte, Pa., December Ii, 1908,
A ———————
THE FAIRY GODMOTHER.
I had a dream the other night
When I was all in bed,
I thought a fairy came to me
With wings about her head.
She was my Fairy Godmother,
1 knew her right away,
And I sat down upon her lap,
* For I wanted her to stay.
She took me to a cool, cool place—
My bed was very hot—
And then she sang some songs (0 me;
The words I have forgot.
And then she got a shining book
And put it on her knee,
And lots and lots of fairy tales
She read to little me.
And as she read aloud to me—
Without the least surprise—
All sorts of magic fairy things
I saw with my own eyes,
I saw some knights in armor pass,
And castles tall and high,
And dragons fierce snd dangerous,
With wings #0 they could fly.
I saw 80 many princesses
In silver and in gold,
And ugly beasts turned into men,
And giants big and bold!
For I was in real Fairy land
Where I'd never been before;
But my mother came and found me
Near the window on the floor.
— Edith B. Sturgis, in Scribner's Magazine,
AN EXCLUSIVE STORY.
To this story was awarded the $1,000 prize by
Collier's in the Quarterly Contest ending June
dst, 1908.
Kent walked listiessly into the city room,
sauntered over to his desk at the farther
end, tossed his hat upon is, lighted a cigar-
ete, glanced at the clock, and sat down.
Some of the stafl were already turning ous
stufl, the early and easy assignments. Kent
knew that he plenty of time. He never
bastened, anyhow, and becanse of thas
usually found himeell writing under the
impatient prod of the city editor. No one
ever devised a way of hurrying Kent ; the
last story in was more apt to be his than
any one else’s.
e unfolded a couple of ‘‘evening” edi-
tions, and was giving them a cursory and
indifferent examination when he heard the
sharp call :
“Kent dd
Indolently he ucfolded himsell out of
the swivel chair and strolled across so the
city desk. Haskins was sitting there,snap-
ping his fingers in a nervons way and glar-
ing at him through his glasses. Haskins
was impatient and jumpy and forever key-
ed at high tension. There were times when
he wanted to shriek at Kent.
“Well ?"’ he snapped, his voice queru-
lous.
*‘I got it,” said Kent, lounging into an
empty chair. Haskins breathed a gentle
involuntary sigh of satisfaction.
“Any trouble ?”’ he asked.
‘No; it was easy enough.”
“Good story ?"’
Kent nodded. _
‘“‘About the way I gave it to yon ?"’
“Yes, just about.”
“Who 'd you see ?'’ asked Haskins,
“I saw him fires."
“Did he admit is?”
“Oh, yes; he didn't make any trouble
about that.”
“Give a reason ?"’
“No; just admitted it, He said he'd
leave the reason to her, il she wanted to
give any.”
“And you saw her, [su ”m
Kent nodded again, and his glance wan-
dered out of the window,
“Did she say anything ?’' Haskine’s ex-
amination was devoted to a swift probing
for essentials.
“Yes,” said Kent, slowly.
a lob.”
“What was her reason ?"’
“She didn’s give much of any reason.
She just talked—a lot.”
“Well, you can use what she said, any-
how,’’ declared Haskiuvs, briskly. ‘‘That
kind of stuff is always good. Anybody else
after the story ?"’
“No; I guess we're the only people who
know about is.”’
There was preoccupation in Kent’s man-
ner, but to Haskins it had no significance;
be was used to it. He looked at the desk
clock, then ran over the schedule swifsly.
“All right; go ahead,” he said. ‘I'll
take all you can write.”
Rent Urine, hesitated a few seconds, and
‘‘She talked
then :
“‘She asked not to have is printed.”
*‘I suppose s0,’’ observed Haskins, with-
out looking up from the desk.
“I told her 1’d ask you.”
“Oh, eure.”
ute.
“I don’t suppose it makes any differ.
ence ?'’ added Kent, lingering.
“No, of conrse not. We're still getting
out a ne ir.”
““That’s what I told her,” said Kens,
nodding, and he started back toward his
desk. Haskins called him :
“Did you get any pictures ?'’
Kent shook his head, and Haskins purs-
ed his lips in momentary annoyance.
“Well, go ahead with your stuff, any-
how. I'll see what can be done,’’ he said.
Kent took off his coat, draped it over the
back of his chair, unlooked his desk and
swung a typewriter into view. He sat
there thinking for several minutes, watch-
ing jets of cigarette smoke sift through the
typebars of the machine. Then he reached
for a sheet of paper, slipped it in and began
to write with deliberation. Kent worked
with the outward air of a ‘‘plugger,” yet
he was not that. He merely a set
speed, which he seemed unable to inciease,
but which seldom faltered. His fi
pushed down the keys with a slow regular-
ity that turned out copy with dispropor-
tionate rapidity. .
For nearly half an hour he fed the machine
with words and sentences and paragraphs,
as though he himeell were but an aunto-
matic attachment. Then he picked up
three sheets of copy and carried them over
to Haskine’s desk.
“All here?’ asked Haskins, with a
glance at the clock. He fairly lived with
thas clock. It was his oracle, his guide
and his friend.
“I think everything's covered,” said
Kent.
“Well, stay around till I read is, any-
how. I may wans to ask you something
about it.”
Kent went over to MoCann’s desk and
opened a perfunctory conversation about
that gentleman’s poolroom orusade. But
Haskins made a little | *aid
bis mind was on Haskins. I! Haskins was
reading the story himself, it was a sign
that he regarded it as “big.”
“God help the man who invented oru-
sades,”
“You're lucky not to get ’em, Kent. This
ove is giving me paranoia, and I ooder-
stand it’s going to run for a couple of weeks
more, anyhow. I woanldn’t mind so much
if is wasn’t all worked out, but it is. For
the last week I've been holding ous a stars-
er for the next day, hut now there isn’t
anything left to hoid ous.”
‘I know,” said Kent, abeently.
“I think I'll ask Haskins to give it to
you,” added McCann.
“All right; I don’t mind,” answered
Kent, indifferently.
McCann laughed. ‘You're a pleasant
liar,” he observed. “You wouldn't stay
on a crusade three days, if they doubled
your guarantze.’’
“Oh, I don’t know."
McCann laoghed again, jeeringly, but
Kent was giving his attention to Haskins,
who was hitching about in his chair un-
easily, frowning. To Kent, that signified.
He watched Haskins finish the last sheet,
toss the thing away from bim and remove
his glasses to wipe them.
“Kent mn
His name was called explosively, and
with a sigh he went to answer.
“Sounded pleasant, that,” commented
MoCaon. ‘‘Guess I'll hang onto my cru-
sade.”
Haskins motioned to the vacant chair
and picked up the typewritten sheets.
‘‘Are these notes, or is this the story ?"’
he inquired, with elaborated sarcasm.
Kent recognized that as one of Haskins’s
favorite and choicest bits.
*“The story,’”’ he answered evenly.
“Well, it’s a hell of a story. Is that all
im can write ?”’ Kent shrugged his shoul-
ers.
“See here, Kent,” said Haskins, tapping
the manuscript. ‘‘This is about the worst
you ever did. It’s rotten. It’s as wooden
and perfunctory as the auction sales. You
know as well as I do that it’s not what we
want atall. The story itself is too big and
sao, goul to put up in this shape.”
* 's right,’’ assented Kent.
“Then what's the use of writing it this
way ?"’ Haskins shrilled.
‘“Well, the facts are all there.”
“Certainly they are; I understand thas,” | id
and Haskins waved his baod impatiently.
“So does a summons and complaint con-
tain facts. But it wouldn’s be a story.
What I want is the human side, the color,
and all that business. Youn know perfecs-
8 If there's any pathos in is, I want it;
if it’s funny, make it funny. I don’t care
which way it goes, so long as it's got life
and blood in is. Rewrite it. You've got
two hours yet. Do you need this ?"’
He pushed the manusoript toward Kent.
‘*No, you can chuck that away,” said
Kent, rising.
Haskins tore the sheets across vindiotive-
ly and dropped them into the baskets. When
he glanced up Kent was still there.
*‘What's the trouble, Kent ? Don’t you
want to write is ?"’
“‘Can’t say I do,” answered Kent, slow-
y. ‘You know, she asked —"’
“Ot course; they all ask,’ broke in Has-
kins, shaking his bead jerkily. “I know all
about that. But we can’t keep it out any
more than we can keepout any other news.
We're bere to print things. So long as
we've got to carry the story, the only way
to handle it is so do our very best with it.”
“I guess #0,” said Kent, nodding.
“Of course. Now go ahead with it,
Kent. You've got a rattling good story
there, and I know you can write it. Go
as far as you like on space. And don’s for-
get to play ap the family connections—
both sides. That's where it’s particularly
strong.”
Kent made a brief sign of understanding
and wens back to his desk. Of course, Has-
kins was right. That was beyond dispute.
The story was a good one and is ought to
be written just as Hasking said. Besides, it
was Haskins’s own private tip thas discov-
ered it. Haskins was partionlar about
stories shat he dog out himself. He rarely
eaid where he got them, but Kent, who
wrote most of them, seldom found that a
Haskins tip was anfraitfal. This one bad
borne the test of investigation in every de-
tail. He did not blame the city editor for
being particular abou it; even fussy, if he
chose to be.
And yet Kent did not want to write it.
That war odd, because he had enthusiasm,
as well as Haskins. He liked to write
features, not because he was vain of them,
but because features meant good workman.
ship, and he liked good workmanship.
Clearly, there was no excuse ror poor work
here; the material was supernor. Profes-
sionally, his own opinions had nothing to
do with it. All he had to do was to tell
the story,as Haskins said it should be told;
to make it homan, readable, and ‘‘safe.’’
The rest was op to Haskins. Bat some-
how he found it sivgularly bard to keep
the Professivut view in the foreground.
After a time he began to write, very
slowly and carefully. He covered ball a
shees, lifted the carriage and was reading
it when Haskins came over and threw one
lex across the edge of the desk.
“She joss had me on the 'phone,” he
“Yes 7’ Kent tipped hack his chair.
“I told her we couldn’ do auything;
that it we didn’s carry it some other paper
would get bold of it. I guess I headed her
off from coming to the office.”
“What sort of a person is she ?"’ asked
Haskins, glancing down at the half-finished
sheet in she typewriter.
‘“‘Well, she isn’t young,” said Ken
slowly. ‘“‘She’s kind of little, and white,
and scared-looking. She’s—why, she’s
pitifal, in a way.”
“Pretty ?”
‘‘No; homely.”
“Bus she stalked all right,” soggested
Haskins.
“‘Oh, yes; she did that.”
‘Quote her in the first person all the
time, Did she say anything about him ?"’
Kent nodded affirmatively and Haskins
imitated his motion, in a pleased sort of
way.
Write the whole business, Kent,’ he
said, ‘It’s a corking good story. Give it
an atmosphere. Put in that stuff Jo just
told me, about her being white and scared.
Give her the best end of it, if that's the
way it is. We can’s keep it out, but we'll
give ber a good show. You don't need to
say she’s homely.” Haskins was making
a concession. He could afford to be mag-
panimous, now that the story was hie.
“All right,” answered Kent. *‘‘I under-
stand.”
He lifted the carriage to pick up an nu-
finished sentence, then oarried it through
to a period and reread is thoughtfully. He
would be very careful to leave out nothing.
The news was told now, in hall a sheet.
Bub ne sory was io sums. He Dean to
write 8 y again, his eyes upon the keys,
although he did nos seem $o see them.
What Kent saw was a plain, wide, four-
story brick house in an old-fashioned street,
left undisturbed in an eddy of the current
! that rushed headlong uptown, a place
McCann was sayiog, sourly. | stad
where the things of filty years ago seemed
to be still going roond and round slowly,
remembered
the knocker was there of bereditary right.
There were vines on either side of the col-
umped vestibule, climbing upward to she
eaves. Some of the broad windows, with
their smail paves, were framed in the
greenery, The house looked wholesome
and placid.
It was just as he expected to find it, in.
side. A maid let him into the dimly-
lighted, high-ceilinged ball. There wae a
massive hat-rack, with marble top acd mir-
ror ; a little table, with its tray for cards ;
carpets, soft and thick and sombre; a stair-
case that began at a robust newel post and
seemed to vanish somewhere up in the
dimopess; dark, walout woodwork, avd
everywhere an almost tangible formality
and dignity. The parlor was long and
gloomy in the ball-light, and as the maid
drew up the shades and parted the car-
tains Kent saw that here, too, the house
was true to iteelf. Cushioned (furniture,
carved almost fantastically; white-topped
tables; gilt-framed mirrors over the man-
tels; a great, square piano; a few bits of or-
nament; some age-stained paintings—it
was all an ancient harmony. Through an
archway at the further end, where the fold-
ing doors bad been rolled back, he could
see a library, with shelves built high
against the walls. There was a primoess
ahout the place that isolated it strangely
rom D the whirling town only a block away.
e stepped upon a stage set with the
scenery of ball a century back. Nothing
could have happened here since then.
A queer place for ‘‘news’’ be shooghs,
his eyes roving. The maid had taken his
card upstairs,
“Give it atmosphere,” Haskins bad said.
Kent wrote steadily.
And then she bad come, poiselessly, and
stood hesitant in the curtained doorway
that opened into the ball. Again he real-
ized that the harmony of the house was
still unbroken. She was holding his card,
regarding him with inquiry, and, it seemed
to Kent, apprehension. There wasa tim-
embarrassment in her pose, and Kent
bad a vague sensation that he was absorb-
ing Symetblug of it. She was surely more
than forty. If she was not absolutely old-
fashioned, she was distinctly not modern.
Is was not her gown, nor the way she wore
ber hair, nor anything physical, perhaps,
that impressed this, yet it was as certain as
it was indefinable. She was small io stat-
Be, and thin. Not one of her featares wa
good; if her face had ever possessed a color
it bad faded years ago. Bus for all that it
was a likable face. What attracted Kent
most were the pale gray eyes, large, and
round, and questioning. They spoke for
her. Her bands were rather remarkable,
thin and white and well shaped, yet prom-
inently veined; orrvous bands, that ex-
pressed things without gesture or motion.
How suited she was to the place !
She stood as if shrinking under his soru-
tiny, twisting and folding his card. Then,
with a little inclination of courtesy :
“You are Mr. Kent, I believe? Please
keep your chair. I will sis Oval have?
e perched opposite, erect precise,
on a great armobair. She seemed like an
old child. There was come mistake, Kent
felt, for the thing seemed impossible now;
the story bad taken bim astray. Save for
the pale eyes, and the thin hands that now
and then went involuntarily to her hair, 60
layed with the lace handkerchief in her
ap. she was featureless.
Kent was writing with minouteness, as
he remembered it.
He had found it cariously bard to begin
with this colorless creature, for what he
wanted to say was absurdly incongruous.
He explained it very plainly and briefly,
and her eyes followed mechanically the
movements of hie lips. Then she nodded
at him.
‘Yes; that is true,’’ she raid. Her voice
was low, monotonous and flas. There was
a queer docility in it.
**‘And the engagement bad been announoc-
ed?’ Kent found tbat the words stumbled;
her lack of resistance d bim.
**Yes; to my friends—and some of bie. I
have only a few friends,’’ she added. Her
tone implied that he must know, of course.
**Aud he broke it?"
“Yes.” It wasn child saying a lesson.
Kent's mind flashed back to the man
and the quegrness of she thing puzzled
him. It was almost laughable, yet he
winced. Bus be bad a glimmer of uoder-
standing, too; that is, as to the ending of
it. For the man was almost everything
that she was not. He bad gooe oun with
the stream; she had never emerged from
the eddy. The old house had made her
its creature, as well as its mistress,
She had acknowledged it with a frank-
ness that Kent could not understand, and
now she seemed to be waiting for him to
go on, her eyes fixed wonderingly on his,
like those of a dog waiting for command.
Is was bard to ask things; it was so easy to
make her answer.
“Perhaps,” he suggested, gently, ‘yon
would prefer to tell it your own way.”
**Why, yes; perhaps,’’ she answered, in
a tone of vague surprise and perplexity.
“Wonld shat be better? I really don’t
know. Perhaps it would. It seems an
odd thing to be talking about, does it not ?
Would you really care to hear is? There
is not very much to tell, yon know. I
don’t suppose it is very interesting. But
s, pertap it would do me good to talk about
~to somebody. Isis so ve not to
be able to tell thinge. Don’t you ever find
itso? I baven’s anybody to talk to bere,
of course,” and she made a little gesture
that embodied the loneliness of the house.
“There are just the servants. They have
been here for a long tiwe, of course, and
they are very kind, but you can not talk
about things—like this—to a servant, Can
you? Yet there bave been times when it
eeemed as if I must tell it to somebody.
But really, Idon’t know. Iama little
confused I think.”
She paused, twisting the lace bandker-
chief about her fingers.
*‘Yes ; I—I think you are right. I think
it would do me good to talk about is, if yon
would care to listen.”
Kent was staring at ber in astonishment.
A protest leaped to his lips, bat he forced | P®
it back. The ‘‘story’’ was to come yet. He
merely nodded.
“In the first person,’’ said Haskins.
Kent gritted his teeth and the typewriter
clicked steadily.
“There isn’t very much to tell,” she was
saying. “I live hereso quietly. Iama
little old-fashioned, I think. haps yon
would say I was an old maid. Ob, I would
not mind if you did ; is is quite true. I
was born in this house, you know.
father built it ; we always lived here.
have been alone eo long while now, but I
al ed here. I could not leave it.
A Te I
don’s you ?
ominent ; a one
re. Yes, my father was one
He was very
of the oldest
fe
the leading men in the city. Hebad a
great many friends, bus of course I could
not keep that ap, just alone. The house
does seem hig, just for one person, but you
ooderstand hcw I cannot leave it.
. | Why, I would not know where togo. I
think we all ougbt to be loyal to our
homes, when we can be. Don’t you ?
“I remember that sometimes I used to
think about getsi married.
all girls do that, al h it seems strange
to me now. But that time went by and 1
did oot think about it any more. Of
course, I am not young now.”
An eagerness to talk seemed to bave
come upon her, yet her voice rap on in the
same monotonous key. To Kent there was
sowethivg uncanny in the dispassionate
way in which she dissected her life. He
nooded as she paused, and she went on
more rapidly :
*“Tell me if it becomex tiresome to yon,
bat I feel better for talking, somehow, If
youn don’t mind I will goou. [did not
koow him until a year ago, although my
father had known his family. His people,
voo know, are of the very hest, Yes ; the
family is as old as ours, They were prom-
ineat, too. It is sirange, perhaps, that we
never met untila year ago, but thiogs
seem to ha that way. He was kind
and pleasant and shoughtfal, from the fires.
He was interested in things thas I liked.
He used to talk often about my (father.
That he came to call at the hoase, and
sometimes we went driving. I keep horses,
you know.
“‘I suppose it all seems a little gilly ; we
were both so old. Perhaps you could not
call it really a courtship. We were both
past that time. Bus he seemed to care for
me, and I—I got so that I cared for him.
I guess such things happen, don’t they ?
““We were to bave been married —les me
aee—a month from yesterday, I think.
Yes, that is the exact date. He was
coming to live here in the old house, be-
canse I could not leave that. He did not
ask me to. It was understood that my
bkome was to be bis. I thick that was con-
siderate, don’t youn ?'’
There was a hreak in her droning speech,
as if she was waiting for Kent to answer
Then she went on, evenly :
‘*After a while he stopped coming. Is
took me some time to understand that.
did vot really understand until he wrote.
But I know now, of course. Atleast, I
think I do. We were too old, you see. I
bad never realized that. Bot I feel snre
that he was right about it. It would bave
been a great mistake ; he said so. He is
even older than I, you know. [am sare
that he was very wise to break is. Of
conrse, a man being old does not make so
much difference. But it vould have been
a wistake for me. He saved me from that.
You see, when a woman is no longer
young she ought to be in some way attrao-
tive. Iam not. If I were good looking,
why then it mighs have been all righs.
Bat really I am very plain. I do not try to
be different from other women, but I am.
Perbaps is is because of the old house, and
always living in it. Iam not sensitive
about it. When I think of it now, it
seems quite absurd that I should have
thooghs of being married. It was not that
way with him. He knew people ; he could
go anywhere.
*‘And there. would bave been the money,
too. He bas not very much money, you
know. Our families were both well-tc do
onoe, but his lost a great deal.: I used to
feel sorry for bim about that. He had po-
sition, and such a prominent name, and he
could go anywhere, but he had not much
money. Iam more fortunate than he, yet
Buople misunderstand about thas, too.
ey think I am rich, and that seems so
queer, because really I am not. I have
the house, of course; I keep two horses.
The income is just comfortable; that is, for
me. Ob, I am far from being rich, and yet
people keep saying that I am. Even he
thoaght so.
“Did I tell him about it—the money ?"’
She looked up at Kent's question, surprise
in her eyes. ‘‘Why, of counrse—yes. That
was very natural, was it not? I don’t
koow exactly how it came up; he was talk-
ing about money, I think. I explained it
to him one evening, very carefully. It was
#0 easy to talk to him about things that
would seems embarrassing; he was always
so interested and kind. I remember the
souversation quite well, because it was one
of the last that we had.
*“It wae a little while after that thas he
wrote to me. I have not seen him since
then. I would not expect to, of course,
alter the lester.”
Kent was finding it bard to believe that
this tiny, shrunken creature was talking of
hersell.
“I do not blame him at all,” she went
on. “He explained it so clearly in the le:-
ter; that we were both too old. He was
much wiser than I. Would you like to see
the letter ¥”’
Kent made an involuntary motion, but
before he could speak she .was gone. She
was back in a few seconds; every motion
of her was quick and nervous. She puta
wrinkled sheet of paper into his bands and
then perched again on the edge of the hig
chair. He looked up in dull wonderment.
“Am I to read i$?"’ he asked.
Kent studied the paper for an instant
before he n to read. It bad been
che
very aspect of it told her story
than she had dove. And she bad said shat
it was a kind letter ! It was inconceivable
that she did vot understand. Kent read it
with eelf-loathing. Yet she had urged him
to read it ; he was taking nothing that she
did not freely give. When he had finished
he looked up and found her watching him.
Kent leaned back in his chair, his eyes
balf closed. He was wondering if Haskins
really wanted everything. bad
said so, hut—Well, he had his orders. He
wrote again, steadily.
He did uot remember bow he managed
to say it; is slipped from his lips instinct.
ively. He asked if he might copy it.
Her band went to her with a sud-
den, convulsive movement, her eyes widen-
ed and her brow wrinkled questioningly.
“Copy it?" she whispered. ‘I don’t
think I understand. Why should you copy
it?
Kent shrugged his shoulders.
“I don’t know what you mean,’ she
went on puzzled. ‘Why should you copy
it
“To nee it,”! Kent muttered. ‘“‘In the
per.
She startled bim then, for she slipped
from the edge of the cbair with a fierce,
oat-like movement, snatched the paper from
his hand and sprang back, gasping. He
could see fright and borror in her
“Oh 1" she exclaimed, but her was
titully low. ‘‘How could you say a thing
ike that I"
He sat dumbly, watching her thin fingers
twisting the letter. Then she spoke again:
Wo) 4 not mean that—about pub-
$
“You knew I was & reporter ?"’ he re-
plied, stolidly.
She unfolded his card and read it again,
bewildered.
“Yes—I knew it; of course. But I did
pot think—I did not understand. I joss
wanted to talk. It relieved me so to talk.
I felt so much better a miouteage. Bat I
did not suppose—oh !—"’
She , as it the effort to say it
. Kent bad a wild impulee to
ran from the house.
“You told it to me freely,” he said, but
he could not meets ber eyes. “‘I hardly
asked a question, you know,after the first.
Nothing was said about not using is.”
““Bat I have the letter back. You have
not been able to copy it and—I won’s let
you.” There was an air of puny defiance
in ber voice; it sounded so brave and futile.
“‘Bat you talked, you know,” Kent re-
minded her. She drew ber breath sharply
and seemed to shrivel again.
“Did —did you think thas I would —that
I could have talked about—if 1 had ander-
stood ?—a thing like that! Oh, no, no!
You can not think that. You could nos
print a thing like thas.”
Kent moved uneasily, but made no an-
swer.
*“Why, a paper could not print that,”
she continved, uncertainly. “Could it?
Do they ever print things like thas ? It
was not for that I talked to yon. 1 just
bad to talk. I did nos think you would
misunderstand. It was foolish of me, of
course. But I am glad that you explained
about is,becanse now that you understand,
why youn will not. Youn could not, any
how. Could you?"
He nodded at her.
‘I can not understand,’’ she said, slow-
ly, shakiog her bead. ‘‘How could it be
printed ? Oh, please do not say that. It is
just ours—his and mine. Who could he
Haskins was reading it, turning
after page with mechanical regularity. od
bad not lifted a pencil from the desk, and
Kent wondered vaguely if he was going to
ran it without subbeads. He looked at
the clock and saw that Haskins would have
to rush it, if be wanted to catch the edi-
tion. It was already y late. He
watched Haskins torn last page and
lay it on top of the others.
Haskins was sitting motionless, gazing
ous of the window. Kent bad never seen
bim motionless before,and the thing struck
bim as i ons. For several minutes
he #at thus, his head turned away from the
room. Then he started suddenly end
glanced as the clock.
““Kent!’’ he called.
Kent went over to the desk. Haskins
did not look up at once; he appeared to be
studying the Pile of manuacrips thas lay on
the blotter. is fingers were dromming
on the edge of the desk and he was biting
bis under lip in a preoccupied way.
**Have you spoken toanybody about this
wots, Kent” he asked, suddenly.
ent shook hes head.
“Robody in the office?”’ The tone was
interested in is ? Would anyhody read it ?"’ | search
“It in true, isn’t it?’ he asked.
“Troe ? Why, yes; of course. Did you
doubt that ? I would not bave told it if is
bad not been trne. That was why it seem-
ed as if I had to say it.”
“Then it’s news,’’ be said. The phrase
was trite; he bad said it often. Bus it had
vever seemed like a lie before. Even now
be would not believe that it was a lie,
though is sounded despicable.
‘I am afraid I don’t know anything
about news,” she said, dually. *‘I am stupid,
I suppose. But how can it be news? I
am sorry, of course, that I talked to you
1! when you did not understand. But now
that yon know, why you can not—print
it.”” She said she last words in a whisper.
“I could not stop it if I wanted to,”
muttered Kent.
“You could not? Why, I tell you that
you can not—yon must not ! Can a paper
print a thing—like this—when you say
that they can not ?"’
Her eyes were wide with amazement.
““He told me, $00," said Kens.
‘‘He—told—you ?"’ she repeated after
him. “I did not know that. You did not
tell me that. And—'’ there was a hope-
less catoh in+the voice—'‘did he know it
was to be printed ?"’
‘““He must bave,’’ anawered Kent, dog-
gedly.
*‘I do not believe it,” she said, shaking
her head slowly. ‘‘He did not understand.
He would bave told you not to. Did he
say anything about not printing it?”
Kent shook his head. Her breath came
sharply, as though she were in pain.
‘‘He did vot understand,” she went on.
‘‘He could not have known. He would
have told you no. Then you could not
have printed it. But now I tell you. You
can not; you must nos. Ob, it would be
horrible !| Oh, say that you will nos 1"
Her voice fell from pitiful command to
pleading. She was leaning forward, her
lips parted, her eyes fixed and staring. She
seemed to Kent to have become very old.
The brutality, she cheap vulgarity, ot it
came to him with a shook--the brutality of
the man, of the story, of himself. He had
told her it was news !| The thing sickened
him. Yet why ? It was news. Any Pope
would print it. There could He uo doabs
that it was news.
Kent, who had been writing steadily,
shivered as if from chill.
Some of the rest of it he did not remem-
ber so clearly. Bat thas did not matter
wuch; the story was told. The rest was
just—just what happened sometimes. She
cried very little, and that seemed to him
queer; moss of the time her eyes were dry
and npmoving. He remembered that some
of her talk was incoherent. He did nos
interrupt, nor try to explain. She did
know anything about news.
He arose, pausing for an instant to look
down at the orampled figure. There was
an unnatural fascip~tion in the misery of
this creature who could not understand. A
voice from somewhere seemed to be ery
ing : “Thiet I”
And then he cursed himself for the pause,
for she was on her knees--to him !-.her
white lace upturped, the desperation of
terror in her eyes. The wrinkled letter lay
on the rug in frout of her, a hand clutched
convuleively toward him, and she was
moaning :
*‘No, no, no! You can not! Don's youn
understand? I lied! It was a lie—all of it!
Tawear it. I lied! I lied! I lied!”
Kent had no clear idea of how be reached
the sidewalk, but he remembered glancing
back at the big, placid bouse a!most fear-
fully. The panic of flight seemed to be
driving him. The pictare of the limp
carature on the rog made bim shudder; the
pitiful denial, so false and so useless, was
uth bis ears. He alkes several Nossa
rapidly, trying to get a grip myell.
After all, it was siliy to feel shaky.
Things like that bad happened before. Not
in that way, per bat in all
essentials it was the same. all want-
ed to keep out. If he [felt anything, it
ought to be elation. That was the gway
A
the thing simply on ts, as
news. ‘‘It is news,” he repeated to him-
self, and he said it over and over again, as
if to get the sound of it. It was a good
story. And it had been #0 easy; no hours
of fruitless work, no baffling obstacles, no
“digging.” He bad not stolen it! He kept
say t over and over , too. She
knew he was a she bad talk-
ed. How could she blame him? Nobody
was to blame. Not even Haskins. It was
news; it was a story; and it was going to
be printed. News could not be stopped.
Kent dropped his fingers from the keys,
swiftly reviewing io his mind what he bad
written. He did not think he had left
anything out. Even the *‘human inter-
eet” was there. If there was any pathos,
they wanted it; if it was foony, he was to
make it fanny. Weil, the whole loath-
some thing was there,naked and quivering.
They ought to be satisfied.
‘‘How about it, Kent?’ Haskios's me-
wlio voice roused be. itd
‘Just a paragraph, 2 anew
A minute jas pulled ou the 1H
page, arranged sheets eir number.
ed order, laid them on the slide of the desk
aud started to read them over. Then he
arose suddenly and carried the story over
to Haskins’s desk.
“‘Here it is,’’ he said, d iton the
blotter. *‘I haven’s read it over, hut I
guess it rans ht."
“Never mind; I'll read it," said Has-
kins. “Stay around a while.”
oy
%
5 5h
mile.
. He—Here
the way in which that daring woman
ng.
Hook bloke the pile of i
ns ed up le of sypewrit-
ten sheets and slowly he pt it across. He
laid one pile upon the other and tore them
again. A third time be repeated the opera-
tion. Then he dropped the pieces into
the basket.
“If you ever speak about that story
you'll be fired, Kens,” he said, fiercely
*‘Do you understand? And I'll resign.”
*‘I understand,’’ said Kent, nodding.
“I'll allow you for your work,’ he sn
ped, swinging around his chair and look-
og out of the window again. ‘‘Get your
lunch, if you want to. That's all.”
A second later be called Kent back.
‘You can send her word, il you like,”
he said io a curious voice.
nan right,” answered Kent. *‘I think
Haskins whirled on him.
“Stop thinking! Don’t bother me!" he
broke out. ‘*And—ob, damn it, Kent,
don’t do anything like that again.”’—By
E. J. Rath, ic Collici’"s.
A Suggestion That Changed the Plans
of a Pope.
At a time when there was great suf-
fering among the people from lack of
food and when famine in its worst
form was threatened Pope Alexander
VI. had made arrangements for the
erection of a magnificent palace. The
best architects had been employed, and
the plans had been submitted and ac-
cepted, and an accomplished builder
had been sent for to come from Venice,
a man whose work had won for him
renown and who was known to be n
just and upright man.
The builder had arrived, and at an
appointed time he waited upon his
holiness to receive the plans and make
his estimates. “There is one thing vet
to be done,” said the pope. “There
has been no proper inscription or leg-
end thought of to be placed over the
main entrance of the palace. It should
be put above the great gate. You have
had experience. Do you think of an in-
scription that would be appropriate?”
“If your holiness would pardon me
for the liberty, I might suggest one
most appropriate at this time.”
“You are pardoned in advance,” said
the pope, smiling. “Now, what shall
it be?
“Sovereign pontiff, let it be thus:
‘Command that these stones be made
bread! ”
The pope was visibly and deeply af-
fected. He paid the builder munifi-
cently for his expenses of coming and
going, and instead of buflding his pal-
ace he fed the hungry ones of his
children.
Poverty Has Its Advantages.
A man on the wane of life observes
that poverty has advantages and ad-
versity its uses. If you are poor you
can wear out your old clothes. You
are excused from calls. You are not
troubled with many visitors. Bores do
not disturb you. Spongers do not haunt
your tables. Brass bands do not sere-
nade you. No one thinks of present-
ing you with a testimonial. No store-
keeper irritates you by asking you,
“Js there anything I can do for you?”
Bezging letter writers do not bother
you. Flatterers do not flatter you.
You are saved many debts and many
a deception. And, lastly, if you have
a true friend in the world you are sure
to know it in a short space of time by
him not deserting you.—Huntsville
(Tex.) Post-Item.
The Origin of a Miserable Joke.
Confucius had just met William Penn
at one of Cleopatra's 5 o'clock teas.
“William Penn?” he said. “Willlam
Penn? Seems to me I have heard of
you, sir.”
“Yes,” said Penn, with a pleased
“I am the man who was might.
fer than the sword.”
“Ah, yes!” said Confucius. “You are
also the man who invented sleep, are
you not?’
“No,” said Penn; “I founded Phila-
delphia.”
“Oh, yes,” said Confucius. “I knew
it was something of that kind.”—Suc-
cess Magazine.
The Important item.
is a thrilling account of
climbed to the top of a mountain
which is five miles high. Wonderful,
isn't it? She—Yes. What did she
wear?—-Cleveland Plain Dealer.
Well Bred.
“Do you speak the truth?”
“Not always.”
“Why not always?”
“I hate to be impolite.”—Nashville
“2 American,