Beworwiid Watcpwan,
Bellefonte, Pa., February 28, 1913.
The Girl of
the Limberlost
[Conclusion. ]
Henderson shot a swift glance to-
ward the boat. Terrence O'More just
bad stepped from the gangplank, es-
corting a little daughter, so like him,
ft was comical. There followed a plc-
ture not easy to describe. The Angel
fn the full tower of her beauty, richly
dressed, a lrugh on her cameo face,
the setting sun glinting ou her gold
bair, escorted by her eldest son, who
held her hand tightly and carefully
watched her steps. Next came Elnora,
dressed with equal richness, a trifle
taller and slenderer, almost the same
type of coloring, but with different
eyes and hair, facial lines and ex-
pression.
As the crowd pressed around the
party an opening was left beside the
fish sheds. Edith ran down the dock.
Henderson sprang after her, catching:
her arm and assisting her to the street.
“Help me!" she cried, clinging to him. ,
He put his arm around hei, almost
carrying her out of sight into a little |
cove walled by high rocks at the back, |
where there was a clean floor of white |
sand, and logs washed from the lake
for seats. He found one of these with |
a back rest, and burrying down to the
water he soaked his handkerchief and |
carried it to her. She passed it across |
her lips, over her eyes.
“Hart, what makes you?" she said
wearily. “My mother doesn’t care. |
She says this is good for me. Do you |
think this is good for me, Hart?" |
“Edith, you know 1 would give my |
life if 1 could save you this.” he said. |
|
and could not speak further.
He held her carefully, softly fanning |
her. She was suffering almost more |
than either of them could bear.
»] wish your boat was here,” she
said at last. “1 want to sail fast with
the wind in my face.”
“There is no wind. 1 can get my
motor around in a few minutes.”
“Then get it."
“Lie on the sand. 1 can phone from
the first booth. It won't take but a
little while.”
Edith lay on the white sand and
Henderson covered her face with her
hat. Then be ran to the nearest booth
and talked imperatively. Presently he
was back, bringing a hot drink that
was stimulating. Shortly the motor
ran close to the beach and stopped.
Henderson's servant brought a row-
boat ashore and took them to the
launch.
Hour after hour the boat ran up
and down the shore. The moon urose
and the night air grew very chilly.
Henderson put on an overcoat and
piled more covers on Edith.
“You must tuke me home,” she said
at last. “The folks will be uneasy.”
He was compelled to take ber to the
cottage with the battle still raging
He went back early the next morning.
but already she bad wandered out
over the island. Instinctively tiender-
son felt that the shore would attract |
her. There was something in the tu-
mult of rough little Huron's waves
that called to bim It was there be
found her. crouching sv close the water
foam was dampening her skirts.
“May | stay? he asked.
+“] have been hoping you would
come,” she answered “it's bad
enough when you aire here, but it is |
a little easier than bearing it alone.
“Of course you know there is some-
thing | have got to do. Hart! Will you
go with me?”
“Of course.”
*1 might as well give up and get it
over.” she faltered.
That wus the tirst time in ber life
that Edith Carr ever had proposed to
give up anything she wanted.
“Help me. Hart!"
Henderson started around the beach.
assisting ber ail be could. Finally be
stopped.
“Bdith, there ix uo xeuse in this!
‘You ure too tired to go. You know
you cun trust me. You walt in any of
these lovely places and send me. You
will be safe, and I'll run. One wud
is all that is necessary.”
“But I've got to say that word my:
self, Hart!"
“Then write it and let me carry it
The message is not going to prove
who went to the office und sent it.”
“That is quite true,” she said drop-
ping wearily, but she made no move-
ment to take the pen and paper he
offered
“Hart, you write it” she sald at
last.
Henderson turned away his face. He
gripped the pen, while his breath suck-
ed between his dry teeth.
“Certainly!” he said when he could
speak. “Mackinac, Aug. 27. Philip
Ammon, Lake Shore hospital, Chi-
cago.” He paused with suspended
pen and glanced at Edith. Her white
lips were working. but no sound came.
“Miss Comstock is at Terrence
O'More’s, on Mackinac island,” prompt-
ed Henderson.
“Say, ‘She is well and happy,’ and
sign, Edith Carr!” she panted.
“Not on your life!” flashed Hender-
son.
“For the love of mercy, Hart, don't
make this any harder! It is the least
I can do, and it takes every ounce of
strength in me to do it.”
“Will you wait for me here?" he
asked.
She nodded, und, pulling his hat lower
over his eyes, Henderson ran around
the shore. In less than an hour he
was back. That evening they were
' sailing down the straits before a stiff
breeze and Henderson was busy with
i the tiller when she said to him, “Hart,
1 want you to do something more for
me. [ want you to go away.”
“Very well,” he said quietly, but his
face whitened visibly.
“You say that as If you bad been
expecting it.”
“] have. | knew from the beginning
that when this was over you would
dislike me for having seen you suffer.
Does it make any difference to you
where I go?
“] want you where you will be loved
and good care taken of you."
“Thank you.” said Henderson, smil-
ing grimly. “Have you any idea where
such a spot might be found?"
“It should be with your sister at Los
Angeles. She always has seemed very
fond of you." |
“That is quite true.” said Hender |
son. his eyes brightening a little. “1
will go to her. When shall 1 start?
“At once.” .
Henderson begun to tack for the
landing, but his hands shook until he
scarcely could manage the boat. Edith
Carr sat watching him indifferently,
but her heart was throbbing painfully. |
“Why js there so much suffering in the
“Say, ‘She is well and happy,’ and sign,
Edith Carr!”
world?’ she kept whispering to her-
self. Inside her door Henderson took
her by the shoulders almost roughly.
“For how long is this. Edith. and
how are you going to say goodby
to me?"
She raised tired. pain filled eyes to
his.
*] don't know for how long it is,”
she said. “If peace ever comes and 1
want you | won't wait for you to find
it out yourself—I'll cable—Marconi-
graph—anything."
Henderson studied her intently.
“In that case we will shake hands,”
he cried. “Goodby, Edith. Don’t for.
get that every hour | am thinking of |
you and hoping all good things will!
come to you soon.”
Wherein Philip Finds Elnora.
H. | need my own violin"
0 be a thousand times more ex-
pensive and much older than
to sing by a man who knew how.”
The guests in the O'More music room
“Why don't you write your mother
to come for u visit und bring yours?”
“I did that three days ago.” acknowl!-
edged Elnora. “1 am half expecting
reason why this violin gets worse
every minute. There is nothing at all
Elnora laid away the violin. “Come
along. children.” she said “Let's race
With the brood at ber heels Elnora
ran, and for an hour Lively sounds
on the Island. which lay beside the
O'More cottage. Then young Terry
her doll. He came racing back, drag-
ging it by one leg and crying. “There's
mamms and papa are just tearing
down the house over. He's sick. I
Before Elnora missed her, Alice, who
had gone to investigate, came flying
sunshine waving a paper. She thrust
it into Binora’s hand.
~a stranger
person!” she shouted. “But he knows
you! He sent you that! You are to
hurry! I like him heaps!”
Elnora read Edith Carr's telegram to
had been i!l; that she had been located
by Edith. who had notified him. In so
At last Philip was free. Elnora went
to him with a radiant face.
asked Philip Ammon.
“Perfectly sure!” cried Elnora.
“This instant! That is, any time aft.
er the noon boat comes in.”
manded Ammon.
“It is almost September,” explained
| marigolds and purple asters in the oth-
! straightened her hat and came forward
' mingled with scolding and laughter
| softly.
CHAPTER XXVI
cried Elnora. This one may
mine, but it wasn't inspired and taught
laughed appreciatively.
suggested O'More.
her on the noon bout. That is one
the matter with we.”
to the playhouse.”
stole from the remaining spot of forest
went to the playroom to bring Alice
company! Some one has come that
saw through the window.”
across the shadows and through the
“There is a man
be the doctor! He said so! Oh, do
Philip Ammon and understood that he
doing she had acknowledged defeat.
“Are you sure, at last, runaway?”
“Will you marry me now?”
“Why such unnecessary delay?” de-
Elnora, “I sent for mother three days
ago. We must wait until she comes, |
and we either have to send for Uncle |
Wesley and Aunt Margaret or go to
them. I couldn't possibly be married '
properly without those dear people.”
“We will send,” decided Ammon.
“The trip will be a treat for them.
O'More, would you get off a message |
at once?
Every one met the noon boat. They
went in the motor because Ammon was |
too weak to walk so far. As soon as |
people could be distinguished at all BI- |
pora and Philip sighted an erect figure, |
with a head like a snowdrift. When
the gangplank fell the first person |
across it was a lean, red haired boy of |
eleven, carrying a violin in one hand |
and an enormous bouquet of yellow
er. He was heaming with broad smiles
until he saw Ammon. Then his ex-|
pression changed.
“Aw, say!" he exclaimed reproach-
fully. “I bet you Aunt Margaret is
right. He is going to be your beau!”
Elnora stooped to kiss Billy as she
caught her mother.
Mrs. ‘Comstock shook out her skirts,
to meet Philip, who took her into his
arms and kissed her repeatedly. He
passed her along to Freckles and the
Angel, to whom her greetings were
over her wind blown hair. Then the
O'More children came crowding to
meet Elnora’s mother.
“Before you think of something more
give me your left hand, please.” said
Philip to Elnora.
Elnorg gave it gaidly and the ring
slipped on her finger. Then they went
together into the forest to tell each
other all about it and talk it over.
“Have you seen Edith?" asked Am-
mon. .
“No,” answered Elnora, “but she
must be here, or she may have seen me
when we went to Petoskey a few days
ago. Her people have a cottage over
on the blufi. but the Angel never told
me until today. 1 didn't want to make
that trip. but the folks were so anxious
to entertain me and it was only a
few days until 1 intended to tet you
know myself where 1 was.”
“And | was going to weit just that
long, and if | didn't hear then | was
getting ready to turn over the country.
I can scarcely realize yet that Edith
sent me that telegram.”
“No wonder! It's a difficult thing to
believe. | can't express aow ) feel for
her.”
“Let us never again speak of it.” said | se
Ammon. “It is done.
it” ‘
*] scarcely think 1 shall,” said El-
nora. “It is the sort of thing I like to
remember. How suffering mus: have
changed her! 1 wouid give a great deal
to Lring her pence ™
“Henderson came to see me at the
hospital u few days ago. He's gone a
pretty wild pace, hut if he had becn
held from youth by the love of a good
woman he might have lived differently.
There are things about him oue capnot
help admiring.”
“1 think he loves her,” said Elnora
We will forget
* * . * * * ®
Edith Carr went to her room after her
goodby to Heuderson, lay on her bed
and tried to think why she was suffer
ing us she was.
BEN
“Not at all ?® :
“Not at all; not ever; not unless you '
take me with you, Hart. 1 can’t hon-
estly say that I love you with the love
you deserve. My heart is too sore.
It's too soon to know. But I love you
some way. You are necessary to me. |
You are my comfort, my shield. it!
you want me, as you know me to be,
Hart, you can consider me yours.”
Henderson kissed her hand passion.
ately. “Don’t, Edith,” he begged.
“Don't say those things. I can’t bear
it. | understand. Everything will
come right in time. Love like mine’
must bring a reward. You will love!
me some day. I can wait. I am the
most patient fellow.” |
“But | must say it.” cried Edith. “I!
—1 think, Hart, that | have been on
the wrong road to find happiness. I]
planned to finish life as I started it
with Phil, and you see how glad he
was to change. He wanted the other |
sort of girl far more than he ever]
wanted me. And you, Hart, honest,
now---I'll know if you don’t tell me the |
truth—would you rather have a wife as’
1 planned to live life with Phil or |
would you rather have her as Elnora
Comstock intends to live with him?" |
“Edith,” cried the man, “Edith!”
“Of course, you can’t say it in plain
English,” said the girl. “You are far
too chivalrous for that. You needn't’
say anything. I am answered. If you
could have your choice you wouldn't |
have a society wife. either. In your!
heart you'd like the smaller home of
comfort. the furtherance of your am-!
bitions. the palatable meals regularly |
served and little children around you. |
I am sick of all we have grown up to, |
Hart. When your hour of trouble’
comes there is no comfort for you, 1
am tired to death. You find out what
you want to do and be, that is a man’s |
work in the world. and { will plan our
home with no thought save your eom-
fort. I'll be the other kind of a girl
as fast as | can learn. | can’t correct
all my faults in one day, but I'l
change as rapidly as | can.”
Henderson was not talking then, go
they sat through a long silence. At
last Henderson heard Edith draw a
quick breath. and lifting his head he
looked where she pointed. Up a fern
stalk climbed a curious looking object.
They watched breathlessly. By lav-
ender feet clung a big, pursy, lavender
splotched, yellow body. Yellow and
lavender wings began to expand and
take on color. Every instant great
{Continued on page 7, Col. 1.1
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“It is all my selfishness, my unre-
strained temper, my pride in my looks, |
tay ambition to be first,” she said.
“That is what has caused this trouble.
No one really cares for me but Hart. |
I've sent him awny, 20 there is no one— |
no one." :
Edith pressed her fingers across her
burning eyes and lay stiil.
“He is gone,” she whispered at last.
“He would go ut once. He would not
see me again. OL, these dreadful days
to come, alone! 1 can’t bear it, Hart,
Hart!" she cried aloud. “1 wat you!
No one cares but you. No one under
stands but you. Oh, I want you!"
She sprang from her bed and felt her
way to her desk.
“Get me some one at the Henderson
vottage.” she said to central and walit-
ed shivering.
After a time the sleepy voice of Mrs.
Henderson answered.
“Has Hart gone?’ panted Edith Carr.
“No! He came in late and began to
talk about starting to California. He
hasn't slept in weeks to amount to
saything. 1 put him to bed. There is
time enough to start to California
when he wakens. Edith, what are you
planning to do next with that boy of
mine?’
“Wili you tell him | want to see him
before he goes?”
“Yes, but | won't wake him.”
“1 don't want you to. Just tell him
in the morning.”
“Very well.”
Hart was not gone. Edith fell
asleep. She arose at noon the next day,
took a cold bath, ate her breakfast,
dressed carefully, and leaving word
that she had gone to the forest she
walked slowly across the leaves. She
was thinking hard and fast.
Henderson came swiftly down the
path. A long sleep, fooa and Edith's
message had done him good. He had
dressed In new light flannels that
were becoming. Edith met him.
“Let us walk in the forest,” she said.
They passed the old Catholic grave-
yard and went back into the deepest
wood of the island. There Edit: seat.
ed herself on a mossy old log and
Henderson studied her. He could de-
tect a change. She was still pale and
her eyes tired, but the dull, strained
look was gone. He wanted to hope,
but he did not dare.
“What have you thought of that you
wanted yet. Edith?" he asked lightly
as he stretched himsef at her feet.
“You!”
Henderson lay tense and very still
“Well, 1 am here,”
“Thank heaven for that! I didn't
want you to go away.”
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