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COPYRIGHT BY THE INE CLURE PUBLICA TIONS, INCORPORATED
CHAPTER I.
The Street stretched away north
gnil south in two lines of ancient
houses that seemed to meet in the dis-
tance. It had the well-worn look of an
old coat, shabby but comfortable. It
was an impression of home, really,
that it gave. There was a house across
and a little way down the Street, with
a card in the window that said: “Meals,
twenty-five cents.” The Nottingham
curtains were pinned back, and just in-
side the window a throaty baritone was
singing:
Home is the hunter,
And the sailor, home from the sea.
For perhaps an hour Joe Drummond
had been wandering down the Street.
His slender shoulders, squared and
resolute at eight, by nine had taken on
a disconsolate droop. Prayer meet-
ing at the corner church was over; the
Street emptied. The boy wiped th=~
warm band of his hat and slapped it
on his head again. Ah!
Across the Street, under an old ailan-
thus tree, was the house he watched, a
small brick, with shallow wooden steps
and—curious architecture of the Mid-
dle West sixties—a wooden cellar door
beside the steps. In some curious way
it preserved an air of distinction among
its newer and more pretentious neigh-
bors. The taller houses had an appear-
ance of protection rather than of pat-
ronage. It was a matter of self-respect,
perhaps. No windows on the Street
were so spotlessly curtained, no door-
mat so accurately placed, no “yard” in
the rear so tidy with morning-glory
vines over the whitewashed fence.
The June moon had risen. When the
girl came out at last, she stepped out
into a world of soft lights and waver-
ing shadows, fragrant with tree blos-
soms hushed of its daylight sounds.
The house had been warm. Her brown
hair lay moist on her forehead, her thin
white dress was turned in at the
throat. She stood on the steps and
threw out her arms in a swift gesture
to the cool air. From across the Street
the boy watched her with adoring,
humble eyes. All his courage was for
those hours when he was not with her.
“Hello, Joe.”
“Hello, Sidney.”
He crossed over, emerging out of the
shadows into her enveloping radiance.
His ardent young eyes worshiped her
as he stood on the pavement.
“I'm late. I was taking out bastings
for mother.”
“Oh, that’s all right.”
Sidney sat down on the doorstep, and
the boy dropped at her feet. She set-
tled herself more comfortably and
drew a long breath.
“How tired I am! Oh—I haven't told
you. We've taken a roomer!” She
was half apologetic. The Street did
i “We've Taken a Roomer!”
not approve of rocmers. “It will help
with the rent. It’s my doing, really.
Mother is scandalized.”
Joe was sitting bolt upright now, a
tittle white.
“Is he young?”
“He's a good bit older than you, but
that’s not saying he’s old.”
Joe was twenty-one, and sensitive ot
his youth.
“He'll be crazy about you in two
days.”
She broke into delightful laughter.
“I'll not fall in love with him—you
can be certain of that, He is tall and
very solemn. His hair is quite gray
over his ears.”
“What's his name?”
" “EK, Le Moyne.”
faterest in the roomer died away.
The boy fell into the ecstasy of content
that always came with Sidney’s pres-
ence. His inarticulate young soul was
swelling with thoughts that he did not
know how to put into words. It was
easy enough to plan conversations with
Sidney when he was away from her. |
home from the hill; |
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touching him as she moved, her eager
speechless.
Unexpectedly, Sidney yawned.
was outraged.
“If you're sleepy—"
“Don’t be silly.
I sat up late last night, reading. I
wonder what you think of this: One
of the characters in the book I was
reading says that every man who—
who cares for a woman leaves his mark
on her!”
“Every man! How many men are
| supposed to care for a woman, any-
how?”
“Well, there's the boy who—Ilikes her
when they're both young.”
A bit of innocent mischief this, but
Joe straightened.
He
ishness. After that there are usually
two rivals, and she marries one of
them—that’s three. And—"
foolishness?”
“Oh,
change.”
Sidney was fairly vibrant with the
His voice was unsteady.
I don’t know. One's ideas
the little brick house, her busy mind
the Street, with its dingy lamps and
blossoming ailanthus, lay the world
that was one day to lie to her hand
Not ambition called her, but life.
The boy was different. Where her
future lay visualized before her, heroic
deeds, great ambitions, wide charity,
he planned years with her, selfish, con
tented years. As different as smug, sat-
isfied summer from visionary, palpitat-
ing spring, he was for her—but she
was for all the world.
By shifting’ his position his lips
came close to her bare young arm. It
tempted him.
“Don’t read that nonsense,” he said
his eyes on the arm. “And—I’ll never
outgrow my foolishness about you, Sid:
ney.”
Then, because he could not help it
he bent over and kissed her arm.
She was just eighteen, and Joe's de-
votion was very pleasant. She thrilled
to the touch of his lips on her flesh;
but she drew her arm away.
“Please—I don’t like that sort of
thing.”
“Why not?” His voice was husky.
“It isn't right. Besides, the neigh.
bors are always looking out of the win:
dows.”
The drop from her high standard of
right and wrong to the neighbors’ curi-
osity appealed suddenly to her sense
of humor. She threw back her head
and laughed. He joined her, after an
uncomfortable moment. But he was
very much in earnest. He sat, bent
forward, turning his new straw hat in
his hands.
“I thought, perhaps,” said Joe, grow-
ing red and white, and talking to the
hat, “that some day, when we're older,
you—you might be willing to marry
me, Sid. I'd be awfully good to you.”
It hurt her to say no. Indeed, she
could not bring herself to say it. In all
her short life she had never willfully
inflicted a wound. And because she
, was young, and did not realize that
there is a short cruelty, like the sur
| geon’s, that is mercy in the end, she
! temporized.
| “There is such a lot of time before
we need think of such things! Can't
we just go on the way we are?”
i “I'm not very happy the way we
| are.”
| “Why, Joe!”
She leaned over and put a tender
“hand on his arm.
“I don’t want to hurt you; but, Joe,
' I don’t want to be engaged yet. I don’t
want to think about marrying. There's
such a lot to do in the world first.
There’s such a lot to see and be.”
“Where?” he demanded bitterly.
“Here on this Street? Do you want
more time to pull bastings for your
mother? Or to slave for your Aunt
Harriet? Or to run up and down
stairs, carrying towels to roomers?
Marry me and let me take care of
you.”
Once again her dangerous sense of
humor threatened her. He looked so
boyish, sitting there with the moon-
light on his bright hair, so inadequate
to carry out his magnificent offer. Two
or tLree of the star blossoms from the
tree had fallen on his head. She lifted
them carefully away.
“Let me take care of myself for a
while. I've never lived my own life.
You know what I mean. I'm not un-
happy; but 1 want to do something.
And some day I shall—not anything
big; I know I can’t do that—but some-
thing useful. Then, after years and
years, if you still want me, I'll come
back to you.”
He drew a long breath and got up.
All the joy had gone out of the sum-
mer night for him, poor iad. He
glanced down the Street, where Pal-
mer Howe had gone home happily with
Sidney’s friend Christine. Palmer
would always know how he stood with
Christine. But Sidney was not like
that. A fellow did not even caress her
easily. When he had only kissed her
arm— He trembled a little at the
memarv.
face turned to him, he was miserably :
was carrying her on to where, beyond
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But, at her feet, with her soft SRITIS |
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I love having you, |
“Then they both outgrow that fool- |
| his pockets
i
“Why do they always outgrow that | ?
| more than half an engagement. Won’t
{fyou Kiss me good-night?”
zest of living. Sitting on the steps of |
gone out of sheer pity.
| grumblingly admitted,
’
i her
“] shall always want you,” he said,
“Only—you will never come back.”
It had not occurred to either of them
that this coming back, so tragically
considered, was depending on an en-
tirely problematical going away. Noth-
ing, that early summer night, seemed
more unlikely than that Sidney would
ever be free to live her own life. The
Street, stretching away to the north
and to the south in two lines of houses
‘that seemed to meet in the distance,
hemmed her in. She had been born in
| the little brick house, and, as she was
‘of it, so it was of her. Her hands had
‘smoothed and painted the pine floors; |
her hands had put up the twine on}
which the morning-glories in the yard
covered the fences; had, indeed, “vith
what agonies of slacking lime and add- |
ing blueing, whitewashed the fence it-
self !
“She’s capable,” Aunt Harriet had |
watching from
sewing machine Sidney's strong |
young arms at this humble spring task.
“She’s wonderful!” her mother had |
said, as she bent over her handwork.
She was not strong enough to run the
‘sewing machine.
So Joe Drummond stood on the pave-
ment and saw his dream of taking
Sidney in his arms fade into an indefi.
nite futurity.
“I'm not going to give you up,” he:
said doggedly. “When you come back,
I'll be waiting.”
The shock being over, and things
only postponed, he dramatized his grief |
a trifle, thrust his hands savagely into |
and scowled down the!
Street. Sidney smiled up at him.
“Good night, Joe.”
“Good night. 1 say,
Sidney, it's
She hesitated, flushed and palpitat-
.ing. Perhaps, after all, her ‘first kiss
‘would have gone without her heart—
But a tall fig.
'ure loomed out of the shadows and
‘approached with quick strides.
“The roomier!” cried Sidney, and
‘backed away. |
1) n the roomer!” - 2
The roomer advanced steadily,
When he reached the doorstep, Sidney
was demurely seated and quite alone, |
5
nd
holla
The New Roomer Hesitated.
The roomer looked very warm. He
carried a suitcase, which was as it
should be. The men of the Street al-
ways carried their own luggage, except
the younger Wilson across the way.
His tastes were known to be luxurious.
“Hot, isn’t it?” Sidney inquired,
after a formal greeting. She indicated
the place on the step just vacated by
Joe. “You'd better cool off out here.
The house is like an oven. I think i
should have warned you of that before
you took the room. These little houses
with low roofs are fearfully hot.”
The new roomer hesitated. He did
not care to establish any relations with
the people in the house. Long eve-
nings in which to read, quiet nights in
which to sleep and forget—these were
the things he had come for.
But Sidney had moved over and was
smiling up at him. He folded up awk-
wardly on the low step. He seemed
much too big for the house. Sidney
had a panicky thought of the little
room upstairs.
“I don’t mind heat. I—I suppose I
don’t think about it,” said the roomer,
rather surprised at himself.
“I'm afraid you'll be sorry you took
the room.”
The roomer smiled in the shadow.
“I'm beginning to think that you are
sorry.”
His quick mind grasped the fact that
it was the girl’s bedroom he had taken.
Other things he had gathered that aft-
ernoon from the humming of a sewing
machine, from Sidney's businesslike
way of renting the little room, from
the glimpse of a woman in a sunny
window, bent over a needle. Genteel
poverty was what it meant, and more—
the constant drain of disheartened,
middle-aged women on the youth and
courage of the girl beside him,
K. Le Moyne, who was living his
own tragedy those days, what with
poverty and other things, swore a quiet!
oath to be no further weight on the!
girl's buoyant spirit. He had no in-|
tention of letting the Street encroach
on him. He had built up a wall be-
tween himself and the rest of the
world, and he would not scale it. But!
he held no grudge against it. Let oth]
| Very lovely it was, he thought.
' things to ribbons.
{ them.”
‘ers Zot | what they could out of living '
Sidney, suddenly practical, broke ir .
on his thoughts:
“Where are you going te get jouw
| meals?”
| “I hadn’t thought about it. I car
stop in somewhere on my way down
itown. I work in the gas office—I don”
believe I told you.”
“It’s very bad for you,” said Sidney
with decision. “It leads to slovenly
habits, such as going without wher
you're in a hurry, and that sort of
thing. The only thing is to have some
one expecting you at a certain time.’
“It sounds like marriage.” He wat
lazily amused.
“It sounds like Mrs. McKee’s board
ing house at the corner. Twenty-one
meals for five dollars, and your ticket
is good until it is punched. But Mrs
McKee doesn't like it if you miss.”
“Mrs. McKee for me,” seid Le Moyne
“I dare say I'll be fairly regular to mj
meals.”
It was growing late. The Street
which mistrusted night air, even on
a hot summer evening, was closing its
windows. By shifting his position, the
man was able to see the girl’s face
Very
pure, almost radiant—and young
From the middle age of his almost
thirty years, she was a child. There
had been a boy in the shadows when
he came up the Street. Of course there
would be a boy—a nice, clear-eyed
|
| chap—
Sidney was looking at the moon
With that dreamer’s part of her that
she had inherited from her dead and
gone father, she was quietly worship
ing the night. But her busy brain
was working, too—the practical brain
that she had got from her mother’s
side.
“What about your washing?’ she in:
quired unexpectedly. “I suppose you've
been sending things to the laundry,
and—what do you do about your stock:
ings?”
“Buy cheap ones and throw ’em away
when they're worn out.” There seemed
to be no reserves with this surprising
young person.
“And buttons?”
“Use safety pins. When they're
closed one can button over them as
well as—"
“I think,” said Sidney, “that it is
quite time someone took a little care
of you. If you will give Katie, our
maid, twenty-five cents a week, she'll
do your washing and not tear your
And I'll mend
Sheer stupefaction was K. Le
Moyne’s. After a moment:
“ “You're really rather wonderful, Miss
Page. Here am I, lodged, fed, washed,
| ironed and mended for seven dollars
i and seventy-five cents a week!”
”
“I hope,” said Sidney severely, “that
| you’ll put what you save in the bank.”
He was still somewhat dazed when
he went up the narrow staircase to
his swept and garnished room. Never,
!in all of a life that had been active—
i until recently—had he been so con-
I scious of friendliness and kindly inter-
est. He expanded under it. Some of
! the tired lines left his face.
“New underwear for yours tomor-
| row, K. Le Moyne,” he said to himself,
! as he unknotted his cravat.
| derwear, and something besides K. for
I a first name.”
“New un
He pondered over that for a time
i taking off his shoes slowly and think:
{ ing hard.
! None of them appealed to him.
i after all,
i old heaviness came over him.
Kerr—’
And
The
“Kenneth, King,
what did it matter?
Sidney did not sleep much that night.
' She lay awake, gazing into the scented
| darkness, her arms under her head.
Love had come into her life at last. A
man—only Joe, of course, but it was
not the boy himself, but what he stood
for, that thrilled her—had asked her
to be his wife.
The desire to be loved! There was
coming to Sidney a time when love
would mean, not receiving but giving—
the divine fire instead of the pale flame
of youth. At last she slept.
A night breeze came through the win-
dows and spread coolness through the
little house. The ailanthus tree
waved in the moonlight and sent
sprawling shadows over the wall of
K. Le Moyne's bedroom. In the yard
the leaves of the morning glory vines
guivered as if under the touch of a
friendly hand.
CHAPTER II.
Sidney could not remember when
her Aunt Harriet had not sat at the
table. It was one of her earliest dis-
illusionments to learn that Aunt Har-
riet lived with them, not because she
wished to, but becaur :
had borrowed her sufgll
she was “boarding it.out.”
Eighteen years sh “boarded it
out.” Sidney had been born and
grown to girlhood ; the dreamer father
had gone to his grave, with valuable
patents lost for lack of money to re-
new them—gone with his faith in him-
self destroyed, but with his faith in
the world undiminished—for he left his
wife and daughter without a dollar of
life insurance.
Harriet Kennedy had voiced her own
view of the matter, the day after the
funeral, to one of her neighbors:
“He left no insurance. Why should
he bother? He left me.”
To the little widow, her sister, she
had been no less bitter, and more ex-
plicit.
“It looks to me, Anna,” she said, “as
if by borrowing everything I had
George had bought me, body and soul,
for the rest of my natural life. I'll
' stay now until Sidney is able to take
hold. Then I'm going to live my own
life. It will be a little late, but the
: Kennedy's live a long time.”
The day of Harriet’s leaving had
seemed far away to Anna Page. Sid-
LLuntinuea on page 7, Col. 1.]
| EVERYTHING
HAS NOT GONE UP
IN PRICE
this time last season.
MINCE MEAT.
former price of 15 Cents Per Pound.
SWEET POTATOES.
(Except Pepper).
and many other articles are selling at the usual prices.
COFFEES, TEAS AND RICE.
market in the near future.
you good service.
Bush House Block, - - 57-1 a . %
All the goods we advertise here are selling at prices prevailing
We are now making our MINCE MEAT and keeping it fully up to our
usual high standard; nothing cut out or cut short and are selling it at our
Finest Selected SWEET POTATOES at 40 Cents Per Peck.
Fine Celery, Oranges, Grape Fruit, Apricots, Peaches, Prunes—All spices
Breakfast Foods, Extracts, Baking Powders, Soda, Corn-
starch. The whole line of Soaps and Washing Powders, Starches, Blueing
On our Fine Coffees at 25¢, 28¢, 30c, 35¢ and 40c, there has been no change
in price on quality of goods and no change in the price of TEAS. Rice has
not advanced in price and can be used largely as a substitute for potatoes.
All of these goods are costing us more than formerly but we are doing our
best to Hold Down the Bill on high prices, hoping for a more favorable
LET US HAVE YOUR ORDER
and we will give you FINE GROCERIES at reasonable prices and give
SECHLER & COMPANY,
Bellefonte, Pa.
Shoes.
Shoes.
PRICES REDUCED
PRICES REDUCED
YEAGER SHOE STORE
Ladies’ Kreep-a-Wa Slippers, all colors,
Childs’ Kreep-a-Wa Slippers, all colors,
Men's good quality Felt Slippers - -
Men’s Black and Tan Romeo Slippers
Ladies’ 8-inch Kid Boots - - - - -
Boy’s High Cut Shoes - - - - - -
Childs’ Champagne Kid Shoes - - -
Ladies’ Warm Shoes for cold feet -
that is purchased at Yeagers.
the Shoes and Slippers that you expect to
buy remember you can save on each pair
Compare the Prices Below
with any other firm selling shoes, then you be
the judge as to the better place to buy.
98c
75¢
75¢
$1.75
$3.25
$3.00
$1.50
$1.35
When the Time Comes to Purchase
YOU CAN SAVE MONEY
on anything you may need in the shoe line.
YEAGER'S,
Bush Arcade Bldg.
58-27
A Bank Account
It protects you in time of need.
It gives you a feeling of independence.
It strengthens you.
to Your Children
BELLEFONTE
The Shoe Store for the Poor Man.
BELLEFONTE, PA.
Is the Gibraltar of the Home!
If you are a man of family yon must have a bank account. A BANK
ACCOUNT IS THE BULWARK, THE GIBRALTAR, OF YOUR HOME,
THE CENTRE COUNTY BANK,
It Is a Consolation to Your Wife,
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