Bellefonte, Pa., March 30, 1917.
¢Copyright, by McClure Publications, Inc.)
(Continued from last week.)
SYNOPSIS.
CHAPTER I—At her home In the Street,
Bldney Page agrees to marry Joe Drum
.mond “after years and years” and talks
to K. Le Moyne, the new roomer,
CHAPTER 1I—Sidney’s aunt Harrie
who has been dressmaking with Sidney’
mother, launches an independent modiste’s
lor. Sidney gets Dr. Ed Wilson's in
uence with his brother, Doctor Max, the
successful young surgeon, to place her ir
the hospital as a probationer nurse.
CHAPTER III-K. becomes acquaintec
in the Street. Sidney asks him to sta)
on as a roomer and explains her plans foi
financing her home while she is in the
school.
CHAPTER IV—Doctor Max gets Sidney
into the hospital school.
CHAPTER V—S8idney and K. spend ar
afternoon in the country. Sidney falls
into the river.
CHAPTER VI—Max asks Carlotta Har.
vison, a probationer, to take a motor ride
with him. Joe finds Sidney and K. al
the country hotel, where Sidney is drying
her clothes, and is insanely jealous.
CHAPTER VII—While Sidney and K
are dining on the terrace, Max and Car:
lotta appear. K. does not see them, bul
for some reason seeing him disturbs Car:
lotta strangely.
CHAPTER VIII—Joe reproaches Sidney
She confides to K. that Joe knows now
she will not marry him.
CHAPTER IX—Sidney goes to training
school and at home relies more and more
on K. Max meets K, and recognizes him
as Edwardes, a brilliant young surgeor
who has been thought lost on the Titanic
K.'s losing cases lost him faith in him-
self and he guit and hid from the world
CHAPTER X-—Carlotta ' fears Sidney
Christine Lorenz and Palmer Howe are¢
married. The hard facts of her new life
puzzl. Sidney.
CHAPTER XI—Max continued his flir.
tation with Carlotta, who becomes jealout
of Sidney. K. coaches Max in his work,
but remains a clerk in the gas office.
Outside of her small immediate
eircle Anna’s death was hardly felt.
The little house went on much as be-
fore. Harriet carried back to her busi-
ness a heaviness of spirit that made it
difficult to bear with the small irrita-
“Take Me Away, K.” She Said Piti-
fully.
tions of her day. On Sidney—and in
tess measure, of course, on K.—fell the
real brunt of the disaster. Sidney kept
ap well until after the funeral, but
went down the next day with a low
fever.
“Overwork and grief,” Doctor Ed
said, and sternly forbade the hospital
again until Christmas. Morning and
evening K. stopped at her door and
inquired for her, and morning and eve-
ning came Sidney’s reply:
“Much better. I'll surely be up to-
morrow.”
But the days dragged on and she did
aot get about.
Downstairs, Christine and Palmer
had entered on the round of midwinter
gayeties. Palmer's “crowd” was a
' Hvely one. There were dinners and
dances, week-end excursions to coun-
iry houses. The Street grew accus-
tomed tc seeing automobiles stop be-
fore the little house at all hours of the
night. Johnny Rosenfeld, driving
Palmer's car, took to falling asleep at
the wheel in broad daylight, and voiced
his discontent to his mother.
“You mever know where you are with
them guys,” he sald briefly. “We start
out for half an hour’s run in the eve-
ning, and get home with the milk wag-
ons. And the more some of them have
had to drink, the more they want to
drive the machine. If I get a chance,
I'm going to beat it while the wind's
my way.”
But, talk as he might, in Johnny
Rosentelds’ loyal Lieart there was no
thought of desertion. Palmer had giv-
en him a man’s job, and he would stick
by it, no matter what came.
One such night Christine put in,
lying wakefully in her bed, while the
clock on the mantel tolled hour after
hour into the night. Palmer did not
come home at all. He sent a note from
the office in the morning:
I hope you are not worried, darling.
The car broke down near the Country
club last night, and there was nothing to
do but to spend the night there. I would
have sent y®u.word, but I did not want to
rouse you. What do you say to the the-
ater tonight and supper afterward?
Christine was learning. She tele-
ohoned the Country club that morning,
and found that Palmer had not been
there. But, although she knew now
that he was deceiving her, as he al-
ways had deceived her, as probably he
always would, she hesitated to con-
front him with what she knew. She
shrank, as many a woman has shrunk
nefore, from confronting him with his
lie.
But the second time it happened she
was roused. It was almost Christmas
then, and Sidney was well on the way
to recovery, thinner and very white,
but going slowly up and down the stair-
case on K's arm, and sitting with
Harriet and K. at the dinner table.
She was begging to be back on duty
for Christmas, and K. felt that he
would have to give her up soon.
At three o'clock one morning Sidney
roused from a light sleep to hear a
rapping on her door.
“Is that you, Aunt Harriet?” she
called.
“It’s Christine. May I come in?”
Sidney unlocked her door. Christine
slipped into the room. She carried a
candle, and before she spoke she looked
at Sidney’s watch on the bedside table.
“I hoped my clock was wrong,’ she
said. “I am sorry to waken you, Sid-
ney, but I don’t know what to do.”
“Are you ill?”
“No. Palmer has not come home.”
“What time is it?”
“After three o'clock.”
Sidney had lighted the gas and was
throwing on her dressing gown.
“When he went out did he say—"
“He said nothing. We had peen
quarreling. Sidney, I am going home
in the morning.”
“You don’t mean that, do you?”
“Don’t I look as if I mean it? How
much of this sort of thing is a woman
suppose to endure?”
“Perhaps he has been delayed. These
things always seem terrible in the
middle of the night, but by morning—"
Christine whirled on her.
“This isn’t the first time. You re-
member the letter I got on my wedding
day?”
“Yes.”
“He's gone back to her.”
“Christine! Oh, I'm sure you're
wrong. He's devoted to you. Oh, I
don’t believe it!”
“Believe it or not,” said Christine
doggedly, “that’s exactly what has hap-
sened. I got something out of that
little, rat of a Rosenfeld boy, and the
rest I know because I know Palmer.
He’s out with her tonight.”
The hospital had taught Sidney one
ching: that it took many people to
nake a world, and that out of these
some were inevitably vicious. But vice
aad remained for her a clear abstrac-
ion. There were such people, and be-
»ause one was in the world for service
yne cared for them. Even the Saviour
12d been kind to the woman of the
itreets.
But here abruptly Sidney found the
reat injustice of the world—that be-
‘ause of this vice the good suffer mo-e
han the wicked. Her young spint
‘ose in hot rebellion.
“It isn’t fair!” she cried. “It makes
ne hate all the men in the world.
>almer cares for you, and yet he can
lo a thing like this!”
Christine was pacing nervously ap
nd down the room. Mere companion-
ship had soothed her. She was now,
»n the surface at least, less excited
han Sidney.
“They are not all like Palmer, thank
1eaven,” she said. “There are decent
nen. My father is one, and your K,,
1ere in the house, is another.”
At four o'clock in the morning
Palmer Howe came, home. Christine
met him in the lower hall. He was
rather pale, but entirely sober. She
confronted him in her straight white
gown and waited for him to speak.
“I am sorry to be so late, Chris,” he
said. “The fact is, I.am all in. I was
driving the car out Seven Mile run.
We blew out a tire and the thing
turned over.”
Christine noticed that his right arm
was hanging inert by his side.
ey fy.
vin
CHAPTER XIIL.
Young Howe had been firmly re-
solved to give up all his bachelor hab-
ts with his wedding day. In his indo-
ent, rather selfish way, he was much
n love with his wife.
But with the inevitable misunder-
standings of the first months of mar-
riage had come a desire to be appreci-
ited once again at his face value.
Jrace had taken him, not for what he
was, but for what he seemcd to be.
With Christine the veil was reut. She
knew him now-—all his small indo-
ences, his affectations, his weaknesses.
Later on, like other women since the
world began, she would learn to dis-
semble, to affect to believe him what
1e was not. ’
Grace had learned this lesson long
ago. It was the A B C of her knowl
edge. And so, back to Grace cami
Palmer Howe, not with a suggestion t«
renew the old relationship, but fo!
comradeship. 1
Christine sulked—he wanted goo(
cheer; Christine was intolerant—hs
wanted tolerance; she disapproved o:
him and showed her disapproval—h¢
wanted approval. He wanted life tc
be comfortable and cheerful, withou
recriminations, a little work and muck
| school.
play, a drink when one was thirsty
Distorted though it was, and founde
on a wrong basis, perhaps, deep in his
heart Palmer’s only longing was fol
happiness; but this happiness must b¢
of an active sort—not content, whick
is passive, but enjoyment. :
“Come on out,” he said. “I've got 8
car now. No taxi working its head ofl
for us. Just a little run over the coun
try roads, eh?”
It was the afternoon of the day be
fore Christine’s night visit to Sidney.
The office had been closed, owing to a
death, and Palmer was in possessior
of a holiday.
“Come on,” he coaxed. “We'll go oul
to the Climbing Rose and have sup-
per.” T
“I don’t want to go.”
“That’s not true, Grace, and you
know it.”
“You and I are through.”
“It’s your doing, not mine. The
roads are frozen hard; an hour’s run
into the country will bring your colol
back.”
“Much you care about that. Go and
ride with your wife,” said the girl, and
flung away from him.
The last few weeks had filled out her
thin figure, but she still bore traces of
her illness. Her short hair was curled
over her head. She looked curiously
boyish, almost sexless.
Because she saw him wince when
she mentioned Christine, her ill temper
increased. She showed her teeth.
“You get out of here,” she said sud-
denly. “I didn’t ask you to come bak,
I don’t want you.”
“Good heavens, Grace! You always
knew I would have to marry some
day.”
“I was sick; I nearly died. I dida’t
hear any reports of you hanging around
the hospital to learn how I was get
ting along.”
He laughed rather sheepishly.
“I had to be careful. You know that
as well as I do. I know half the staff
there. Besides, one of—"” He hesi-
tated over his wife’s name. “A girl 1
know very well was in the training
There would have been the
devil to pay if I'd as much as callec
up.”
“You never told me you were going
to get married.”
Cornered, he slipped an arm arounc
her. But she shook him off.
“I meant to tell you, honey; but you
got sick. Anyhow, I—I hated to tel
you, honey.”
He had furnished the flat for her
There was a comfortable feeling of
coming home about going there again
And, now that the worst minute of
com
EST
“I'll tell you what we'll do,” he said.
“We won't go to any of the old places.
I've found a new roadhouse in the
country that's respectable enough to
suit anybody. We'll go out to Schwit-
ter's and get some dinner. I'll prom-
ise to get you back early. How's that?”
In the end she gave in. And on the
way out he lived up to the letter of
their agreement. The situation ex-
hilarated him: Grace with her new
air of virtue, her new aloofness; his
comfortable car; Johnny Rosenfeld’s
discreet back and alert ears.
The adventure had all the thrill of a
new conquest in it. He treated the
girl with deference, did not insist when
she refused a cigarette, felt glowingly
virtuous and exultant at the same time.
When the car drew up before the
Schwitter place, he slipped a five-dollar
bill into Johnny Rosenfeld’s not over-
clean hand.
“I don’t mind the ears,” he said.
“Just watch your tongue, lad.” And |
Johnny stalled his engine in sheer sur- |
prise.
“There's just enough of the Jew in
me,” said Johnny, “to know how to talk
a lot and say nothing, Mr. Howe.”
Johnny Rosenfeld at eighteen had
developed a philosophy of four words.
It took the place of the Golden Rule,
the Ten Commandments, and the Cate-
chism. It was: “Mind your own busi-
ness.”
True to his promise, Palmer wakened
the sleeping boy before nine o'clock.
Grace had eaten little and drunk noth-
ing; but Howe was slightly stimulated.
“Give her the ‘once over,” he told
Johnny, “and then go back and crawl
into the rugs again. I'll drive in.”
Grace sat beside him. Their progress
was slow and rough over the country
roads, but when they reached the
state road Howe threw open the throt-
tle. He drove well. The liquor was
in his blood. He took chances and got
away with them, laughing at the girl's
gasps of dismay.
“Wait until I get beyond Simkins-
ville,” he said, “and I'll let her out.
You're going to travel tonight, honey.”
The girl sat beside him. with her
eves fixed ahead. He had been drink-
ing, and the warmth of the liquor was
in his voice. She was determined .on
one thing. She was going to make
him live up to the letter of his prom-
ise to go away at the house door; and
more and more she realized that it
would be difficult. His mood was reck-
less, masterful. Instead of laughing
when she drew back from a proffered
caress, he turned surly. Obstinate
lines that she remembered appeared
from his nostrils to the corners of his
mouth. She was uneasy.
Finally she hit on a plan to make
him stop somewhere in her neighbor-
hood and let her get out of the car.
She would not come back after that.
There was another car going toward
the city. Now it passed them, and as
often they passed it. It became a con-
test of wits. Palmer’s car lost on the
hills, but gained on the level stretches,
which gleamed with a coating of thin
ice.
“I wish you'd let them get ahead,
Palmer. It's silly and it’s reckless.”
“I told you we'd travel tonight.”
He turned a little glance at her.
: | What the deuce was the matter with
“I'm Going to Be Straight, Palmer.”
their meeting was over, he was visibly
happier. But Grace continued to stand
eyeing him somberly.
“I’ve got something to tell you,” she
said. “Don’t have a fit, and don’t
laugh. If you do, I'll—I'll jump out
of the window. I've got a place in a
store. I'm going to be straight, Pal-
mer.”
“Good for you!”
He meant it. She was a nice girl and
he was fond of her. The other was a
dog's life. And he was not unselfish
about it. She could not belong to him.
He did not want her to belong to any-
one else.
“One of the nurses in the hospital, a
Miss Page, has got me something to do
at Linton & Hofburg’s. I am going on
for the January white sale. If I make
good they will keep me.”
He had put her aside without a
qualm ; and now he met her announce-
ment with approval. He meant to let
her alone. They would have a holiday
together, and then they would say
good-by. And she had not fooled him.
She still cared. He was getting off
well, all things considered. She might
have raised a row.
“Good work!” he said. “You'll be a
lot happier. But that isn’t any reason
why we shouldn't be friends, is it?
Just friends; I mean that. I would like
to feel that I can stop in now and then
and say how do you do.”
“I promised Miss Page.”
“Never mind Miss Page.”
The mention of Sidney's name
brought up in his mind Christine as he
had left her that morning. He scowled.
Things were not going well at home.
There, was something wrong with
Christine. She used to be a good
sport, but she had never been the same
since the day of the wedding. He
thought her attitude toward him was
one of suspicion. It made him uncom-
fortable. But any attempt on his part
to fathom it only met with cold silence.
That had been her attitude that morn-
ing.
women, anyhow? Were none of them
cheerful any more? Here was Grace
as sober as Christine. He felt out-
raged, defrauded.
His light car skidded and struck the
big car heavily. On a smooth road per-
haps nothing more serious than broken
mudguards would have been the re-
sult. But on the ice the small car
slewed around and slid over the edge
of the bank. At the bottom of the de-
clivity it turned over.
Grace was flung clear of the wreck-
age. Howe freed himself and stood
erect, with one arm hanging at his side.
There was no sound at all from the
boy under the tonneau.
The big car had stopped. Down the
bank plunged a heavy, gorillalike fig-
ure, long arms pushing aside the frozen
branches of trees. When he reached
the car, O'Hara found Grace sitting
unhurt on the ground. In the wreck of
the car the lamps had not been extin-
guished, and by their light he made out
Howe, swaying dizzily.
“Anybody underneath?”
“The chauffeur. He's dead, I think.
He doesn’t answer.”
The other members of O'Hara's party
had crawled down the bank by that
time. With the aid of a jack, they got
the car up. Johnny Rosenfeld lay dou-
pled on his face underneath. When he
came to and opened his eyes, Grace al-
most shrieked her relief.
“I'm all right,” said Johnny Rosen:
feld. And, when they offered him
whisky: “Away with the fire-water. 1
am no drinker. I—I—" A spasm of
pain twisted his face. “I guess I'll get
up.” With his arms he lifted himself
to a sitting position, and fell back
again.
“Huh!” he said.
legs.”
“I can’t move my
(Continued next week.)
Good Authority.
A school-mistress asked her class
to explain the word “bachelor,” and
was very much amused when a little
girl answered: “A bachelor is a very
happy man.”
“Where did you learn that? asked
the mistress.
“Father told me,” the little girl re-
plied.—Tit-Bits.
——Subsecribe for the “Watchman.”
CASTORIA
Bears the signature of Chas, H.Fletcher.
In use for over thirty years, and
The Kind You Have Always Bought.
Dry Goods. Dry Goods.
LYON @& COMPANY.
Special For Easter!
Our buyer has just returned from the Eastern mar-
kets, and through advantageous buying, will have
Special Sales on the following lines for
THIRTY DAYS ONLY.
LOT 1.—Fine white Voile Waists, new large col-
lar, embroidered and lace trimmed. Value $1.50.
Special price - . - - 98¢c.
LOT 2.—Ladies’ and Misses’ Spring Coats in checks
and plaids, all colors. Values $8.00 to $10.00.
Special price . . - - $5.00.
LOT 3.—Ladies’ and Misses’ Suits in check, black
and colors. $15.00 and $18.00. Special $10.98.
(Ladies’ White Canvas Shoes, 8-inch top,
| Value $3.00. - - - Special $2.48.
LOT 4.—
Men’s Black and Tan Working Shoes.
L Value $3.50. - - - Special $2.48.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANAAAAAS
RUGS. RUGS. RUGS.
By a lucky buy we can again show those Matting
Rugs 9x12. Value $10.00. - - Special $5.98.
Tapestry Rugs, new designs, 9x12. Values $12.00
and $15.00. . - - . Special $9.98.
Come in and get our Special Prices
on Axminsters and Wilton Rugs. Watch our store as
this season we are prepared to sell goods for less than
wholesale prices.
Lyon & Co. «+» Bellefonte.
Shoes. Shoes.
Big Reduction on the Price of Shoes
YEAGER'S SHOE STORE
For One Day Only,
March 31st.
Saturday,
I will reduce the prices on certain lines of Shoes.
This reduction does not cover all Shoes, just
Shoes listed below. It is a case of I need the
money, you need the Shoes.
Soft-sole Shoes for the baby - - 20C
Men's $4.00 Dayton Shoes - - $3.00
Men’s $3.50 Moose-hide Shoes - - $2.50 3
Men's $3.50 Scout Shoes - - - $2.50
Boys’ $3.00 Scout Shoes - - . $2.25
Ladies’ $4.00 Nurse Shoes . - - $3.00
Childs’ $2.50 Tan Shoes - - $1.75
Men’s $7.00 Dress Shoes - - - $5.00
This is a bonafide reduction; every pair of shoes is
worth just one dollar more than I am selling them for
on this special day. Remember the day—
SATURDAY, MARCH 31st ONLY.
YEAGER'S,
The Shoe Store for the Poor Man.
Bush Arcade Bldg. 58-27 BELLEFONTE, PA.