A ERE RS th,
" Sewoail Wittn
Bellefonte, Pa., October 28, 1921.
HALLOWE’EN.
I see a ghost, I see a cat,
A rook on ghostly wings,
Some eerie, little, gleaming eyes,
Some very frightful THINGS.
I see a witch, I see her broom,
The dame goes riding by;
I hear a shriek, a muffled sob,
A spirit’s graveyard SIGH!
I see—dear me—so many things,
I see my heart’s adored,
How could I keep that little witch,
When I cannot pay my BOARD!
THE FLAW.
“Have you had a pleasant after-
noon, dear?”
The tone in which the mother asked
the question was almost deferential,
as one might speak to a superior
rather than to one’s child.
“Oh, yes, pleasant enough,” the girl
replied. “We motored over to Red
Bank. But the drives about here are
fearfully monotonous. There is no
scenery to amount to anything. I
shall be glad to get away to the moun-
tains for a while.”
“I shall miss you when you are
gone,” the older woman remarked.’
There was a wistful look in her
eyes, but her companion did not no-
tice it.
Gladys Wyndham was nineteen and
very pretty. Many people thought
her beautiful. Her beauty was of the
kind that is not dependent upon the
expression of the face. Her skin was
clear, with only a slight flush in the
cheeks; her eyes were brown and
calm. She wore her dark and abund-
ant hair brushed back from her
smooth forehead in a way that is try-
ing to any but classic features. These
she possessed. Her curved mouth was
perfect in outline. That it betokened
selfishness might not have been de-
tected by any one but a student of
physiognomy. Her figure was slen-
der, yet gracefully: rounded, and she
dressed so as to show it to the best
advantage. Her hands and feet were
shapely. Altogether, as she stood
now before her mother, she was a
daughter of whose appearance any
woman might be proud.
“I think I'll lie down a while before
I dress for dinner,” she announced.
“I am going out this evening.”
“Oh, are you dear?” The question
escaped the matron involuntarily,
then she corrected her blunder. “I
only meant that I thought, perhaps,
as you had been out so much today,
you would prefer to stay in and dance
this evening.”
“The dances here at this hotel have
degenerated into a kindergarten
display,” Gladys complained. “All the
kids in the place disport themselves
in the parlors the first part of the
evening, and when they go up to bed
a few stupid, awkward people bump
around in what they fancy are the
modern dances. It makes me tired.
I do hope that up at Twilight Park
there will be a different kind of crowd
from what there is here.”
“Yet you have had a rather pleas-
ant summer so far—haven’t you?”
the mother ventured timidly.
Gladys Wyndham shrugged her
shoulders. “Pleasant enough, yes.
But all summer resorts on the Jersey
coast are cut off the same piece of
goods. They are about alike. The
bathing is good here, and that’s all
that can be said for the place. If I
had not had my car this summer I
would have been bored to death.”
Agnes Wyndham’s face lighted with u
gratification. She
“] am so glad you are enjoying
your car!” she exclaimed. “I knew
you wanted it, and since I got it for
you I have actually reveled in the
thought of the good time you are hav-
ing with it. And, dearest, you drive
very well.” ;
“So everybody tells me.” The girl
accepted the compliment as her due.
“And that reminds me—when I go up
to Twilight next week I would like to
motor up. I have spoken to Helen
Grafton about going with me. She
says her husband can get off for a
few days, so they will chaperone me.
A man Jack Grafton knows—a friend
of his—will make the fourth in the
party.”
“Oh, my dear child!”
The girl did not frown at the par-
ent’s exclamation. Instead she laugh-
ed indulgently.
“Now, mother dear,” she argued,
“you’re not beginning to worry al-
ready about this plan, are you? What
possible objection can there be to my
going in the car? The roads are
ood, and scores of tourists are mak-
ing the trip every day. You arranged
to have me spend a month with Mrs.
Drake, and what’s the difference
whether I go by rail or motor? Be a
sensible little parent and stop fussing.
I'll be perfectly safe, of course, so
let’s call the matter settled. And now
I'm going to get a bit of beauty sleep
before dinner.”
Agnes Wyndham stood up. “Let
me get out your wrapper and slippers
for you, daughter.”
She spoke eagerly, as one asking a
boon.
“All right, honey. Come along!”
Gladys called back over her shoulder
as she went into the adjoining room.
After she had seen her child lying
down, and had drawn the curtains so
as to soften the afternoon glare, the
mother heart overflowed.
“My darling!” she murmured, press-
ing her lips to the cool, round cheek.
“My darling!”
Gladys returned the kiss, then
yawned. “I'm dreadfully sleepy!” she
murmured.
“Get a good nap, dear,” the older
woman soothed.
She went softly from the room,
closing the door of communication be-
tween her own chamber and the larg-
er one occupied by her child. Then
she sat down and gazed out across
the ocean sparkling in the late after-
noon sunlight.
The view was a fair one and the
woman was fond of it, but just now
her thoughts were turned inward,
rather than outward. In spirit she
stood by the side of her sleeping child
land tried to silence the insistent ery-
ing out of her mother love. :
For Gladys was her only child.
Mark Wyndham, in dying a half-doz-
en years ago, had left everything to
his wife, secure in the knowledge that
his little girl would be cared for. It
is to be doubted if even he, knowing
his wife as he did, had any idea of
how lavishly the mother’s all would
be spent upon her child. For hers
was an unreasoning devotion, and the
girl was what such unselfish love,
poured forth upon a self-centered na-
ture, had made her.
The American girl of today is suf-
ficient unto herself. She has her own
views and her own aims, which are
sometimes curbed or directed by those
who have authority over her. Even
so, her individuality is permitted to
develop te an extent that would have
horrified the woman of former gen-
erations.
That Agnes Wyndham was not hor-
rified was due to the blindness of her
love. She saw that Gladys was pret-
ty; she fancied that she was clever;
the girl’s wilfulness she termed “self-
reliance,” her determination to do as
she pleased, “originality.”
Gladys had expressed a desire to
come to the seashore this summer,
and her mother had unhesitatingly ac-
ceded to her wishes. For a year the
girl had longed for a motor-car of her
own. She did not want a cheap car,
she had declared, but “a regular high-
power machine.” That she had had to
wait for some months before having
this yearning satisfied was due to the
fact that Mrs. Wyndham herself had
to wait until certain dividends fell
due before buying the automobile.
For she was not a wealthy woman.
Her husband had felt that he was
leaving her well provided for. He had
had no experience in the extrava-
gance of the younger generation.
If a passing wonder as to how it
was all to end ever came to the moth-
er’s mind, she put it from her as un-
fair to the child. What had she to
live for but Gladys? Would it be fair
to dwarf such a wonderful personality
as this young creature’s? Could she
do better than to spend and be spent
in making her darling happy? Some
day, when skic, Agnes Wyndham, was
an old woman, and Gladys had mar-
ried a man who could appreciate her
and surround her with such luxuries
as were her right, the mother would
have time to rest and take care of
herself. She had lived her own joy-
ous youth, her time of love and hap-
piness with the man she had married;
now it was Gladys’s turn to have hers.
One of the guests in the hotel step-
ped forward as Mrs. Wyndham, a
wrap over her arm, followed her
daughter downstairs that night.
“Where are you going ?” Mrs. Had-
ley asked.
“Oh, I'm not going anywhere,” Mrs.
Wyndham said. “But Gladys and sev-
eral of her friends are taking a little
drive before bedtime, and I am afraid
she will not be warm enough.”
“Why don’t you go too?” Mrs. Had-
ley asked impulsively.
“I?” in surprise. “Why, I had not
thought of it. Older people are a bit
in" the way when young folks are off
for a frolic—don’t you think so? But
she starts.”
Yet, when she ran out to the head of
the front steps, called her daughter
and signalled to her to take the extra
wrap, Gladys shook her head.
“I don’t need it, dear,” she exclaim-
ed. “I can’t use a rug when I’m driv-
ing the car.”
“Oh—I forgot!” the mother apolo-
gized.
“Poor mother!” Gladys laughed,
turning to the man beside her. “She
never remembers that I am grown
“Does she often motor with you?”
the young man queried, more for the
sake of saying something than be-
cause he felt any interest in the topic.
“Not often,” the girl replied. “She
does not care for motoring. Ye gods
—what a moon!”
The couple on the rear seat—
another young man and a girl—ech-
oed her exclamation, and the middle-
aged woman and her preferences was
forgotten.
As Agnes Wyndham turned back
into the hotel Mrs. Hadley asked a
question similar to the one asked by
Gladys’s companion a moment earlier.
“Don’t you care for motoring, Mrs.
Wyndham? I notice you seldom go.”
“Why, yes—I like it,” the mother
said, as if considering the subject for
the first time. “But the car belongs
to Gladys, you know—and young peo-
ple like to be with young people.”
“I see,” Mrs. Hadley rejoined dryly.
“Ah!” as a tall figure approached
them, “here is a friend I want you to
meet. He has run up from Philadel-
phia to see this place, with an idea of
spending a week here later. Mrs.
Wyndham—let me introduce Mr.
Armstrong—Mzr. Donald Armstrong.”
“Mr. Armstrong!” The exclama-
tion with which Agnes greeted the
newcomer was fraught with pleased
surprise. “Why—I have not seen you
in years—not since I was a girl.”
“Yet I would have known you any-
where,” the man declared. Then to
Mrs. Hadley: “This lady and I were
friends when we were youngsters.”
“It’s over twenty years since that
winter I spent in Philadelphia with
my aunt,” Agnes reminded him. “I
was married that next spring. Look-
ing back, it seems a half-century
ago.’
Band looking at you makes it seem
but yesterday,” he added gallantly.
“Are you here alone?”
“With my daughter—the only per-
son left who belongs to me,” she said
briefly.
It was later, when Mrs. Hadley had
left the pair alone that, tactfully,
Donald Armstrong drew from the
women he had once known the story
of the years that had intervened since
that winter in the Quaker City when
he had been a frequent caller at her
aunt’s home. And in return he told
her of what had befallen him since
then.
“I have never married,” he said. “I
am now, at forty-five, pretty lonely.
I am a prosperous old bachelor with
a comfortable place to live in, money
to provide me with luxuries, and no
home.”
“I know,” the woman sympathized.
“I am only a couple of years younger
—and but for my little girl I, | as I am enjoying myself.”
i have no ay = 2 So Donald Armstrong was still at
“Mrs. Hadley has told me that she | Twilight Park! = Agnes remembered
is very pretty,” Armstrong said. “Ij that he had intended to stay there but
shall be back in ten days for a week’s | two or three days. Well, he probably
sojourn. I shall see her then.” found the place pleasanter than he
“I am afraid you won't,” the moth- | had expected. He was having an op-
er regretted. “She is going up to! portunity to meet Gladys. Of course
Twilight Park to spend a month with he would like the child. She was so
a friend of mine. She will be gone by lovely that nobody could help liking
money enough to satisfy me—even
though I. am an exacting young per-
son.” She laughed, but her mother
did not smile.
“Yoy love him, Gladys, don’t you?”
she questioned sternly.
“Of course I do!” the girl exclaim-
ed. “Come, don’t look so grave about
it, Honey,” she protested dropping a
light kiss on Agnes’s forehead. “For
the time you return here.” |
“Then,” the man said with a little
bow, “I may, perhaps, have the pleas- |
ure of preventing her mother’s being
too utterly lonely while her little girl |
is absent. For I shall bring my car |
down, and it may be you will let me’
help you pass away some of your un-'
occupied hours by taking some nice
long drives with me.” i
“Oh, thank you!” Agnes exclaimed. '
“I shall be only too glad—for”—with |
a catch in her throat—*“I shall miss!
Gladys horribly.” |
i oon she go alone?” the man ask- |
ed.
“Oh, no—she takes three other.
young people with her—a young mar-
ried couple and a friend of theirs. She
goes in the automobile.”
Gladys Wyndham had been away
from her mother and the seashore for
three weeks. Donald Armstrong had
been on the Jersey coast for a fort-
night. And, during that fortnight, he
had spent much of his time with Ag-
nes Wyndham.
If there was gossip about them in
the summer hotel neither of the pair
was aware of the fact. The man was
enjoying Agnes’s society as he always
enjoyed the society of a bright wom-
an. He did not stop to analyze just
how much interested he was in her.
It was enough for him that she was
delightful company, an excellent com-
rade, and that she had the leisure to
accept his attentions.
As for Agnes herself, with each
passing day she looked younger, and
more like the daughter whose beauty
was so often commented upon. It was.
‘a long time since she had regarded
herself as of any importance except
as the mother of her child. Now that
child was away, and time would have
dragged drearily had it not been for
the presence of this man of the world, |
the man who was bringing back to
her her own youth.
Unconsciously, she refused to spec- |
ulate upon the cause of her present |
happiness. She was missing Gladys
less than she had expected to. Of that,
she was thankful. She was also!
thankful to the man who had brought |
about this state of affairs. He had
meant to stop at the seashore for on- |
ly a week, but had lingered on after!
ther. But Donald would be interested
in her because of the child’s mother.
If Gladys liked him it would make it
easier if:
She shook her head impatiently,
then smiled. How foolish she was
growing these days, and how ridicu-
lously young she felt!
She had had two short notes from
Donald since he had told her good-
night a week ago. One had mention-
ed his arrival at Twilight Park. The
next one, written the following day,
had contained a few lines.
“I want you to know that I have
met your daughter,” the man wrote.
“I have had no talk with her as yet—-
but she is, as you say, very sweet, and
very much like her mother. That is
why I hope to know her better.”
That had been all—but- that had
been enough to make the heart of a
woman forty-two years old beat a bit
faster than it had beaten for many
years.
During the fortnight that followed,
Agnes Wyndham received several
post-cards from her daughter saying
that she was well and having a good
time. Why should the child write
more than that? That was all that
the mother needed to know—that she
was well and happy. No word came
from Donald Armstrong. Doubtless
he had gone on his proposed trip and
had no time to write. As Gladys did
not refer to him again, that was the
natural supposition.
It was on the morning of the day
that the girl was to return that, on
pausing at the desk for her mail, Mrs.
Wyndham was handed an envelope
addressed in Armstrong’s handwrit-
ing. She started slightly as she saw
that it bore the imprint of a hotel in
‘Twilight Park. Had he stopped there
‘again on his way home?
She went out upon the veranda,
and, as the day was cool and breezy,
seated herself in a sunny and shelter-
ed corner before opening her letter.
“Dear Mrs. Wyndham,” it began.
She was conscious of a slight sen-
sation of disappointment. She had
supposéd that Donald would ‘begin
this, his first real letter to her by
some less formal address than “Mrs.
Wyndham.”
“I am too fanciful!” she muttered.
the time for departure was past. Now, Then, as her eyes fell again upon
at the end of the two weeks, he was the page before her, she sat transfix-
going to carry out his other plans for €d, taking it all in at a glance, yet
his vacation and spend a little while reading every word slowly as if she
in the mountains. would grasp its full meaning. Had
“I shall, however, come back to any one spoken to her just then she
Philadelphia by way of the Jersey Would scarcely have heard. It is
coast,” he announced on the last after. doubtful if she would have been able
noon of his stay at the beach. “The to tell where she was. : .
place is becoming a habit with me. For only one fact seemed to exist
Perhaps, Agnes, you yourself are be- at this moment. It was that Donald
coming a habit with me.” | Armstrong loved Gladys, and that he
She flushed. He had not called her had asked her to become his wife,
by her first name before. They had and that Gladys had accepted him
motored over to Allaire and wese now Agnes Wyndham did not know that
driving slowly through the wooded she had folded the letter and slipped
road that leads from the deserted vil- it into her pocket; she did not know
I'm perfectly happy.”
“That is what I've lived for dear,”
the mother reminded her, “to have
you happy. And I have known Don-
ald Armstrong for many years. He
is a good man—as nearly worthy of
my little girl as any man can be. Re-
member always, darling—that what
your mother wishes and prays for is
your happiness.”
She said the same in substance two
days later when Donald Armstrong
came on from Philadelphia to see his
fiancee and her mother.
“She has been all I have had to live
for since her father’s death,” Agnes
told him. “Her happiness has been
my one aim. In giving her to you I
know she will be safe.”
The man looked at her keenly.
When he had been here before he had
thought this woman very young
for her age. Now she seemed
strangely shrunken and old. He sup-
posed it was because of the contrast
between her and her daughter. Mid-
dle-age pales and shrivels in the
presence of youth and beauty.
“I will try to be worthy of your
trust in me,” he murmured, lifting his
future mother-in-law’s hand to his
ips.
Before the trio had parted for the
night, Gladys had set the date for the
wedding. It must be early in January.
She wanted to go to Palm Beach for
her honeymoon. If her mother set
right to work, everything—the trous-
seau and all—could be ready by Jan-
uary first—couldn’t it?”
Certainly, the mother affirmed,
SYSryihine could be ready by that
ime.
The afternoon before the wedding
Agnes Wyndham sent a note to Don-
ald Armstrong. He was to dine at her
house that evening with the bridal
party, and after dinner they were all
to go down to the church for a final
wedding rehearsal. There would be a
quiet half hour before dinner, while
Gladys was dressing. Could Donald
come to Mrs. Wyndham’s sitting room
at that time? He replied that he
would be glad to do so.
Thus it came about that the pair
were seated before the grate fire when
Agnes Wyndham told him that she
had recently made her will, although
in case of her death everything she
had would, naturally go to her child.
“I have thought until lately that I
might live on for years to come,” she
explained, “and I have felt that the
law makes as good a will as I could
make. Perhaps I have deferred think-
ing of death, aware that my going
would leave Gladys all alone in the
world. - Now it is different. I want
you, Donald, to know that while I
may live for a long while, I have the
same trouble that took my father off
when he was younger than I am. The
end in such cases always comes sud-
denly.”
“Does Gladys know this?” he ask-
I must hurry and catch Gladys before | |
age.
“It—it—has been very pleasant
having you down here,” she stammer-
ed, flushing more hotly as she appre-
ciated that she was behaving like a
silly school-girl. Then, to take his
attention from herself, she asked:
“What part of the mountains are you
going to?”
“To Twilight Park first,” he re-
plied. “But I shall be there for only
two or three days.”
“Twilight Park!” she repeated.
“Then you may see Gladys. I do want
you to meet her.”
“And I want to meet her,” he said,
“for she is her mother’s daughter.”
Agnes Wyndham and Donald Arm-
strong did not speak of Gladys again
until that night just before they part-
ed. They had been strolling up and
down the long board-walk, listening
to the waves dash upon the beach,
talking of indifferent things, as those
talk whose thoughts are upon danger-
ously serious matters.”
“Give my little girl my love when
you see her,” Agnes said as she held
out her hand to Armstrong at the foot
of the hotel steps.
He took the small hand in his warm
grasp. “Indeed I will, Agnes,” he
said. “I am prepared to be fond of
the child—for the mother’s sake.”
“Thank you!” she murmured, turn-
ing to go.
“Wait a minute,” he pleaded.
“It is late,” she began, but he
checked her.
“I am not going to detain you,” he
said. "But I want you to tell me i
you will be glad to have me stop here
on my way back home—I mean—if
you will be a bit happier for my com-
ing. Tell Me, Agnes.”
She tried to laugh. “Why, of
course I shall be happier for seeing
you,” she affirmed. “You know that,
Don. Good night!”
Before he could say another word
she had snatched her hand away and
had run into the house as lightly as
her daughter might have run.
Alone in her own room she turned
on the light and looked at herself in
the glass—at her sparkling eyes, her
glowing cheeks.
“I did not dare stay,” she whisper-
ed. “I did not dare let myself tell
him how glad I shall be to see him
again. I wonder if, after all—"
She broke off sharply and some of
the color left her face. “I must re-
member Gladys. My little girl! Yet
what harm would there be if——"
Again she stopped. “I am a silly
fool!” she muttered. “And yet’—
another wave of color suffusing her
face—“I am very happy!”
A week later Gladys Wyndham
wrote to her mother for the second
time since her departure. She did not
like to write letters. She announced
that her hostess, Mrs. Drake, had
urged her to prolong her stay a few
days longer.
“So I shall be gone for five weeks
in all instead of a month,” the girl
added. “I am having a better time
here than I had at the seashore. Mr.
Armstrong, who knows you, is up
here at Twilight. I am glad I am to
have a fortnight more in this lovely
place. I know you don’t mind so long
fi
i that for a half hour she sat with
hands tightly clasped gazing out
{across the glistening water. All she
‘knew was that over and over in her
{brain the words she had just read
were repeating themselves.
| It was not until Mrs. Hadley, com-
ing around the end of the veranda,
called her by name that she came
| back to a realization of her surround-
ings.
| “Why, good morning!” Mrs. Hadley
greeted her. “Isn’t this a wonderful
day?”
| Agnes looked at her blankly for an
‘instant, then pulled herself together.
| “Yes, yes—a wonderful day,” she
rejoined. “I—I—have been taking a
‘ sun-bath out here.”
“Oh, don’t go in!” Mrs. Hadley urg-
red as Agnes rose from her chair.
| “I must. I have some matters to
{attend to,” the mother said slowly, us
lif feeling her way. “Gladys comes
"home tonight, and I must see that her
room is ready for her.” As she start-
{ed toward the door, she staggered
slightly. : .
| “Look out, my dear!” Mrs. Hadley
(said. “Are you not feeling well? You
are deathly pale.”
| “Oh, yes, I am perfectly well, thank
you,” Agnes assured her. “I have
een looking out at the sun on the
{ water for so long that I can’t see very
| clearly just yet, that’s all. The glare
ihas made spots aver my eyes—you
{ know how it does that?”
| The spots were still there when she
| reached her room and shut and locked
: the door. In spite of her blurred vis-
ion, she sank into a chair facing the
‘window and continued to gaze out
‘across the ocean just as she had done
| out on the veranda.
The most cruel battles of the world
‘are not fought by men on an open
i field. They are fought by the moth-
ers of the world, alone, with no one
looking on but God. It is well that
i nobody but He does look on—for He
'is the only one who could understand.
Such battles leave no scarred and
bloody ground as witnesses of what
has happened. The only signs they
leave are hair a little grayer and lines
a little deeper in the fast-aging faces
of the contestants.
So that afternoon, when Gladys
Wyndham, reaching the hotel earlier
than she had anticipated, came into
her mother’s room, she saw nothing
amiss in the smiling countenance of
the occupant, nor heard any note of
pain in the voice that greeted her.
“My dear little girl!” the mother
said, clasping her in her arms. “You
stole a march on me and got here an
hour sooner than I expected you.”
“We made a very rapid run,” the
girl explained after she had returned
her mother’s kiss. Then she added
quickly: “You got Don’s letter,
mother—didn’t you?”
“Yes, my darling. I am very glad
for you—very glad!”
clared. “Donald insisted on writing
“T knew you would be,” Gladys de- |
ed abruptly.
“No—and she must not. It is of
that very thing that I wanted to speak
to you. I will not have my ailments,
and something that may not happen
for several years yet, mar her hap-
piness. But I want you to know what
arrangements I have made, so that,
when the end does come, there need
be no trouble, no perplexity for my
little girl.”
“Yes, yes,” he murmured sympa-
thetically.
Man of the world though he was,
he was at a loss what to say. Even
in the ruddy firelight he could see
that his companion looked shockingly
ill. How she had changed in the last
few months! Strange that Gladys
had not noticed it!
“Don’t you think——” the man be-
gan,
He stopped suddenly as the door
opened and his betrothed entered.
“Why, mother dear,” she exclaimed.
“What under the sun are you doing
rangements she wished made for the
funeral, ete.
It was not until Gladys had sobbed
out her first horror and grief that her
husband asked her what reply she
Yished to send to Mrs. Drake’s ques-
ion.
“I am sorry, darling,” he apologiz-
ed, “to add to your distress by making
you talk of such matters when you
are nearly heart-broken. But these
details have to be attended to, and I
cannot take the responsibility of set-
tling them without consulting you.
How soon do you think you can be
ready to start for home?”
“Start for home!”
The exclamation was indicative of
such genuine consternation that the
husband gasped in surprise. Then he
forced himself to speak gently. The
sudden shock had dazed the poor
child.
“Yes, dear,” he said slowly, “I
mean—can you be ready to take to-
night’s train back to New York? If
so, we can telegraph that the”’—he
hesitated—‘“that the funeral services
can be held on Thursday.”
“Oh!” the face into which he was
looking had grown suddenly pale. “I
cannot go back to New York yet—-
we have not had half our visit here!
What good—Donald—what good
could it do for me to go back now?”
“No good,” her husband began, “I
only thought you would want ”
But she interrupted him. “Want to
go back now! Want to go back to all
that sadness and depression! Why
should I? Here am I, a young bride,
away on my wedding trip, and this
awful news comes! Is not that bad
enough—the shock and dreadfulness
of it all—without making it more real
by going back to that lonely house
and to those awful services—and
everything! I tell you I can’t stand
it! Mother would not want me to.
Mrs. Drake can arrange everything
without us. You know she can.” Why,
Don,” as her husband’s face did not
relax, “you know that mother would
not want my happiness spoiled like
this. She always said that she lived
for my happiness.”
“Yes,” the man said slowly, “she
lived for your happiness. I see that
now.” He paused. “It seems al-
most,” he added under his breath,
“as if she had died for your happi-
ness.”
“What did you say?” his wife ask-
ed.
“Nothing of any consequence,” he
replied. “Now tell me just what you
want me to do.” She told him with
the clear decision as to what she
wished, that was one of her character-
istics.
When he had sent the lengthy tele-
gram dictated by Gladys, Donald
Armstrong came back into her room.
She was sitting just where he had
left her, and glanced up at his en-
trance.
“I was just thinking, Don,” she said
eagerly, “that since nobody here at
The Breakers knows about mother, it
would be just as well not to mention
this awful trouble. We can be here
such a little while longer—and, if it
was told, I would be expected to re-
main out of things—perhaps even to
put on black for a while. You know,”
as he did not answer, “that mother
would have hated to have me do that.
And, really, Don—don’t you think I
am doing just what she would have
told me to do?”
“Yes,” he said gravely, “you are do-
ing just what she would have told you
to do.”
He stood for a full minute looking
at her, a new expression creeping in-
to his eyes. It was the look that
might come to the eyes of a man who
had paid a great price for a jewel se-
lected by artificial light, and who
found, on coming out into the glare
of full noon, that it had an ugly flaw
at its heart.
But his wife was twisting the rings
about on her pretty fingers, and did
not see the look. Had she seen it, she
would not have understood.—By Vir-
ginia Terhune, in Van de Water, in
Hearst's.
A,
POTTER CO. BEARS SENT
TO OTHER PARTS OF STATE.
oi er. ‘Pennsylvania State game officials
Hing Jers in the dark—you and pave succeeded this year in doing
on? Is dinfler time now and you hat they claim has never been suc.
know we are due at the church for re-
hearsal at half-past eight. I wish you
would jerk the maids up a bit and re-
mind them that I want dinner prompt-
ly. I thought of course you would see
to that, mother.”
“I meant to!” Agnes exclaimed, ris-
ing hurriedly.
1
cessfully accomplished in any other
State in trapping bears and shipping
them by express to game preserves in
distant parts of the State. The bears
have been caught in the Potter coun-
|
“Can’t I give the order for you?”
Donald interposed as she started to-
ward the door.
“Oh, no!” she protested. “You stay
here with Gladys. She has had only
a glimpse of you today. I will see
why dinner is not ready.”
As Agnes Wyndham left the room,
Gladys turned to her betrothed with
a bewitching little pout.
“I do not see what makes mother
0) forge these days,” she remark-
ed. “Have you noticed it?”
“She has a good deal on her mind,
darling,” Donald said.
“You mean my wedding ?” the girl
asked, drawing nearer to him and
looking into his face.
In the gleam from the fire she was
very beautiful. Her skin was like a
rose-leaf in texture; her neck and
shoulders perfect in outline; her eyes
dark and deep. Her lips were held
up as if for a kiss.
He caught her in his arms. “Ah!”
he ejaculated rapturously. “Is not
the thought of our wedding enough to
make everybody in the world forget
everything else—you darling ?”
i “Yes,” she murmured, smiling un-
der his caresses. “I know itis. Sol
suppose we must excuse poor dear
mother’s negligence—mustn’t we?”
“Indeed we must,” he said.
But it was evident from the tone of
his voice that his thoughts were al-
‘ready far from his wife’s mother.
| Mr. and Mrs. Donald Armstrong
i were at Palm Beach when the tele-
graph message reached the husband
‘telling him of Agnes Wpyndham’s
t e, without waiting for | death. Her old friend, Mrs. Drake,
® Light hy Oh, a un: he | had sent such particulars as the fifty-
fine?” word limit of a nigntlewery Fouls
“He is indeed,” the mother agreed. | permit. But much can be told in fif-
«Of Po he’s lots older than I am | ty words. These stated the bare facts
—but I don’t care if he is,” Gladys | and asked that the dead woman’s
went on. “He's got love enough and daughter telegraph at once what ar-
‘ty region,
t
which is infested with
hem, and they are being used for
breeding purposes in the preserves to
which they have been sent.
Under new laws the State Game
Commission has authorized the trap-
ping and thirty-two pens have been
built in parts of Potter county and
trapping of bears is almost a daily
occurrance at one part or another of
the district. The bears are then tak-
en in charge by game protectors and
sent away in crates.
Several have been placed in game
preserves in Cambria and adjoining
counties. In parts of Potter county
the bears became a nuisance to
farmers and special regulations for
killing them when destroying prop-
erty have been made.
The Mother of Ballooning.
A washer woman was the mother
of ballooning and it all started in
France about 1780. The washer wom-
an wished to dry a skirt more rapidly
than could be accomplished by air and
sunshine, so she rigged it up over the
fireplace. The hot air soon dried the
cloth and the woman was astonished
to see it round out like a ball and float
up to the ceiling. A neighbor named
Montgolfier saw the strange occur-
rence and it gave him the idea from
which he made the first balloon.
———— A ls 0
Japan Buying U. S. Rice.
Tokio.—Japan, which exported rice
to America before the war, is now
going to bring American rice into
Japan, a rice-producing country, said
the manager of a big trading house
in Tokio. : :
American rice can be laid down in
Yokohama ec. i. f. at one-half the pres-
ent market price of Japanese rice, the
dealer said. Upward of 6000 tons of
California and Texas rice have al-
ready been contracted for import.
ww