Demortalic Wan “Bellefonte, Pa., December 15, 1922. ——— UPSTAGE (Continued from page 6, Col. 5.) the direction of the brownstone house. On the top step she dropped. Not a cent in the world! Diamond gone! ! Car that was no good! ! And no place to put it!!! Early in her career as a motorist she had discovered that cars have a way of gathering expense like dust by the wayside. There had been extra tires and repairs even while you were learning to run it. It fairly ate up gas. You needed twice as much as she had reckoned. And now—this! . Hopelessly she gazed at the point far down the block where the police- man stood guard. From time to time his glance roved impatiently—and when at last he swung on his way, leaving the mite unprotected, Sallie knew there was nothing to do but sit there and watch it all through the night. Then it was that the wells which had run dry filled once more, overflowed. Huddled in a corner of the stoop, she fastened her wilted gaze on a spot of blue parked close to Broadway and wondered what she was going to do with it when morning arrived. She came to drowsily as a clock struck one and something heavy de- scended on her shoulders. It pulled her upright, shook the sleep from her eyes and a cry from her lips. The policeman! “What are you doing out here?” She strained forward. “Jimmie! ! 1” “What are you doing, I say?” “Jimmie—is it—is it—you?” “Answer me!” “I—I—oh, I can’t believe it—you— you!” Then panic seized her. “Jim- mie—don’t—don’t go again. Wait— let me tell you! I've been praying you’d give me the chance to tell you. I—it was true—I did buy all those things myself. I did—I did! I was afraid you'd be ashamed of me.” He stood glaring silently down at her. When his voice did come, it was thick and tense. “Didn’t you know it was just those old clothes of yours that convinced me the story you gave me was straight ?” “But the girls always made fun of them—and I wanted to look right for you. And you thought—oh, Jimmie, what you thought has nearly killed me!” “What could a man who knew his Broadway think when you appeared all of a sudden in a million dollars’ worth of finery?” “But it wasn’t true! I took all my money out of the bank to look nice just for you. Jimmie—if you go again —the way you did—I—TI’ll die!” He gave no direct answer. Instead, he gripped her shoulders until they ached. “What are you doing out here this time of night? Answer me that!” The car! Her eyes raced down the block. There it stood, untouched. “I—I hocked my diamond, Jimmie, and bought a car. I made the girls think you were going to give me one and I didn’t want them to know that you—you: ” She turned away. “So I hocked the ring—and—and got —that——"" He followed her eyes to where a spot of blue reposed near the corner. “And now it won’t go and I haven’t any money to put it anywhere. They have been keeping it for me where I bought it and I never thought about garaging. So—so when it broke down, I just had to sit here and watch it all night.” The rushing words halted. She look- ed up at the face bent above hers. If Mr. James Fowler Patterson had a sense of humor—and he had—the com- edy of the present situation failed to bring it to light. He stood and gazed down into the small tired face lifted wih such desperate appeal. “Jimmie, won’t you believe me this time—please ?” He bent closer. “If I tell you I could take a gun this minute and blow out what little brains I've got, will you believe me? Will you?” He did not give her time to answer. “I de- serve it—shooting’s too good. Why, even if you dressed up like a Christ- mas window, only a saphead that’s wasted all his life chasing up and down Broadway could have made such a mistake. What’s love, anyhow? And sweetheart—I do love you. These weeks without you have proved how much.” She closed her eyes as the words came. “Why,” he plunged on, “my dad had given me up as a bad job—said he was through! And six weeks ago I went to him and told him I'd found the girl who could make a man of me—asked him to take me on at the Patterson Iron Works, I didn’t care in what ca- pacity. He thought I was joking— but I put on overalls ard rolled up my sleeves. Because I wanted to be good enough for you. That was just about the time you showed up in all that gorgeousness. And I let the idea get hold of me——Don’t cry, honey, I can’t stand it!” There was an instant of potent si- lence, then: “How did you happen to come past here tonight—Jimmie ?” came smoth- ered. “I’ve been coming past here every night.” “Then why—why did you stay away from the theatre ?” “I didn’t—for long. Wanted to— but couldn’t! I've watched you come out from around the corner——" He broke off. “Sweetness—you’ve been looking awfully sick.” “I’ve been awfully lonesome.” He lifted her chin. “Baby——" “Yes, Jimmie—dear: » “Will you forgive me?” “Jimmie——" “Yes, Baby—dear 2 “Will you wait here till I get into my old rig, then take me for a ride ’ in my new car ?”’—Cosmopolitan Mag- azine. The Blind Man’s Eye. (Continued from page 2, Col. 6.) reading table, turning over the maga- zines there; abandoning them, he gazed about as if bored; then, with a wholly casual manner, he came toward Eaton and took the seat be- side hint. “Rotten weather, isn’t it?’ Avery observed somewhat nngraciously. Eaton could not well avoid a reply. “It’s been getting worse,” he com- mented, “ever since we left Seattle.” “We're running into it, apparently.” Again Avery looked toward Eaton and waited. “Yes—lucky if we get through.” The conversation on Avery's part was patently forced; and it was equally forced on Eaton's; neverthe- less it continued. Avery introduced the war and other subjects upon which men, thrown together for a time, are accustomed to exchange opinions. But Avery did not do it easily or natu- rally; he plainly was of the caste whose pose it is to repel, not seek, overtures toward a chance acquaint- ance. His lack of practice was per- fectly obvious when at last he asked directly: “Beg pardon, but I don’t think I know your name.” Eaton was obliged to give it. “Mine’s Avery,” the other offered: “perhaps you heard it when we were cetting our berths assigned.” And again the conversation, enjoyed by neither of them, went on. Finally the girl at the end of the car rose and passed them, as though leavinz ile oar. Avery looked up. “Where are you going, Harry?” “I think someone ought to be with Kather.” “I'll go in just a minute.” She had halted almost in front of them. Avery, hesitating as though he did not know what he ought to do, finally arose; and as Eaton observed NR She Had Halted Almost in Front of Them. that Avery, having introduced him- self, appeared now to consider it his duty to present Eaton to Harriet Dorne, Eaton also arose. Avery mur- mured the names. Harriet Dorne, resting her hand on the back of Avery’s chair, joined in the conver sation. As he replied easily and in- terestedly to a comment of Eaton’e, Avery suddenly reminded her of her tather. After a minute, when Avery ~—still ungracious and still irritated over something which Eaton could not guess—rather abruptly left them, she took Avery’s seat; and Eaton dropped into his chair beside her. Now, this whole proceeding—though within the convention. which, forbid- ding a girl to make a man’s acquaint- ance directly, says nothing against her making it through the medium of another man—had been so unnatu- rally done that Eaton understood that Harriet Dorne deliberately had ar- ranged to make his acquaintance, and that Avery, angry and objecting, had been overruled. She seemed to Eaton less alertly poyish now than she had looked an hour before when they had boarded the train. Her cheeks were smoothly rounded, her lips rather full, her lashes very long. He could not look up without looking directly at her, for her chair, which had not been moved since Avery left it, was at an angle with his own. To avoid the appearance of study- ing her too openly, he turned slightly, so that his gaze went past her to the white turmoil outside the windows. “It’s wonderful,” she said, “isn’t it?” “You mean the storm?’ A twinkle of amusement came to Eaton’s eyes. “It would be more interesting if it allowed a little more to be seen. At present there is nothing visible but snow.” “Is that the only way it affects you? An artist would think of it as a back- ground for contrasts—a thing to sketch or paint; a writer as something to be written down in words.” Eaton understood. She could not more plainly have asked him what he was. “And an engineer, I suppose,” he said, easily, “would think of it only as an element to be included in his for- mulas—an x, or an a, or a b, to be put in somewhere and square-rooted or squared so that the roof-truss he was figuring should not buckle under ts weight.” ®*Oh—so that is the way you were thinking of it?” *You mean,” Eaton challenged her directly, “am I an engineer?” “Are you?” “Oh, no; I was only talking in pure generalities, just as you were.” “Let us go on, then,” she said gayly. =] see 1 can’t conceal from you that I am doing you the honor to wonder what you are. A lawyer would think of it in the light of damage it might create and the subsequent possibilities of litigation.” She made a little pause. “A business man would take it into account, as he has to take into account all things in nature or human; it weuld delay transportation, or harm or aid the winter wheat.” “Or stop competition somewhere,” he observed, more interested. The flash of satisfaction which came fo her face and as quickly was checked and faded showed him she thought she was on the right track. “Business,” she said, still lightly, “wlll—how is it the newspapers put tt?2—will marshal its cohorts; it will send out its generals in command of hrigades of snowplows, its colonels in command of regiments of snow shov- elers and its spies to discover and to bring back word of the effect upon the crops.” “You talk,” he said, “as if business were a war.” “Isn't it?—like war, higher terms.” “In higher terms?’ he questioned, attempting to make his tone like hers, but a sudden bitterness now was be- ¢rayed by it. “Or in lower?” “Why, in higher,” she declared, ‘“de- manding greater courage, greater de- votion, greater determination, greater gelr-sacrifice. Recruiting officers can pick any man off the streets and make . good soldier of him, but no one but war In could be so sure of finding a satisfac- tory employee in that way. Doesn™ that show that daily life, the every- day business of earning a living and bearing one’s share in the workaday worid, demands greater qualities than was?’ Her face had flushed eagerly as she spore: a darker, livid flush answered her words on his. “put the opportunities for evil are greater, too,” he asserted almost fierceiy. “How many of those men you speak of on the