ST CE En OE da
Bellefonte, Pa. April 9, 1926.
WHAT IS THE USE?
‘What is the use of this impetuous haste?
The end is certain, Let us take our time
And hoard the vital forces that we waste
Before our day has reached its golden
prime.
What is the use of rushing with spent
breath
After old age, its furrows, its white
hair?
Why need we hurry so to welcome death,
Or go half-way, with hand stretched out
to care?
There is no use. Dear hearts, if we hut
wait
All things will find us. Let us pause, I
say,
‘We cannot go beyond the silent gate
That lies a short day’s journey down the
way.
So let us take our time in youth's fair
bowers ;
The summer season is so brief at best,
Let us look on the stars and pluck the
flowers,
And when our feet grow weary let us
rest.
—By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
THE SOUL-MAKER.
There was silence in the wide kitch-
en, a bristling silence into which the
clock ticked and the fire crackled like
deprecating mediators. Opposite the
stove was a table with three places
set for breakfast on the white oil-
cloth. One chair was empty; a
crumpled napkin lay beside the half-
full glass of milk. At the other
places sat two women, one plump and
flushed above her white shirt-waist,
the other sharpened and gray, in a
dull wrapper. Their eyes met hostile-
ly. The younger woman spoke first:
“It’s just as Sarah said. A charity
boy—"
“ ‘Brat’ she always said,” interrupt-
ed the older, calmly.
“Can’t be depended upon for any-
thing but lying and stealing. I hope
you’re satisfied now, Abby Price!”
Abby took a sip of her coffee before
she answered, deliberately, “No, I'm
not satisfied; not yet.”
“You mean you're going to keep
him ?”
“Why not?”
“He'll grow up to disgrace you.”
The round face of the younger woman
twitched with approaching tears.
“Now, Jennie!” Abby’s voice had
an irritating calmness. “He'll be
some years growing up, and I guess
I can stand the disgrace.”
“Well, I can’t!” Jennie’s chair
rasped back over the kitchen floor.
“And I won’t!” She threw down her
napkin and hurried out of the room.
Abby heard her angry staccato heel-
taps on the stairs and then overhead.
Without finishing her coffee. Abby
gathered the few breakfast-dishes and
carried them to the sink. As she set
them down she glanced out of the
window. On a stump by the shed door
sat a small, white-haired boy, appar-
ently intent on the manoeuvers of
several industrious hens. The grim-
ness cn Abby’s face settled into fierce
determination, and with that she turn-
ed at the sound of Jennie’s feet.
Jennie stood in the doorway.
“I'm taking Sarah’s advice,” she
said, dabbing at her eyes with a hand-
kerchief, “if you're going to insist on
keeing him.”
“I am.” Abby glanced out of the
window.
“I won't help support a hired wo-
man’s lying boy.”
“Any one’d think you never lied in
your life, Jennie,” said Abby. “He's
only a little fellow.”
“If he was yours it wouldn’t be such
- a disgrace to keep him.”
“S’pose I said I thought you were
disgracing the family, going around
sewing as you do.” :
Jennie stopped sniffling. “Dis-
grace?” she exclaimed, indignantly.
“I make dresses folks are proud to
wear.”
“And you like it, don’t you? Mak-
ing dresses, I mean. Don’t you? And
Sarah likes being a respected book-
keeper. You're no disgrace.”
Jennie drew her plump figure up
resentfully. “We go to work. You
don’t have to—"
“No; I just stay here, keeping the
homestead together. It’s just as if 1
was a wife! You and Sarah keep me,
don’t you? Suppose I'm sick of it,
and want something different, like
this boy?”
“I s’pose it’s the maternal instinct,
like Sarah said, stronger in you be-
cause you've always stayed at home.”
Abby swung on her heel. “Sarah
may be a good business woman,” she
said, over her shoulder, “but she’s an
awful fool, too.”
“She was right about the boy,”
cried Jennie. “He took that piece of
gold ribbon for Mrs. Blake’s dress
right off my box, and said he hadn’t
touched it. And you never spid a
thing to him.”
“Guess you said enough.”
“I won’t help keep him!”
“You needn’t.” Abby poured the
water over her dishes with a splash.
“I guess we can manage.”
“You choose that charity boy ig-
stead of your own sisters?” Jennie
chocked.
“ ‘Brat, Jennie!” Abby looked
around at her. “Don’t be silly.
You're choosing. Go and live with
Sarah in the village.”
“Sarah and I have reasoned with
you—"
“Don’t waste any more breath.
Youll have to look out for the note
on the place. But I can take care of
Franklin and me.”
Jennie flushed. “I don’t want to
quarrel.” She hesitated, pursing her
lips. “Good-by, Abby.”
“Good-by.” Abby scoured at the
porridge-dish. “Good-by.” She gave
a vigorous rub and then paused. The
side-door slammed shut. Outside the
indow the boy still watched the
ens.
“Franklin!” called Abby.
The boy gave a little jump and
looked furtively around. Abby frown-
ed. “He thinks it’s Jennie,” she said.
Then she called more sharply, “Frank-
lin!”
He slipped off the stump and eame
slowly in as far as the kitchen dor.
“Will you bring me some wood,
Frank-lin,” said Abby, briskly, with-
out turning, “and a pail of water?”
She smiled at the readiness of his
disappearance. First she heard the
pump-handle creaking; then small
feet brushed along the path to the
outer shed, returned, and an armful
of wood clattered into the box. That
was repeated twice, then came silence.
Abby walked to the door. Franklin
stood by the wood-box, his dark eyes,
with their curious fringe of pale lash-
es, very wide in his small, white face.
They met hers with a furtive alert-
nesss, and his thin little body stiffen-
ed, tense for flight. Abby regarded
him gravely.
“Come here,” she said.
Reluctantly he came. Abby touch-
ed his white head gently and smiled
at him. He started, almost as if she
had struck him.
“We'll say no more about it, Frank-
lin,” she said. “It's time you were
off for school. Finish your milk and
wash your hands. Your lunch-box is
ready.”
Abby felt his eyes follow her as she
moved about the kitchen. She said
nothing until he took his cap from the
nail and walked to the outer kitchen
dor. Then at her “Franklin” he turn-
ed sharply.
“Come
won't you?
you.”
“Will she be here?”
“No; no one but us.”
He gave a little sigh. “Yes, ma’-
am,” he answered; “I'll be right
back.”
Abby watched him down the path
to the gate. “He understood,” she
said. “I’m sure he understood.”
When he was out of sight Abby
turned to her empty house. Sunlight
filled the kitchen; the rooms beyond
were dark and still. She stood with
her head bent as if she listened.
Countless days she had spent alone
in the old house, while her sisters
were at work; but to-day was differ-
ent. The house waited, expectant;
she felt it, and a flush crept up into
her cheeks.
“You’re mine now!” she cried sud-
denly. “I can do what I please.
Mine!” she repeated, loudly. And
nothing contradicted.
She walked into the sitting-room
and flung open the shutters. She set
the front door ajar, catching it with
the padded brick which had served
there for years. The fresh wind rush-
ed through, shaking the everlastings
that stood on the mantel-shelf. Abby
seized the vase and with fierce delight
carried it to the kitchen, where she
thrust its dry contents into the stove.
“There!” she said, as they blazed
up. “I wish Sarah could see you
now.”
As she replaced the vase she wheel-
ed upon the room. “Lord! How many
times have I set you to rights! All my
life I’ve spent doing things I had to
do again the next day. Nothing ever
to show for it. Nothing! And now—
ed e, I feel like a convict that’s
caped In a dark night and don’t
Me with a little
straight home to-night,
TI'll—I'll be waiting for
know where he is.
boy! A little boy!”
She looked once more about the sit-
ting-room—at the large arm-chair
which had stood unused in the corner
since the end of the silent years when
her father had watched her from it
in moody helplessness, at the sheet-
iron cover which Sarah had economi-
cally had fitted into the fire-place.
She had much to do before Franklin
came back from school.
Early in the afternoon she began
to watch the path, a little shame-
faced, for she knew school did not
close until four, and Franklin had a
long walk after that. She fed the
chickens, built the fire for supper, and
made hot apple-sauce and biscuit;
then she saw him lagging up the path.
She wanted to run to meet him, to
brush off the ridiculously large cap
he wore, and carry him into the house.
But she only watched him come, her
breath tightening in her throat.
There, in some mysterious fashion,
approached her chance; she did not
know how. Three weeks earlier she
had heard that Franklin Peck had no
place to live that winter, as his moth-
er was off in service—no one knew
just where—and the farmer who had
kept him was moving to the city. She
had acted blindly in response to the
chaotic desire within her, obdurate
against the remonstrances of her sis-
ters, unmoved by their wrath, even
by their departing, and Franklin had
come to live with her. Sarah had
left at once; now Jennie had gone.
The barest poverty faced her; she had
a scanty annuity which they had eked
out, and the little farm the three had
struggled to hold. But the impulse
that had driven her had no after-
flavor of regret. For years her life
had lain as dead as a rock at ebb-tide
—a long ebb-tide. Now far off the
water turned, and within her faint
stirrings of her spirit answered.
Franklin stood in the doorway.
“Come in, Franklin,” Abby said. “I
was afraid you’d be too late for sup-
per.” .
“Ain’t your clock fast?” He look-
ed up at it suspiciously.
“Why, I guess not. Did you come
right home 7”
“Yes’'m.”
Evading her eyes, he stood on tip-
toe to hang his cap against the door.
Abby gazed in doubt at the back of
his white head. There came into her
mind a comment of the farmer who
had housed Franklin: “He don’t know
how to tell the truth.” Sarah had
heard it at the store and brought it
home in triumph. Abby turned away.
Franklin shouldn’t see that she sus-
pected—at least not until she had
decided what to do.”
“Supper’s ready when you are,”
she said, clearing her throat. “I’ve
set the table in the other room.”
Franklin washed his face and
brushed his hair in silence. Abby
handed him a plate of biscuit. “Lay
these on the table,” she said. Then
she followed him softly. In front of
the fireplace ‘was a little square table
covered with a white cloth, a: pitcher
The New : Cathaum Theatre |
" 3 aw Srey w Ey =
at State College.
DEDICATED AND OPENED LAST NIGHT.
LOOKING TOWARD THE GALLERY FROM THE STAGE.
of yellow dahlias in the center, and
a chair at the end. Franklin set
the plate down and stood by the table,
his head level with the flowers, like
a larger, paler dahlia. Abby’s hands
gripped her bowl of apple-sauce. She
didn’t know what she had expected,
bit suddenly she felt overcome with
embarrassment. The red shawl she
had thrown over the hollows of the
arm-chair leered at her. Franklin
was looking at that, at the opened
windows, at the sticks in the fireplace
which she had pried free of its iron
cover.
“There’s just two places,” he said.
“Just two folks,” answered Abby.
“Us?” asked the boy.
Abby nodded. Franklin moved
closer to her.
“Did you want me to light the
fire?” he whispered, eagerly.
Abby nodded again.
He was back with matches in an
instant. Kneeling on the hearth, he
puffed at the little sticks until he
blew them into flames; then he look-
ed up at Abby, his face aglow. She
had taken her seat at the table.
“It’s a good fire,” she said. He
climbed into his chair, his eyes on the
fire, where they stayed most of the
time through supper. Once he turned
them on Abby.
“It’s a good chimney, I guess,” he
ventured.
“Yes, I think so,” answered Abby.
“But a fire has to be lit right, too?”
“Yes, that makes a difference.”
After supper Abby-piled the dishes
in a pan, and they pulled the table
back to a corner, Franklin lifting one
side. Then Abby pushed the arm-
chair to one edge of the hearth and
settled herself into it with a slight
glance of defiance toward the empty
wall above the mantel. Franklin sat
in a low rocker—one Jennie had used
as a sewing-chair—at the other side
of the hearth. He rocked back as far
as the rockers would swing, then for-
ward with a jerk. Suddenly he stop-
ped.
“Are they coming back?” he asked.
“Them others?”
Abby started. She had just been
wondering if the arm-chair wasn’t
large enough to hold two comfortably.
“I don’t suppose so,” she said.
“They’ve gone. We're here alone.”
“I think two is better,” announced
Franklin as he began rocking again.
Abby repeated his words to herself
as she watched him. He rocked less
vigorously, and his eyelids drooped in
long and longer winks. She rose with
a little sigh.
“Bedtime,” she said. “I've moved
you into the front chamber. You can
take your lamp and call me when you
are in bed.”
“Well”—he slid off his chair—“the
fire is most out.”
She did not move after he had gone.
The room held a new, friendly
warmth.” “He is going to like it,”
thought Abby, listening for his voice.
Would she kiss him if she tucked him
in? She never had, and he had been
there for over a week now. But this
was their first real night. Jennie
nie’s words floated back, chilling her
pleasant thoughts.
her again? She heard a soft step
behind her. Franklin set his lamp
down on the table and shuffled slow-
ly toward the door, one hand gather-
ing up the folds of the faded night-
shirt which engulfed him.
“I brought it back,” he said. “Can
you see to my fire all right?”
“Yes, Franklin.” Abby hesitated.
He was so little, so sleepy! “You
haven’t anything to tell me?”
“No’'m.” He blinked drowsily, and
at Abby’s “Good night” disappeared
into the dark room beyond. i
“Abby’s cheeks burned as she went
about locking the house for the night. '
At least she had not spoiled the end
of the day. And perhaps the boy had
been afraid, or perhaps he had not
understood her; the teacher might !
have kept him after school. He :
might never lie again.
wait. With that decision her discom- !
ors left, and she went peacefully to !
During the Indian summer days
that followed, the two settled into a
pleasant routine of existence. Frank-
lin learned to feed the chickens; he
filled the woodbox, pumped the water,
picked the fall apples. His cheeks
grew round, and he came whistling
up the hill at the end of his school-
day. Abby spent her days waiting
for that whistle. She waited—busily,
to be sure—for fall farm work is
heavy—but her real day began when
the small figure came into sight be-
tween the apple-trees. Sometimes he
brought home his school-books and
read to Abby after supper or puzzled
over a problem in arithmetic. The
arm-chair often held two very com-
fortably.
The winter shut in early. One
morning they woke to find the first
snow flurries, driven along by a sharp
wind. Franklin insisted that he must
go to school; and so Abby, in spite of
his demurring, wrapped him in a plaid
cape of hers and sent him off. That
afternoon sh& waited uneasily for his
return. It darkened early, and no
small boy appeared. She tried to sit
down with a basket of mending, but
even Franklin’s stockings had no in-
terest. Wrapping a shawl about her
shoulders, she hurried down the path.
The road lay white and deserted.
As she turned reluctantly, something
Had he lied to!
black under a bush caught her at-
! tention. Frightened, she bent down.
It was soft—a coat? She shook it
out—her cape, with little pockets of
snow in its folds. It had lain there
some time, then.
She climbed the slope, shielding her
face against the wind. Perhaps in
the warm kitchen she could decide
better what to do. She built her fire
up well, set the tea-kettle over, and
then stared grimly at the clock; al-
most half-past five! She would walk
up toward the school.
Well bundled this time in coat and
cap, she started down the path. As
she reached the road she stopped, her
heart pounding. Was that something
dark against the snow under the
bushes again, moving this time? It
emerged slowly, straightened, and
came toward her.
“Franklin!” she cried.
He started violently, pulling away
as she seized his arm.
“Child! Where have you been?
Youll catch your death of cold! Run
ast.”
He scurried up the path ahead of
her. When she opened the kitchen
door he stood by the stove, holding
his hands out to the warmth. His
: eyes met hers for an instant, and then
| shifted. Abby closed the door against
: the gust of wind that tried to chase
er in.
| “Where have you been, Franklin?”
| He shivered as she felt of his cold
hands. “Come here!” She drew him
{down beside her on the couch, and
, bent over to unlace his boots. “Why
didn’t you wear the cape* You're
frozen.”
He twisted out of her arms. “I'm
not cold.” He coughed. “I—I gave it
to a little girl who didn’t have any
coat.” He peered at Abby, and then
, hurried on. “She was just a little
girl, and awful cold. Ill find—I
mean I'll get your cape probably to-
morrow. I'll—” Franklin’s eyes had
followed Abby's to the kitchen chair.
Over it hung the cape. He slipped off
the couch and put out a hand against
it.
“Did—did the little girl bring it
back?” he asked, miseraby.
Abby rose, dropping the shoe she
held. She walked through the sitting-
room, the table laid for supper blur-
ring before her eyes. She hung: her
. coat in the front entry and went on
i to Franklin’s room. There she turned
down the bedclothes, shook the pillow,
rand, taking his nightshirt, returned
: to the kitchen.
Franklin’s eyelids fluttered as he
tried to meet her gaze.
I “I think you’d better go right io
, bed,” she said. “Undress where it's
warm.”
| He took the night-shirt silently.
Then Abby, waiting at the window of
the sitting-room, strained her ears
for every sound of his slow undress-
ing. At length she heard rim enter
the room and pause behind her. She
did not turn, and his feet padded on
into his own room. Presently she
heard the creaking of the bed as he
settled into it, then a little cough,
then nothing more.
27 { She had no heart for a lonely sup-
per. Drawing her chair close to the
stove, she sat down to have it out.
She had to do something now. Frank-
in was a liar; she must punish him.
She flinched at the idea of whipping
him, and then seized eagerly-the con-
viction that no blows would help him
tell the truth. Would it do any good
to talk to him, to tell him lying was
wrong? Why was it wrong? Abby
floundered unwittingly at the margin
of metaphysical morasses.
She lifted her head. He was cough-
ing again. Poor, hungry little fel-
low! A few minutes later, lamp in
one hand and a bowl of bread and
milk in the other, she tiptoed toward
his room. His eyes stared up at her,
dark and somber. She set the lamp
on the dresser and seated herself at
the edge of his bed.
| “You better sit up and eat this,”
“she said, gently.
! Franklin swallowed one spoonful
, Obediently. “I—I don’t want any
‘more.” His teeth chattered.
Placing the bowl on the floor, Abby
leaned over the bed.
“Put your arms around my neck,”
| she ordered, pulling the covers down.
{ “There.” She straightened, her arms
: tight about his slender body. “We'll
go where it’s warm.”
| She was gasping a little when she
i reached the kitchen.
“You're quite a big boy,” she said,
as he slipped to the floor. “I'm going
; to tuck you up here on the couch.”
She covered him with an old shawl,
and went back for the milk and the
lamp.
Franklin’s eyes were on the door,
leaping to meet hers the second she
appeared. Abby pulled her chair
close to the couch. “Now,” she said,
trying to speak briskly, “eat this
She would first.
She held out a spoonful, when sud-
denly he twisted away, hiding his
face with one arm. Abby held her
breath as he began to cry, softly at
first, then in long sobs.
“Franklin!” she said. He checked
a sob, which escaped in a long sigh.
Timidly she moved over to the couch,
laying a hand on his shoulder.
Frankie dear!”
He whirled around desperately.
“There wasn’t any little girl,” he
cried loudly. “I—I lost your cape.”
Then in some way she found him
clinging to her, his wet cheek against
her throat, and she was patting his
shoulder while his sobs grew fainter.
His heart, pounding against her
breast, slacked its frightened race.
Finally he looked up.
“I didn’t wear it,” he said. “I—”
A lingering sob choked him. “I—I
thought the boys’d all laugh at me.”
He hid his face again.
Abby looked soberly at the top of
his white head. “I'd like to buy a
coat if I could.” She felt his body
grow tense as she began to speak.
“But we're very poor. Why, you're
all I've got, Franklin—and you lie
to me.” He shrank in her embrace.
“Were you afraid? You lied some
other times, didn’t you? What makes
you?”
His body quivered slightly.
“Suppose you sit up so we can
talk.” She took his arms from her
neck and pushed him away so that she
could see his flushed face. “Do you
like the way it makes us feel?” He
shook his head. “It makes me feel
as if I'd lost you. Does it you?” He
nodded, his lips trembling. “And we
were friends, weren’t we, till you put
this ugly lie between us—Franklin 2”
He lifted his eyes, heavy with tears.
“Are you a coward? Aren't you
brave enough to tell the truth?”
“I—was afraid.” Abby just caught
his whisper.
“I didn’t think you were a coward.”
She spoke sternly.
“You—won’t ever like me now?”
Abby gathered him swiftly into
her arms.
“Oh, you won't do it again, will
you?” She swallowed rebelliously;
why should she wish to ery?
“I—I was so lonesome.” He strain-
ed against her. “I—I ain't afraid.”
He fell asleep in Abby’s arms after
she had watched him finish the bowl
of bread and milk, She sat in the
quiet kitchen, looking down at the
small, sleep-flushed face. Once she
brushed the light hair back from his
forehead. Her random thoughts were
bits of stick carried along in a flood
of tender humility. She was content
to see them float, without curiosity
as to the stream’s source. After a
time, when the kitchen grew cold, she
rose and carried him in to his bed. He
stirred drowsily as she tucked him in
and kissed him.
They said nothing about the inci-
dent, but for several days Abby felt
that Franklin watched her, silent and
reflective. Then she thought he had
forgotten, and when one night he
brought home his reading-book and
chose the story of “Cedric, the Brave
Boy Knight,” to read to her, she made
no comment on Cedric’s courage.
Saturday morning, several weeks
later, Abby was rolling out ginger
cookies. Franklin knelt on a chair
by the table, his elbows almost on the
mixing-board, waiting with breathless.
interest for the scraps Abby promised
he should roll out. Abby carried a
pan of cookies to the stove, and, as:
she straightened from closing the
oven-door, caught sight of a woman
peering in at the window, a hand over:
her eyes. Abby pulled open the door
and confronted her.
“I didn’t mean to peek,” the woman
began, crimson. “But I knocked—
and I wanted to know if nobody was
home.”
“Come in out of the cold,” said Ab-
by. “Did you want to see me?”
The woman paused on the thresh-
old, the pupils of her eyes dilating.
Then she rushed past Abby and threw
herself beside the chair where Frank-
lin knelt.
“Oh, my little boy—my little boy!”
Franklin shrank away from her,
turning startled eyes toward Abby.
The woman looked around, and Abby
shut her lips suddenly over a scream.
The faces were alike. The woman’s
hat had slipped back; pale hair like
Franklin’s fell about her foreMead;
the same dark eyes beseecled Abby
under white lashes.
“He—he wouldn’t remember me
much.” The eyes filled with tears.
“But I—I'm his mother. He's grown:
an awful lot.” She rose, wiping her
eyes.
Abby walked back to her cooking-
table. “I suppose so,” she said, with-
out looking at the woman.
“I've come for him, please.” The
woman plucked at her handkerchief.
“I'm married—to Mr. Reed, over. in
Brockton. He’s a kind man, and
Franklin can have a good home there.
I wrote a letter last month to the
other people, them that had him. I
didn’t know he was here until I got in
town this morning.” She sat down on
the couch, her eyes clinging to Frank-
lin, turning for swift, deprecatory
seconds to Abby.
The tale emerged in nervous, hesi-
tating bits. Abby tried to answer the
woman civilly. She could see nothing
but Franklin, drawing nearer his
mother, sitting beside her, responding
with shy awakenings of familiarity
to her advances. She fell into a sti-
fling dumbness. As the soft voice told
her of attempts to find a place to
work where Franklin could come, of
efforts to save money to send him, of
longing for him, Abby had only one
thought: “She’s come to get him.”
When Abby had cut her last cooky
she glanced at Franklin. He was in-
tent on his mother’s watch, and Abby
wondered grimly that she could care
so much because he had forgotten his
desire to roll cookies.
“My husband said we could pay
his board,” the woman was saying.
“You can’t,” cried Abby. “He's
worth his keep, I guess.”
“They have a horse,” announced
Franklin, looking up, “and I could go
to a town school. I have to go with
my mother, don’t I?” he added, doubt-
fully. :
“Of course,” answered Abhy. The
warmth of the kitchen was choking
her. “Just make yourself at home,”
she said, hurriedly. “I—I’ll be right
back.”
She went blindly through the little
shed, along the path Franklin had
shoveled, to the barn. She gathered
an armful of wood in her apron, and
then stood in the doorway. The cold
air tingled in her nostrils; she could
breathe there. But it was freezing
her heart; she could feel it. Or did
she feel only the wood she held tight-
ly against her? She must go back.
In the shed she stopped. She had left
the door unlatched, and the voices
within came clearly to her.
“You have been a good boy, Frank-
lin? You are glad you are coming
with your mother?”
“I like Aunt Abby,” answered
Franklin. “I can come to see her,
can’t 1?”
“Sometimes. You've been a good
boy, ain’t you?’ Abby was fiercely
jealous of the yearning in the moth-
er’s voice. “You ain't taken things
or told lies?”
“No’m.” Franklin’s voice sounded
uncertain.
“I like my boy to be good.”
Abby heard Franklin slip out of his
chair. He was coming toward the
shed. As she laid her hand on the
door to enter, he halted.
“I wasn’t good.” Abby gripped the
latch, “I—I lied to her.”
“What?” .
“I did—when I come.” She pulled
(Continued on page 6, Col. 2.)