Bemorvaic atc,
as
Bellefonte, Pa. April 8 1927.
EE BRT,
WHY BUNNIES BRING THE EAS-
TER EGGS.
There was once a naughty bunny
Who was always being funny
And kept the land about him in a constant
state of awe.
His father and his mother
These pranks would try to cover
To keep him out of prison and the clutches
of the law.
On one morning bright and early,
When the cops were getting surly,
He started to discover what sad mischief
he could do.
Soon he saw a blackbird’s nest,
And he could not eat or rest
Until he'd dyed the eggs therein a lovely
dark sea blue.
He was so pleased at his joking
That he said, “I'll round go poking
And ask my little bunny friends to help
me gather more.”
So they stole birds eggs galore
And put them by, in store,
Till all the nests were empty and the birds
were threatening gore.
Then a burly bunny “copper”
Said he'd quickly put a stopper
To such dire depredations as were never
heard before.
So, much rather than get caught,
These bold robbers straightway sought
A man who took the eggs to town and sold
them in a store.
Now, this raised an awful clatter.
All their kin began to chatter
Ard said to steal such preity eggs a great
and mighty sin.
But the bandits made it seem
There was money in the scheme,
So for wealth and sordid profit all rabbits
now join in.
So ail this explains the habit
Why eggs are brought by a rabbit
And given little boys and girls on Easter
every year.
And the lesson seems to show
It was all a case of ‘“dough,”
Yet eggs and little hunnies white have
found their proper sphere.
—New York Herald.
re ——— A sree mtemm—
SO NORAH STEPPED IN.
Nothing could have been more com-
monplace.
The cross-Channel packet, lurching
across the Straits of Dover from Folk
stone to Boulogne, lurched once tco
emphatically for Miss Norah Geogha-
han. All at once that young Irishwo-
man began to slither down the sloping
deck, her arms wildly waving in an ef-
fort to preserve her balance, and then
found herself in forceful and undigni-
fied collision with a perfect stranger.
Worst of all, perhaps, she discovered
herself embracing the broad back of
the stranger with what must have ap-
peared to the onlookers as a most pas-
sionate fervor.
“Groo-ook!” remarked the young
man thus embraced. He shot forward
into violent contact with the ship’s
railing, to which he had been cling-
ing, and if it had not been that
Norah’s clasp slipped to his waist he
must inevitably have somersaulted in-
to the gray-green waters that were
driving past under his nose.
“Mighty!” gasped Norah.
For a moment the ship retained the
angle to which the lurch had carried
her, and during that moment Norah
scrambled for a foothold that would
enable her to release her clutch of the
doubled-up young man. Then the ship
swung back. Norah hastily renewed
her clasp of the stranger, this time to
save herself from careering back
whence originally she had come. The
new pull had the effect of bringing the
young man into an erect position. And
suddenly Norah found herself encir-
cled by a powerful arm which hoisted
her to her feet with a dexterity she
somehow imagined had been cultivat-
ed. Before she realized what had hap-
pened she was facing the young man.
“I'm sorry,” Norah gasped. “I—
lost my balance—the ship—"
The young man quickly rove her
arm about a stanchion of the steam-
er’s upper structure, and stood away
from her. :
“Nun-nun-no huh-kam dud-done,”
he stammered an assurance, “—unless
you're hurt yourself ?”
“I'm all right,” Norah said bewild-
eredly. “The ship gave such a sud-
den lurch.”
“Su-ships will,” said the young man,
“especially whu-when wind and tide
get them suddenly on the quarter. 1
often think it’s better to be on the
windward side—"
“Which side is that—the other?”
“The other,” he agreed. “Thu-this
is the lee side, don’t you see? Shall
1 find a comfortable spot for you to
windward 7”
Norah hesitated over her answer.
By this time she had begun to discov-
er that she was annoyed. And since
the annoyanee was with herself for
having been seen floundering ungrace-
fully (as she thought) and embracing
a strange young man, the temptation
was to visit the annoyance upon the
innocent participator in her antics.
What perhaps added more than any-
thing to her annoyance was an inner
consciousness that she had brought
the undignified encounter upon herself.
She felt guilty. She had been inter-
ested in the strange young man from
the first moment she saw him stand-
ing by the rail. He had looked lonely
and she had wanted to know if the
lonely young man was “nice,” and al-
most as much she wanted to see if he
was nice-looking. But just at the
moment when she came abreast of
him, the ship ran into the strong set
of a Channel current which hit the
port quarter hali-head-on, producing
that lurch which sent Norah reeling
toward the starboard rail and into the
embrace of the young man himself,
Can it be wondered at, then, that
ultimately Norah found herself too
annoyed to accept his offer to see her
comfortably settled on the windward
‘side of the deck?
“Thank you,” she said coldly. “I
think I can find a place for myself—
if I want one.” :
The young man looked at her in a
pained sort of way and she imagined
that he colored slightly.
“Suh-story!” he stammered.
Then, being Irish, she relented a
little.
“It’s me that should be sorry,” she
said with more sincerity than atten-
tion to grammar. “I had no right to
bump you the way I did and embrace
you as if you were a long lost brother.
I am grateful to you, really.” :
“Pup-pray don’t think about it,”
said the young man. “It was nothing
at all.”
He bared his head as she turned
away, and out of the corner of her
eye she saw him somewhat hastily re-
sume his still gaze over the waters.
This quick rediscovery of an interest
away from herself gave her, you may
surmise, a distinct twinge of pique.
Norah took herself to the windy side
of the ship and found a large choice
of empty seats of which the counter-
parts on the leeward were well filled.
She selected a lonely corner, and made
herself as comfortable as she might in
the face of the wind and a slight show-
er of rain and spume.
The curiosity that had involved Ler
in the undignified scramble was but
half satisfied. That the young man
was nice-looking she now was assured
—if a brown face and a clear eye, a
firm mouth, good teeth, a straight
nose and a well-modeled chin were
anything to count. And she reason-
ed that he was as nice as he looked.
She had, she admitted, invited a
lingering embrace from the stranger.
But his grasp of her had not lasted a
moment longer than was absolutely
necessary to restore her to her bal-
ance. That, though perhaps slightly
disappointing, was in favor of his
niceness. There had been no attempt
at familiarity in the quiet voice with
its slightly Ameriean cadences and
that little stutter which somehow
made it more engaging. He was shy
with women. The offer to fix her com-
fortably on the windward deck had not
been designed as an approach toward
acquaintanceship. It simply had been
a shy man’s idea of being of service.
Norah, finding her curiosity still alive,
decided she was not so annoyed as she
had imagined. She wondered a good
deal about the young man.
In spite of the thickness of her coat
of Irish frieze, she was beginning to
feel the cold. She did not care to re-
sume a promenade of the deck, for it
would have been difficult to keep her
feet. She was at the point of thinking
that the young man’s advice about the
windward side was complete nonsense
when a steward came along toward her
carrying some rugs.
“Are you the lady that wants the
rugs, miss?” he inquired.
“I should like a rug,” said Norah,
“but I.have not ordered one.”
“That’s all right, miss. I was told
to look for a lady in a thick gray-
green coat on the windward side,” said
the steward, “an Irish lady.”
“Who told you?” Norah demanded.
“Tall American gentleman. Ex-
cuse me, miss, if I’ve made a mistake,
but yew’re the only lady on this side—
“Thank you,” said Norah. “I ex-
pect it was me he meant. How much
is there to pay?”
“Gentleman has the vouchers for
two rugs, miss,” said the steward,
“just leave them on the seat here when
vou go ashore.”
Glowing under the rugs so thought-
fully provided, Norah began to feel
grateful to the young man round the
corner. She made up her mind to
thank him gracefully at the first op-
portunity, and not to consider it an
intrusion if he ventured near her. But
the little voyage went on and the rug-
provider did not appear. Norah was
left to her thoughts.
Norah Geoghahan had plenty of ma-
terial for thought. She was setting
out on the biggest adventure of her
life. Within the last few years she
had been left an orphan. For many
yvears—for centuries, rather—the Geo-
ghahans had been landed proprietors
in Carlow County in the Irish province
of Leinster. At no time rich, the fam-
ily had not been poor. There had al-
ways been sufficient money from the
estates to make the old early Georg-
ian house one of plenty.
But Ballybagnal House was now a
mere blackened shell. In the trou-
bles that eventually were to make
Southern Ireland an entity separate
from the United Kingdom, it had fall-
en a victim to a fury as foolish as
indiscriminate; because the two sons
of the house had fallen in Flanders
while wearing the British uniform,
because the elder Geoghahan’s real
love for Ireland could not make him
disloyal to an allegiance he held to be
sacred, an irreplaceable treasure of
‘architecture went up in flames, This,
more than the partial confiscation cf
his land, killed Norah’s father, and
not long after his death her mother
followed him.’
There proved to be but little money
left to provide for the remaining
child, and compensation from the in-
terstate courts was tardy. Norah
Geoghahan determined to make a ca-
reer for herself and to find an aug-
mented living in the process. Hence
it is that we find her on the windy
deck of a cross-Channel steamer, en
route for Paris and the finish, she
hoped, at the hands of the famous
Pere Lemoine, to an art training al-
ready well begun.
The packet drew along side Bou-
logne quay with the usual calm aboard
and the usual scurry and shouting on
shore. Norah looked about for the tall
young man, but in the press on the
shoreward side of the deck and about
the gangways he was not to be seen.
It was only when she landed and start-
ed to follow her porter to the custom-
house that she espied him. He had
been quicker than she in landing and
was strolling behind a porter well
ahead.
They came together, however, in
the customs house. There were a
number of travelers in front, and they
had to wait some time before the of-
ficials worked down to them. The
young man lifted his hat and grinned
frankly at Norah’s nod.
“Thank you for the rugs,” Norah
smiled, “It was kind of you to think
of them.” :
the young man. “It was nun-nothing |
at all.”
“You were right about the wind-
ward side,” Norah conceded. “It is
much more comfortable.”
“Yes,” said he, and turned to face
the customs official who had pounced
on his luggage.
“Anything to declare?” the official
demanded.
The young man put a hand on a
small black case.
“Thu-this- ty-typewriter,” he said.
“Comment?” asked the official.
“Machine dactylographique,” Norah
plunged to be helpful, hoping she had
found the right word. The official
looked puzzled.
The young American produced pa-
pers. They were from the French
consulate in London and were intend-
ed to quicken matters, but the official
seemed to think that another opinion
was necessary. He beckoned a col-
league and a smart discussion ensued.
“Cinquante-cing francs, cinquante,
monsieur,” said the official at last.
“Fifty-five francs, fifty centimes,”
Norah elucidated.
The young man gave her a smile
and counted out the money.
“Anything more ?” he asked.
“And madame?” asked the official,
with his hands on Norah’s luggage. '
The mistaken assumption was all too |
plain, and Norah felt the color rise in |
her cheeks.
“Rien!” she gasped.
With a flourish and a smile the of-
ficial made scrawls in pinch chalk on |
each item down the row formed by the |
two sets of baggage, and transferred
his attention to the next traveler.
The porters dived at the luggage thus
enfranchised, and led the way to the
train. It appeared that they both
thought the douanier’s assumption had
about it the elements of common
sense, for they came to a halt outside
the same compartment and looked ex-
pectantly toward the man and girl,
who had followed them in slightly
embarrassed silence. The young man
smiled shyly at Norah.
“Suh-seems fuh-fated that we’re to
travel together,” he said. “The port-
ers think we ought to, anyhow.”
He was so diffident, so naive and
boyish in his approach that Norah felt
sorry for him.
“There’s no reason why we
shouldn’t,” she said hardily. “Do you
mind 7”
“Mum-mind!” he exclaimed. “I'd
be vuh-very gug-glad if you would.”
“Then let’s!” said Norah.
They paid off their respective port-
ers, and settled down opposite each
other in a compartment to themselves.
“I thu-think it real kind of you to
tut-take pity on me,” said the young
man. “I felt lonely—until the ship
thuth-threw you at me. I'd better tell
you who I am. My name is Long—
Richard Long. I'm an Ameren
i
bub-but I don’t suppose it needs a
ghost from the grave to tell you,
that?”
Norah laughed.
“No,” she said. “No more than one
would be necesasry to tell you I'm
Irish, I suppose? I'm Norah Geogha-
han.”
“Norah Geoghahan,” the young man
repeated with evident satisfaction.
“That’s got more sound to 1t than |
plain Dick Long!”
Richard |
Reticence was impossible.
Long had that responsive air which in- |
vites confidence, and long before the !
waiter came to announce lunch Norah
had told him about Bailybagnal House,
about her family, about her hopes.’
The young man was a good listener
and as the conversation warmed he
lost all trace of his stammer. Norah
was too busy talking to learn much
about him, but she did pick up that
he was sorry he could not trace his
ancestry further back than his great-
grandfather, that he delighted in any-
thing that smelled of tradition. His
father was a manufacturer on a large
scale, and he was going to Paris on
affairs connected with the family bus-
iness. He had a knowledge of the
Continent, of picture galleries and
museums all over it, and gave the ini-
pression of a much-traveled experience
strangely at variance with the curious
boyish shyness which was part of his
charm.
Norah felt very motherly and pro-
tecting indeed. This feeling no doubt
colored her kindness to him at lunch.
When they sat down at the table
for two to which the waiter conduct-
ed them, that attendant handed them
both a bill of fare. Richard Long put
down his and looked toward Norah.
“Whuh-what would you like to
eat ?” he asked.
“I'll avoid the hors d’aeuvre,” said
Norah, “and go straight to the
eperlan.’
“E—eperlan?” stammered Richard.
“Eperlan means smelt,” Norah ex-
plained kindly. “You know—that lit-
tle trout or salmon sort of fish with
the cucumbery kind of flavor.”
“I know the sort,” Richard smiled.
“I'll have some, too.” :
“The next thing, cotelettes d’agneau |
paysannes—that’s lamb cutlets brais-!
ed with tiny carrots and onions and
vegetables.
“Oh, yes.”
His grin was a little
shamefaced. “I'll have that, too.”
“You're sure you wouldn’t like
something cold? They have beef,
ham, chicken, a variety of sausage,”
Norah went on translating from the
menu, “galantine, smoked salmon—
but you wouldn’t want that after the
eperlan—"
“No The cub-cotelettes d’agneau
will do nicely, thank you.”
Luicheon passed smoothly. Norah
saw to it that her companion was well
treated, for she carefully explained
everything that might constitute a
difficulty to him from his ignorance
of the language. When they got back
to their carriage, they whiled away
the time in conversation so pleasant
that they were in the Gare du Nord
before they realized their progress.
“Where are you going to live in
Paris?” Richard asked. “May I call
on you?”
“Yes, do,” said Norah heartily.
“Until I can find a studio I'm putting
up at a little hotel in Rue Vaneau—
Hotel Domremy.”
“That isn’t far from where I'm liv-
ing,” said Richard. “Listen. You
won't be seeing Papa Lemoine to-day
white hotel.
“Pup-please don’t think of it,” said | _there will hardly be time. Dud- :
don’t you think it would be an idea for
us to dine somewhere this evening and
take in a theatre afterward? ‘Julius
Caesar’ is being revived at the Anto-
ine, and I hear that it is great.”
Norah hesitated.
“Pup-please do,” Richard pleaded.
“It’s awful one’s first night in a
strange town. You sus-sit in the re-
ception room of the hotel and try to
look as if you’d been there all your
life. You hope something’s going to
happen every time the door swings—
and you're grateful if even a waiter
talks to you.”
Norah laughed.
“All right,” she said.
seven, then.”
In the expedition of that evening
Norah still kept to her self-imposed
task of shepherding the quiet Richard.
True, it was he who suggested the
restaurant Pocardi in Rue Favart, but
it was she who instructed the taxi-
man, and it was she who made plain
to her companion what exactly he was
choosing to make up one of the most
delightful dinners she had ever eaten
in her life. After the heat of the res-
taurant it was pleasant to walk to the
theatre. And there, since Richard had
already secured the tickets, there was
no need for Norah to exercise her lin-
guistic gifts.
After the theatre, with the impres-
sions of a great performance still up-
on them, they were rather silent in
the taxicab that tock them to Rue
Vaneau. They recalled now and then
some outstanding moments in the
play, and marveled together; but for
the most they were quiet. They near-
ed Norah's hotel.
“You will take the cab on to your
place?” asked Norah.
; “I don’t think so,” said Richard. “It
is only a step to Raspail. I shall
walk.”
The cab drew up outside the little
! ‘They descended and
Richard handed the driver a note. To
the surprise of both the passengers
the man broke into a stream of pro-
testations, interlarded with which
, were grossieretes that Norah could
not begin to understand.
“I do not wipe my nose with broken
bottles!” the driver finished heatedly.
Alas, then, for Norah’s assumption
that where French was concerned her
new friend was dumb!
“Nor do I wipe my nose with broken
bottles,” she heard Richard say in
good, coarse and slangy French, “but
I'll wipe your nose with something a
good deal more hurtful if you don’t
shut your filthy mouth! Mince de
puree, n’en jetez plus! Vous com-
prenez ce que je vous parte? Allez!”
“Pardon-excuse, monsieur!” said the
driver, suddenly humble. “Ya pas
d’offense—but I took you for a mug!”
With which apology he drove off
hastily. Richard turned and found
Norah staring at him in angry aston-
ishment.
“Suh-sorry,” he stuttered. “1
couldn’t shut him up quicker.”
“It’s all right,” Norah said frigidly.
“Good night!”
“Bub-but, Miss Geoghahan!”
“You have made a fool of me!” said
Norah angrily. = “Pretending
couldn’t speak French!”
“Bub-but I didn’t mum-mean to
pup-pretend—"
“You did—and again in the restau-
rant to-night—oh, I am a fool!”
Pup-please!” pleaded Richard. “Let
me explain—"
“There’s nothing to explain,” said
Norah, bitterly. “I am a fool—that’s
all. Thank you for taking me to din-
ner and the theatre—that was kind.
But I don’t think we'll see each other
again, please. Good night!”
Upon which she ran in at the hotel
door, leaving Richard dumbstruck and
motionless on the pavement.
Up in her room, Norah put her hot
face into her hands and rested her
head on the cold marble of the hotel
dressing table. She hated Richard
Long. She hated herself. She was a
fool—a silly fool!
Into the morning she lay awake and .
went over the day’s happenings time
and again. She rehearsed the inci-
dents.
across the deck. No. She recovered
her balance in marvelous fashion—
but next moment she was refusing the
rugs from the steward and sending
him back to Richard Long with a most
cutting message. In the customs
house ‘she treated Richard with utter
disdain—and then got into a panic
over the French for “tpyewriter.”
(Where had she got dactylographe
from ?—it was all wrong!) Richard
Long was hateful. He might have had
the decency to tell her that he could |
speak French—speak it better thun
herself, if it came to that, for the taxi-
driver’s argot had been completely be-
yond her.
But hadn't Richard tried to tell
her? She recalled the number of
times he had repeated French phrases,
repeated them gently with a perfec-
tion of accent. He had been trying
to tell her! And it was she who had
been too fatuous to understand. As
she had got deeper and deeper into
the folly, she had made it more and
more difficult for him to blurt right
out that French had no mystery for
him. She could see how hard she had
made it for a man as shy and gentle
as he was. Yet, while acknowledging
that she was to blame, she remained
angry with Richard, telling herself
that he ought to have had courage and
told her.
Another consideration occurred to
her, and one perhaps as disturbing as
any. Had the rest of her conversation
been on a level of fatuity with her as-
sumption that he knew no French?
She had pontificated to him about
painting, had laid down the law about
technique, taking it for granted he
knew little of the subpect. Yet he had
spoken about art in a common-sense
sort of way, often more than intelli-
gently anticipating what she was go-
ing to say. She had had to paraphrase
no technical terms. Again, he had un-
derstood her anxiety to get into the
atelier to Pere Lemoine—he even had
spoken familiarly of the old master as
“Papa.” Was it not possible that here,
too, she had been guilty of a school-
girl swollen-headedness and, in the old
phrase, had been teaching grandmoth-
er to poach eggs? But, no. He was in
Paris on affairs connected with the
“Come about
you -
Now she didn’t go reeling
family business. He was merely an in-
telligent amateur.
Gradually the turmoil in Norah’s
mind found surcease and she fell
asleep.
i When she awoke and remembered
next morning she still had twinges of
shame, but the prospect of calling on
Pere Lemoine soon excluded all other
considerations.
Her heart was beating wildly as she
climbed the steps that led to the sky-
high atelier in Rue Four, but outward-
ly she was calm. In response to her
knock the door of the studio was open-
ied by a young man who raised his
"eyebrows in inquiry.
“Monsieur Lemoine?” said Norah
hardily. “May I see him, please?”
“Maitre Lemoine is not at present in
the studio,” said the Frenchman, “but
I am his assistant. May I inquire the
business of mademoiselle ?”’
“I wish to enroll with Maitre Lem-
oine,” Norah explained.
The assistant shook his head doubt-
fully, but stood aside wit.. a wave of
his hand inviting her to enter.
“I fear that is impossible,” said he,
“but will you be pleased to enter,
mademoiselle ?”’
With a sick feeling that she was
about to hear the death knell of her
dearest hope, Norah stepped into the
studio. Easels stood all about the
floor of the big apartment, and at the
easels were voung men and women, all
engaged with a variety of medium in
recording their impressions of a slim
and nude girl who sat on a high mo-'
del-throne. The young artists looked
up from their work to see who
was visiting their work-room, and
even the model cast a glance toward
the door—without, however, losing her
poise.
Her cicerone led the way into a
small room off the big studio, and
courteously indicated a chair by a’ I
large desk.
“You have brought some work to
show the master?” he suggested.
“Yes,” said Norah, and she laid her
be package on the desk in front of
er.
“May I see it, please? It is ex-
tremely unlikely that Maitre Lemoine
will enroll an additional pupil—but it
would indeed interest me to see your
work.”
Norah was not ashamed of her
work. It had been praised by people
capable of judging. She quickly un-
did the straps of her parcel and the
voung man came beside her to turn
over the drawings.
i “Yes. Yes. Ah, yes,” he said as he
scanned each specimen. “They are
good—you have talent, mademoiselle.
: I say it to you, I who have had to look
jat the work of many artists. You can
- draw, you have a sense of color. It is
a thousand pities! Maitre Lemoine,
I am sure, would be able to help you.
It is a thousand pities that the list of
pupils is closed.”
“Closed?” Norah echoed, her heart
sinking within her. “But, surely—"
“As you will have noticed, mademoi-
selle, our atelier is crowded. We hard-
ly have room for the pupils already
i enrolled—and it is the same in the
afternoon sessions. Maitre Lemoine
has put down his foot at last.”
“Perhaps if I saw him—" Norah
began.
The man spread his hands in apolo-
“I dare not promise that he will see
vou,” said he. “I should be severely
scolded if I suggested an appointment.
The oid man would rage—fulminate.”
He turned over the drawings again. !
“It is a pity—a thousand pities,
mademoiselle, for you indeed have tal-
ent.”
“I think I ought to see Maitre Le-
moine,” Norah insisted.
“It is impossible. But there are
other ateliers. There is, for example,
that of Roger Thonac—"
“I don’t like the ideas of Thonac at
all,” said Norah definitely. “For me
it is Maitre Lemoine or nobody.
‘The poor Papa is at the moment
in bed with influenza,” said the assist-
ant. “I dare not, I must not, think of
making an appointment for you—even
for when he recovers. I am sorry,
mademoiselle—"
Norah got back to her little white
hotel. It was inevitable that the tears
she had been keeping back since leav-
ing the atelier should have their will
-of her'in the-privacy of her room, but
the beut of weeping was not prolong-
ed. Her natural bravery asserted ifself’
- and she began to consider the position.
It did not take her long to decide her
course of action. She made up her
mind to hire a studio if she could, and
to wait patiently until the next oppor-
. tunity arose for enrolling with Pere
Lemoine. In the meantime, she would
write to him and ask to be put on the
waiting list. It was all she could do.
Having made up her mind, Norah re-
moved the traces of her grief and
changed into the prettiest afternoon
frock in her wardrobe—this with the
idea of finding consolation in looking
her best. She would have lunch, and
then go to see the new spring show.
Even the London journals had been
enthusiastic about the high standard
painting that was to be found there.
Two or three of the visitors to the
spring show that afternoon were not
a little intrigued by the surprising
emotion displayed by a beauitiful Eng-
lish girl (as they thought,) before one
of the best pieces of painting there.
She had been strolling through the
galleries with an air of admirable
poise, obviously interested in the
paintings, and not at all disturbed by
the admiring glances that were at-
tracted by her good looks. But com-
ing upon this particular picture, and
looking in the catalogue for details of
the artist, she had suddenly lost color,
only to flame with it on the next in-
stant. And then, in a state of confu-
sion, she had incontinently fled from
the galleries. The two or three visi-
tors naturally looked into their own
copies of the catalogue to see if they
could find a clue to the stange behav-
ior of the lovely anglaise, but found
nothing beyond the bare record that
the picture had been painted by an
American artist, Richard Long by
name,
In the meantime, Norah Geoghahan
made for the open. in a state of angry
dismay. She was sure beyond any
shadow of doubt that the picture in
Room Seven had been painted by Rich-
ard Long of new acquaintance. She
was doubly a fool. His deception of
her had been cruel—hideously cruel—
the brutal, jeering deception of a cold
and cynical beast! Even his kindness
had been assumed the better to carry
out the hateful deceit. That morning
she had half hoped that she would run
into him again, and she had meant to
forgive him. Now she knew for cer-
tain that she could never, never look
him in the eyes again.
Norah made her way back to Rue
Vaneau and the Hotel Domremy. She
was sick at heart as she hardly had
been in her life, despite the sorrowful
history of the house of Geoghahan.
So that when on reaching the hotel
clerk handed her a letter her eyes
were so hot and dimmed that she could
hardly read the superscription.
She carried the letter to her room
and read the signature first. It was
from Richard Long, and her impulse
was to tear it up unread. She didn’t,
however—which is perhaps as well for
the end of this story.
“Dear Miss Geoghahan:
“I do most sincerely beg your for-
' giveness for having deceived you,
however unpremeditatedly, about my
knowledge of French. I have stam-
mered ever since I was blown up dur-
ing the war, the recurrence of a child-
hood habit of which up to then I was
well rid. When you started to help me
I was really grateful, for I stammer
more in French than I do in my na-
tive tongue—unless I am speaking to
tried friends. Then it became more
and more difficult to tell you the
truth. It was so sweet to be looked
tafter. Only because the taxi-driver
‘made me angry was I able to become
fluent. I meant to tell you before I
‘left you last evening.
“I cannot ask your forgiveness un-
til I confess something else. Although
am here primarily on my father’s
| business, like you I am an artist by
"profession. I have a painting in the
, spring show. I'd sooner tell you that
| than have you discover it for yourself.
I enjoyed your talk about art so much
that I forgot for a time—and then an
idea came to me. I thought you were
rather late in trying to enroll with
Papa Lemoine and, while I was not
sure that I could help, I determined to
try. I don’t know old man Lemoine
personally, but I have a sincere friend
in one of his most famous pupils, Ig-
nace Herbert.
(“Oo-o0h!” breathed Norah.
nace Herbert!”)
“This morning I rousted out Hex-
bert and insisted that he should take
me to see Lemoine, who is just recov-
ering from influenza. As I thought,
the atelier was full up, and the old
man was all for turning down your
application. But Herbert jollied the
old man along, and I helped (I want
you to think the best of me,) and in
the end he said that if your work was
good enough he would find a place for
vou. He said he wanted at least one
beautiful girl to cheer the place up.
(“He isn’t shy on paper,” Norah
thought.)
“I then went to see his assistant
Arinthod—I went to tell him of the
old boy’s decision, but you had already
called—and he told me that he had
seen your wotk. :As heiis an echo of
old Lemoine and is impressed hy your
stuff, I don’t anticipate any difficuity
for you. More especially since the old
man can’t help becoming your wor-
shiper the moment he sees you.
“I am sending this letter by pneum-
atique—it is so much speedier than
ordinary mail. And I shall not leave
‘my apartment until I hear that you
“have forgiven me—or else cast me out
lof your list of friends forever.”
Ten minutes later the hotel clerk
looked up from his books and found
a radiant girl looking down on him.
“At your service, mademoiselle,” he
said whole-heartedly.
“Wuh-would you pup-please tell
me,” stammered Norah, “if there’s any
quicker way of sending a letter than
» pneumatique ?”—By Victor Mac-
ure.
“Ig-
Cost of Fires in Penna. Forests.
Harrisburg—Forest fires during
1926 cost the people of Pennsylvania
$3,260 for each day in the year in
damages, officials of the State Depart-
ment of Forests and Waters estimat-
ed today. fila Bi
In making a. public resume of the
forest fire damages and the cost’ of
extinguishing the:department showed
that there has been a steady increase
in the amount of damage from fire
since 1923. Not only this but there
has been ar almost equal advance
in the cost of fighting the fires in the
State.
Last year saw the highest damage
loss of any year since 1913 the fig-
ures showed. The total damage last
year was $1,186,326.65 in addition to
which it cost $177,353.41 to extinguish
the fires.
The highest previous loss from the
forest fires was in 1920 when the dam-
age amounted to $1,007,868.30. On
that year it cost the State $43,105.97
to extinguish the fires, the statistics
in the department showed.
In 1923 the largest area since 1913
was burned over by fires. The acre-
age destroyed by fire in that year
was 375,737.11 acres. Last year the
acreage burned was only 224,225.60.
The chief fire warden announced
that there were a total of 2,917 fires
in the State last year. The high re-
cord was established in 1922 when
there were 3,635 fires.
Last year the average acreage des-
toyed by each fire was 76.87 as com-~
pared with the high record of 412
acres per fire in 1913.
The lowest fire loss recorded in the
State came in 1914 when damage was
estimated at only $204,296.60.
In 1918 there were 937 fires report-
ed. These fires burned over 386,267.55
acres of timber lands and did destruc-
tion estimated at $719,426.67. The
cost of extinguishing the fires in 1913
was only $26,683.33.
In speaking of the forest fires the
chief fire warden pointed out that
forest fires last year burned each day
enough timber to pay for the con-
struction of a modest, but modern
home in Pennsylvania.
Crm —— A ——————
——The Watchman publishes news
when it is news. it.