Bellefonte, Pa., February 22, 1929.
NO ROOM FOR HATE.
‘We have room for the man with an honest
dream,
With his heart on fire and his eyes
agleam;
‘We have room for a man with a purpose
true,
Who comes to our shores to start life
anew;
We haven't an inch of space for him,
‘Who come to plot against life and limb.
We have room for the man who will learn
our ways,
Who will stand by our flag in its troubled
days;
We have room for the man who will till
the soil,
Who will give his hands to fair day's toil;
But we haven't an inch of space to spare
For the breeder of hatred and black de-
spair.
We have room for the
neighbor here,
Whe will keep his hands and his con-
science clear
We have room for the man who will
spect our laws
And pledge himself to our
cause:
But we haven't an inch of land to give
To the alien breed that will alien live.
re-
country’s
Against the vicious we bar the gate !
This is no breeding ground for hate.
This is the land of the brave and free,
And such we pray, it will always be.
We have room for men who will love our
flag,
But none for the fiends of the scarlet rag.
—Edgar A. Guest.
CALL THE DOCTOR.
George Whitney was distinguished
for his extreme good looks, his suc-
cess at the bar, and his avoidance of
all attractive young women with rich
papas.
There is a reason for eveerything.
Mr. Whitney was pleasing to look up-
on, because he came of a long line
of handsome and charming forebears
and because he kept himself frantic-
ally fit. He was, at thirty-four, suc-
cessful in his profession because he
had an excellent mind, a psycholog-
ical insight into the skulls of juries,
worked hard and loved the law. He
avoided pretty girls with hereditary
money because he had observed that
young professional men who married
bank-accounts were, as likely as not,
apt to sit back. and wax fat upon
their unearned incomes, and docilely
trail their dives to Palm Beach or
Europe, and thus not get very far in
their professions.
‘In the rainy, blowy, sunny spring
of 1928, George Whitney decided to
betake himself to a mid-Western city.
He was planning, once having reach-
ed there, to interview in person a
shy, elusive financial giant whom, in
behalf of a client, Mr. Whitney was
suing for a sum so large that merely
to mention it would be to call forth
gasps of envy and jeers of unbelief.
Mr. Whitney was rather famous for
his powers of examination, both cross
and amiable, and he had perfectad a
species of polished third degree winch
was nothing short of murderous. It
had occurred to him that to hop on
a train and politely take the defend-
ant in the forthcoming case by sur-
prise would be, if not a master-stroke,
then something approximately the
same.
“But,” said his partner, the shrewd,
silver-tongued Jerry O’Hara, “if Cum-
mings knows you are en route he will
disappear instanter. Like as not he
will disguise himself as a carbureter,
or something, and crawl into one of
his own motors—and then, where are
you?”
“Crawling after him, disguised as
a monkey-wrench,” replied the
younger man, undaunted, “Still, after
all, how would he know I'm coming ?”
“Oh, it’s been rumored already, I
dare say,” said O'Hara, “and he has
ways and means. Probably the con-
ductors on all trains west are spies
in his employ.”
Whitney laughed and proceeded to
his club. There he found one of his
closest friends, Joyce, the stomach
specialist, busily employed in ruining
his own stomach with uncut rye.
Whitney dropped down beside bim
ard ordered a little precaution
against the changeable weather. And
while partaking, confided his hypo-
thetical difficulty to his companion.
“He's a wily old bird,” Whitney
concluded, ‘and it looks as if I'd have
to concoct some scheme of sneaking
up behind him in a Santa Claus
make-up and suddenly ranting in his
ear—How about settling?’
Joyce, a fat florid man, chuckled.
“As to that, it can be fixed,” he an-
nounced largely, “for once upon a
time—no, this is not a bedtime story,
George,—I attended an official of the
very railroad upon which, I take it,
you will travel. He was grateful to
me because I enabled him to rise
from his couch of pain and eventual-
ly to discard that diet of milk and |
mush to which his ailment had con-
demned him. Therefore, in addition
to my fee—which was very handsome
—he presented me with a life pass
upon his road. Take it, my son, use
it— flatter yourself and fool your op-
ponent by traveling as me. But, for
Pete's sake, don’t give yourself away,
for you are liable to arrest or some-
thing and if there is anything de-
spised by lawy8rs, it’s arrest—when
they are themselves the arrestees.”
Doctor Joyce then solemnly pro-
duced the pass from a pocket. And
Whitney took it.
“I don’t see that it helps much,” he
pondered doubtfully. “And all this
secrecy business is probably a lot of
delicatessen. However, Tl bruit
about that I'm going South for a
rest-cure, and I'll go West instead.
Horace Greeley was a great man.”
“After all,” commented Joyce, sur-
man who will
i Whitney, “as you well know, having
‘sat in my father’s classrooms and
cursed his intelligence. He always
wanted me to follow in his buggy
wheels. But I couldn't see being a
general practitioner. Too much work.
Those were the good old days before
the ravening horde of specialists de-
scended upon us. So I chose the law
instead. Now, I'm sorry—when I see
what you fellows get away with.”
After that crack and another pre-
caution, he departed for his small, at-
tractive dwelling and made Mis ar-
rangements.
Some evenings later, Mr. Whitney,
, traveling upon Doctor Joyce's pass,
. was putting himself to bed in a lower
{ berth. He congratulated himself as
he did so that Jimmy Joyce was not
, given to travel—there were plenty of
rebellious stomachs in New York to
keep him busy-—for the conductor,
‘when gazing at the pass, had hailed
its possesor as “doctor,” and Whit-
ney had grinned back gaily when he
realized that all was well—Joyce was
not known by sight upon this particu-
ilar train at least.
his long legs, that the conductor
. didn’t have chronic indigestion. What
did you give for it? Bicarb., prob-
ably, and good advice. He then re-
flected idiotically that it was a good
i thing railroads didn’t employ women
conductors, porters and Pullman
people, for had they done so, he
{would get very little rest, what with
a lady conductor telling him she
{ hadn’t been the same since little Lily
| was born—
With which imbecile musing he
, dropped off to sleep, and was rudely
awakened an hour or so later by a
hand upon his shoulder.
i “Doctor Joyce‘ Doctor Joyce!”
| Whitney sat up in the berth, in-
dignant. His frankly copper-colored
hair, sleeked down to a professional
‘flatness in the day time, now stood
jon end and curled absurdly. He de-
i
: manded:
“Says which?’
Then he realized the worst.
‘conductor stood there,
hand still heavy upon Whitney’s per-
(son. Beside the conductor was a
The
. strange porter whose dusky coun- |
tenance was a delicate mauve with
fright.
{ “There's a very sick young woman
in the next car,” announced the of-
ficial. “She is traveling alone and
3he needs immediate atiention. I
shall have t35 ask vou to comnz with
me, doctor.”
Whitney, struggling into bath-robe
and slippers, so far forgot himself as
to ask: “What's the matter with
her?”
He hoped that the conductor would
say, ‘sore throat” or, “strained an-
kle,” to which he might reply; “Ex-
cuse me, I'm a stomach specialist,”
and go back to sleep.
For that, he mused trustingly, was
the way these doctoring boys worked
things.
“How do I know?” answered the
conductor reminded him severely:
reader. All I know is, she’s a mighty
sick girl.” . .
As Whitney landed in the aisle, the
conductor reminded him severely:
“Your bag?”
“Bag?” Whitney looked about
wildly. Then he said collectedly: “I
haven’t it with me.
pleasure.”
I'm traveling on
With this lie on his lips, Whitney,
cursing his friend Doctor Joyce, curs-
ing girls who were so indiscreet as
to fall ill on trains, cursing himself
and his innocent client, followed his
anxious leader. But as he cursed si-
lently, and with a set expression, he
i looked very medical and professional
indeed.
“Who did you say she was?” he
asked as they crossed the chilly and
swaying platform between the car
Gladiola and the car Delphinium.
“I didn’t say—I don’t khow,” re-
plied the worried conductor. “She
booked all the way through, and has
only a suitcase. There’s not a thing
on it to identify her.”
They arrived at the drawing-room
door. The conductor knocked and en-
tered, followed by his victim. A wo-
man, sketchily dressed, rose from the
berthside. She was, the conductor
explained, a kindly passenger who, on
hearing curious sounds from the
drawing-room, had summoned the
porter. ¢
Informal were the introductions.
The strange woman vanished, it
seemed, reluctantly. The conductor
stood by in a deferential attitude
while Whitney approached his pa-
tient.
Whitney took one look at the girl,
tossing and turning and muttering in
the berth, and was instantly aware of |
The first was that she
two things.
was by far the prettiest girl he had
ever seen, and the second—a less
pleasant bit of knowledge—that she
j was, by a long shot, the sickest.
| He looked—Ilooked again—at the
‘satin-smooth cheeks brushed by the
brilliant rouge of a high temperature,
at the beautiful parched lips, at the
wide-open brown eyes which were
| dull and glazed, and at the cropped,
! corn-colored curls. And while Whit-
ney looked, the conductor spoke im-
: patiently.
“Well?” asker the conductor.
Mr. Whitney came to. Apparently
| something was expected of him. He
| proceeded, under the conductor's
| chilly eyes, to do a number of things.
He longed, as he performed these un-
| accustomed parlor tricks, for his
| sagacious father, now retired and liv-
{ing on a Vermont farm. He longed
{for Jimmy Joyce. He longed for
i flight. And while longing, he laid a
| finger on his patient’s pulse and gaz-
ied earnestly at his wrist watch the
while. He had some difficulty in lo-
| cating the pulse in the first place,
{ and when the deed was accomplished
he found that he had never learned
| te count as fast as that.
He hoped, as he sleepily folded up
his urgent |
pon the edge of the berth and fell
deeply and irrevocably in love with
a delirious girl in a peach-colored
nightgown.
By the time the conductor had re-
turned with the stimulant, Whitney
felt it incumbent upon himself to ask:
“Is there another medical man
aboard?”
“No,” replied the conductor, and
eyed him with suspicion.
“I would have liked,” explained
Whitney hastily, “a consultation.”
He took the flask, made his prep-
arations, slipped an arm under the
girl's round white shoulder, and held
the little cup to her lips. Some of
the liquid trickled down her throat—
both inside and out—and Whitney,
having mopped her off with a pocket-
handerkerchief, laid her back upon
the pillows. He then remembered
with a start of authentic fear and
horror that sometimes if you gave
whisky ignorantly, people died. Good
whisky, too.
He had not, of course, the remot-
est idea what was wrong with this
lovely and delicious girl who, as he
sat beside her and watched her rapid
breathing, appeared to grow less rest-
less under the hand he kept upon her
slim wrist.
He liked to keep it there. He want-
ed to take her in his arms and put her
poor little head on his shoulder and
rock her and say, ‘‘There—there—
and—" Oh, well, what he wanted was
all very unprofesisonal or, at least,
so one is given to understand.
Presently she appeared to sleep.
And Whitney rose. The conductor,
who had been absent for a time, had
now returned.
“She’s better,” announced Whitney
and, remembering his specialty, diag-
‘nosed gravely: “Acute indigestion.”
And then, in case that didn't quite
cover it, he added: “Or malaria.”
The conductor looked intelligent buf
unconvinced, and in a short time
Whitney was back in his own berth.
“I'll have the porter watch out for
her,” said the conductor, ‘and if
| there’s any change, I'll call you, doc-
tor.”
{ Is that, thought Whitney, a threat
or a promise?
He didn’t get to sleep directly. He
was engaged in telling himself that it
was all too absurd. He couldn’t have
fallen in love with an unknown girl,
palpably out of her mind. He was
also busy worrying about her. What
was the matter with her? Had he
made her worse by his administration
of the whisky? And—would he ever
see her again?
He saw her again in about an hour.
Once more he was awakened by a
compelling hand.
“Doctor Joyce! Your patient is
“much worse! We cannot,” said the
conductor firmly, “take the respon-
sibility. I've wired ahead for a city
hospital ambulance to meet the train
at——" He named the next import-
ant stop. “And she'll have to be put
off there. And you'll have to go with
her.”
“But how,” asked Whitney, horri-
fied, “shall we get in touch with her
people? They'll have to be notified.”
“Perhaps,” the conductor suggest-
ed grimly, “you’ll discover who she
is. when she comes to her senses.”
! Whitney blushed. What a practic-
al man!
“If she ever does,” the conductor
added gloomily.
' As in a dream, Whitney proceeded
to get into his clothes.
This was nonsense of an Alice-in-
Wonderland type. Here was Whit-
ney, thirty-four and a college gradu-
ate, being put off a train in the small
hours with a perfectly strange, amaz-
ingly beautiful, terribly sick young
woman. A young woman who, he
was convinced, was the only young
woman in the world for him!
However, when the time came—
and the ambulance—it seemed per-
fectly natural that she should be tak-
en off and that he should accompany
her. This was all nightmare-—an en-
' chanted one.
| The train moved on, the conductor
with it. The conductor was very
much relieved. In his small way he
was something of a Napoleon—a man
of action. He was convinced there
was a definite lack in Doctor Joyce.
Why hadn’t he stayed with the girl?
Didn’t doctors alweys carry black
bags? (The condictor had been
brought up on the black-bag theory,
and it had given him an inhibition or
a block or something).
However, the sick girl and the
probably mentally incompetent phy-
sician were off the train, and the con-
‘ductor was pleased at having passed
that particular buck. He was a dec-
orous man and he didn’t like people
to die suddenly in his Pullmans.
In the ambulance—and later at the
hospital —Whitney ceased to be a
graduate of a medical school, which
was wise of him. On the other hand,
it appeared beneath his dignity to tell
the truth, which was that he had
; virtually lied. But he had to make
| some sort of explanation. He didn’t
i know the girl’s name—he didn’t know
i anything. So he seized upon an ac-
count of her which might lead to the
least complications.
“My sister,” said he, and mention-
ed his legal name.
|" Whitney waited at the hospital
| while his former patient and present
| relative was put to bed and supplied
| with nurses and doctors. After an
| uneasy period of stalking about the
room allotted to anxious well-wishers, |
! he was informed that his sister was
! suffering from a virulent attack of
| influenza.
| This relieved him.
i couldn't be very bad—everybody had
lit. The doctors inquired if his sister
{had seemed in good health when he
| boarded the train with her.
said, “Oh, yes, indeed.”
| “Well,” said the medical men, “that
| wasn’t unusual. Influenza was a ca-
Influenza |
As Whit- |
| ney knew nothing to the contrary, he
be very angry girl, Whitney repaired
to a well-knawn inn and had no
sleep at all. For three days he hung
around, telephoning, calling at the
hospital, going to terrible movies and
smoking himself to death. On the
fourth day he was permitted to see
her. :
He did so and at once. For if she
had started denying that she ever
was or ever would be a Whitney, then
the beans would begin rolling all over
the corridor floors. Luck was with
him. She had slept a natural sleep.
She had had a drop in temperature.
And she had come to long enough to
ask where she was and why.
Whitney walked into the room, and
stood at the bed. The nurse depart-
ed.
“I'm glad you're better,” said Whit-
ney.
%So am I,” said the girl. “But who
are you, exactly—another doctor?”
“Heaven forbid!” uttered Whitney
earnestly.
“Then why—" But she was very
tired, so she gave that up and start-
ed again. She asked, rather gravely:
“Do you know who I am?”
“No,” replied Whitney,
down.
“Neither do I—very clearly,” the
girl admitted. “Perhaps I'm cuckoo.
or something. Once, I got on a train.
But now, here I am. Someone called
me by a perfectly strange name. I'd
just as soon answer to it as to any
other, the way I feel.”
“They think you're my sister!” said
Whitney.
Into the girl's brown eyes came a
flicker of interest. “I'm not, am I?”
Whitney began to feel worried.
This was more Alice-in-Wonderland-
ish than ever. He stammered: “Why,
no. That is—I'm sorry I—told
them——"
“Oh, said the girl, and managed a
white smile. “Oh, that's all right,
then. Now,” she demanded, “tell me
all about it.”
and sat
And Whitney, with extra color ris-
ing under his fair skin, told.
“And so,” he concluded, “when they
put us off I couldn't throw a bluff
here that I was a doctor, could I?
And equally, I couldn't come in here
with you and say, I'm a perfect
stranger to this girl. I just had an
impulse to get off the train with her.’
Now, couid I?”
“You could,” replied the girl, “but
it wouldn't have been advisable.”
Then she added: “I'll stay here and
get well. That's that. And if you
don’t mind I'll remain Miss Whitney.
It would be so complicating if I
changed now, wouldn't it?”
“Of course. And I'm glad you're
not sore at me or anything. I might
have killed you, you know. And now,”
he asked, “could I know your name-—
just between us two?”
“It’s Sally,” she said, and smiled
again.
“That’s a corking name,” flounder-
ed the imbecile. “I've always wanted
a sister named Sally. But—as to the
rest of it?”
“Oh, does that matter ?”’ asked the
patient. “Please think of me as—
Sally. It will make things easier for
‘You: “You won't get confused in your
mind.”
But he already was confused. Then
the nurse came in and remarked that
Miss Whitney had talked long enough.
Whitney departed. Who and what
was she? Didn't she have a family ?
Wouldn't someone beside himself be
worried to death? What a triple-
distilled jackass he was to get him-
) self into a mess like this! And wasn't
she the most adorable, et cetra—
He stayed on in that city. He came
to the hospital every day, and Miss
Whitney’s room was bulging and
brimming with flowers and fruit and
books and such. And the word ran
around the institution that such de-
votion was very unusual, and wasn’t
it a pity that so good-looking a man
had a sister-fixation or whatever you
call it.
Sally got better. Then she was
convalescent. And Whitney spent
long hours by her bed and told her
all about himself and reecived no
confidences in exchange. When ten
days had passed from the time of
their arrival, he picked up a news-
paper in his hotel and read that the
daughter of an important Manhattan
millionaire was missing. She had,
said the paper, left her home to visit
a friend in the West.
on such and such a day, upon such
a train. She was wearing these clothes
and this hat. And she was a blonde,
with brown eyes.
“I might have known
Whitney.
He was in despair. He was com-
pletely crazy about his first and last
influenza patient. But not so crazy,
he told himself, as to ask her to mar-
ry—him—for—
Well, if he would have been insane
to ask a girl with no surname to take
his own, he would be madder than
ever to invite Hortense Yates to
share his bed and board. For the
name of Yates went into every home
which had a really good kitchen cab-
inet.
So that was that. And if George
Whitney espoused the daughter of the
kitchen-cabinet maker another good
man would be lost to the law. For,
again, and this he knew very well,
Sally could have pretty much any-
' thing she asked of him, and if she re-
quired a husband to carry her sables
‘and her Pekingese and trail her to
tea-fights, he would do it. He couldn’t
‘hold out against her. Not he. Be-
sides, she couldn’t possibly love him.
Not ever.
So he walked into the room where
she was to be found sitting up in a
| big chair and a pink negligee, and he
accused her sternly:
“You're Hortense Yates,” he said.
She blushed. “How do you know ?”’
He waved the paper under her lit-
| tle nose, and she snatched it rudely
1 and read it eagerly and said crypti-
it!” said
| Meantime, the girl was as delirious | pricious little thing. You could get cally, “So far so good.”
as any girl may be.
| asked hoarsely:
| Whitney replied
weightily: “I
haven't made any diagnosis as yet.
o : 2 i would notify him of any change, |
| Would you mind going back to my
: : : |
The conductor | on a train ready to lick your weight |
lin wildcats, become aware of a severe
| chill, and then the party was on.”
They asked him his hotel, and said
“Well 2” demanded Whitney.
“Much better, thank you.”
“Don’t be silly! You're Hortense
Yates, I tell you!”
“What of it?”. asked his lost Sally.
veying him, “you do look rather like | berth and looking in my hand-bag? | Bewildered, but aware that his trip | “You don’t like me any the less. for
a doctor—a successful one
bedside manner.”
“I come by it naturally,” replied
with a
You'll find a flask there.
When the door had closed behind
the conductor, Whitney sat down up-
{he could straighten things out with
i this’ innocent and probably going-to
Whisky.” | further west must be postponed until | it, do you?”
| “I don’t like you at all!” responded
! Whitney, and departed.
Hin ch
He told himself that she could set-
tle the hospital bills now. As to that,
Old Man Yates could buy the hospital
and throw it away if he wanted to.
But there was the possible scandal ‘o
be considered.
So he settled the bill and sent a
note from his hotel which informed
“Miss Whitney” that he was going
about his belated business, and that
on his way home he would stop off
and see how she was getting along.
And he wished her a rapid recovery
and was hers sincerely.
He was hers so very sincerely that
it hurt him like a knife in his heart.
He went on and saw his man. He
couldn't have seen him any earlier,
as it happened, as Mr. Cummings had
been away, But he saw him now,
and was so. thoroughly mad and dis-
illusioned and agonized that he shout-
ed the great financier down, and
cowed him and intimidated him and
got a settlement out of him which
was the biggest thing that had ever
come into his office, and then he
started home and stopped off as per
schedule—to inquire after his sister's
health.
After all, if he went on getting set-
tlements and making a whale of a lot
of money—But no, it was against his
principles.
Devil take it, he had to see her!
He didn’t.
“But,” said the wide-eyed nurse at
the desk, “Miss Whitney left for New
York yesterday. Oh, yes, quite re-
covered.”
Whitney said hastily, “Oh, I see—
her wire must have miscarried.” And
went back to New York.
The first evening he was at home
he saw a stack of old newspapers.
Glumly he looked through them. And
one, dated the day he had revisited
the hospital, when he had been too
upset to read any paper, had head-
lines:
HORTENSE YATES FOUND: RUNAWAY
BRIDE
Bride
For one terrible moment Whitney
thought that his role of medical ad-
viser and devoted brother had been
misunderstood by the romantic press.
He read further.
According to the general account,
Miss Yates had eloped with a young
man of good stock and no money—
a young man who ran the gasoline
station. This alliance of Pampered
Wealth and Honest Workman was
dear to the tender pressheart, and
played up accordingly. Because of
dread of family interference, Miss
Yates had let it be kown that she
was going West to visit. She had
not boarded the train. She had gone
to the depot, left it secretly, and la-
ter picked up her waiting bridegroom
to-be and whisked him over to Jersey.
All was now forgiven.
So Miss Yates—now Mrs. Smith—
was honeymooning somewhere, and
her parents had gone South to recov-
er.
“Now who in Hades,” murmured
Whitney, “is my Sally?”
He read on. The reporter mention-
ed casually that a cousin of Miss
Yates, a Miss Sanderson, who was
employed as a comparative shopper
in a New York department store, had
aided the lovers. Wearing Miss
Yates’ clothes, presenting Miss Yates’
ticket, and being endowed by nature
with Miss Yates’ general build and
coloring, this Miss Sanderson had
taken her place on the train.
So Sally was—Sally. A compara-
tive shopper.
y Which had hcen dark drab, became
‘azure once more.
She had left
The next morning he marched
down to the shop. And weaving an
addled way between counters of silk-
en lingerie, he gained the upstairs
office, emerging from the elevator
with his heart thudding in his breast.
He made a request of a weary
young woman, and Sally, demure in
blue serge, came out of something
enclosed in frosted glass and con-
fronted him.
He said hurriedly: I-—you—what—
Oh, to the devil with explanations.
Come on out to luncheon !”
It being noon, she seized her hat
and came.
Over a balcony table, Whitney said
earnestly: “I went back to the hos-
pital— Sally, how could you be so
cruel ?”
“You see, I had promised Hortense
not to give her away until every-
thing was all right. I intended to go
on to Ruth’s, the school friend she
was to visit. Then—"
“I know the rest,” interrupted
, Whitney, “but not why you ran off
from me like that.”
“I was going to tell you,” Sally per-
sisted, “as soon as I heard from Hor- |
tense. But—you went away—and I
thought—Well, I couldn’t leave a
note at the hospital for my “brother
in case he ever came back. So I left.
I owe you money, Mr. Whitney.”
She produced a blank check and
suggested:
“If you'd fill in the . amount you
paid—"
Whitney said a curious thing. He
said, “Very well. I hope you can’t
afford it.”
Sally laughed. “I can’t.
ly. They pay me well,”
Not real-
said Sally
simply, “but I have to live, and going
around with Hortense’s crowd means |
oodles of clothes and things.”
‘“Haven‘t you any people?” asked
Whitney, his heart very tender.
“No; only the Yateses. And I'm
not really related to them-—not by
blood.”
‘Look here,” said he, and his dark
eyes were grave and ardent. “I'm
mad about you. I fell in love with
you the first time I took your pulse.
But—later—I thought you were Hor-
tense Yates.: You see, Sally, that
would never do. I've always sworn
I'd never marry a girl with money.
I'm ambitious to get ahead. I am do-
ing so. But I've always felt that a
rich wife was a handicap.”
Sally said, low: “I thought you—
didn’t like me-—because I let you do
everything for me-—because I took
your name—" :
“But that's just what I want yom |
to take —permanently—darling.’
“Couldn’t you have loved me
enough to marry me—even if I had
been Hortense ?”
And Whitney's skies, '
RE rr SIRE JA RR RB Ro ome,
Whitney said, in an exultant whis-
per:
“Oh, of course! You know that!
But I would have put up a fight.
Sally, Sally, how can I sit through
this interminable meal, when I want
to kiss you so much?”
But he had to wait until they were
in the taxi which drove them back to
the shop.
They were married at once, and
very quietly. The Yatesesi were
away. There was no one to he con~
sulted on either side.
They had made no plans. After
the ceremony in the minister's
brownstone house they went back to
Whitney’s flat, and Whitney said:
“Dearest—we'll slip away some-
where—I rather like trains.”
Sally came over and perched her-
self on his knee. “Do you love me?"
He demonstrated.
She said with a little sob of con-
tentment:
“And I you—so much—so much.”
And before we leave town. I have to:
see some lawyers.”
“Lawyers ! But you have one in the
family, now.”
“Yes, I know. And it makes every-
thing a lot easier. You see,” said’
Sally timidly, I've just come into
some money—"
“Money ?” parroted Whitney.
“Yes, Dearest, my mother had
an eccentric brother—a bachelor. He
was afraid of fortune hunters. So-
I've had to work—really had to. And’
it’s all been kept very quiet—the leg-
acy, I mean. I wasn’t to get it un-
til I reached thirty, or married.”
Whitney held her off a little. He-
looked at her long and deeply, and he
said severely:
“Sally—how much money is it?”
She answered deprecatingly: “Oh,
well, we can give it away, or some--
thing. And there’s the inheritance
tax, too. I was so amused when you
had to go out to see Sam Cummings.
He’s my other uncle, you see.”
Whitney felt ill. He felt a dull ache,
a pang. But—
“Sally,” he repeated again,
much money is it?”
Sallie made a careless gesture.
“Oh,” she said lightly, ‘something:
like—twenty-six million dollars.”
Whitney was mute. Then he laugh--
ed. Then he kissed her. For what
were twenty-six million dollars com-
pared to the privilege of kissing Sal-
ly’s darling red mouth? What were
twenty-six million dollars compared’
to the sound of her voice when she
said, “I love you?”
As to the ache and the resentment
—well, she could heal that with the-
“how
touch of her satinsoft cheek. Loves,
the Physician........
“Call the doctor!” murmured’
Whitney devoutly. And kissed her
again. —Hearst’s International Cos-
mopolitan.
SE i
COOLIDGE GOING BACK
TO OLD HOMESTEAD..
Calvin Coolidge is going back to-
Northampton, Mass., to the house he:
left eight years ago to be come Vice
President and later President of the-
United States. = ok Suir wreté
As soon as the inaugural ceremo--
nies are completed March 4 and Her-
bert Hoover is established in the-
White House, Mr. and Mrs. Coolidge-
will board a train for home, it was:
announced in the executive offices.
The President will leave the $15,-
000,000 mansion at 1600 Pennsylva--
nia Ave. with its beautiful grounds,.
‘array of servants, policemen and:
caretakers and go to the modest $36-
a month, six-room half of a duplex.
house on a quiet residential street in.
Northampton. :
He will pick up life where he left
it eight years ago to become a world
figure. His asociates have been
diplomats, bankers, statesmen and:
notables. His neighbors and associ-
ates at Northampton will be villagers,
trades-people and retired farmers.
Here he could look out of his bed-
room window, or out of his study-
across acres of well-kept lawn and:
flower gardens. At Northampton,
his bedroom will look out on a quiet.
street and the houses of his niegh--
bors.
What his plans are after reaching
Northampton, no one has intimated.
It is possible he and Mrs. Coolidge
will rest at their home for some time
to be near Mrs. Lemira Goodhue, Mrs.
Coolidge’s mother, who is seriously"
ill.
Until Coolidge decides to enter-
business or maps out his future plans:
he will have ample opportunity to do
what he remarked some time ago he
would like to do after leaving office—
, whittle.
Many were surprised at the White-
House announcement for the Presi-
dent was expected to travel or ac-
cept a lucrative position with some-
large corporation after retiring from.
office. Few expected he would hasten
back to the $36 a month residence.
Coolidge is known to have saved’
a considerable part of his $75,000 a
year salary and’ it is estimated he is-
worth from $250,000 to $300,000. He"
could afford a better house and a few"
servants to make life: more comfort-
able, but not in the six-room half of ~
‘a duplex.
At the executive mansion during:
the last six years, he has been ac-
'customed to the services of a valet,.
| waiters and a corps of servants to:
| anticipate every wish. At Northamp-
ton he will have to content himself"
| with a general housekeeper and cook.
! and send his clothes out to be press-
ed.
Mrs. Coolidge also will have to get
along without her personal maids, her
‘secretary, her Secret Service guard
for the little Northampton house is
scarcely large enough for more than
| the one housekeeper—they don’t call
‘them servants in that section of
! Massachusetts.
| At present the Coolidges are spend-
| ing their spare time surpervising their
| packing. Already 150 boxes have been
crated ready for shipment to Massa-
i chusetts.
Pagani) a
Teacher: —“Willie, name three
kinds of nuts.”
Willie:— Peanuts, chestnuts, and
forget-me-nuts.”