2 fr- — ~ ~ - Good Will Toward All Men By ETHEL BARRINGTON ' i I SN sharp, bleak gusts the wind swept fitfully through Main street, shaking from their van tage points, on roof and porch, great pointed icicles that hung in glistening ar ray, like crystal prisms on a chan- In the road, thick snow had packed and hardened, while the air vi brated with the jingle of bells deco rating alike sleighs and runnered wagons. At its head, the thoroughfare widened, to split in four directions, and in one of the triangles thus form ed rose the Brick Hotel. It was an ex posed spot, one to Ik; avoided in rough weather, affording as It did full scope to the wind to play mad pranks; even, at its wildest, to sweep unfortunate pedestrians before It, like dust before a giant's broom. Yet on Christmas eve. Marls Favor, returning from the office where the rush of holiday work had detained her far beyond her usual hour, paused, wondering what attracted the crowd of her fellow townsmen. She crossed to the outer edge of the gathering in the roadway, and by a flaring torch, held by a companion of the man who was speaking, she saw a street preacher. "Oood-will towards all men," was the text he preached. "Good-will not alone towards those in our beloved and Immediate circle: not alone to wards such as we hold in careless tol erant regard, but good-will towards all, whether they have done us good or evil turns. For the advent of the Christ-child, brings with it a brooding epirit of peace to a sin-tossed world. "Which among you." cried the preacher, his voice risen to accusing note, "which among you, were all se crets known, would not be found to cherish and foster the memory of come special wrong, suffered perhaps years ago. that you hold back, and ex cent when you pray, 'Forgive us our as we forgive those who trespass against, us.'" In the second story of the hotel one of the windows had been raided and Maris, feeling that curioub sensation which is caused by an intent regard, glanced up to encounter the concen trated gize of the mistress of the hos telry, who leaned a little distance be tween the parted shutters. Maris, with sullen color mounting to her face, re turned the look; power to turn aside being negatived by some strange force In the eyes that compelled hers. She and the woman, who once had been as a mother to her only to slam the door of happiness in her face, con tinued to stare across the heads of the preacher and hi'; listening audience. The older woman leaned a little farther and, with imperative finger, beckoned the girl to enter the hotel. The action broke the spell and Maris, with a defiant negation of the head, turned to pursue her way. "Maris —" The girl could not have told wheth er or not her name had been actuallv spoken, or was merely a sfient cry, a part of the compelling influence she bad experienced Nevertheless her «t< years of si fence?" The girl's voice quivered un der th«- burden of mingled feelings con lured up by th» meeting "He made the moment opportune." corrected thf ®f yui always" "Well, say your »ay, and let nie , »" " Mrs Ca tie moved towards the Are. pushing forwa'd a chair "You have grown hard -1 should scarcely know )>u. If It *•<•;< not for ' your e)e». and h.iir Come, alt here, Mi rl*. I cannot stand very long BOW " t'nwillli uly Maria took the rhalr Indicated »title Mrs CmMlr swntnd | h-" *!f ': I ■ it- !n tji. . ;tr. hlng far of ' 1 ! I ' . the girl could n<>t fall to i>-inark the chaise In the 1 O'her. the ftj ire h ~! bertui . Wasted. j the i | lie to I H»! h. i-t stirred j uitenmtortuldy in.»plte their quarrel McilH • i |n , h |o |( u 1,. I r,M|, th- "h • I nf th« Hi|i k Hm| had •a*«d hr girlhood from the pour | h.H, Y"U hate b-en ID*" she asked IV a >»ar; you did not bear?" Tl* girl her k**ad and her 1 •*«•« wander-d NW 'he run* tint tig the al hi r. . i i la tuat *mm had wrought. and —'"tmlm tin • t !•»»* ptmi th.it |lv 4inh« r ** gqfr, I • " • > i o l taid' . ith |i, ti*, ft fi-ti aanrl"*, n. uij til mli ii| nk l had In Itfe and last or all. »k« ' n*« » i'hi ■ MH on ik' In Ha keev' •!)»•» frame Mm —t—ml I I«. u» k .> 4 (. i> In NdU , *. i •112 a . -i • ah* (4 4i • |.h s> ■»—*■ '»» k. hM Minting tea.-* thai Ha wi. ,«>| i. • « i •,, Ik.l • . i.ly kk ' manner—as you havo done. He's grown bard, and a bit reckless.'" The girl moved restlessly in her chair. "I must be going." "It's pleasant to have you, Marls." The woman ignored the suggestion. "We always did sit together on Christ mas eve, if you remember —" Then, as Maris offered no comment, Mrs. Castle drifted into memories of small, intimate happenings of their past daily life, of festivities, and social merriment that marked such seasons as the present one. "I used to fancy that life would be always the same " Lje continued, her voice low with the restraint she put upon herself. "Maris " her thin hand bridged the space between their chairs and softly touched the girl's knee. You can't havo lost all your sweetness. You ain't so hard as you would pretend to me?" "Don't!" The girl rose abruptly, turning her back deliberately to the photograph in the silver frame. "When we parted I thought you hard, selfish unjust—and I kept my resentment alive, burning deep down in my heart —I wouldn't let it die, just as that preacher down stairs said. When there's a thing like that in your soul, the little shoots of tenderness of char ity, that keep a woman's nature sweet, are nipped and starved. You are right —I am changed. But tonight, for the sake of what you did when I was a forlorn, motherles girl. I'd like to shake hands. Walt—" She thrust and clasped her hands behind her back as the elder woman rose, a tender long ing, suffusing her pallid face, and con tinued in a strained and breathless sort of voice. "You thought because Ben was your son, you had a right to decide his life; you thought because you had befriended me, you could dic tate my life, too. I see, now, that there was force in both arguments. At hi? m | *•*". ■' 3 KLY> if - v.\ it >. ' if 1 L_ | ;If , % • « i W in M And Rachel Castle Stood Listening— Her Face Turned Towards the Door. the time the hurt was too deep. I had been only the creature of your char ity, where I Imagined myself, all but in blood, a daughter." "You were courageous—l watched you. always, though I never let you know." "Courageous! What gave me cour age to face the world after you had enst me from your home? It was the knowledge that it was not In your power to take Hen from me—l sent him away myself." "He followed you. then?" Rachel Castle sank back Into the armchair. She had not known. "It's so long aso." ihe girl told her. "You need not mind." "Why did you not take him?" the mother questioned curiously. "Pride wounded vanity- the fart that I must alwuys be In your debt." "My dear--you hare wiped that out forever"- and with a yearning that would not be denied, the elder woman reached out her arms to the girl. A shrill whistle caught the other's eHr; the sound for which she waited I The expr«'-'i from New York must have depi ■ If• «1 Its homecoming pai>- >- nger- some minute* before and was again Hying through the darkness to it* destination. "I ..nted to he sur» that you still cared," she whispered, her lingers hov ering above the bowed head "Change, you know. Is the one thing we old folks have to learn to reckun with." How could I ehang«-t" Marls lifted her h* ad In ipilck reaeutiuent, but what he In lie Id In the close bent fat-H silenced her "True I aiu the one who has changed Marls. | acknowledge now. that bating brought you two together I shoulii have abided by the cuns*- ■tueines Hut I waa ambitious for ray boy | wanted but that Is past In e|..tratlng you two | have built a hai rier k'won myself and my only son Marl " her iulm w«s no n>ore than a thread of sound "I ask you to give him back to me." There came • quick step us (he stair, mm' Mis, and In ihe doorway stand lien Ca-tle. • Utile blinded with the »«dd*n glare Mother " he aald. and. leaving Marl* where she eroui h'd upon the i'.» It «■ h> I ('*>iid*f wtlH both trail bands, aa the kl*e*d aim again Hen, I nant jtwu to spwa* I • hum »he « "»«u the dwwr »he tas < kei »•*« 4k • ' hair »ha<« an had M sad tilling Ihe boaed kguie j ' her k angrily again a CAMERON COUNTY PRESS, THURSDAY, DECEMBER 8, 1910. * Theodora's Yule I Log j By DOROTHY BLACKMORE » » UT we'll have to /—•'v have a Yule log, I ) / won't we?" asked I S / Patricia, the six- J / teen- ye ar - old \ ""N. member of the I I Morton f»mlly. I BgiJ / "Of course I rSEr/ / What would / Christmas in the I / country be wlth- V out a r °aring \ fire in the grate? fTheodora, two years older, spoke in a take-it-for-granted manner that caused the other members of the largo family to look at each other. "Wood is more easily burned than bought," remarked a still younger sis ter, "and you know father isn't as rich as a banker this year. Now if I were a boy or if Willie were a little bigger, we could go out In the woods and hunt some stumps and wood for our Christmas fire." "If," repeated Patricia. "Yes; we really need a big brother, don't we, Willie?" asked Theodora of the small boy who was sitting on the floor trying to make his improvised engine run on two laths for tracks. The little lad paid not the slightest attention to the remarks of his sis ters. He was surfeited with that sort of relative and they were as so many uninteresting flies to his diminutive masculine mind. He was the young est of the family and the only boy, much to the regret of the hard-work ing father and gentle mother. "I say, Willie," persisted his sister, "why aren't you big enough to get us some logs for the Christmas fire? We want you to hurry up and be a big brother." "I'm as big as Carl Jenkins, an' he's bigger'n his sister," argued Willie half heartedly, still struggling with his obstreperous engine. "That's logic for you," laughed Pa tricia, patting the bland curls on the head at her feet. "It's logs—not logic—we're crazy for," added Theodora, wisely. "And I might Inform you, inciden tally that that is the lowest form of htimor —It isn't even respectable, my dear sister," observed the sixteen year-old, with a withering glance. Miss Theodora was properly sub duod for the next few moments, while the remainder of the family discussed ways and means of getting the logs for the Christmas fire. But then Theodora had been more or less subdued for the last three weeks —ever since the visits of a cer tain young man had ceased abruptly. No one dared to ask the reason for the unexpected absence and every time the name of Harold Van Kenton was mentioned Theodora would flush to the roots of her hair and turn the subject irrelevantly. For almost a year Harold had been a bi-weekly guest at the Morton home and he had always joined In all the gayeties of the young folks, albeit, of recent weeks, he had seemed more anxious for the solitary companion ship of the oldest daughter than of the whole family At last, though an engagement never had been an nounced. If was generally conceded among the friends of the family that Theodora Morton and Harold Van Kenton were betrothed. Then —his visits had ceased and his friends had noticed that his genial smile was less spontaneous and that he was less ready with his joking re marks to them all Furthermore, he studiously avoided all social gather ings at which It was possible Miss Theodora might be found A certain reserve In matters purely personal kept even his most intimate friends from asking what had happened And in the case of Theodora it was much the same Hhe was kind and sweet tn her farnilv circle, but the joyousness of her tem|ierament seemed strangely lacking She was beautiful and the somewhat wistful smile she now wore more than ever enhanced her tyne She was tall and stronglv built but pale rather than ro bust; her deep blue eyes were pro felled bv long dark l:t*heH and her hair neither light nor dark waved goftly about her broad white brow For her the approa< hlng Christmas holidays so happily looked forward to hv 'lie others, held little promise of gladness Thst Harold would riot be one of the merry party about the crackling lire made more difference than she iired to admit even to her Innermost conscience Hut he had been at fault And If he could not come to her like • man and say so what coulit she do? Hhe »»l 100 proud lo tell hlni to come anyway thus admitting hetself un able to ealst without him Aud when she was nol In the wrong how reuld she apologue* He. In big mgsrullu* way bad H arranged In big mind differently If Theodora after all there bad been between I hem sltll persisted lit con tlimlug net • onespoudeio e with John M< "■ t.«ne when it was contrary lo his w h te i muM tioi rountea*tt< elt If she i* r* d more for Ibe col re*poi< d«to •if t sls Utah sbe bad known all her life but *bo wag uow a midship ii> ib« na%» shy all be osiiii ■' as a mag If bog 1 t wag lo teat* *r (tea togo to blsa If so* b war* "' 1 • T! " ,u ' *•»-• gad be obje-ted sbe should It .* ■ g trifle t« g tbl'd part* but to them —Theodora and hor sweet heart —It was as a matter of life and death. How could he understand that It had been one of her proudest pos sessions—her ability to hold the friendship of all the boys she had known as a child? Why, she had ar gued with him, should she deny this boy the friendship that had been theirs almost since babyhood, just be cause a new man —a different sort of man altogether—had come into her life. If he could not be broad enough to let her have her friends —they were better apart. If he couldn't believe in her sufficiently to accept her word that there was nothing more than a staunch friendship existing elsewhere, he did not love her. Had she not been taught in her catechism at Sunday school to believe first —then to love? The breach had been widening with an unhappy lover at either end of it. Harold had thought of it all day long and as he wended his way slowly homeward on the suburban train and got off at the little suburban station among commuters, Christmas-bundle laden and laughing and joking with the very spirit of the holidays, his heart was as heavy as if he had com mitted a crime. Soft flakes of snow were flying here and there and he turned up his collar and put his face down as he climbed the hill to his home. He did not once turn in the direction of the Morton home on the opposite side of the street. At his feet, and being quick ly covered with snow flakes, he no ticed a tiny blue envelope. Almost indifferently, he stooped and picked it up. In a childish—almost baby hand— was the crude little pencil scrawl that Harold made out to be Santa Claus. What should he do? If he did not open it and read it, it would be cov ered with snow and the childish wish go ungratifled—for he knew it must be a baby's letter to his good St. Nick. "Please I want a big brother to gather logs, Santa Claus. I want a track for my engine and anything else §11! s/iliyi" "And I Might Inform You Incidentally That That la the Lowest Form of Humor." you have that little boys like. I have three sisters but they are bigger than me. Willie Morton." That was what Harold made the note out to mean. It was without punctuation, without an idea of spell ing. but that was the gist of it. What should he do? He could get the boy the track for his engine; he could get him the other things "a little boy would like"—but the big brother to gather loga—that was the problem. Then, like a flash, It came to him. Why could he not give hlni that also — that Is, If Theodora would have him. Kven the thought of It seerued to put some of the former elasticity Into his i step as he sped homeward. That night he rang the Morton door 1 bell and wan warmly greeted by all j but Theodora. She alone, was reticent I u.nd "Can't we let Willie have the big brother to gather logs dear?" Hhe did not speak hilt her head dropped alowly to the arm of the grout chair. "t'an't we, Teddy*" he asked After a long time oh. after they ! had talked for a half hour of g thou sand silly things Including Yule logs | Mil John Mi .Shane's correspondence 1 Teddy said: I suppose It would he a shame to ' ■ poll the child's faith In Kant* Claus wouldn't ll* You nmy be his brother his big brother to gather logs." Aud 'tin Yule log »as so big and ! burned so brightly for the whole Mur ton family Including Its new son to he i • hat the young man la guest lot* found II n«ce»sary to sll with the Isughiei | ■it the bouse until wall along In the • t«hli,g Jnf t to lb* si arks front flying a Pout too gayly and selling a ! wore gaitgeioua Ufa than the on* thai ' b*i b•«» rekindled la the heart* of itt. u'»y»»i|hi. Ilia i fbe anHeisal spiuad wf laohtuia sad il' u I# * fti |lti| I*, ||#l uf 3+ '■ a* And the Greatest Is Charity By LOUISE OLNEY * =3+ ary'V OANNA THURS 1C T ON dispatched v t * ie ' ast r " } " 1i hon-tied, holly sprigged packet ft fcsSyiii by a messenger ft IjBC'I boy, and came in ygy \ I from the hall S I with a nigh of // \ J re " e '- It was // 1 I late afternoon, /I J L an< * a ' l6 r A V J Thurston sat be fore the open fire in masculine peace midst the pre-Christmas swirl of the household—and of the world. He was smoking, and his wife Bat upon the arm of his chair and took his pipe from him. "There! The family duty is done for another year! Nobody forgotten— I remembered last year's troubles and kept a list. Your folks, and my folks, our servants, our friends " "Our near-friends, and our might-be foes!" he interruptted with a little laugh. "I'll wager that my good wife didn't neglect the Hentons, second cousin Tessie—even Mrs. Winkler!" "The Bentons can harm —or help your business, cousin Tessie might leave you her fortune, and anyway she's old and alone; Mrs. Winkler has a most scandalous tongue, and one Instinctively keeps on her right side, and she gave us an extravagant wed ding gift, you know." Walter Thurs ton nodded his head, and sighed In unison with his wife. "I wish one could be quite, quite sin cere!" she said. "I wish we could give only what and to whom the heart prompts." "The head permits—and the purse makes possible," he finished. "Give me back my pipe, girl! By the way, what did you send to —Fannie?" Joanna jumped from her seat and faced him from the mantel, her little head high, her pretty face flushed, but her eye cold, her tongue silent. "Nothing," she said at last. "She deserves nothing. She tried to sep arate us by her wiles, and her slander —and almost succeeded, as you know! I don't care if we were brought up together almost like sisters. And her runaway marriage—and a divorce in three months after, and her indiscre tion making everyone talk! What, I would like to know, could I send her?" Her husband's eyes kindled with his thought. "What could you send her? How about the gift of mercy—of forgive ness. How about the real gifts? I thought we had both held them In mind this year?" She stared at him, biit comprehendingly. She had not thought of forgiving—Fannie. "Do you doubt—my love, Jo?" She came over to his arms, and shook her head. "You surely know I never— cared for her! You are surely above jealousy. And she was—very unhap py about Bert Fountain. I am sure she thought you managed to get him interested In May Saunders, and bo she told those stories out of pure re venge!" "She was—outrageous," flamed the young wife of hardly two years. But Walter persisted. He wanted peace, even with this foolish third cousin. "Well, nothing Is too outrageous to forgive! and remember that our set has more or less cut her ever since— and that she did not get Bert whom she certainly loved. She was more unfortunate than to blame in her mar riage, but nobody will forgive her and take her back to favor until you do." "She's In Europe—What's the dif ference?" "No—she's come back. 1 saw It In the paper this afternoon. She's at the Burkley. You see Hhe's come home for Christmas, Jo." He turned his wife's sweet face so that he could see It, but a hard look settled about her mouth. He made haste to change the subject, knowing he had said enough, and that she would remember his words. "How about the dinner tomorrow? K very body safe to come? I just gave the cook |5 and a lot of deserved praise It may polish off her perfec tion as well as her good nature' Who've you got for Bert Fountain to take out?" She hesitated. "You'll think me crazy, but it's —May Saunders They might make up after all He'g like the man In the vaudeville song tired of living alone ' I know the symptoms Our cozy home makes hliu sigh for one like It Wheu a inau's as desper ately lonesome as ilert. almost guy pretty and clever young woman and a house party will do the rest. Five couples Is about all the house will hold, though there will be more than 30 just for the dinner The 10 will 1 glmply slay after the others leave | Why don't you say something.'' May Hauudera!" he reflected You J risk things, Jo! I am • ouvlnced that | he uever really car«d for her' I wish j you'd given some one elae the chame. that's all. It would have reinstated Feiuite, for Instance. just on her re turn, Into the good grat es of our old sei Hi.v will have learned discretion after this atlsergble marilage of lurs. wbub you iitugt admit was not her fault Heit always wanted her" Joanna opened ber mouth to argue bul tbe dooi bell rang and ber husband luae to aitawer II ead save (be bust I servants A tuement laitr be put bta fui tapped bead la to say "doing dow i» street wiib Mofclaaoa a a I,lie 111 1,. |,». k . . I, Joanna Tburstou sank down la the ' btg chair and sat thinking She look ed about the pretty room, thought about her perfect married happiness, her well-ordered house, the social au thority which as a young matron waa following on her popularity and cor rectness as a young girl. Presently she rose and went over the house, already perfect In every detail. She conferred again with the cook, and finally was recalled to the living-room by the ringing of the 'phone. It was May Saunders with a sorry talo of Illness in her home, whither she must start at once, and of real grief that she must give up the dinner and the house party. She hoped Joanna would not be put out. either, but it was so hard to get any one so late in such a gay season and so many out of town for the holidays. Joanna went back to the fire and, foot on fender, stood looking down at the flames. Whom should she have in Mary's stead? Then her gaze came back to the mantel, and fell on a lit tle illuminated card received in the last mail from on old aunt. It was a Scripture verse and made her think of her childhood and the rewards of merit at Sunday school. She picked It up and read It. "And now abideth faith, hope and charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity." She repeated the last phrase to herself, and remember ed her generous check for the city's poor, her class at the settlement, the young girl she kept In clothes, even the widow who came nightly to her kitchen for left-over food—her gen erosity to her family and friends. Was this charity? Perhaps—but not all— not enough. What had her husband said of mercy?—forgiveness? Then her mind returned to the missing din ner guest—and to Fannie, poor, silly, "What Could You Send Her 7 How About the Gift of Mercy?" mistaken, unhappy Fannie. She stood, still with the card in her hand. Then she dropped it and went to the 'phone. She searched the book for a number, called for the Burkley, and Mrs. Fran ces Stone. She held the receiver to her ear and waited. "Is that you, Fannie? Yes —guess who. No! no! It's Jo, Joanna Thurs ton! I just learned that you are at home again. I have an invitation for you, and under the circumstances I hope you will waive ceremony and ac cept, even if it Is aw the eleventh hour! Of course I could not know you would be back. Walter and I are giving a Christmas dinner—the old crowd —you'll know them all, about thirty of them, and a house party after for about ten people—our most intimate friends. Could you come? Yes? Well, can you put up with Bert Fountain to take you out?" Then she listened for some little time, and the tears came to her eyes. "Why, Fan! Please don't —why, are you cry ing over the 'phone. Somebody will hear you, child, even If the booth is closed! Walter and I don't hold any thing against you-—not a thing!—prob ably we misjudged you, too." Her voice rang true and sincere, for she never did things by halves. Since she was to forgive, she would forgive freely, and follow the forgiveness by forgetfulness. Another bit of gen erous trust occurred to her, and she spoke once more. ' Fannie, can't you come out to the house for a little talk tonight? I'll send Walter to bring you about eight. All right; be ready! (Jood-by, dear!" Fautlie's pi** for forgiveness, her evident Joy at being received back into friendship and favor, affected Jo anna as she would not have believed. Her eyes shone with tears and her cheeks were flushed. She rose from the 'phone chair and faced her hus band. who stood cairuly listening Walter, you heard me' See what your preaching did to soften an un forgiving spirit." she laughed Ha drew her eios<», then held her off to look at her, and pulled her with him bark to the flre "Sin h a little hrirk! Such a wife!" he eiclalnifd Then he stooped to pick up the little illuminated Christ mas card from tha rug "Your test." she submitted, demure ly. "and a very good test Indeed' I think I can repeat It. as ! used to • hen I i sine home from ihurch and waa going to show grandfather how very good I tat 'And now abideth lalth. hop" and • hailty, these thra*; hut the greatest of these ts charily.' Waliet Vaa actually cried' He reai bed for hta wife s hast). aa4 tbs too "J la ibt Hreltght sad lbs « and i> o4 a 111 of the t'hrlalutss spirit . t»i'i with lis bjesting lata their it affright nit )