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<<ps lagged and. though yielding had
been far from her will, she presently
turned about and entered the Brick
Hotel.
The door was open, the sitting-room
warm with fire and lamp, and Itachel
Castle stucd listening, her face turned
towards the door.
• So th» preacher man forced you to
think of me after thre«> 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 ('*><!• tuuti-d satftijr to
*||i|» hi to
'Men'" she «iM "It'k lihe the uM
t'hrUimas** to have you koine and
Hen" ••Itnglag to hi* brwad »ho>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 »•*« 4<mh Into >k • ' 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.n<l he almost fancied Inhospitable, j
One by one, the others ran off to at- :
tend to final Christmas duties and he
and Theodora were left alone together, ;
Harold stepped close to her where
she sat beneath the great family read
lug lamp. "Teddy," he said, softly,
"let me show you the little note I got
today found I had better say."
Mi drew forth the crumpled paper '
and showed It to her Khe read It,
drawing her brows together In puzzled
thought for a moment while she tried ;
to make it out Then she looked up [
at him
"Well?" she a»U<>d
"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 )