CHAPTER VII—Continued
moe Bhs
“Do you know, dear girl, such a
proceeding never occurred to me.
That may have been because I
haven't regarded these things as
property to be disposed of in an
emergency. They seem a part of
myself, Nora, because each one re-
calls some memory I wouldn't ex-
change for any amount of gold. But
I confess to being rather dumb, all
things considered. Your father has
a nice taste himself. He would
have been impressed.”
Don's voice was rueful, and Nora
promised: ‘“We’ll impress him yet!
I'll make the most of these assets
in my next letter.”
For despite James Lambert's con-
tinued silence, Leonora’s chatty
chronicles of her own doings had
been unfailing. They seemed
bridge the gap a
him nearer.
‘““And to know that he knows we're
well and happy, is something, isn’t
it?” she
day in late September.
“It’s a great deal—to a loyal soul
like you,’”’ he answered, and turned
away because the momentary sad-
ness in her eyes had hurt him.
“Come on, Nora,” he called with
cheer from the porch five minutes
later. ‘Tide's out. What say we
tramp a mile or two on the hard
sand?”
It was an hour later when they
discovered the stable beyond the
dunes. Its ugly cupola, with tiny
windows of red, amber and purple
glass, caught Nora's eyes, and turn-
ing inland they explored what once
had been a homesite.
“House must have burned,” said
Don, looking into a gaping cellar
hole now overrun with fireweed. “A
pity the barn didn’t go too, Nora.
It's a blot on the landscape.”
“But the view from here is glo-
rious. Come and see.” Nora was
standing before the stable door.
“It’s queer the owners didn’t re-
ly place.”
“And queerer,”” grinned Don, his
ayes lifting to the cupola, ‘‘that those
gay, enticing windows have escaped
he stone-throwing prowess of some
small boy. In a village the same
temptation would have been fatal—
to the windows, I mean!”
“lI never could understand
destructive trait in the
nale,”” said Leonora.
»
that
tries, my dear. Gosh! Nora, you're
right about this view. I never saw
a finer stretch of ocean. It's a big
barn, isn't it? This doesn’t look like
farm land, either.
before dark.”
ter. Nora’s heart quickened as he
held it out, quickened until she saw
the foreign stamp.
“Is it from Mr. Venable?"
Don nodded, tearing it open ea-
gerly, for once unmindful of her dis-
appointment.
He read it sauntering along the
village street, his wife's hand on
his arm preventing him from col-
liding with trees or light posts. He
smiled as he read—chuckled—lost
to everything save this message
from his friend; and for the mo-
ment Nora felt strangely shut out—
forgotten. Then Don turned, and
she saw that his eyes were shining
with some awakened interest.
“I just skimmed through the
thing,”” he told her happily. “I'll
read it aloud soon as we reach the
shack. Ven writes a bully letter.
He wants us to join them in Italy
next month, Nora. Says there's no
end of things I could do and write
about — knows an English editor
who's keen for that sort of stuff and
will pay well for it—says that Con-
stance wants to know'’—Don grinned
at the thrust—"‘if I'm still oblivious
to the necessity of filthy lucre! What
do you think of the plan, darling?
How does a winter at Capri appeal
and Connie and the youngsters. And
they'll love you, Nora. They'll bow
right down and worship or I miss
my guess. We're foot-loose now. 1
can’t perceive a single reason why
we shouldn't do it. Let's go.”
And Nora, who was beginning to
suspect a good and sufficient rea-
son for staying home, looked into
her husband's eager face, lighted
once more with the Jove of roaming
that was so much a part of him,
and answered gamely: “Let's!”
On a crisp October day some
three weeks later they sailed for
Naples. Despite a promise of win-
ter in the air, Nora left the “shack”
almost reluctantly; and remember-
ing the dismay with which she had
regarded the place a few months
earlier, was forced to smile at her
changed attitude. But it was home
to her now. When, the girl asked
herself, and with just cause, per-
haps, would they have another?
Don, absorbed in eager prepara-
tions for the new adventure, felt no
regrets—no visible regrets, at least.
This hurt Nora a little, foolish
though she knew the hurt to be. Per-
haps, she mused, her husband would
feel differently were he aware of
the secret she was guarding. But
it must remain a secret until they
got away. On that Nora was re-
solved. Otherwise Don might sense
her ridiculous dread of starting out
for a foreign country at just this
time—might even insist on chang-
irg all their plans; and that, she
argued, wouldn't be fair to him. Aft-
er all, hadn't she married this ‘‘sol-
dier of fortune’ with her eyes wide
open? Hadn’t she known he'd never
be happy tied to a home? And there
was no sane reason why they
shouldn’t go. If she had a mother
to be near her here—a sister—but
there was no one, not even a father
as things stood now. Why should
she care?
And like a beacon light, its cheer-
ful rays piercing the fog, was the
steadying thought of Constance Ven-
Leonora was pondering on
one afternoon when she
alone up the deserted
beach. The shack was in order,
ready for their early departure in
the morning. Don had accompanied
Jim Perkins to the station with their
luggage (‘‘Such swell luggage, dar-
this
Don lifted the rusty hasp.
ling,” he said gleefully, “thanks to
your father for sending on those
steamer trunks!'’); and Nora,
overcome with what she considered
an unwarranted attack of homesick-
to walk it off.
Yes, she was thinking as she
in search of sustenance, there would
be Constance Venable. Don had
told her so much about the older
woman that she seemed a friend.
Constance had had four children.
Philip, the youngest, was born
abroad. It was silly to worry, even
for one minute. Connie would tell
her what to do. of course.
Nora moved softly, not wishing to
disturb a flock of sandpipers hurry-
ing along in the wake of a receding
wave; but at her cautious step they
seemed to sense some danger, lifted
their wings and ‘like the famous
ladybug,” thought the girl whimsi-
cally, “flew away home.” Watching
their swift, sure passage she found
herself envying those birds a little.
They recalled some words she must
have heard in childhood. A verse
out of the Bible, wasn't it? ‘The
foxes have holes, and the birds of
the air have nests; but the Son of
Man hath not where to lay his
head.”
like Don! And how long, wondered
Don's wife, had those old, old words
lain dormant in her brain, wait
ing to stir at sight of a flock of
sandpipers flying to shelter?
Nora turned toward the dunes,
wishing (although she couldn't have
said why) to gaze on something
less restless than the sea; conscious
that nostalgia still had the upper
hand. Somehow, it must be van-
quished before Don returned. Their
happy one—happy for both of them.
“But I'm pretty tired and
plored not long before came into
view, its varicolored cupola win-
dows sparkling like jewels in the
sunlight. There was a seat in front
of the old barn: a pew from some
abandoned church. Why not rest
there for a while—feast her eyes
on that matchless vista of curving
shore beyond the bay-—get back
her calmness, and then go home to
Don?
What a beautiful place! Nora
breathed deeply the sweet scent of
balsam. How her father would love
it! And with this thought she saw
into her own heart, facing the
knowledge that her reluctance in go-
ing so far away lay in the fact
that she could not reach James
Lambert should he need her. True,
he had been curiously unforgiving
for one who had forgiven so much
in others. In their tragic parting
he had been neither fair to Don nor
generous to herself. Yet the girl
knew that if anything happened
(that fateful ‘“‘anything’’ we cannot
voice), her father would send for
her. She knew that should she fail
to come safely through the ‘‘valley
of the shadow’ which lay ahead,
he would be at her side—with Don—
when the lights went out.
And she was going away, far, far
beyond the reach of those steady,
comforting hands she loved so dear-
ly. Nora's eyes misted. The love-
ly, distant shore became a blur. A
lump rose in her throat. She could
not swallow it; and said, aloud, a
valorous effort to pull herself to-
gether: ‘Hold tight, Nora! Don't
avoid paying? Be your age, can’t
you? Remember you're not a butter-
fly any more. (It's just as well Dad
kept those silver slippers!) Don’t
you. I-"
She sprang up, startled, hearing
nothing, yet cannily aware of an
approaching presence.
saw Don emerging from between
toward her rapidly. Not even that
dragging sand, she noticed,
take the lightness from his tread.
“Gee! woman, you gave me
“See it!” Nora's troubles were
lost in this picture of Don’s imagi-
nation, “Why, it’s every bit as plain
as if I'd been there. Do you know,
Don, 1-1 believe you could write a
book!"
Don laughed at the thought, his
eyes still on the ancient carving.
“Maybe I could—a book that no-
body but you would read. Do you
know,” he added after a thought-
ful moment, “‘it goes against every-
thing in me, leaving a splendid piece
of work like this to be battered by
the tempests of a New England
winter. Why, it'll be buried in snow
for weeks and weeks, Nora! Doesn’t
seem right, does it—a pew out of an
old church? If 1 knew who owned
the thing I—I believe I'd buy it and
cart it to the shack. What say we
set it inside the barn, dear? This
door's not locked. 1 tried it the
other day.”
Already he was lifting the rusted
hasp—putting his shoulder to the
heavy door. Then he turned, and
Nora saw that her husband's
thoughts were far away from that
weather-beaten stable beside the
sea.
“I can’t help wondering about the
man who carved these posts,” he
observed dreamily. “I can't help
thinking how I'd feel myself if,
breathless onto the old pew, draw-
ing her down beside him.
ally wondered for a moment (a ter-
rible moment, Nora!) if you'd been
kidnaped. Then 1 discovered your
rest was easy. But don’t you dare
message. I've got a—a palpitation!
Feel my heart.”
“You goose!" said Nora; and at
something in her voice Don turned,
scanning her closely.
“Why, what's the matter?”
“Nothing. I'm just a little tired.”
“Only—only a bit. We've been
so happy here.’
hat.
was left neglected in such a place.
You see, the chap who did this
carving put his heart into it. He
must have, or the work wouldn't
be so perfect. For all we know, it
may have been his masterpiece.
And he was carving to the glory of
God, Nora—something he thought
permanent—something he thought
would be a part of that old church
long after he was gone and
forgotten.” Don paused,
flushing a little as he met her eyes.
“Am-—-am I an idiot, Nora, to want
She answered, rising: “You are a
{
!
arse not, but . . .”
» hesitated, and Don said with
“Listen to
has given you the
What does it matter where
are, if we're together? Why,
we're going to have a wonderful
Nora! Italy. The narrow
streets of Capri. Warmth and sun-
shine. Good friends like Ven and
Connie when we want em; and al-
ways each other, sweetheart. Why
are you sad?”
‘No reason,” admitted Nora,
smiling at him. ‘“No reason at all."
Then in a defensive effort to change
the subject: “Don, do you realize
what we're sitting on?”
He turned, stood up, regarding a
carved post with interest.
“It looks like—it is a pew out of
some old church, Nora. Do you see
this carving? It must have been
done in the days when carpentry
now. A pew! A real old-fashioned
pew, isn't it? Say! can’t you imag-
ine the family that used to occupy
it? First Mother, rustling up the
aisle on Sunday morning in her best
black silk, followed by three—no—"'
(his eyes were measuring the seat’s
capacity) “four kiddies, hushed and
important, each one clasping his
penny for the contribution box. And
lastly, Father—very dignified, you
know, and a bit uncomfortable in
his Sunday suit—shoes squeaking a
little; while some prim old maid
(the village music teacher), plays
soft music on a melodeon ,. . . See
Don lifted the rusty hasp and put-
shoulder to the heavy door,
found it unlocked.
“And you're a marvel to under-
id her ardently. ** "Most
any other girl would think me crazy.
lend a hand that end, dear,
and we'll have it safe no
time. Gee!" (as they laid their bur-
den down) ‘what a peach of a barn!
into the cupola.
look out of those
with
Wilh
inside in
I've a longing to
colored windows.’
“And risk breaking a leg so we
can't start tomorrow?’ retorted
Nora. “Really, Don, 1 believe
there's no one in the world just
like you. One minute you're a
thoughtful idealist; then—presto,
change! A bit of colored glass
transforms you into a little boy!"
Yes, that was Don! Nora was
thinking of this when, hours later,
she lay trying to sleep, yet unable
to close her eyes as she watched a
harvest moon brighten the room.
That was Don-—a dreamer who saw
into the hearts of others. His imag-
inative sympathy might run away
with him at times, as it had today,
perhaps; but without that quality—
without his unfailing capacity for
seeing ‘‘the other fellow's side,”
would he be able to regard her fa-
ther without bitterness?
Her father! Leonora had put the
thought of him behind her during
the last few hours. Their supper
had been a gay affair. A bowl of
late purple asters adorned the ta-
ble; her biscuits were fluffy as
could be desired, and even James
Lambert would have praised the
soup! Since they must rise at six
o'clock they had turned in early;
but it is one thing to go to bed,
and quite another to drop at once
into refreshing slumber.
(TO BE CONTINUED)
The total number of species of
plants and animals known to exist
is conservatively estimated at 1%
million, according to a study of Or-
ganic Diversity issued by the Co-
lumbia University press. Many new
species are described every year,
and large additions may be expect-
ed in the future, it is pointed out.
While the true extent of organic
diversity can only be surmised at
present, there are 822,765 known
species of animals. The number of
described species of flowering plants
is around 133,000, and of lower
plants 100,000. These totals fall short
of the actually existing number of
species, and do not take into ac-
count the intraspecific variation
which is commensurate only with
the number of living individuals, it
is explaiend.
“For centuries man has been in-
terested in the diversity of living
beings,’ says Theodosius Dobzhan-
sky, professor of genetics in Cali-
fornia Institute of Technology, au-
thor of the study. ‘‘The multitude
of the distinct ‘kinds’ or species or
organisms is seemingly endless, and
within a species no uniformity pre-
vails. In the case of man himself
it is generally taken for granted
that every individual is unique, dif-
ferent from every other one who
now lives or has lived.
“The same is probably true for
individuals of species other than
man, although our methods of ob-
servation are frequently inadequate
to show this. Attempts to under-
stand the causes and significance of
organic diversity have been made
ever since antiquity; the problem
seems to possess an irresistible es-
thetic appeal, and biology owes’ its
existence in part to this appeal.”
Mohammedan Rituals
A very special and intricate code
of cleanliness must be performed
before each of the five periods of
daily prayer by the Mohammedans
unless no opportunity for pollution
between these prayer periods has
occurred. Washing for prayer is a
S————————— _ - ss————————
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