CHAPTER VIi—Continued sre] Qe And now the nostalgia of the afternoon was back again. Strange, Nora pondered, that Don, sleeping so peacefully beside her—Don, who un- derstood people so well, so quickly, shouldn't have known by instinct that to go so far away while the black cloud of her father’s anger lay between them, would hurt his wife. Yet she was glad, too, that he hadn't guessed, thought Nora, with all the inconsistency of woman. Why mar his happiness in the adven- ture? If she could keep a stiff upper lip till they were once away . . . ‘““Nora—are—are you awake, dear?” Don’s voice was cautious, as if he feared to rouse her, and Nora turned. “I thought you were asleep your- self, Don.” “I wasn't! I've been lying here thinking—trying to see the thing we ought to do. I know what's trou- bling you, dearest. I knew this afternoon, only I wanted time to think a little before I spoke. It's your father, isn't it? You hate to leave him?" “Oh, Don!” breathed Nora, turn- ing her face into the shadows. She must not cry. He mustn't know how much she wanted to. He said, gently: “I understand, dear. It's only because he is still angry. You're afraid something might happen to him—that he might need you when you couldn't come. Isn’t that it? If you were friends the parting would be so different. It's the terrible misunderstanding that makes it hard. I was a dumbbell not to see it sooner, Nora. Why didn't you tell me?” “How could I?” Don managed a little laugh which broke the tension. “You couldn’t—you being yourself —and I being I! But you should have, Nora. As I see it, marriage is a sort of compromise. We can't, either of us, expect to have our own way eternally. But until this after- noon I didn't imagine for one min- ute that you weren't crazy for an Italian winter. You're a better ac- tress than I thought, my dear: and in the future I'll have to watch my step! But it's never too late to change our plans, you know. That's one of the reasons life’s so thrill ing. And I've been thinking about the West. There are places—" Nora sat up suddenly, drawing his head down against her breast. “If you think that I'll let you change . She was crying now. Somehow Don raised his head and got his arms about her. He said, with more unselfishness than truth: “But I won't mind changing—not a little bit! There's a lot to interest us in the Southwest, and you've never been there. If those tears will help you, Nora, why keep right on, but they're almost killing me! As I was saying—"" Then Nora laughed. It hysterical laugh, perhaps, cleared the atmosphere. “You can keep on saying things all night,” she told him, “but we're sailing tomorrow. Once we really get away I shall feel better. Have you forgotten those articles you're going to write for that London edi- tor? Have you forgotten you've a family to support? Of course we're going to Capri!” With every word she was getting back her courage. “And besides, I wrote Dad we were sailing. I thought perhaps he'd come to the boat, Don. Don’t—don’t you think he might come to the boat?” “He might,” Don echoed: and to himself: “How can he stay away? How can he hurt her so? How can he?” Yet somehow, he knew in- stinctively that Nora's father was not yet ready to forgive. They sailed next afternoon, a bright, clear, sparkling day that cheered Nora immeasurably, de- spite James Lambert's absence from the scene. Standing beside the rail, her eyes searching the thronged pier hungrily, hoping un- til the final whistle sounded that she would catch a glimpse of his familiar face, the girl's mind went back to her last sailing. She saw again the crowd of youthful friends waving farewell-Ned, moved by one of his rare impulses (those im- pulses which made him almost lov- able) arriving breathless with a box of roses—kissing her like a real brother . . . And her father—dear Dad! trying so hard to put a cheer- ful face upon this parting she knew he hated—saying: ‘Don’t stint your- self, Nora.” (As if she ever had!) « + +» “Remember my London bank- ers if you need money.” (As if she wouldn't!) . . . “Be careful about the drinking water in those filthy places.” (To Dad all Europe was unsanitary) . . . “Be sure to cable as soon as the boat docks.” it all came back; and suddenly Nora was conscious of a great lone- liness. Her carefree girlhood seemed left far, far behind. Ahead lay motherhood—mystery—that ul- timate struggle which she must face alone. The thought frightened her, as one is sometimes frightened at a stark glimpse of the inevitable. was an but it FY ® . She turned, seeking the reassurance of Don's presence; but he had dis- covered a friend among the pas- sengers: a little woman who, Nora thought, looked like a missionary. And then, almost weirdly in that last confusing moment—breaking through shouts of ‘All ashore’ and shrieking sirens, the certainty that though she could not see him her father was somewhere amid that throng—too proud to speak, yet lov- ing her too greatly to stay away, fell on the girl's bruised heart like balm. The gangplank was up now—the boat moving. Nora pressed closer to the rail--raised her arm high— waved a white wisp of handkerchief and shouted with a hundred others: “Good-by . . . Good-by . . .” “Who was it, dear?” The voice was Don's. His hand closed over her possessively. Such a strong hand! “Who was it, Nora? I saw you waving. Find someone you knew in all that jam?" His wife looked up. Her eyes were wet, but with a deep sense of thankfulness Don saw that they were happy eyes, “I—-1 was just—waving,” Nora simply. said CHAPTER VIII On the evening of the day when Don and Leonora sailed for Italy, Ned Lambert locked up from a lei- surely perusal of the evening paper, and exclaimed: “Of all things! Mr. “The house is so still without Miss Nora.” and Mrs. Donald Mason on the pas- senger list of the Larino! They sailed today. Do you suppose Dad knew it?" Corinne, painstakingly wading through the most talked of novel of the month and bored to death by it, laid down the book with a sense of momentary release. “He must know. I dare say he's paying for the trip. How else could they manage it? Your father may pretend he doesn’t help them, Ned; but can you see him denying Nora anything she may have set her heart on? Of course he knows." “I'm not so sure.” Ned arose, walked uneasily across the room and back again, pausing beside her chair. “I'm not so sure,” he re- peated. “Dad never speaks of Nora: and once, when I ventured to ask a question about Don, he shut me up in a way he hasn't done since I was twelve years old! That's straight, Corinne. I don't know that he ever hears from her; but if he happens to see this passenger list and discovers that she’s left the country, it may upset him. Want to go 'round and see how the land lies?” Corinne glanced at the novel, “I really can’t, Ned. This book is to be reviewed at the club tomor- row, and unless I'm willing to ap- pear a—a moron, I've got to finish it. And it's the dullest thing I ever tackled. Long, solid pages without a word of conversation. Run along by yourself. I'll try to get through it before bedtime.” Ned laughed. Though he kept it well throttled, he was not without a mild sense of humor, and his wife's struggle to do the proper thing sometimes amused him. “I'd rather be considered almost anything than to read a book which bored me to that extent,” he told her frankly. ‘Sure you won't go? I sha'n't stay long; and we both need exercise. Mustn't get tubby as we get old, Corinne.” “Tubby!” Corinne, who was proud of her expensively corsetted figure, bristled with indignation. “You'd better compare me with other wom- en of my age, not with those slinky stenographers in your office. But I can't go anyhow, even if I do need exercise. I must write to Junior. He may be homesick these first days at school.” “That's right,” said Ned. “Give the kid my love, dear; but please % h kd don’t send him any money. His al- lowance is ample; and it isn’t good for a boy of his age to have too much.” Corinne smiled pleasantly; nod- ded good-by; and said to herself as the front door closed: “Well, 1 didn't promise, and it won't do a bit of harm to slip in something. A boy likes to make a good impres- sion on his schoolmates; and con- sidering our position in society Jun- ior's allowance isn't what it should be. That's Father Lambert's do- ings. He's forever harping on the notion that too much spending mon- ey spoils a boy; yet when it came to Nora nothing was too much for her to throw away. I'll write the letter now, before Ned gets back.” Ned Lambert reached his father’s house and, inserting a latch key, opened the door quietly, dropped his hat onto a chair, and went toward the living room. Nobody here! Per- haps his father was in the library. Ned moved down the hall. A fire blazed cheerily on the hearth in this smaller room, but the daven- port with its gorgeous Bokhara cov- ering on which James sometimes threw himself for an after-dinner nap, was now unoccupied. Dad must be away, thought Ned. It was stupid not to have called up before walking over; but his father hadn't mentioned an engagement, and he seldom went out evenings these days. Perhaps one of the maids would know. Ah! here was Martha. Good old Martha, ever on his prowling and . . . it might be who didn't belong here.” Ned smiled. “You're a good watchman, Mar- tha. Is Father out?” “He's upstairs, Mr. Ned.” “Upstairs! Isn't he feeling well?” ‘He had John light the fire Miss Nora's room. He's taken sitting there quite often.” “He has?" Ned's eyes someone looked puzzled, wide stairway, Martha closed the door. Corinne once said that Mar- tha Berry was as much a part of James Lambert's fine old house as the front door was. She had lived there for half of her more than fifty years, keeping his house beautiful- ly, a faithful servant of the old or- der, and a friend to the name of Lambert. She said, reading the question in Ned's eyes: “It's this way, Mr. Ned: house is so—so still, out Miss Nora. It's Even my ence.” (To Lambert's servants were her own.) “She would have given warning weeks ago if I hadn't scolded her. I said: ‘Don’t be a fool, Sally. like a black bean soup that sets well on Mr. Lambert's stomach, and he's very fond of it,’ so she stayed on. But she says the stillness makes her nervous, Mr. Ned, and 1 think she's right. “The coffee wasn't clear this morn- ing. Your father likes old-fashioned coffee, made with an egg. There's none better, but it has to be made with care or the grounds won't set- tle. Sally's as good a cook as 1 ever had. She knows your father's ways, and she’s good tempered: but she misses Miss Nora. Your father likes her cooking but he doesn’t tell her so. Why should he? But Miss Nora was always running into the kitchen. She'd say: ‘Oh, Sally, that cream pie was simply wonderfull’ or, ‘Don’t you ever dare get mar- ried and leave us, Sally. I could die happy eating your potato puff, —You know her way, Mr. Ned—not dignified maybe, but my girls loved her and it kept them happy. My i housemaid cries now when she | dusts the piano. She always left | the door ajar when Miss Nora was | playing, and many’s the time Miss Nora asked her in to listen. “You can see for yourself that it’s not the same place without your sister; and Mr. Lambert feels it. That's why he sits there in her room so much. It makes her seem nearer. I know as well as if he'd told me, which he'd die rather than do, or my name's not Martha Ber- ry. He's stubborn, your father, if you'll excuse my saying so. Not that he isn’t the finest man that ever lived, as I've reason to know if ever anybody had. “You were a boy at the time, but in my mother’s long illness he paid all her bills, If she had been his own mother he couldn't have done more; and he sent my nieces to business college, too. But for all that he can be stubborn when he gets a notion into his head; and there've been times during the last 30 years when if 1 hadn't known my place, Mr. Ned, 1 would have thrown things at him.” Martha spoke so seriously, and looked so like the ideal servant she really was, that it was impossible for Ned Lambert to suppress en- tirely a laugh at the idea of her throwing teacups at his father. And being herself not utterly devoid of humor, the woman surmised his thought and smiled, a respectful lit- tle smile as she continued: “Maybe you're thinking I don't Maybe a little boy when I came here, Mr. Ned, and it was I opened the door for your poor father the day he came home carrying Miss Nora, and she looking like nobody at all—poor lamb!—in her outgrown coat. Never will I forget her thin little wrists coming out o' those coat sleeves; and her big, sad eyes, looked up when he set her you were Lambert down, “You see, you're my family, all of you, Mr. Ned; and I can’t bear that your father's stubbornness should break his own heart and Miss Nora's too. ‘““He should remember that this is the United States, not one of those foreign countries he hates to travel in where folks pick out husbands for their daughters and hands 'em over like they was bags of meal. And it's a good boy she's married. He gave me his seat in the subway one o' my days off when I was go- ing out to my niece Clara's to have supper. It takes a gentleman to give up his seat to a woman he's an old woman too, and not good looking! “Now go up to your father, Mr. Ned; and if you can make him see that it's only a mule that'll bite off its nose to spite its face, it'll save him a heartache.” She opened the door, then as Ned remained silent, added stiffly, re- membering “her place”: “I beg pardon if I've offended, Mr, Ned." It was then that Ned Lambert gave way to one of the impulses his wife deplored (Oh, Ned! she's only a servant!) -— an impulse that would have made Nora cheer. Per- haps he was remembering the times when in some childhood illness Martha had sat by his bed through the long, dark hours of night, “keep- ing him company.” Or that it was Martha he went to for comfort on that terrible day when, a heart- broken lad of nine, he learned that his mother was never coming home. Whatever it was, Ned crossed the space between them and put his arm around those faithful shoulders in a boyish hug. (TO BE CONTINUED) “All the pumpkin tribes are among the marvels of the vegetable world,” writes Dr. H. L. Bailey, famous horticulturist. The point that he makes is the result of years of experiment with the various members of the pumpkin, squash, cucumber, melon and gourd family. For many years students of horti- culture have attempted the cross- ing of pumpkins and squashes to produce hybrids only to prove that each of the species falle into a dis- tinct class of its own. They have evolved into individual groups, just as man has evolved into the hu- man being and cannot be crossed successfully with another species in the animal world. The “marvel” to which Bailey re- fers is the vast variety of pump- kins, squashes, cucumbers, melons and gourds, all going back to an original form, called by botanists Cucurbitacae, but no longer revert. ing to the prehistoric type. Al though the pumpkin and the squash are thought of as two of our most common garden vegetables, they should be regarded as amazing be- cause of the countless number of forms, popular member of the Cucurbita- cae family. There are all sizes and | shapes of gourds. Not only does their form vary, but their color dif- fers also. They may be striped or spotted, squatty or tapering, yellow or purple. Some have bumps and others are smooth. But all of them are gourds — not pumpkins or squashes. Although they are mem- bers of the same family, they are definite species and cannot be crossed with other species, such as the pumpkin and the squash, to pro- duce fertile hybrids. Only Dickens Statue A statue of Charles Dickens and little Nell, one of his famous char- acters, is in Clark park, at Forty- third street and Baltimore avenue, in West Philadelphia. It is the only one ever made of the novelist, says a writer in the Philadelphia Inquir- er, because his son discovered a clause in his will asking “never on any account to make me the sub- ject of any monument, memorial or testimonial whatever.” The work is by F. Edwin Elwell. It was exhibit- ed at the World's Columbian exposi- tion, where it received a gold Setter By THERESA KRASTIN © McClure Newspaper Syndicate, WNU Service, Wesley) Graydon. He always reminded me of an auburn Irish setter (I told him so, too)-in more ways than one. His hair was close- dark red his eyes contained clear brown deeps, SHORT STORY with patient glances of devotion shining in their shadows, like stars reflect- ed in a dark lake. Even his body resembled that of a loping, lank setter, for it was loosely adjusted. I have said that there was devo- tion in his eyes. Like a true dog, Wink did not offer his fealty to all comers. No; I must lay aside mod- esty to tell you that I was the sole recipient. Not that Wink ever told me in so many words that he liked me best. He used deeds, silently performed; and I, selfish little ty- rant, accepted all his gifts of serv- ice as a matter of course and right. I never needed to exert myself while Wink was in my vicinity. After graduation from high school, we both went to college. Wink wrote me friendly letters at regular periods, which I answered—irregu- larly. We did not even meet during the long summer vacations, for Wink spent the greater part of his free months working at his college. 3y the time I reached my year, he was such a faraway ory that I became engaged without even a thought of him 1 was very happy in my for Barrett. wat girl isn’ she loves for the first time? high ideals, but more than to satisfy t ig as I live I shall forget the look in Wink's eves when I saw him for the first time since my The stars were still his eyes, but they were misty, cloudy. More: they con- tained pain, like that of a dog who has been kicked, but does not whim- per. “Wink, what's wrong?” 1 asked, hurriedly, in sudden unaccustomed embarrassment. ‘Nothing, Betty,” :s M1 do hope you'll be awfully happy. You the best.” He turned his head away, senior re 3ut as lon never fey aid he replied deserve quick- ly, but not hastily enough to keep me from noticing the rapid winks of his eyelashes (that's how he got us nickname; when they go like that he's either very happy or very sad) Understanding came to me. ink cared for me as I loved Barrett. 1 took his hand and pulled him down ¥ F W Then I laid his head on and stroked the He was such a boy! ing. knee curls. “We can be friends just the same, can't we, Bets?" he brought forth from the shield of his hands. 1 was too much choked to reply. He lifted his head for an answer. The stars in his eyes were clear again: they sent a little tremor through me. I didn’t know that anyone ex- cept Barrett could make me feel like that. Why had he not told me that he cared in that way? “Of course, we'll be friends,” I returned gayly. “You'll marry some nice girl and then we'll have the gayest old bridge games and par- ties together.” Wink smiled gallantly, patted my hand, and proposed a tennis match. This happened in June. Barrett planned to visit my home in August. In the middle of July, however, I received a letter from him which broke my romance as the wind shat- ters an airy bubble. After that, there was nothing left for me but to get work and to dis- appear from my own town until the heartbreak softened. Fortunately, I was able to secure a teaching position in a tiny country village. No one except my mother knew my address; and I gave her strict in- junctions not to disclose it under any my Then, one spring afternoon, as I finishing some work after my desk. they hurt before I was convinced of his reality. “Wink! Did mother" “Nope. You forget you can’t shake a setter!” “Please—don’t tease,” 1 begged, gulping on a salty tear which had slipped down my nose and into my | mouth before I was aware of it. “lI was calling on your mother yesterday, and saw a letter of | yours lying on the table. Of course, | I looked at the postmark;it was easy | to find you in this small place.” | He came around to my side and lifted me by the elbows. “Dear, | come back to us, and to me. 1 love you.” i The stars in his eyes were twin- | kly and beckoning; again I felt stirred. Why, Wink had the power | to awaken me; and now I did not | need to deny him, for I was free. | “My love is no longer shining and new, Wink. Will you want it, | tarnished and worn?" WHO'S NEWS THIS WEEK By LEMUEL F. PARTON NEW YORK.—It is perhaps just + as well that Crosby Gaige is a bachelor. He drags home 200,000 patent models, including a corpse preserver, hog- Bachelor Has catcher, burglar 200,000 Odd alarm, an early Gadgets Hoe printing press, a dentist's chair, a machine gun, an egg-beat- er, an engine, a steamboat, a pret. zel-bending machine—and so on— and on. The patent office models had been gathered by the late Sir Henry Well- come and kept at his estate in 3,251 packing cases. Mr. Gaige bought them. A friend of this writer, remem- bering with remorse he hadn't bought a birthday present for his wife, stepped into an He became confused and ten barrels of almost broke Gaige will iction room. bought tin cookie cutters. It up his Mr. have no home. such trouble, Mr. Gaige was born the son of the postmaster at Skunk Hol- low, N. Y., and became 2a Broadway theatrical producer, with a 300-acre estate at Peeks- kill on the Hudson, where he in- dulges his taste for knickknacks such as the above, but with more discrimination than this ensemble suggests. autiful wines He has cattle blooded cattle, where he knock-outs in huge library books, and is ¢ a the riends say. All c extra-curricular. these Theaters Out of Red for 29 Years steadily out of the 1 bia university, he wrote varsity show “oT ' He got a job beth Marbury, ous reading plays at ten cents He saved his into the show ranning start. His life is every commuter’'s dream. is of clerical, almost mien, of somewhat austere countenance, with octagonal pince-nez and, like all epicures, abstemious in all things—saving such things as patent models, money busi ness wit the fulfillment of He monkish He wears red, white and blue sus- penders and is very fussy about his handkerchief pocket. He always has the tailor sew a button on it. » . * N ATTACK of laryngitis gave Margaret Sullavan her big start. Lee Shubert saw her in “Three Artists and a Lady” at Princeton, and Sore Throat rushed back-stage Gave Start with a contract. to Screen Ace "You have voice Just Ethel Barrymore,” he said. She explained that it was mere- ly laryngitis, but the excited Mr. Shubert wouldn't listen. There was nothing to be done about it, so the helpless girl was signed for five years. That was a bit of luck which, in Miss Sullavan’s career, off- sels embarrassing entangle- ments in some of the most elab- orafe flops in current stage history. Today, she is at the peak of her career as critics turn cartwheels and back flips over the new film, “Three Com- rades,” and Miss Sullavan’'s performance therein. a like Her story has none of the up- from-poverty success routine. She is the daughter of a prideful family Her journey to Boston to study dancing was in- dulged as a passing whim, but there when she switched to the theater and began adventuring in summer Her father got her home once, but only for a short time. It is to be hoped that her story won't be widely circulated around Hollywood. It would start all the extra girls ® Consolidated News Features, WNU Service. The Average Month We are apt to think of ent months as having apiece, but that is verage month conta : i H : Hi 72 HE 5 = & i i f :
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers