CHAPTER IX—Continued
A
So Nora came back, though it was
all of two days before she spoke.
Her first real sentence was: ‘‘Have
you cabled to Father?’ Her second:
“What have they done to you, Don?
You look five years older!” Her
third: “I think his hair will wave
like yours, darling.”
Not until then did Don feel that
she had come back to stay.
The tide was coming in. Said
Nora, watching the restless break-
ers: “That was a beauty, wasn't
it? Let’s move back close to the
dunes, Don. We'll be getting wet.”
Her husband, flat on the sun-
warmed sands of Maine, command-
ed lazily: “Sit still, woman. Who
minds a dash of salt water on such
a day?”
“1 do,” confessed Nora, ‘‘at least,
when it gets into my shoes! Jimsy
precious, don’t throw that sand into
Daddy's hair. Haven't I told you
not to hundreds of times?”
‘““Hund’eds o’ times,” Jimsy, aged
two years and some odd months ad-
mitted amiably; and sat down on
his father without warning.
“Ouch!” exclaimed Don. ‘“What
do you think my stomach’s made
of, feller? He's a buster, isn’t he,
Nora? I bet he’s headed for the
prize ring! Was my heir and name-
sake as husky at this age? I can't
remember.”
With cautious eyes on an ap-
proaching wave, Nora responded:
‘““He was almost four pounds light-
er; and then that awful typhoid in
South Africa pulled him down.
Sometimes I feel that he's never
quite recovered from the effects of
it. 1 believe . . .”
She paused, because neither of
them liked to recall that year near
Cape Town, especially Nora.
Though she had seen
“. . . the dawn in Africa—
That gorgeous dawn of Africa
Which springs from out the veld”
it had left her cold. For it was
Africa, she thought, forgetting the
approaching breakers as she looked
down on Don, that had etched those
wrinkles around his eyes—sprinkled
his brown hair with gray, and, for a
time, tightened the corners of his
engaging mouth into something
grim. It had been months before
Nora saw those lines relax, before
she knew that, somehow, her hus-
band’s spirit had risen again to the
heights where she so yearned to
keep it.
Cape Town! Always Nora was
glad to remember that it was not
Don's love of roving which took
them there. He could never re-
proach himself for that. After the
birth of her first baby they had re-
mained in England for six months;
then returned to Italy, partly be-
cause it cost less to live there, but
principally because the London edi-
tor had agreed to use more of Don's
“letters.” They both longed for Ca-
pri. Even without the Venables,
who were to winter in New York
that year, it would seem homelike.
But it was understood that Don's
articles must describe some differ-
ent portion of the country, so a tiny
villa overlooking Lake Como was
their headquarters during the next
year.
Not that the entire year was spent
in Italy. Trust Don for that! There
had been a wonderful two months
in southern France—another in Bel-
gium—a German Christmas! And
there was always the joy of watch-
ing their small son change and de-
velop: that ageless miracle which
to adoring parents is ever new.
Time drifted by, a happy time,
though there were days when the
realization that her father was still
unrelenting, would descend bleakly
on Leonora, blinding her eyes to the
Italian sunshine—bringing her tears
at night when none could see. For
not even after learning that she
was a mother had James Lambert
written. This hurt the girl more
than all that had gone before; and,
knowing she suffered, her husband
was conscious of futile rage toward
the man who wounded her. She
said one day when the little boy
was taking his first steps:
“Don, when you wrote to Father
about the baby, did—did you tell
him how very sick I was?”
Don nodded; arose, and because
he feared to say something unkind
of Nora's father, merely stooped
down to kiss the top of her bright
head.
“Perhaps he never got the letter,
Don.”
“Perhaps,” Don echoed. And
then, suddenly furious at the situa-
tion: “Nora, my dear, don’t grieve
yourself sick over him a minute
longer. You've gone so much more
than half way, haven't you? Of
course your father knows how ill
you were. You've written yourself,
time and again since the boy came.”
“Yes,” Nora assented, “but I've
always made light of that part,
dear.”
“You would!” Don was still an-
gry. “Put him out of your mind,
Nora. Your father's a—a stubborn
0 —
e paused, not wishing to say
just what he thought—sorry he'd
said as much; but Nora, to his sur-
wnrise, looked up and smiled at him.
“You're right,” she said. ‘‘He's
a stubborn old angel; but he's the
only father I've ever known, Don,
and I can't forget him even though
he has—has forgotten me.”
“Oh, no he hasn't!” Don spoke
with truth that was intuitive. *“He'll
never forget you, Nora. You can
bank on that if it's any comfort.”
So, ‘banking on that,” Nora's let-
ters to James Lambert continued to
be a part of her busy life. Some-
times they followed one another
closely. Sometimes long weeks lay
in between; but they did not cease.
And then, when Donald Mason,
Jr., was two years old and his par-
ents were making plans for a return
to America, the London editor whom
Don had christened ‘‘old life-pre-
server,” made him an offer. He
wanted more ‘“Letters.”” His public
had asked for them-—letters from
For a long time Nora
sat stricken.
some farther-away point than Italy.
Would Mr. Mason consider going to
South Africa? In the region near
Cape Town there was a wealth of
material for the sort of thing he did
so entertainingly. A prompt deci-
sion would be very greatly appreci-
ated . . .
The prompt decision took Don less
than thirty seconds. He said, toss-
ing the letter to Leonora: “Just look
at that, Madam! We'll go, of course.
It's bread and butter, with a whale
of an opportunity for a lark thrown
in.” His eyes were already ashine
with the light of adventure; then,
as Nora said nothing, he glanced
up quickly and caught a glimpse of
her dismay.
“You—you don’t want to go?” he
asked, incredulous.
She turned away.
see her tell-tale eyes.
“Of course I do! It's only that
I'd counted on going home. 1
thought if we were nearer that Fa-
ther might consent to see us—see
the baby, I mean. But it's all right,
Don. Of course we shall go. And
it's only a year.”
But what a year!
They were staying temporarily in
a settlement some miles north of
Cape Town, gathering material for
Don's work. Three months had
passed. Only five of the promised
Letters off to England; and on the
very morning when Nora discovered
that she was to face the ordeal of
motherhood again, Don returned
from a four-days’ trip to the dia-
mond mines of Kimberley, kissed
her half-heartedly, dropped into the
nearest chair, and said: “I'm all
in, Nora. I—I am awfully afraid
that something’'s—got me.”
Something had! Six days later
when the doctor diagnosed the case
as typhoid, Don was too sick to
be moved to a Cape Town hospital.
More than half ill herself, Nora
nursed her husband through weary
days and nights—week after week of
weary days and nights, not dar-
ing to spend money for a trained
helper.
Not that there weren't those who
lent assistance when it became
known that ‘‘the nice American—
the writer chap’ was down with ty-
phoid. Nora never forgot one terri-
ble gray dawn when, worn with
her vigil—fighting the deadly nau-
sea that was then her portion—Don
slightly delirious—the baby fretting
unaccountably, she glanced up at
the sound of a softly opening door
to see a woman whose unenviable
reputation was common knowledge
in the community. Nora had once
smiled courteously on her in pass-
ing, “because,” she said in answer
to the amazement that swept across
the face of her own escort, an Eng-
lish boy of twenty who, in Don's
absence, was showing her ‘a bit of
Africa,” —"'because we don't know,
do we, what dragged her down?"
And after a moment's silence the
boy burst out impulsively: his face
Don mustn't
flushing: “I say! I—I think that's
ripping of you, Mrs. Mason!"
So in the chill, gray dawn, Nora,
lifting heavy eyelids, beheld that
woman in the doorway. Her mouth
was rouged into a cupid’'s bow; her
hair hung in untidy wisps about her
face; and, even in that surprising
moment Nora saw, embedded in
the flesh of one pudgy finger, a dia-
mond that would have supported
Don's small family for a year or
more.
“You been up all night?” was
her only greeting. ‘I saw your
light burnin’ at two o'clock. Say,
lady, you ain't built for a job like
this; and there ain't a thing you
could tell me about typhoid. I near
died of it myself, and I've nursed
three cases. I'll look after your
mar now while you get a rest. May-
be if you lay down side o' that kid
he'll quit his yellin’. You go lay
down.”
Without one protest Nora dropped
like a log beside the baby. They
slept for hours. It was long past
noon when she awoke. The woman
had vanished, and sitting beside
Don's bed was the young English
boy. He said, as if it were the most
natural thing on earth to have found
such a woman guarding the sick
man:
“She said to tell you that Mr.
Mason had a nap; and she'll be
back at midnight to spell you for a
while. The kiddie woke up once
and she gave him some boiled milk.
The doctor's been, and thinks your
husband has turned the corner.”
Nora felt sure during the next
few days, that the worst was over;
but before her husband was on his
feet again, the baby sickened as his
father had. Don, a gaunt, hollow-
eyed skeleton (it frightened Nora
just to look at him), rose from his
bed to help her with the nursing.
In those black days, watching their
little son waste to a shadow, fight
ing together for his very life, noth-
ing else mattered, not even an
irate cable from the London editor
demanding copy long overdue.
It was on a day when things had
been very bad indeed, that the
young Englishman came in bearing
a letter addressed to Leonora in the
familiar writing of Constance Ven-
able. After long, fretful hours the
baby was asleep, and Don said soft-
ly: “Read it aloud, dear. Perhaps
it will cheer us up a little.”
Nora opened the letter, glanced
down the page slowly, and then
said: “Let's wait, Don.” Her voice
sounded, he noticed, very strange.
And she was breathing hard.
“What's happened?” he ques
tioned, and would have grasped the
missive had she not held it back.
“It—it's Ven, darling,” she told
him, her voice trembling now.
“Ven?”
“Gone, Don. Drowned on their
own beach off the island—a cramp
probably. He-—he was all alone."
She arose then, to put her arms
about him. During those months
at Capri Don's friendship for Carl
Venable had grown into something
very close. For a long time, it seemed
to Nora, Don sat there, his face
pressed into her shoulder. Then he
said harshly: ‘Read the letter,
Nora. It can’t be any worse than
—this."”
They read it with tears; vet both
felt better after the reading. It
was a long letter, and toward the
end Constance had written: “Try
not to grieve too much, for that
would grieve Carl, wouldn't it? He
was the happiest human being I
have ever known. After all, it's a
wonderful thing to go out on the
crest of life, leaving only one’s fin-
est work as a memorial. He had
dreaded the time when bis hand
might falter—when that sure, clean
stroke of the brush which marks
his paintings, would become un-
WAU SERVICE
steady. And we had 20 beautiful
years together, Nora; years when
we lived lavishly—spent too lavish-
ly some would think. But I don’t
regret it, even though there is little
left save some paintings, his life in-
surance, and the villa at Capri. If
that seems strange, recalling the
prices Carl's work has brought, re-
member the countless friends he
was always helping: discouraged
artists—boys needing an education
—old folks who save for him would
have ended their days in loneliness
and poverty, Money meant noth-
ing to Carl except a means of do-
ing things for others. And his last
gift, Nora, was a gift for you! It's
safe at the shack now—wus to have
been a surprise when you came
home, ‘because,’ he said, ‘it'll be
years before they'll save enough to
buy one, and it's a crime for Nora
not to have it while she's young!’
—A beautiful baby-grand piano,
dear Nora. One # the finest. He
was so happy about it—one of his
last real happinesses . . ."”
Nora paused. She could not read
any further; nor could Don speak.
And then a voice came from the
bed, a tired, weak little voice that
many times during those days they
had feared never to hear again:
‘““Me wants — dinkawater — Mud-
der.”
CHAPTER X
The rest seemed easy to Leonora
compared with ali that had gone
before. Yet the night when she
found Don asleep over the weekly
“Letters from Cape Town,” his
head dropped forward on the kitchen
table that served as desk, one still-
thin hand clutching a stub of pencil
(*““Too tired to use his typewriter,
poor boy!" she thought compassion-
ately), and discovered that instead
of spending long days in the open
as he'd led her to believe, getting
back strength lost in his illness, he
had for weeks been going into Cape
Town to help load freighters at the
docks because it meant more mon-
ey — immediate money, the girl
wished for one bitter moment that
they had never met.
“Oh, Don, what have I brought
you to?" she cried; and he respond-
ed in an effort to console her:
“To something better, 1 hope,
than the careless boy you married,
Nora. We've been growing up, I
suppose; and growing pains leave
scars on some of us. Give me
time, darling, and I'll get back my
old stride.”
It still hurt Nora to think about
that night.
And the next morning!
In Don's absence a letter arrived
from the London editor. Nora
opened it eagerly. According to
her husband's contract each article
was to be paid for when received;
and the “cupboard was bare,” or
nearer bare than she liked to think
about. But to her surprise no crisp,
blue check fell from the envelope.
It contained merely a letter and a
manuscript. The editor was, it ap-
peared, courteously puzzled. His
contributor's work seemed to be
slipping—was surely not up to its
customary standard. The last few
if he were writing under pressure,
not for the joy of narrating his ad-
ventures. They lacked utterly the
charm of all his former work. For
both their sakes he was returning
the last “Letter from Cape Town."
For a long time Nora sat strick-
en, staring at those words written in
neat longhand. Under the circum-
stances it was not a disagreeable
letter. It was merely cold. It made
her think of a hypercritical parent
reproving a careless child. It would
eyes.
(TO BE CONTINUED)
The Tonga archipelago, or Friend-
ly islands, are under British pro-
tectorate, but the government is a
constitutional monarchy, and the dy-
nasty of its royal family remains
unbroken. The picturesque, dreamy
town of Nukualofa is the capital.
This group of islands must not be
confused with Raratonga in the Cook
group, which is a dependency of
New Zealand. The Tonga archipel-
ago consists of about 100 islands,
large and small.
It was the daring navigator and
explorer, Cook, who gave the name
of Friendly islands to the coral
group where he found the Tongans
living in apparent peace and happi-
ness. According to tradition, states
a writer in the Boston Globe, this
name was inappropriate, as it was
afterward discovered that a plot was
on foot for the massacre of Cook
and his men and that it was only
prevented from being carried out
through the unexpected develop-
ment of differences among those
who were to perform the deed.
The Tongans were in a consider-
able state of civilization at the time
of Captain Cook's discovery of the
islands. With the of wars
with the neighboring Fijians, they
have always been peaceable peo-
ple. They bear a closer resem-
blance to the Samoans than to any
other branch of the Polynesian race.
In the tropical water are many
species of beautifully colored and
strangely shaped fish. Great dove-
colored sea turtles, some of them
weighing as much as 700 pounds;
fish of the deepest blue, brightest
red, yellow, pink, green, black and
striped and mottled and of every
conceivable shape float sluggishly
around.
Wine Worth $20,000 a Drop!
The Rathskeller’'s celebrated
“Rose Cellar” in Bremen has a
wine that even millionaires could
not afford to drink, a Rudesheimer
from the year 1853. Originally the
wine cost 300 gold talers. Adding
to this the yearly charge for interest
and leakage, statisticians reckon
that the value of the wine is over
$20,000 a drop or more than $20,
000,000 a glass. Except as a curios-
ity, however, it is in practice not
worth a cent, since the improve-
ment of wine with age has its limits
and after “maturing’’ for three hun-
dred years, this Rudesheimer has
completely lost its flavor,
By C. HOUSTON GOUDISS |
NATURALLY, I am accustomed
- to seeing exhibits of delicious
and interesting foods in the Exper- |
imental Kitchen Laboratory that 1 |
maintain in New York City. But]
in all the years of its existence, it
has never been a busier nor a
more inviting place than during
the last few weeks when the home
economists on my staff have been
busily testing and judging the
many fine cake recipes sub-
mitted by readers of this paper in
our recent Cake Recipe Contest.
Imagine, if you can, a big cheer- |
ful and colorful kitchen filled |
with long tables upon which row |
after row of handsome cakes |
were arranged—proudly testifying |
to the skill of the homemakers |
who cherish the recipes {rom
which they were made.
Every Type of Cake Entered,
A whole tableful of white cakes,
with and without icing. Chocolate |
and cocoa cakes of every possible |
type. All manner of cakes, fra-|
grant and delicious — spice, ice |
honey, caramel,
syrup, nut, date, pineapple, or-|
ange, lemon, butterscotch, jam, |
banana, raisin, oatmeal, cocoanut
and marble cakes. Cakes baked
in long sheets, square cakes,
round cakes, layer cakes.
fashioned cakes from
mothers’ recipe books. Very mod-
ern and up-to-date cakes. And
even one that was
been a favorite with General Rob-
ert E. Lee. I've never seen any-
g to compare with the collec- |
tion, even at the biggest State
Fair!
Do you wonder that the home
economists on my staff required |
several weeks to pick the win-
ners? For with such a wealth
exceptional cakes from which to
selecting those for top
honors, was indeed difficult.
The cake bakers were trained
for their work. They followed the
recipes precisely. They measured
accurately. They checked oven
temperatures.
The scoring system was highly |
scientific. And we can say with
conviction that no matter how
close the race, the winners defi- |
nitely outpointed even their clos- |
est rivals. |
"PORT
cream,
choose,
First Prize Winner.
The first prize of $25.00 went to |
Mrs. D. F. Kelly, 1004 Charles St., |
Whitewater, Wis. |
Second Prize Winners.
The five second prizes were
awarded to Mrs. H. Harshbargen |
of 2427 Fifth Ave., Altoona, Pa.; |
R. A. Williams, 12075 Rosemary
Ave., Detroit, Mich.; Mrs. C. A.
Burns, Box 788, Oakland, Miss. ;
Miss Sadie Cunningham, Avon- |
more, Pa.: and Mrs. Laura Mey-
er, 107 Pleasant St., Plymouth, |
Wis.
Third Prize Winners.
T. H. Fjone, Flaxville,
Mrs. Lester Ralston, 127
South Judd St., Sioux City, Iowa;
Mrs. Harry A. Kramer, 16 Marin
Road, Manor, Calif.; Mrs. F. D.
McDonald, Route 1, Amherst,
Mrs.
AROUND
f{ THE HOUSE
Dull-Bottomed Pans.—Save heat
and money by using pots and
pans with black or satin-finished
bottoms, which absorb heat more
evenly and rapidly than those with
shiny bottoms.
* * »
Help Children Help Selves.
Buttons on small children’s cloth.
ing should be from 3% to 1%
inches in diameter so that the
child can easily button his own
clothes.
. * »
Flush-Type Molding.—By using
flush-type steel or wood moldings
dust-catching corners may be
eliminated and the housework
made easier and more thorough.
-
Wrap Meats to Store.—Research
shows that cooked meat stored in
a refrigerator loses the least
weight when wrapped in paraffin
paper or stored in a covered con-
if.
Texas; Vera Tygar, Commodore,
Pa.; Mrs. George Ahlborn, R. D.
A. Robinson, Box 578, Emmett,
bell St., Kansas City,
Walter Richter, Bonduel,
Mrs. P. C. Blakely, Alden,
Honorable Mention.
Emogene
Mo : Mrs.
ww -
Wis. ;
Mich.
Williams, Damon,
N. D.; Mrs.
+11 roy
ville, Iowa;
Dick Collins, Mason-
Mrs. B. F. Herman,
Box 1118, Crosby, Miss.; Mrs.
Paul lorenz, P. O. Box 225,
Strathmore, Calif.; Mrs. S. S. Ar-
entz, Simpson, Nev.; Vida
Hiiger, Box 257, Rockland, Mich. ;
Mrs. Grace H. Peterson, Box 335,
Mrs. Cecil
ner, Bedford, Wyo.; Mrs. Joe Fury
St.,
Mrs.
Amherst, Wis. ;
a
nace, oil
Sout}
My thanks and my compliments
mn Mer 3 W
West Twentieth
Sioux City, Neb.
ted a recipe. 1 only regret that
everyone who submitted a recipe
could not win a prize.
[lll For warm Weather Comfort |!
I REDUCE
By This Easy,
Comfortable Method
Send for the Free Balletin
Offered by C. Houston Goudiss
|
When the temperature mounts, fat
hinders heat loss. The body tem per-
ature of the overweight individual
is more likely to rise than tha: of
the thin person, and he is therefore
mote liable to best prostration.
For grester comfort, better appear-
ance and for improved health, the
man of woman who is overweight
should send for the reducing bulle-
tin offered free by C. Houston
Gouediss, and reduce by the safe and
sane method of counting calories,
The bulletin és complete with a
chart, showrmg the caloric value
of all the commonly weed foods
and # comtams trample menws
that you cam wee at a guide Bo
screntific weight reductson.
Just send a postcard to C. Houston
Goudiss at 6 East 39th Screet,
New York City, asking for bis
reducing bulletin.
World of Difference
Many a man has mistaken
“gall” for grit.
How Women
in Their 40’s
Can Attract Men
Here s good advice for a woman during ber
change (usually from 38 to 52), who oars
she'll Jose her appeal to men, who worries
about hot flashes, loss of , dizzy spelis,
upset nerves and moody p .
a ra. sleep a
need a general system tonic take Lydia
E. Pinkham's Vegetable Com d, made
especially for women. It helps Nature build
up physical resistance, thus beips give more
vivarity to enjoy life and assist calming
jittery nerves and disturbing symptoms that
8.000] hange of Hf WELL
WORTH TAYING! .
A Man of Wealth
A learned man has always
riches in himself.—Phaedrus.
The crying of children is some-
times an indication of WORMS
in the system. The cheapest
and quickest medicine for rid-
ding children or adults of these
parasites is Dr. Peery’s “Dead
Shot’ Vermifuge. 50c a bottle
at druggists or Wright's Pill
Co.,100Gold St. New York, N.Y.
Come to Washington
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