© Ben Ames Willlams, SYNOPSIS Barbara Sentry, seeking to sober up her escort, Johnnie Boyd, on the way home from a party, slaps him, and attracts the attention of a policeman, whom the boy knocks down. As he arrests him, Professor Brace of Harvard comes to the rescue and drives Barbara home. On the way they see Barbara's father driving from the direction of his office. CHAPTER I—Continued 9 “I'll have to admit,”” Brace said, “that you played the game! But if you're going to be so loyal, shouldn't you be specially careful in choosing your friends? Loyalty misplaced is pretty treacherous.” “Johnny always has behaved him- self before. I don't care much for cocktails and wild parties; but there are certain things you do when you're on the deb list, you know. Mother wanted me to have one sea- son of it,” replied Barbara. ‘“‘Big dance at the Somerset, stag lines, all that sort of thing?” His tone was derisive. “No, I just had a luncheon at home. Father's and mother’s friends, and their families. Last March.” “Well, that.” She laughed faintly. ‘Oh, we're really a pretty sensible family,” she assured him. ‘Perfectly respecta- ble, honestly.” There was amuse- ment in her tones. ‘Of course we're in trade. Father and his father and grandfather before him. Fruit and things. Oranges from Florida and all that. I suppose you profes- sors think business is a pity; but at least we're wholesale. That's something, isn't it?” He chuckled. “Everything, 1 should say.” And she exclaimed tri- umphantly, “There, I knew you could laugh if you tried!” “But it seems such a waste of time for a girl to chase around to drunken parties—"’ “Oh, don’t be so worthy! Besides, it wasn't a drunken party. Johnny's foot slipped, that’s all.” He said thoughtfully: “I know his kind; see them in class right along. But I don’t know the girls they run around with. You're a—new breed to me.” He looked at her directly. “I come from a small mid-Western town,” he explained. ‘Folks were church people. We didn’t drink, or —dance much, or play cards. Of course, 1 know the standards I learned as a youngster are old-fash- ioned now. But—what have you put in place of them? What are you like? Girls your age, I mean? Your- self, and the girls you know?” “We're a pretty decent lot,” she assured him. “The people ten years older than us did run wild; but the girls I know don’t drink too much, and they're level-headed and re- sponsible. My older sister works every day in the hospital. She's go- ing to marry a doctor and be a med- ical missionary. Mother does a lot of club work, things like that. We're the sort of family that doesn’t get into the society columns very much. We don’t telephone the editor every time we have people to dinner. But we're all right. Doing our jobs, be- having ourselves.” She hesitated, laughed a little. “1 don’t know why I'm telling you the story of my life—except that I sort of want you to—well, to not be so sure I'm just a crazy kid.” He said: “I don’t! I did at first, naturally; but I can see you're--not as bad as I thought.”” He smiled. “I suppose yours is what we think of as a ‘fine old Boston family.’ Your father’s turning at the next corner. Shall I follow him?” “Let him go,” Barbara directed. “We'll take the next turn. Yes, I suppose we are. I never thought much about it. My sister and I do the usual things. Of course my brother's in Yale instead of Har- vard, but the Sentrys have been Yale for a good many generations. And mother and father—" “By the way,” the professor sug- gested, “why not tell your father about this scrape tonight? I expect he'd like to feel that he had your confidence.” “No, he'd just disapprove and be stern,” she said. “‘He’s always been pretty strict with himself, and with us too. He keeps telling me how girls behaved when he was young!” “It wasn't a bad way to behave!” She laughed. “I'll bet as many girls were kissed in buggies then as in automobiles now. Turn here. Our house is two blocks ahead.” And then she exclaimed: “That must be father just turning into our drive! He drove awfully slowly, didn't he? Switch off your lights. Stop in the street, and we'll wait till he has gone to bed.” They stopped in front of the house, hidden behind a high hedge, and Professor Brace stilled the en- gine. In the sudden silence they heard steps on gravel. “He’s coming back from the ga- rage,” she whispered; and a mo- ment later: “There! He's opened the front door!™ Light shone out, then was dark as the door closed there's some sense to again. “We'll wait till he’s gone up- stairs,” she directed. “Do you mind?” He did not mind. He asked where Johnny lived, how to get clothes to take him for his appearance in court in the morning. She gave him the number of Johnny's dormitory room. ‘‘But probably one of his room-mates will do it,” she sug- gested. Then an upstairs light came on. ‘“There!’’ she said. dressing. He must have gone to the kitchen for something before he went upstairs.” And when presently the light went out, “Now he’s in bed!” She opened the car door. “You've really been awfully kind. Thanks a lot.” She extended her hand. He said: ‘See here, Miss Sentry. May I drop in, one of these days? I'd like to know you better.” Her eyes twinkled. ‘“‘Then you don’t think I'm hopeless?”’ He chuckled. ‘Maybe I can re- form you!” “Do come. “Thanks. night!” Their hands clasped. He started the car and drove away; and Bar- bara, walking for silence’s sake on “Father's un- Sunday evening?” Count on me. Good- “You Find So Many Objectionable the turf beside the gravel drive, went toward the house. She wondered why her father had been downtown so late tonight; won- dered what time it was; looked at her watch. It was quarter of one. Mrs. Sentry, Barbara's mother, roused when her husband turned on the light in their bedroom and got into his bed beside hers. She did not fully wake; just asked drowsily, “Everything all right, Arthur?” “Of course! Perfect!” “What time is it?" “Quarter past eleven,” he said, and she heard the rustling of the paper as he began to read. She thought sleepily that he was home early. He always dined at the Club on Thursday evenings, with bridge before and after dinner; but usually he was later than that in coming home. He was still reading when she drifted back to sleep. When Nellie knocked on the door at seven next morning, Mrs. Sentry had been some time awake, plan- ning her day. The seamstress in the forenoon, lunch at Mrs. Furness’ to hear Miss Glen speak, dinner at home this evening. Mr. Sentry did not rouse at Nellie's knock; and Mrs. Sentry saw that he lay on his side, his back toward her; and she noticed with a faint jealous re- sentment of his continued youthful- ness that his tumbled dark hair was not yet thin even on the top of his head. They had been married al- most thirty years. The children, babies so short a time ago, were young men and women now. Mary, so like Mrs. Sentry herself, ab- sorbed in her work at the Hospital, taking it with a severe seriousness. Phil, a Junior at New Haven, closer to Mrs. Sentry than either of his sisters, apt to tease her about her pride, her high head. Barbara . « . Mrs. Sentry reflected now that Barbara, the youngest, was almost like a stranger in the family. Only between Barb and Phil, both with a gift for laughter, was there close abiding sympathy. Mrs. Sentry wondered-—lying half asleep—what their other children would have been like if there had been others. But of course there could not be. She had, so far as outward appearances were concerned, forgiven Arthur that old offense readily enough. “At least,” she told him icily, that day a few weeks before Barbara was born when he came to her in contrite con- fession, “there has been no scandal. I could not forgive a scandal. So, since no one knows—unless she—"’ And the matter was never men- tioned again between them. But the forgiveness, naturally was only on the surface. Yet they continued to preserve the outward forms, even to sleep in beds side by side, so that not even the servants ever knew Mrs. Sentry thought this morning that her ancient tol- erance had been repaid. Their lives had always been outwardly serene; were serene as they grew older now. .. She rose, leaving Arthur abed; but while she was dressing, she heard him stirring, and called, “Thought you might want to sleep.” He said, “No,” rather curtly. “Do well last night? Have a good game?” “Didn't hold any cards.” The Thursday night bridge was in the nature of a tournament, four rub- bers being played after dinner. He referred to this as he explained now: “They finished us off by half past ten. I hung around for a few minutes, and then came along home.” He added: “And I forgot your package from Butler's, Ellen. They delivered it about four o'clock, but I left it on my desk at the office.” “It doesn't matter,” she said. “Today will do.” She repeated, “It doesn’t matter at all,” and she won- 1 § Things About Me Lately, Mother!” dered why she went to such pains to reassure him, realized that there was something like apprehension in his tone, as though he were afraid what she would say. She asked hur- riedly, *“Who did you play with?” “Dean Hare,” he said. “Against Carl Bettie and Bob Flood.” She came into his dressing-room, herself ready for the day, and watched him knot his tie, brush his hair, trim his mustache. “What a time you have with that, don't you?” she said, amused at his in- tensity as he leaned close to the mirror, his jaw depressed to draw his upper lip taut, holding his mus- tache flat with one finger while with many grimaces he trimmed its rag- ged edges. He nodded, and put on coat and vest, stowed odds and ends in his pockets, said, “Well, ready?” She felt tautness in him, a need for reassurance. “You look about twenty-five,” she told him dutifully. “Not a day older than Mary. You make me feel as though I had four children instead of three!” He smiled; and she thought she had succeeded in putting him in better humor for the day. She had always administered praise to him like a medicine, skillfully. The house was old, of brick, four- square, with a French roof, slopes broken by gables that ad- per floor. thur's grandfather, in what at that time open country; but now it was crowded among others, most of them of a later period, and re- court beside the garage in the rear. A sluggish stream meandered be- the rear of the lot; and there was a pergola of brick and stone behind father, on the bank above the water where ducks came to feed. dendrons ten or twelve feet high screened the house from the street in front, and there were along the lot line on either side. Out- cloaked the walls; but inside there were changes. Arthur's mother, when she was mistress here, had torn out walls, intalled bathrooms, dressing-rooms, closets; ed again and again. Mary was at the table when Mr, and Mrs. Sentry entered the dining- room; rose punctiliously to greet them. She was a tall, lovely girl, her cheeks a little hollowed so that her cheekbones and the line of her jaw showed firmly; and her eyes were apt to be grave, even when she smiled. She wore this morning a suit of blue-gray homespun, and her father, seeing this, commented: “Looks as though you're dressed for business." She nodded. “Yes,” she agreed. “I'm going to the hospital.” She spent part of every day there as a volunteer, tending convalescent pa- tients, learning something of nurs- ing and medicine in the process. The hospital was Mrs. Sentry’'s pet charity; but Neil Ray, rather than her mother, was responsible for the fact that Mary's interests were thus directed. Neil was studying medi- cine, planning to follow his father as a medical missionary in China; and he wanted Mary to marry him. “lI told him,” she confessed to her mother the night he proposed to her, “that I was no kind of wife for any kind of missionary!” Yet she had thereafter plunged into this work, as though thus she might de- serve him. That was months ago. Mrs. Sentry had spoken her mind to Mary, with the frankness upon which she prided herself. ‘‘Ridicu- lous!” she said. “To go way off to China! And preposterous for him to let you humble yourself! You've lost your head over this young man.” But the only result of her advice had been to awaken in Mary a de- fensive and antagonistic attitude, make her increasingly critical to- ward them all. Thus she said to Mr. Sentry now: look as though you ought to be in one, father. Been burning the can- dle at both ends?” “Had a bad night,” he explained. for hours.” “You don’t look sleepy,” Mary commented, in a dry, professional tone. “You look as though—well, as though your nerves were shot.” She smiled. erish,” she suggested. your tongue!” Mrs. Sentry said in a dry tone, “Mary, I'm beginning to object to this clinical atmosphere in the home.” “You find so many objectionable things about me lately, mother!” (TO BE CONTINUED) “Stick out In no corner of the world has modern fashion in dress made less headway than in the Polish country- side. The spinning wheel and the loom still hold their place of honor, and homespun still is the garb of 75 per cent of the peasants. There are four main groups of peasant costumes in Poland. The two most striking are in and around Lowicz, and on the southeastern border of Poland among the Huculs. The others are to be found among the Gorals in the Zakopane district and in Upper Silesia, notes a writer in the Detroit News. Lowicz skirts are made from the famous rainbow wool, showing wide stripes of orange and canary yel- low, alternating with narrow strips of blacks and browns, violet and amaranth, rich chocolate hues, deep purples, green and rose. But yellow seems to prevail, a yellow as radi- ant as the California poppy. The fashion comes straight from the native soil, for the women weave just what they see through their door: long, narrow fields which at a distance look like wvari-colored stripes on the landscape. These women wear close fitting vests with horizontal stripes and their white linen blouses haye loose sleeves, sometimes gayly embroid- ered. The Huculs run to bright colors, which would be considered somber if compared with those of Lowicz. A unique feature is that the women wear aprons instead of skirts—one apron fore and another aft. The re- suit is a close fitting garment with plenty of looseness for riding and mountain climbing. And this is be- ing considered by stylists for sports wear as a variation on the coulettes that have recently been the rage. The sleeveless lambskin coats worn by these women also are adapted for winter sports. They usually are made with the fur side in, and the outer skin embroidered in gay colors. They give plenty of free arm play and keep the torso toasty warm. Hucul women wear them all winter in the icy moun- tain blasts. Ohio’s State House The state house at Columbus, was completed in 1859. It 20 years to build it. In 1809 an annex was built on the east side of the main structure, and in 1029 an office building erected on the bank: of the Scioto river, donated by the citr « Columbus, Ohio, took PRICE OF PERFECTION. .. If being "tops" in your line cost you nothing, it would be worth just that much to youl be By WINIFRED WILLARD E CAME at twilight to a home- like town among the hills of Maryland. There we would stop for the night. 1 shopped for rooms— something comfortable at modest cost. At the best looking hotel. the dapper young clerk quoted rates He what sion purse silly. I told him so replied, “Well, you just you pay for!” It's true. There was that symphony orches- heard through the sea- one. get son where 60 men played as of-balance. Just glorious, classic music. It looked so easy, all gr beauty and harmony. Jut every play- er there had paid hours a day, year after year of grill work, for the power to have his part in that en. semble. The flutist, they say. is premier of all in the world He played the very heart out of us with his eerie, almost divine melo- dies. It seemed so simple. He is paying through all the years, the price of his continued mastery. That is what makes it so worthwhile. If excelling cost these musicians nothing, it would be worth nothin to them. If being a topper in your line cost you nothing, it would be worth just that much to you! Fritz Kreisler's Price With his violin Kreisler had pleted a mighty aria. Silence of utter tribute followed. Then an im- pulsive woman n d up to him and exclaimed: } Kreisler, I'd give half my life » able to play as you do!" With quiet dignity the great musician replied: ‘‘Ma- dam, at is the very price 1 have paid.” Not even he got his mas- tery except for the price. A popular theater, full one night in Washington, was mystified and challenged by the magic that was Houdini's. We knew there must be tricky scover them, we watched com- devices. And nance, marvel of How did he do thos feats all others in his lir that permitted He did them by paving Not his But cost of them anybody else had ever done them He bega 8 a boy. Stead he recognized better he paid it he wa years of the skill he was set on Not a finger nor a toe must or fail or slip. Hard to ! So, year after year, as talked or read or thought, ti agile partners were ceaseles work, tying and knots and other things. Eternally at it, and mind of him! Houdini 1ldn’t afford to fail. He paid the untving AI ay) CGC) * . irnterimnt iniricale, 4 puzzlin with all the He got what he wanted, Paderewski's Discipline The greatest pianist of the ages is Paderewski, son of Poland, citizen of the world. We of him as a special favorite of the gods, so endowed above the earthly. Doubtless so! But the gods would have failed him unless he had done his part. He, too, must keep on When he lapses sees the difference; two davs and those close to him detect the lack: conscious of the letdown of his bril- liant technique. So, traveling over a keyboard of standard piano size and action. Hour after hour as he journeys, he sits at this keyboard and pays the price of his artistry. Few of us were designed for such outstanding front ranks as these. The same law prevails. We excel or hold our own only by continually paying. A successful young sales- vass’’ he had made the day before, how he stumbled over his story and what a poor impression he had made on the man he was trying to sell. His clear-cut explanation was that he had been doing other things for a week, hadn't worked at his job and had again to pay the price of getting back to where he was master of his situation. I did not engage the two costly rooms at the swanky hotel in the quaint little town among the hills. But I have been glad that I shopped there and grateful to the young clerk. His vivid reply which at the time seemed intended to put me where I belonged, has sent me ex- ploring along many roads in the realm of life and of living—you get just what you pay for. Copyright. —WNU Service. Flowery Canberra Canberra, the federal capital of Australia, is set in a vast amphi- theater in the foothills of the Aus- tralian Alps 200 miles from . It is a garden city of wattle bios som, of flowering almond, cherry, peach and plum. There are long avenues of decorative trees, of white buildings, (SSE I8 804) DEPARTMENT ET ee——————— CHICKS BR. AND WH, ROCKS, REDS AND BR. CROBEES. All hatched from selected Blood-Tested Breeders, Halches weekly. MILFORD HATCHERY Milford Road nr. Liberty Rd., Pikesville, PF. 0. ROCKDALE, MD. Pikesville 26.R. re Linens and Lingerie gerie monograms tamps or coins »0ing preferred) for thi to The Sewing Circle, Dept., 82 Eighth Av N. ¥. Please write dress and pattern n CONSTIPATED! Gas Crowds Heart. “For thirty years constipstion esused me Besdaches and pains in the back. Awful gas biosting crowded my heart. Adierika helped right sway. Now ] est sansage, bananas, pie, Serine I want snd never felt better "= Mrs. Mabel Schott, Two things happen when ua i. FIRST: Ac ons pated i Bnd besrtburs, elimnes gasp for oupie relief with Adlerika relieves ETOMACH GAS almost st once. It often clears bowels in lems than two hours. No ing, vo after efforts esunended by man THE HOTEL Vendig PHILADELPHIA announces New Low Rates 00 . DOUBLE i w- «)50, | SINGLE New low rates plus savings on transportation costs make this convenient hotel an ex- cellant and economical place to stop. 225 outside room with private baths and ceiling fans. Alsc moderate priced Coffee Shop and Bar. Richard B. Shanley, Manager J. Leslie Kincaid, President vr) fondly 131th and Filbert Sw. PHILADELPHIA ACS ANIA To Get Rid of Acid and Poisonous W
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers