\ © Ben Ames Williams, CHAPTER XIV—Continued — Oe. In the middle of the first week at York, business called Phil back to town; and Linda of course came with him. That night at home, her father, watching her, discovering her increasing distress, spoke doubt- fully. “I know how you love Phil, Lin,” the said. ‘‘Your mother and I under- stand. But—we hate to see your life broken by it. If he feels he must be with his mother—"" “I'll wait,” she said. He shook his head. ‘‘That isn’t fair,” he urged. ‘Not fair to your- self—or to us, Lin. We've been sym- pathetic, but—we want you to be happy, some day. Please.” “I'd rather be unhappy, loving Phil, even if I never can have him.” “It isn’t even fair to Phil,” he insisted; and Linda cried, her self- control for a moment cracking: “Oh, be still! What do I care what’s fair? There's no fairness in it, anyway. Fair? Was it fair for this to happen to Phil? To all of them? Is it fair to me that I can’t have him now?" And then, suddenly contrite, see- ing his sorrow, she was in his arms, weeping. “Oh father, father, what am I going to do?” He held her close. he told her ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to make it harder. Whatever you do, we're standing by.” “So am 1,” she whispered. “So am I. But I'm awful sick of it. It's so long, long, long—"" Yet with Phil in the office next morning she managed as always to be steady, reassuring, calm. While he dictated, his eyes rested inatten- tively on her head, bowed above her notebook; but his thoughts were on his dictation, till as the last letter was done he stopped in mid- sentence, staring at the hair above her brow. She looked up inquiringly, and he finished the letter; but when she had gone to her typewriter and he was alone, he was troubled and full of a deep, protective concern. Un- mistakably, in the dark masses of Linda's hair, there were threads of gray. He thought, incredulously, that she was no older than Barbara Twenty-one? Twenty-two? She had been, through these months, so com- posed that it had not occurred to him to think of her as suffering, weary and torn and tired from giv- ing herself without stint so long. She must rest, he decided, must give up the work here; and he con- sidered how to tell her so. When a little after noon, in her car, they started for York again, he began to make an opening for this sug- gestion. “You know, Lin,” he said, “you've carried me through all this. I don’t know what I'd have done without you to talk to. It has helped a lot, just—worrying out loud to you.” If there was bitterness in her smile he did not see it. “Of course,” she said. “That's what I'm here for, isn’t it, Phil? At least I can do that much for you.” He said, half-smiling: *““You keep me going, and I keep mother going. That's what it amounts to.” Her glance flashed toward him almost angrily. “You enjoy feeling that you're—indispensable to her, don’t you?” Her tone was a chal- lenge. “I—suppose 50,” he admitted. “At least it's a job to do.” “If she told you you were just a nuisance, you'd probably be angry, or hurt.” ‘Yes, probably.” “You know,” she said resentful ly, “I think that’s often the way. We hang on and hang on, telling our- selves we're important, when as a matter of fact we're just—boring people. I'm not at all sure that we couldn't help more by taking care of ourselves, letting other peo- ple go their own road.” He smiled. “You can’t mean I've —bothered mother?” “Well, no one can learn to walk till they get rid of their crutch, Phil.” Her tone was gentle now, yet she said: “You've been her crutch. It's about time she learned to walk alone.” “I couldn’t leave her, Linda!” “Oh, I suppose not,” she assented briefly. They were at the moment stalled in traffic. When now the green light released them, she meshed the gears with a clashing vehemence that was somehow elo- quent, and let in the clutch so sharp- ly that the car leaped jerkily ahead. He said, trying to laugh: “Whoa! Trying to break our necks?” “Sorry!” But she did not sound sorry; and she spoke in a sharp de- cision. ‘Phil, you'd better tell Miss Randall to find you a new stenogra- pher. I'll stay till she gets some- one; but then I'm through.” He had meant, a while ago, to tell her just this; to tell her that he could not let her any longer sacri- fice her youth and her happiness to him; to tell her that she must leave “There, Lin!" him. But now at her word he felt a deep hurt and loss. ‘““Had enough?’ he asked in level tones. “I'm tired, too tired to keep it up. I may go abroad, anywhere.” “Well, you're wise,” he agreed carefully. “Summer's a hot, hard time. But of course, I'll miss you!” “You'll find somebody easily enough.” “Oh yes, don’t worry, Lin. get along.” ‘“‘People do, don’t they?” “Yes. Yes, somehow.” She laughed mirthlessly. “I've been—flattering myself persuading myself you couldn't do without me.” “Well, you've helped a lot, Lin. Probably I won't realize how much till I have to—go it alone.” “Oh, you'll get used to it! And— you'll never learn to walk till you throw away your crutch. I'm tired of being a crutch, anyway.” They were clear of the worst traffic, came to the straight reaches of the Turnpike, sped a while in silence. We'll deep intoxication in his tones. He said, like one awakening, ‘“Why—I must be crazy, Lin!” “Crazy? Phil, what do you—"' “Sure, crazy! Why, I honestly thought, Lin, that I could let you go!” Her eyes, probing his, quickened at what she saw. Her head rose, her cheeks were bright! She looked ahead, as though searching for something. There was a cross-road, of rough gravel. She swung the car into it, drove it bounding up a steep slope till from the crest lowlands spread far and green below them, and they were alone. She stopped there, and stilled the engine, and turned to him, and smiled. “‘Now—what were you Phil?" she suggested politely. “Please—'' Then her voice broke, and she could no longer smile, and her eyes were full. ‘Oh Phil, please —please m saying, go on! Early in September, Mrs. Sentry suddenly decided to go to Cleveland to see Barbara, and Phil must go with them, smiling, calling words of farewell. Her eyes held his as the train slid away. “Well,” said Mrs. Sentry then, a while. Of course Linda's sweet; but she’s with us so much.” Phil colored, and pretended to look out of the window so that she might not see. ‘‘Be nice to see Barb again,” he remarked. ‘‘And Dan.” She chuckled. “I have a few things to say to Dan!” “What about?” “lI haven't told fessed, ‘but Barbara is going to have a baby. She wrote me last week. That's why I decided to go out to Cleveland.” ‘“‘But—that’'s great, mother!’ Phil cried, ‘Is she all right?” “Of course she's all right! Why shouldn't she be? But Dan's salary is ridiculously inadequate. They can't afford a baby.” He grinned. ‘Lots of people do, on less!” “Lots of people do lots of things I don’t expect Barbara to have to do.” Phil said cheerfully, “You know, you,”” she con- last. *“You—sound bitter. “Mad. That's not like you.” Her lips twisted; he thought they quivered, too, and there was a thick- ness in her tones. “Why shouldn't I be bitter, and mad?’”’ she demanded; and then she said: “Oh, I know I've no one to blame but myself!’’ She stepped on the throttle viciously; the car leaped ahead. ‘Goodness knows you didn’t encourage me! But like a fool I kept hoping—"" “You're hitting sixty, Lin!" “I want to hit sixty,’ she retorted. “I want to hit seventy, eighty!” The car was racing. “Stop it, Lin!” he insisted. “Slow down.” And he said, “I'll cut the switch, unless you do.” “Oh, all right.”” She dropped to a fifty that by comparison seemed like crawling; and she said: “I've hung on, and hung on, hop- ing some day you'd want me so bad you'd forget your father, and your mother, and how much she needed you, and everything. I guess I was a fool, that's all. Your mother doesn’t really need you, and Bar- bara doesn't. Nobody needs you but me—'"" Her voice broke. “I need you awfully, Phil,” she plead- ed. “Can't you see? And you need me." He said, staring straight ahead: “I love you, Lin, God knows. But —it isn't only that mother needs me. It's—that nobody-—that I can’t mar- ry anybody.” She drove on, and he watched the road, and the road sped to meet them mile on mile. Mile on mile, and she was an automaton, like one frozen, at the wheel; and his eyes were bleak on emptiness: and the road raced toward them like a rib- bon, dove beneath them, so was gone . He watched the traffic light shine green half a mile ahead; saw it yel- low and then red as they drew near. They were close. They were upon it! He cried in quick alarm: “Lin! Red light!” Her brakes bit—just in time. They slewed and swerved and skidded to a stop with screaming tires; and a car slid across in front of them with bare inches to spare. The driver bawled something, furiously, and was gone. The lights changed. Linda, still in that stony silence, meshed her gears and crossed the intersection. She picked up speed; and then Phil cried Stop, Lin! Slow down!” ia staring at e “What's the matter?” Phil laughed, and there was a Linda, her point won, yielded to his desire to delay the disclosure for a while. » The day of their departure for Cleveland, Phil was in the office in the forenoon, said good-by to Linda there, then went home to finish his packing and go directly from the house to the afternoon train. When old Eli drove him and his mother to the Trinity Place station, Phil was surprised to find Linda waiting on the platform. “Just some papers for you to look over while you're away, Phil,”’ she explained; and she handed him a long envelope, unsealed. He saw that she had written on the outside: Open this when you are alone. And she explained: “Routine things. Don't bother with them now." So Phil thrust the envelope into his pocket, sand they all stayed talk- ing together till the train pulled in. Mrs. Sentry went first up the steps, and she did not look back, so Phil was able to kiss Linda before he fol- lowed his mother aboard. He saw through the windows Linda move along beside the car, keeping pace you to take care of her for a while.” “Don’t be absurd! My place is with you!" “Oh, I'd get along,” he said, and wished to say, “You know, Linda and I" But his mother's eves swung shrewdly toward him before he could speak, and his courage failed; and she smiled at nothing and said: “Russian Bank, Phil? pass the time.” It was hours later and he was It helps to turn out his light, when he re- membered that envelope Linda had given him, still in the pocket of his coat on the hanger here beside him. He reached up and got it and drew out the contents, from Linda herself: Dear Take all my love with you, Phil. This letter came to the office addressed to you, after you left today. It's from Mary, so 1 didn’t o it. Since it's addressed to you, I thought perhaps she didn't want your mother to know about Ib That's why I was so mysterious, And my dearest love to my dearest Come back soon. Lin. (TO BE CONTINUED) The bumble, or humble, bee is recognized by its large, thick hairy body and long bass hum. The col- onies are not numerous compared with those of wasps, or the stingless or the honey bee. A populous col- ony may number from 300 to 400 individuals, according to a writer in the Indianapolis News. The pro- portions of sexes and castes of some species have been found to be, in a colony of 120, 25 females, 36 males and 59 workers. The round- ish oval cells differ in size and have no exact arrangement. Besides the cells containing the young, the old discarded ones are made to serve as honey tubs or pollen tubs. The queen bee awakens in early spring from her winter's sleep un- der the leaves or moss, or in desert- ed nests, and selects a nesting place, generally in an abandoned nest of a field mouse, or beneath a stump of motion and begin feeding, they eat the pollen by which they are surrounded, and gradually separat- ing, push their way in various die rections. When they have attained their full size they spin a silken wall about them, which is strength- ened by the old bees covering it with a thin layer of wax. When the lar- vae reach the pupa stage, at which time they remain inactive until their development, they cut their way out and are ready to as- sume their duties. The first brood that comes forth usually is composed of workers; about the middle of the summer eggs are deposited which produce both small females and males. All eggs laid after the last of July pro- duce the large females or queens. On the approach of winter, all ex- cept the queens, of which there are several in each nest, die. Have Odd Grain Bin WORDY CONDUCTOR Conductor (on train)—Fare! The passenger paid no attention to the conductor's demand. Conductor—Fare, please. Still the passenger was oblivious, according to the Montreal Star. Conductor — By the ejaculatory to the state of the weather, not even to the kind of service vouchsafed by this philanthropic company. I mere- ly alluded, in a manner perhaps lacking in delicacy, but not in con- ciseness, to the monetary obligation incurred by your presence in this car, and suggest that you liquidate. 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Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers