CHAPTER XIII—Continued
se] Bo
#1 know. But—Oh, I can’t ana-
lyze it, Edith. I love you—no end.
More than—anything. But I won't
ask you to marry me.”
“Do you know how selfish you
are, Baldy?”
“1 know how wise I am.”
She made an impatient gesture.
“You're not thinking of me in the
least. You are thinking of your
pride.”
He caught her hand in his. “I
am thinking of my pride. Do you
suppose it is easy for me to let
Jane—take money from him? To
feel that there is no man in our
family who can pay the bills? I am
proud. And I'm glad of it. Edith—
I want you to be glad that I won't
take—alms."”
Her wise eyes studied him for a
moment. ‘You blessed boy. You
blessed poet,” she sighed, “I am
proud of you, but my heart aches—
for myself.”
He caught her almost roughly in
his arms and in a moment released
her. “I'm right, dearest?”
“No, you're not right. If we mar-
ried, we'd sail to Italy and have a
villa by the sea. And you would
paint masterpieces. Do you think
my money counts beside your tal-
ent? Well, I don’t.”
“My dear, let me prove my talent
first. As things are now, I couldn't
pay our passage to the other side.”
“You could. My money would be
yours—your talent mine. A fair ex-
change.”
He stuck obstinately to his point
of view. “I won't tie you to any
promise until I've proved myself.”
“And we'll lose all these shining
years.”
“We won't lose a moment.
going to work for you.”
He was, she perceived, on the
heights. But she knew the weari-
ness of the climb.
I'm
Coming out of the garden in the
late afternoon, they were aware of
other arrivals at the Inn.
“Adelaide and Uncle Fred, by all
the gods,” said Edith, as they
peered into the dining-room from
the dimness of the hall. “Oh, don't
let them see us. Adelaide's such a
bromide.”
They crept out, found Baldy's car
and sped towards the city. “I should
say,”” Baldy proclaimed sternly,
“that for a man who is engaged, a
thing like that is unspeakable.”
“Oh, Uncle Fred and Adelaide,”
said Edith, easily; ‘‘she probably
asked him. And she was plaintive.
A plaintive woman always gets her
way.”
Adelaide had been plaintive. And
she had hinted for the ride. “Why
not an afternoon ride, Ricky? It
would rest you.”
“Sorry. But I'm tied up.”
“lI haven't seen you for ages,
Ricky.”
“lI know, old girl.
thousand things."
“I’ve—missed you.”
It wasn't easy for Frederick to ig-
nore that. Adelaide was an atirac-
tive woman.
“Oh, well, I can get away at four.
We'll have tea at the old Inn.”
“Heavenly. Ricky, I have a new
blue hat."
“You could always wear blue.”
He decided that he might as well
make things pleasant. There was a
shock in store for her. Of course
he'd have to tell her about Jane.
So Adelaide in the new blue hat—
with a wrap that matched-—with that
porcelain white and pink of her com-
plexion—with her soft voice, and ap-
pealing manner, had Frederick for
three whole hours to herself.
She told him all the spicy gossip.
Frederick, like most men, ostensi-
bly scorned scandal, but lent a will-
ing ear. What Eloise had said, what
Benny had said, what all the world
was saying about Del's marriage.
“And they were married here to-
day. 1 didn't dream it until Eloise
called me up just before lunch.
Edith had told her.”
“Edith was here?”
“Yes, and young Barnes.”
She stopped there and poured the
tea. She did it gracefully, but Fred-
erick’s thoughts swept back to Jane
behind her battlements of silver.
“Four lumps, Ricky?”
“Um-—yes."
“A penny for your thoughts.”
“They're not worth a penny, Ade-
laide. Lots of lemon, please. And
no cakes. I am trying to keep my
lovely figure.”
“Oh, why worry? 1 like big men.”
“That's nice of you."
Martha's little sponge cakes were
fight as a feather. Adelaide broke
one and ate daintily. Then she said,
“How's little Jane Barnes?"
Frederick was immediately self-
conscious. ‘She's still in Chicago.”
“Sister better?"
“Much.”
When is she coming back?”
“Jane? As soon as Mrs, Heming
“ean be brought home. In a few
" weeks, 1 hope.”
Adelaide drank a cup ot tea al
ost at a draught. She was aware
an impending disclosure. When
I've had a
the flicker of an eyelash.
“l am going to marry Jane
Barnes, Adelaide. The engagement
isn't to be announced until she re-
turns to Washington. But I want
my friends to know.”
She put her elbows on the table,
clasped her hands and rested her
chin on them looking at him with
steady eyes. ‘‘So that's the end of
it, Ricky?"
“The end of what?”
“Our friendship.”
“Why should it be?”
“Oh, do you think that your little
Jane is going to let you philander?”’
“1 shan't want to philander. If
that's the way you put it.”
“So you think you're in—love with
her.”
“] know I am,” the red came up
in his cheeks, but he stuck to it
manfully. “It's different from any-
thing—ever that I've felt before.”
“They all say that, don't they,
every time?”
“Don't be so—cynical."”
She shrugged her shoulders. “I'm
“Edith told me.”
not. Well, I shall miss you, Ricky,
dear.”
That was all, just that plaintive
note. But Adelaide's plaintiveness
was always effective.
Jane was home again. Judy was
better. Philomel sang. The world
was a lovely place.
“Oh, but it's good to be back,”
Jane was telling Baldy at break-
fast. The windows were wide open,
the fragrance of lilacs streamed in,
there were pink hyacinths on the ta-
ble.
“It's heavenly.”
Baldy smiled at her.
old Jane."
She shook her head, and the light
in her eyes wavered as if some
breath of doubt fanned it. “Not
quite. The winter hasn't been easy.
I'm a thousand years older.”
“And with a wedding day ahead
of you."
“Yes. Do you like it, Baldy?"
He leaned back in his chair and
surveyed her. ‘Not a bit—if you
want the truth--I shall be jealous
of Mr. Frederick Towne.”
“Silly. You know I shall never
love anybody more than you,
Baldy.”
She was perfectly unconscious of
the revelation she was making, but
he knew—and was constramned to
say, “Then you don’t really love
him.”
“Oh, I do. He's much nicer than
I imagined he might be.”
“Oh, well, if you think you are
going to be happy.”
“1 know I am--dearest,” she blew
a kiss from the tips of her fingers.
“Baldy, I'm going to have a great
house with a great garden—and in-
vite Judy and the babies—every
summer."
“Towne's not marrying Judy and
the babies. He's marrying you. He
won't want all of your poor rela-
tions hanging around.”
“Oh, he will. He has been simply
dear. I feel as if 1 can never do
enough for him.”
She was very much in earnest.
Baldy refrained from further criti-
cism lest he cloud the happiness of
her home-coming. The thing was
done. They might as well make
the best of it. So he said, “Do you
always call him ‘Mr. Towne'?"’
“Yes. He scolds, but 1 can’t say
Frederick—or Fred. He begs me to
do it—but 1 tell him to wait till
we're married and then I'll say
‘dear.’ Most wives do that, don't
they?"
“I hope mine won't.”
“Why not?’
*1 shall want my wife to invent
names for me, and if she can't, I'll
do it for her.”
Jane opened her eyes wide. ‘‘Ro-
mance with a big R, Baldy?”
“Yes, of course. 1 should want to
be king, lover, master—{riend to the
woman who cared for me. That's
the real thing, Janey."
“Is it?" But = not follow
“The same
the subject up; she drew another
cup of coffee for herself, and asked
finally, “When is Evans coming
back?”
“Not for several days. He will go
to Boston when he finishes with New
York.”
“I see. And he's much better?”
“1 should say. You wouldn't know
him.”
He rose. ‘I must run on.
to dine at Towne's then?”
“Yes, Just the five of us. It
seems: funny that I haven't met
Cousin Annabel. But she's able to
take her place at the head of the
table, Mr. Towne tells me. He told
me, too, that she wants to meet me.
But I have a feeling that she won't
approve of me, Baldy. I'm not fash-
ionable enough.”
“Why should you be fashionable?
You are all right as you are.”
“Am I? Baldy, I believe my stock
has gone up with you.”
“It hasn't, Janey. You were al-
ways a darling. But I didn't want
to spoil you.”
“As if you could,” she smiled wist-
fully. “Sometimes I have a feeling,
Baldy, that I should like life to go
on just as it is. Just you and me,
Baldy. But of course it can't.”
“Of course it can, if you wish it.
You mustn't marry Towne if you
have the least doubt.”
“] haven't any doubts. So don’t
worry." stood up and kissed
him. “Briggs will come out for me
—and we are all to see a play to-
gether afterward.”
“Edith told me.”
“Baldy,” she had hold of the lapel
of his coat, “how are things going
with—Edith?"
“Do you mean, am I in love with
her? I am.”
“Are you going to marry her?”
“God knows.”
She looked up at him in surprise.
“What makes you say it that way?
Has she told you she didn't care?”
“She has told me that she does
care. But do you think, Janey, that
I'm going to take her money?”
He patted her on the cheek and
was off.
Jane picked a spray of princess-
pine and stuck it in her blouse.
Oh, what an adorable world! Her
world. Could there be anything bet-
ter than Frederick Towne could give
her?
Baldy's words rang in her ears—
“Do you think I am going to take
her money?"
Yet she was taking Frederick
Towne's money. She wished it had
not been necessary. Each day it
seemed to her that the thought
burned deeper: she was under ob-
ligations to her lover that could be
repaid only by marriage. And they
were to be married in June,
Yet why should the thought burn?
She loved him. Not, perhaps, as
Baldy loved Edith. But there were
respect and admiration, yes, and
when she was with him, she felt
his charm, she was carried along
on the whirling stream of his own
adoration and tenderness.
She went back to her own little
house, and found a great box of
roses waiting. She spent an hour
filling vases and bowls with them.
Old Sophy coming in from the Kkitch-
en said, “looks lak dat Mistuh
Towne's jes’ fascinated with you,
Miss Janey."
“Aren't the roses lovely, Sophy?”
Jane wanted to tell Sophy that Mr.
Towne would some day be her hus-
band. But she still deferred the
announcement of her engagement.
“I've told one or two people,”
Frederick had said.
“Whom?”
“Well, Adelaide. She's such an
old friend. And I told Annabel, of
course. 1 don’t see why you should
care, Jane."
“1 think I'm afraid that when I
go into a shop someone will say,
We're
She
‘Oh, she's going to marry Frederick
Towne, and see how shabby she
is.”
“You are never shabby.”
“That's because I made myself
two new dresses while I was at Ju-
dy’s. And this is one of them.”
“You have the great art of looking
lovely in the simplest things. But
some day you are going to wear a
frock that I have for you.” He told
her about the silver and blue crea-
tion he had bought in Chicago. “Now
and then I take it out and look at it.
I've put it in your room, Jane, and
it is waiting for you.”
She thought now of the blue and
silver gown, as Sophy said, ‘Miss
Jane, I done pressed that w'ite chif-
fon of yours twel it hardly hangs to-
gether.”
“I'll wear it once more, Sophy.
I'm having a sewing woman next
week."
With the old white chiffon she
wore a golden rose or two—and sat
at Frederick's right, while on the
other end of the great table, Cousin
Annabel weighed her in the balance.
Jane knew she was being weighed.
Cousin Annabel was so blue-blooded
that it showed in the veins of her
hands and nose—and her hair was
dressed with a gray transformation
which quite overpowered her thin
little face with its thin little nose.
As a matter of fact, Cousin Anna-
bel felt that Frederick had taken
leave of his senses. What could he
gee in this short-haired girl—who
hadn't a jewel, except the one he
had given her?
Jane wore Towne's ring, hidden,
on a ribbon around her neck, “Some
day I'll let everybody see it,” she
had said, “but not now.”
“You act as if you were ashamed
of Kk.”
“I'm not. But Cinderella must
wait until the night of the ball.”
It was while they were drinking
their coffee in the drawing-room
that the storm came up. It was
one of those cyclonic winds that
whip off the tops of the trees and
blow the roofs from unsubstantial
edifices. The thunder was a cease-
less reverberation — the lightning
was pink and made the sky seem
like a glistening inverted shell.
Cousin Annabel hated thunder
storms and said so. ‘I think I shall
go to my room, Frederick.”
“You are not a bit safer up there
than here,” Towne told her.
“But 1 feel safer, Frederick.” She
was very decided about it.
80 she went up and Baldy and
Edith wandered across the hall to
the library, where Edith insisted
they could observe other aspects
of the storm.
Jane and her lover were left
alone, and presently Frederick was
called to the telephone.
“I'm not sure that it's safe, sir,
in this storm.” Waldron warned.
“Nonsense, Waldron,” Towne said,
and stepped quickly across the pol-
ished floor.
Thus it happened that Jane sat
by herself in the great drawing-
room of the Ice Palace, while the
wind howled, and the rain streamed
down the window glass, and all the
evil things in the world seemed let
loose.
And she was afraid!
house. She was so
was so big.
clasped her in its warm embrace.
This great mansion stood away from
her—as the sky stands away from
small and it
those great stairs,
sonality, individuality, bidding good-
by forever to little Jane Barnes,
the wife of Frederick Towne.
(TO BE CONTINUED)
From an organization composed
of a handful of “fife and drummers.”
the United States Marine band has
grown to one of the most famous
military musical groups in the
world.
The smartly clad bandsmen, ar-
rayed in scarlet coats, scarlet or
white caps, and elaborate ornamen-
tation across the uniform are in con-
stant demand for affairs of state
and patriotic gatherings. They ap-
pear frequently at White House re-
ceptions and concerts of the Pan-
American Union,
The Marines’ fife and drum corps,
organized shortly after the Marine
corps was established just prior to
the Revolutionary war, usually con-
gisted of “bands” of 10 or more
musicians,
When the war ended, military ac-
tivity virtually came to an end and
the Marines’ musicial unit ceased
to function. In 1798, however, the
Marine corps was brought to life
again and provision was made for
a band.
When the national capital was
moved from Philadelphia to Wash-
ington in 1800 the Marines also were
transferred.
Washington at that time was a
desolate spot and, according to the
United States Marine Band,”
much to dispel the gloom.
lace. ,
of two oboes, two clarinets, two
French horns, a bassoon and a drum.
“were not successful for several
months."
at President Adams’ New Year's
1801. Ever since that day the band
idents to play on this occasion.
The band’s most notable appear-
ance was when President Lincoln
made his immortal Gettysburg ad-
dress.
Springs Long Forgotten
established a thermal station at
Aixles-Bains, France, After the Ro-
man period the springs were forgot-
ten until the Seventeenth century.
Aix is now an important spa and
summer resort.
At Santa Claus, Ind., where they
duties, A measuring
Follow the Rules
When Addressing
Christmas Cards
How do you address a Christmas
card to a widow A divorcee? A
business acquaintance? Here are
some tips on ¢
General
into two cli
mal. If youu »d or engra
cards for for the title Miss,
Mr., or Mr. and Mrs. should pref-
erably appear above the greeting.
For “Mr. and Mrs.
Thomas Stanyon wish you a Merry
Christmas,” rather than “A Merry
Christmas from Mr. and Mrs, Thoms
as Stanyon."
se print
al use,
instance:
On informal cards, signed in ink,
the husband's or wife's name should
come first, although ordinarily the
person signing would put his own
name last. In general, the hus-
band’s name comes first. These can
be signed ‘Bob and Betty," or “Bob
and Betty Bentley,’ depending on
how well the acquaintance knows
you.
No card should ever be sent with-
out a Mr., Mrs, or Miss prefix. An
unmarried woman is always ad-
dressed as ‘‘Miss." A married
woman, whether her husband is
alive or not, is addressed with
“Mrs.” prefixed to her husband's
full name. Since a woman's maid-
en name is used only on legal pa-
pers or when she uses it profession-
ally, a divorcee's maiden name may
be used if it's been established by
legal procedure after the divorce
was granted.
Cards to a married couple should
be addressed Mr. and Mrs, even
though you may know only one of
them. If it's a business acquaint-
ance and you haven't met the
recipient's wife, it's permissible to
send the card in his name only.
Business addresses are quite all
right, though there's a bit more
courtesy and more personal touch
to find out the home address and
A family in mourning may send
recent—within the last two or three
weeks.
Kiss the Maiden
Under Mistletoe—
But Follow Rules!
T'S still a nice custom this
Christmas to kiss the young |
S15 lady under the mistletoe, but |
your efforts are in vain unless |
it's done properly. |
Every time someone kisses under |
the mistletoe a berry should be
plucked from the branch, for only
so many blessings are bestowed as
And don’t let the
Many a romantic story surrounds
The berries represent |
tears from this legend:
A Scandinavian god, Balder, |
When he |
told his mother, the goddess Friga,
she made earth fire, air, water and |
But she overlooked the mistletoe, |
its roots were neither in the |
earth nor air. So one of Balder's |
the plant and that was the end of
Balder. The tears of the heartbro-
ken goddess fell thick and fast, and
froze into the berries.
Having such a heathen origin,
mistletoe is seldom included in
church schemes of decoration. But
despite this ban few maids care to
risk making the legend come true
that “she who is not kissed under
the mistletoe at Christmas will not
be married in the year which fol-
lows."
If you want to be lucky, remem-
ber the rules,
Rich Rug to Crochet
In Exclusive Design
Pattern 2051.
You can have this thick-piled
rug suitable for various rooms and
show it as your handiwork. It's
crocheted in squares which makes
it excellent pick-up work, Patlern
2051 contains directions and charts
for making rug; il n of it
and of stitches; re-
quired.
Send 15 cents in coins for this
pattern to The Sev yr Circle
Needlecraft Dept., 82 Eighth Ave
New York, N. Y.
Please write your name, ad-
dress and pattern number plainly.
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