" When a Girl Marries"
By ANN LISLE
A New, Romantic Serial Dealing With the Absorbing
Problem of a Girl Wife
(Copyright, 1919. King Feature Syn
dicate, Inc.)
CHAPTER CCCLIII.
"Can I be sure that the man they
burned was my father?" I repeated
after Father Andrew. "Why it was
—surely—wasn't it?"
"That's what we can't prove un
less you saw him, unless you're
sure," said Father Andrew. "Your
mother thought it was. But there
is a man alive t6-day who claims to
be your father. He says the man
who was killed in the railroad
wreck was'nt Lucky Lee at all—"
"But the clothes," 1 interrupted.
"I saw them. X knew them. The
coat the reporter made me touch
was one I'd seen my father wear. '
"I'm afraid that proves nothing,"
replied the man I had thought of
as my father through all the young
years. "He had otner suits. He
might have given the one you saw
to a pal who was in hard luck.
You remember that the money he
had won wasn't in his possesion
when they brought the body home
to you."
"Yes, I remember that," I mur
mured, wondering where all this
was leading us. "But we thought
he had been robbed."
"I know. dear. My Martha told
me that. But you don't know that
he was robbed. You can't prove
it."
"You mean that I can't prove it
in a court of law that the body we
buried was my father's? You mean
that I can't disprove the claim of
anyone who chooses to say he's my
father?"
Father Andrew shook his head
sgadly.
"You speak bitterly, dear," he
said.
"I feel bitter!" X cried. "I don't
want the ghost of a disreputable
past rising now. I have nothing
for which to love or to revere my
father. X had a starved childhood.
Red plush and shameful affluence
one week. The hall bedrooms of
cheap boarding houses the next.
And my poor little mother's shame
and sadness through it all. Then
death released me. And soon you
came. I grew to think of you as
my father. I'm proud to think of
you as my father."
"Barbara Anne, you'll always be
my little girl, no matter what hap
pens. No other man's claim can
make you stop being my daughter.
But have you thought what may be
the condition of the man who
brought you into the world?"
"Is he poor?" I gasped.
"Yes, dear. Poor and old. And
he says in his need he heard of you,
the daughter out of whose life he
went because he felt he was de
grading it. If this man actually
did that much for you once, can
you deny his claim on you now?"
asked Father Andrew gently.
"It this is my father, then when
he pretended to die he deliberately
left us to starve," I replied bitterly.
"He had the money he won at the
races. He didn't even share that
with us—"
Then the most terrible shame
surged up from my heart and I
cried: "Oh, what am I saying? It
doesn't matter what he did. You
say he's poor and old. And I have
so much. If this is my father, Jim,
I will help him. He must be taken
care of. We'll do everything—Per
haps I ought to go to Canada with
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You have the experience of others
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MONDAY EVENING,
you. I'll do that. For you think
the man in Canada is—my father,
don't you?"
"I'm afrand so.' agreed Father
Andrew.
"The telegram said so," I gasped.
"Will you read it, dear?" asked
Father Andrew, handing me the
crumpled bit of yellow paper.
I smoothed it with one hand and
held it against the steering wheel
of my car, which I'd drawn up in a
little green cove in the roadside.
Then .with blurring eyes, I read:
"No money to travel. Will meet
you here at shack in the woods.
Long to see my daughter again. As
soon as strong enough will go to
her. You must provide funds and
look out for me. Pretty sick yet.
Team will meet you Monday. Lucius i
Lucky Lee.
"You wonderful man!" I cried,
turning back to Father Andrew.
"You're going to make sure. To
spare me the first edges of the
shame and humiliation —until we
have to be—certain."
Suddenly I broke off. The mean
ing of the terrible trouble in Father
Andrew's eye came over me with a
flash. It wisn't pitty for me. It
wasn't sorrow for himself, even
though there should be some one to
claim the place that had so long
been his in fact as well as senti
ment. There was some one else to
whom all this must mean far more
than it could to either of us.
"Oh, Father Andrew, forgive me!"
I cried. "Forgive nve."
"I've nothing to forgive, Barbara
Anne," he said. "No one could have
expected aught different. It's only
natural that you shouldn't rejoice
to think that one who shamed you
in life as in death has perhaps
come back from the grave. He was
gone and forgotten. And you were
too honest, to pretend that this
strange return can make you
happy. You didn't try to lie to me.
Why should you? I say there's
nothing to forgive, and your offer
to go with me is like the dear heart
that's planning already to make a
poor old reprobate last days happy
if she finds him her kin."
"I'm not asking you to forgive
me for that," I said. "I'm asking
you to forgive me because I for
got the one to whom this means so
frightfully much more than it ever
can to me. Father Andrew, my
heart's aching for Neal."
"I dreaded the time when it would
come to you," he whispered huskily.
"That's why you made them
promise not to be married until
you return!" I said. "You want to
be sure. You want me to see this
man who says he's my father—and
to make sure—"
"I want to make certain." said
Father Andrew gently, "that when
I married my Martha, the sweetest
woman who ever suffered through
a scoundrel—l want to make sure
that when she gave me Neal—there
wasn't another man alive who was
her husband in the sight of the
law."
(To he continued.)
ANYTHING TO OBLIGE
"What's all the racket about?"
"Woman wants a song she's heard,
but doesn't know the name of."
"Well?"
"So we're playing over everything
in the shop."—Cincinnati Enquirer.
who have suffered as you have to
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Swift Laboratory, Atlanta, Ga.
Bringing Up Father Copyright, 1919, International News Service Bp McManus
THAT NEW CHAUFFEUR HIM >'D LIKE TO <ICUE[ HE NIAN BE NEW AT J HE'LL COT>T -FOUENOU<H 1 WHAT- 1
<OU COT OON'T KNOW A TIME- HIM NOMTHT THE TR.AOE <BL)T I WAIT UMTIL I WOW TOO
1 w '< r ..g S °"' lH " : ."4 tS?SS* OR J
/Elf WHS i
1 //-IT i
LITTLE TALKS BY
BE A TRICE FAIRFAX
The man was a slender, good
looking chap with the eyes of a
dreamer and a sensitive, rather
weak mouth and chin. Across the
table from him sat a woman whose
tawdriness of face and dress .I've
never seen surpassed. Painted,
smoking, cheaply conspicuous—she
seemed a companion no decent man
would select.
| The man with her, however,
looked at her lovingly and proudly
and turned to bow to Mark Lonsdale
with absolute composure.
"Mark!" cried his sister Ellen
with asperity. "How can you bow
to a man who has such a —creature
with him?"
"That's Dick Milton and his I
wife," replied Mark quietly.
"His wife? That awful person!
A friend of yours married to such
a woman! Oh, Mark, promise me
you'll never—fall for any one like
that? Tell me you wouldn't. You're
not like him, are you? A coarse
brute?"
"I'm not like Dick Milton," said
Mark. "I'm not an idealist."
"Idealist?" I repeated, seeing that
Ellen was too shocked and disgusted
to reply. "Meaning a romantic
dreamer? A may. who has beautiful
concepts in his imagination?"
"Something like that," replied
Mark gratefully. "He dresses tip
that girl Ellen thinks dreadful so
that to him she seems like all the
beauty and loveliness in the world.
I mean he hangs his dreams on her,
clothes her in them. He sees her
as he likes to think she is. As he's
always wanted a woman to be."
"He's a horrible coarse creature
to care for her. It goes to show
what men are!"- sneered Ellen in
her most acid voice.
Mark flushed, but he tried again.
In Search of Beauty
_ "You don't interpret us right,
Nell. We men folks are a kind of
foreign language to you, and you
don't get the idiom of the country
when you try to translate us. Lots
of us are looking for beauty and
I sweetness and fineness, and we dig
lit up in the most unlikely looking
| places. Now Dick probably thinks
. that paint is a healthy color. And
| her coarseness he calls vitality. And
| her cheap coquetry he takes for
1 womanly tenderness. That wife of
I his is most likely clever enough to
play up to what she finds he wants,
and he interprets her differently
from what we do. I don't think he's
ever seen anything just as it is. He
always gets a slant on things that
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I PET CORNS |
i 1 I
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Corn Right Off
A tiny bottle of "Freezone" costs
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Truly! No humbugl
HARRISBURG TELEGRAPH
show them as they aren't. Don't j
you get me?"
Ellen shook her head primly, and ,
before I acknowledged that I did
indeed "get" him, I quoted from a ■
bit of Longfellow—quoted it to I
Ellen rather than to Mark.
"The ideal beauty
Which the creative faculty of mind i
Fashions and follows tn a thousand
shapes
More lovely than the real,"
I said slowly.
"That's it!" cried Mark, excited
ly. "That's it. He sees her better
than she is, better than she ever
could be—or maybe any other wom
an could be for that matter."
"That painted up huzzy better
than any real woman could be!"
cried Ellen, indignantly. "Men are
fools if one of them expects me to
believe that another sees a woman
like that through such rose-colored
spectacles."
"Ellen, you've said it," I broke in.
"Somehow the dearest, sweetest,
finest men in the world sometimes
go round looking through the most
absurd rose-colored spectacles and
never seeing things as they are. Be
cause they're inherently decent, men
like that don't idealize murder and
robbery. They don't commit crimes.
Nor do they see that other folks do.
They see things through the rose
colored haze, remember. And they
idealize all people, especially those
who attract them."
"Attract!" sniffed Ellen. "What
kind of man could ever feel an at
traction for that woman? What
kind of attraction could it be?
Coarse, brutal animal. That's what
she is."
"Thats how many good women
judge," I acknowledged. "But it's
only part of the truth. The mag
netism between man and woman
isn't a thing for us to try to fathom
—or judge. But when it exists be
tween a worthy and an unworthy
person the strong soul will try to
conquer it if he sees it's wrong."
"Exactly," replied Ellen.
"But suppose a man doesn't see
it? Suppose he's a gentle optimist
who feels he can lift what he loves?
Or suppose he has mental astigma
tism and can't see his love in true
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focus or clearly enough to judge
her? Or suppose he's an idealist, as !
Mark says-—one who believes in j
goodness and is too simpleminded
and unworldly to measure the
tawdry and common as we do?"
"You mean, then," said Ellen
slowly, "that just because he is
sweet and gentle, a man sometimes
marries a woman whose attraction
for him would make me think him
a brute?"
"You," I replied, "and other good,
pure, decent, intolerant women, you
snub and sneer at a boyish idealist |
and then sneer more when the i
woman who acts as a lay figure fori
his dreams wins out. That boy's a |
tragedy, not a joke or an object of
scorn. * * ♦ jjis sense of values
is wrong. And he stood up for the
imaginary instead of the real."
A sudden tolerance came into
Ellen's hard "good" face.
"I hope he keeps his rose-colored
spectacles." she murmured. "For
if he ever sees true—how ho will
pay."
BREAKING THE SET
The woman district visitor trying
to get friendly with little Johnny. i
"Do you think your mammy would
let me buy you, Johnny?" she asked.
"Buy me what? An airgun?" asked
Johnny quickly.
"No! No!" laughed the district vis
itor. "Would she let me buy you
from her and take you away with
me ?"
"She might," replied Johnny. "But
I'm afraid you haven't got enough
money."
"Well, about how much do you
think she would ask for you?"
i "A thousand pounds," promptly
answered Johnny.
| "Oh, but that seems an awful lot
[of money!" expostulated the woman.
| "Are you quite sure you're worth as
much as that?"
"Well, p'r'aps not," admitted
Johnny, "but you see, there's six
of us, and if mummy sold me it'd
break th^pet." —London Tit-Bits.
Trimming on
All Gowns
- !
Fashion Camera Photo.
With the advent of top coats,
which this season of the year her
alds, one-piece street gowns once
more make their bow. Modish fab
rics for these are velveteen, paulette,
Jersey, serge and tricot'.ne. Nor is
a gown to be seen which is not em
| broldered, braided or corded.
| Women evidently have no intention
,or being sober-clad moths, but
rather gorgeous butterflies, ludging
by the newest of these one-piece
gowns. Most of them are enllver/ad
by some embellishment of scarlet or
cerise. The one pictured is fash
ioned of navy blue tricotino, cut in
tho long Russian blouse effoct. It Is
trimmed with fine black silk braid
and heavy scarlet slip floss. Trlco- |
tinc-covered buttons ornament the
skirt and sleeves. A front opening
effect is simulated by a tiny row of
gilt buttons applied to a narrow
inset of creani satin. A shallow
cream satin collar falls from the
back, sailor fashion. The distinctive
feature of this mode is the quartet
of tucked pockets. The gown closes
[ at the shoulder and side, a narrow
I belt of the tricotlne confining the)
loose waistline.
Scientific Discussions
by Garrett P. Serviss
I have been considering the ways
of the ant. No summer passes but
that I have rendezvous with the vi
vacious little six-leggers. It is not
that I am a naturalist, but only
that 1 had the good luck to be born
in the country, in a place where big,
black ants were numerous and pug
nacious, and where I sometimes saw
them fighting of their own accord,
and often, I now regret to say, made
them tight by rubbing their heads
together. My observations quickly
convinced me that no ant will stand
that. The big caliper jaws engage ut
the first contact, and they never let
go until something comes off—a
limb, an antenna, or a head.
There is no more efficient fighter
than an ant. He has exhaustless
wind, indomitable courage, and dou
ble weapons, like Tartarin's "double
muscles." I never saw one run—ex
cept at the enemy.
It is fortunate for us that no
animal of our size is constructed
like an ant. Considering, too, what
he is able to do with his micro
scopic speck of a brain, it is easy
to believe that with a brain of hu
man dimens ons he would invent
weapons that we shall never dream
of, and that we haven't limbs
enough to handle if we possessed
the weapons.
I had so much confidence in my
fighting black ants, when I was a
nonpacjfist boy, that I once pitted
a champion of that breed against
a spider. The spider is a mean
1 fighter; he never fights fair and
square like an ant. He depends on
his fierce looks and is, in fact, a
terroist coward. He is a squealer,
a i quitter, and won't take punish
ment, but like human beings pos
sessing the same characteristics, is
cruel to the point of devilishness.
To see him bale up a poor, help
less fly, tieing down the iridescent
wings and wrapping them round the
still living body of his victim with
the infernal, sticky ropes that he
spins out of himself, is alone suffi
cient to make anybody hate spiders.
It is not the end proposed or at
tained. but the cold diabolism of the
method that maddens the beholder.
In the windows of "the wagon
house" were the silky traps of many
big spiders, horridly thatched with
insect skeletons, and It was against
one of these monsters of the win
dow that 1 put my champion ant.
I threw the ant into the web. and
out of his dusty den instantly darted
the spider. In a twinkling he was
upon li s supposed prey, and my
nerves were on edge. I expected to
see a terrific struggle. The spider
wns to the ant as Goliath to David,
but T had complete faith in my
"man."
He d'd not fail me, but what hap
pened was not what I was looking
for. The recollection of it brings
back to my ears the laugh of de
light mingled with derision with
which I made the wagon house ring.
The spider fled faster than he had
come. Zip! he had come out, zip!
he went back again. The caliper
jaws had no chance to get hold. If
they had closed once the ant would
have gone into the den with the
spider like a tiger on an elephant's
back, and would never have come
out again unless bearing a piece of
the foe. Heft to himself he tore a
hole in the web and dropped out.
and I never tried the experiment
a second time, which showed that
I was not on a true scientific trail.
Watching ants has convinced me
that insects have free will as truly,
though not as fully, as men The
ant goes where he wf'll, and not,
as certain biologists tell us, wher
ever unintelligent tropism sends
him. Just while I write, under the
tree", by a sandy path, I see ant
volition at work. I see an ant run
ning as if to break his neck, al
most kicking up the dust in his
haste, and I wonder who scared n'm.
Rut a minute later I perceive that
he was not frightened, but merely
in a hurry.
To be sure I am unable to make
out exactly what he was after, but
T do make out that something dis-
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appointed or deceived him, where
upon he changed his mind and ran
another way. The disillusion occur
red beside a bit of sandy pebble,
which must have been as a great
rock to the ant. He rushed straight
to it, felt it over, and then turned ,
around it like a hound and was off i
for somewhere else, on a fresh |
scent apparently.
What nonsense it seems to me as |
1 look at this active little creature |
now at this moment re-emerging in
to sight after a gloomy course in I
a haunted forest of grass stems j
and ranging with inquiring zigzags |
across a dry desert of sandy foot- j
path—what nonsense it seems to say j
that he doesn't know what he wants
or what he is looking for! He knows
as well as a dog, and a dog, w.thin
his limits, knows as well as a man.
Instinct is inherited knowledge,
and knowledge is experience gath
ered and interpreted by intelligence,
intelligence 1 can't define, but what
ever it he at bottom, the ant has •
some of It, at least a glimmer, while |
we have, relatively to the ant, a j
good deal, but not by any means as
much as we ought to have, or as j
much as we will have in some fu- I
ture age.
Every time I come back to the i
ant my faith in him is renewed. |
and not even the great Fabre could I
persuade me that there is no more i
thought or will in an insect than in |
a machine.
GOING TOO FAR
"I believed Second Lieutenant
Nibbs when he said he captured
twenty-one Germans single handed
and took part in a number of other
thrilling exploits, but I found that
there was a limit to my credulity."
"Yes?"
"He must have thought I'd swal
low hook, bait and sinker, but I
had to laugh when he said he was
ldplized by his men."—Birmingham
Age-Herald.
CALLING IT SQUARE
She—Truly, am I the first girl you
ever kissed?
He—You are a darling, and it
makes me happy to hear you say I
am the first man that ever kissed
you.
She—lf I am the first, how does
it happen you do it so experMy? j
He And if I am the first, how do !
you know whether I do it expertly I
or not?—As You Were.
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BTMI EXTRA!!
p RICES on Suits, Coats and
Dresses have taken a decided
drop.
Our stock was very low, which
enabled us to take advantage of
the present slump in prices.
We purchased beautiful new Fall
and Winter garments at a mere
fraction of former prices. Come
and see the new garments at the
new low prices. It will seem like
old times.
QUITE SUITABLE
The woman was buying a gun foi
her little boy us a present.
"I want a really nice one, please,"
she said to the shopkeeper.
"Yes, madam," he answered; "how
] will this one do?"
"What do you put in it?" asked
the customer.
"Just ordinary caps or I have an
other one here that shoots slugs."
The woman looked delighted.
"Oh, I'll take that one!" she ex-
I claimed. "That will be quite suitable.
|We have a large garden and thers
[are lots of slugs in it." Edinburgh
I Scotsman.
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