♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦•»+♦♦<♦♦♦»<><>♦'»* 1 THE COMPROMISE |if « By GLADYS P. * _ _ Mrs. Adams was making prepara tions f«r the noon meal when the d««r opened quickly and a girl abaut six teen rushed In, quite out ef breath. "I'm here at last, mother." Mrs. Adams glanced up from her work. "I was calling Vivian," she said. "Why, mother, I am Vivian." The girl threw back her curly head and laughed merrily. "Won't you ever be able to tell us twins apart?" "I thought by the way you fame in through the door 'twas Virginia. She always comes in like a shot from a gun. Where have you girls been?" "Down by the river. The wind blew so we did not hear you when you first called." "Well," said Mrs. Adams, "Miss Emery has just been here and invit ed both of you girls to her musicale next Wednesday evening. "She said it was going to be just grand. Professor West, who has just returned from France, is going to sing. He is Sergeant West now, you know." "You said she invited us both?" Vivian gasped. "Yes, dear, and I am afraid you will have a hard time deciding," her moth er answered. "There's nothing to decide. It's Vir ginia's turn. I went to the sociable last month, you know. Oh, how I wish we had more than one best dress!" she exclaimed passionately. It was not until Wednesday morn ing that \ ivian appeared to cheer up somewhat. She had a consultation with her mother, who Interrupted her by exclaiming, "It will never do. Of course there's no harrta in it, but if you get into any trouble, don't blame anyone but yourselves. "No one will ever know about it," responded Vivian confidently. "I'll go down to the village now and call at Mrs. Blake's. I know she will be willing." Mrs. Blake lived across from Miss Emery s, and she received Vivian cor dially. That evening, Virginia, in her pink silk muslin that belonged to her and her sister jointly, went timidly up the path leading to the Emery home, feeling very happy. Miss- Emery, in beautiful brocaded silk, was passing through the hall when Virginia was shown In by the butler. "Which one is it?" she asked. "I'm sorry you both couldn't have some." Virginia was placed where she could see everyone who played or sang. Then she gave herself up to enjoy-' i ment. She watched Sergeant West eagerly. It was only in dreams that she had ever heard such tones. Sergeant West saw her and met the vivid glance of her eyes. He turned to his hostess and said, "Can that young lady sing?" "Indeed she can," answered Miss I Emery proudly. The next moment Virginia felt a j hand on her shoulder. She looked ! admiringly Into Sergeant West's face. "Will you sing for me?" he asked. "I will play for you and you may sing what you please. Are vou will- j ing?" "I'll try," she answered shyly. It was nearly an hour later that Sergeant West again remembered the girl. "I want you to sing once more," he said. "I have a plan. You have a voice, and with teaching, you could become a singer. Perhaps I can ar range to give you a couple of hours each week." "I'm afraid I am a bit timid," said the girl, "but since you ask me I will try." He was sorry for her as she stood by the piano. Her face was very white, and her lips almost stiff. "Have courage," said the singer. "You did so well before." The accompaniment began; but when an untutored, but rich contralto voice commenced the song there was a sudden discord among the keys of the piano, and Sergeant West wheel ed about and stared at the trembling girl beside him. "What does it mean?" cried the artist. "It cannot be possible that this girl has two distinct singing voices, one very high and the other very low." The girl at whom everyone was now looking, tried twice to speak be fore she could say a word. Then she stammered. "I—l am the other twin If you please, sir." "You are not the one that sang first?" he asked. "No, sir, that was ray sister, Vir ginia. It was her turn with our dress —" Vivian stammered, then was silent. One half-hour before, Virginia had slipped out unobserved and met her sister at Mrs. Blaka's. In their hurry In exchanging gowns, Virginia had not ; told her sister she had been obliged to sing. The next morn in sr Sergeant West returned to New York. While he was waiting for his train, he saw two girls in plain gingham gowns, hurry ing down the road. It was Virginia that spoke for both. "Sergeant West, we could not help coming to see you off—and to thank you." Happiness shone in two pair of eyes when he answered, "I shall not forget the lessons I am to give you when I return next month." (Copyright, 1919, AUOlure rrew'spajxir Syn dicate) #» || I c {! jif Promise Kept |j ji| o<-i» <j| By GENEVIEVE ULMAR |j (Copyright, 1919, by the Western News paper Union ) It was a district where law and or der prevailed only where the commu nity centers showed numerical strength. Outlawry was the rule where reckless groups banded together along the ranges, and family and tribal ! feuds ran through two, and even three generations. It was at Acton that Reuben Lane and his daughter Elsie lived. She was the belle of the county, in the full bloom of lovely maidenhood. Mr. Lane was in his little one-story office one evening when a rough looking man mounted on horseback dashed up to the place, enured it, there was a shot, the visitor came out swiftly, leaped to the saddle, and was off in a flash. "It's a murder ■" announced the first man summoned by the echo of the report, as he Reuben Lane lying lifeless beside his desk. "And robbery!" added another. The dreadful news utterly crushed Elsie. It was only after the funeral that she regained composure and forti tude. Over that sunny face came a cloud, into the depths of her eyes a purpose. She was almost stern as she said: " 'An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.' that was ingrained with my dead father. I know what he would have me do. I will divide my fortune and marry the man who will bring to justice the cowardly assassin." That day there appeared at the of i fice of Lawyer Barton, the executor of the estate, a man who was consider able of a mystery in the section. He was known as Alvin Morse, and had come to Acton about a year previous. He grew a long beard that covered up all of h'is face except the bright, mag netic eyes. He made his living by hunting and acting as a guide to pros pectors and speculators looking for iron and coal prospects. Rough look ng, uncouth, he entered the lawyer's office with the bearing of a natural athlete and man of courage. "I just heard of the killing of Mr. he said. "I understand that I so far no trace of the murderer has been reported. I saw the sheriff. He gave me two clews; the revolver drop ped by the assassin, and a description of his horse. I have seen both be fore. I know the man and I am going after him." There was a rustle, and for the first time the visitor noted a veiled figure seated back in the shadow. His coon skin cap was instantly doffed. "You know the reward," spoke the lawyer. "Miss Lnne here will divide her fortune with the man who brings her father's murderer to justice and will become his wife, if he so elects." "I shall ask no reward," returned Al ' vln Morse in clear, resonant tones. "Any real man would be glad to be ; of service to a woman in distress. Mr. j Lane was an honor to the town and ! his death should be aVenged." "We have met before," spoke Elsie. "It was you who seized me to swing with me from the river trestle just in | time to save me from an onrushing ; train." "And get my own imperiled self out of danger as well," lightly remarked Morse, but his heart was aquiver as he recalled that dreadful, yet delicious moment when, clasping her dainty form, he swung a hundred feet over a yawning abyss. Then two weeks passed by and one day a forlorn travel-worn figure in deed entered the office of the lawyer, "The murderer is in the town jail," announced Morse quietly, "but dying. He drew his revolver on me; it caught in his coat, but I have what I prom ised—l got your man." "I must send for Miss Lane at once," spoke Mr. Barton. "The reward —" Morse held up a silencing hand. "Let all that be forgotten," lie said. "The money I would not take. As to the girl herself," and his voice lowered to tenderness and longing. "I am not of her grade. lama fugitive from jus tice charged with robbing a bank up North, of which I was a cashier. It was some burglar, but I was accused unjustly and fled, a broken man, to hide in this wilderness." It was a new Alvin Morse who star tled the lawyer and Elsie Lane the next morning as they sat in consulta tion. He was arrayed in new attire, the thick beard was gone, youth, vi vacity, intelligence, hope showed in every feature of that handsome face, and Elsie regarded him with height ened color. "I have a strange story to tell," nar rated Morse. "I felt a pity for the prisoner, on account of his destitute wife and child, and I promised to see that they were provided for. Then, as he told of his many past criminal I deeds, he chanced to confess the bur glary of the bank where I was em ployed. He made a written confession, completely clearing me of guilt. lam a free man at last!" "A Lane never went back on a pledge sacredly given." spoke Elsie. "I will keep my promise, Mr. Barton. We will divide my father's estate evenly." "I shall never accept it!" declared Morse with finality. "Then— then —the further pledge—" "Let time tell!" spoke the lawyer, seeking to relieve the pending embar rassment of the moment and spare the l blushes of Elsie and the delicacy of feeling of the young man —and It did! | —THAT ENPS WELL | % By EDNA FOREST. ft | §t Mollie had been playing a game, a very interesting and secret game, and she had never been so happy in nil her Mfe. The game was "Hide and Seek." *f an entirely new, and remantic na ture, and Mollie returned from her last exploit in but subdued spirits. Eleanor, the marwed sister, whom she visited, must not suspect the de lightful pastime of her summer after noons. Eleanor, strictly conventional, would be horror stricken. The secret game had begun by chance, and on Mollie's side was the advantage. When she had arisen early one in riting morning slipping silently down past closed rooms to a dewy garden be | neath, she had intended to take but a brief dip in the sea, and when Mollie, i disporting herself among the waves, looked down the isolated beach, she fancied herself monarch—or perhaps monarch "ess," of all she surveyed. As she sat upon a great stone in the early sunshine, she saw, however, that another as ambitious as she, was swimming about in the blue. Mollie in embarrassment, darted again into the water, going further out than she had heretofore ventured, and being roughly brought to her senses by the swimmer himself. "It is dangerous for you to be out here alone," he said. "I am returning to the hotel. You'd better come back." Mollie suddenly weakened, request ed breathlessly, his help. When the two reached the shore, she resting in the warm sands, thanked him, beginning in her pretty way, a sort of 'holding' conversation. The man at least was held by It, for he made no motion .to carry out his intention of returning to the hotel. And this was Mollie's advantage from the beginning. She recognized at once in her rescuer, a certain noted curate from the city, whose arrival at the re sort had been heralded a few days be fore. Eleanor, indeed, was an attend ant at his city church. But the curate himself was left un enlightened as to Mollie's knowledge of his identity, and ignorant of her own. It was as they were pleasant ly chatting that she waved her hand in quick farewell, and literally disap peared. Mr. Sutherland. Eleanor innocently regretted, was returning to the city s at the end of the fortnight and she feared she would have no opportunity of entertaining him at the cottage. Mollie, in her secret planning, de cided to completely disappear from Mr. Sutherland's life before the end of his fortnight, leaving to him ever af ter but a romantic, and, she hoped, a pleasing memory. So. she was seated demurely read ing in the rector's favorite book as he came down into the glen. Her dress was blue cotton, her white collar and cuffs neat and plain. Her wide eyes expressed surprise at the rector's appearance. His keen eyes expressed pleasure. When Mol lie would have politely departed, he begged her to remain. The sun proclaimed the noon lunch eon hour, when she finally took from Mr. Sutherland, the volume of poems which he had been reading aloud. "Good-bye," laughed Mollie, and was instantly lost to view among the trees. Though the rector arose in quest of her, Mollie was ' gone. Which branching path she had chosen he did not know. But he went back to his seat beneath the oak—to sit again and dream of her. Then at last, Eleanor brought Mollie's fascinating game to an unexpected end. "Mr. Sutherland, the rector is com ing to dinner at five tonight," she said. M I cannot be back from our motor trip until six. Be here to welcome him, Mollie, and, do ma*ke a pleasing im pression, dear. Mr. Sutherland's opin ion is worth while." Mollie sighed. So she was to have no memory romance after all, and to the man she would be but a common place girl, in a commonplace, modern home. Freda was admitting the tall figure of the rector as she reached the foot of the stairs. It was impossible for Mollie to retreat In desperation she slipped into a hall closet beneath the stairs. Mollie knew after a suffocating lapse in the closet that he had made himself comfortable for a long wait. Hope fully Mollie fumbled along the wall, finding there evidently a maid's en veloping apron. Frantically she stuff ed her hair into the starched cap's crown, her feet, sandals and all. went into the shoes, then Mollis opened the closet door. The rector stared and Mollie stared i at a reflection of herself in the mirror. Freda's borrowed apron was far from clean. Mollie's hair was escaping from Freda's cap. Speechlessly, she fled up the stair. It was Freda who knocked present ly at Mollie's door. "That man," she said, disgustedly, *says he must speak to 'other maid.' He don't believe me that I'm the only maid. You go tell him." With the laughter light of 'hide and seek' still in her eyes. Mollie came, very prettily dressed, down the stair. Eleanor returning later, was aston ished to hear ber rector happily pro claiming "I'm going to see that you stay found, now that I have you at last, Mollie dear." iCowriaht- i9ia Western Newsiicer Union) WI 1 Helmet |ij **"» Si; RIA MARSH I;; (Copyright, 1919, by the Western News paper Union.) Because his favorite nephew, Earle Winston, had chosen to write poetry and compose music, and because his mother had encouraged her son in "the trashiness and sentimentality of useless, unworthy occupation," Aaron Pearce had closed his doors against both. The old man removed to another town, bitterness and sneering in voice • and manner when he referred to "his ungrateful relative," and experiencing something of vicious satisfaction when he learned that it had been about all young Winston could do to support himself. Then he heard that Earle had gone abroad as a war volunteer. The Lyndon newspapers had half a column about his gallant deeds abroad and the ; details of an enthusiastic home wel come when the war was over, but Aaron Pearce as soon as he perused the head lines with characteristic per versity thrust the printed sheet from him as if even deserved praise of "the ingrate" was a personal affront. Pearce had one close friend, Roger Dunn, a man as old as himself but his direct opposite. Plainly he had many a time cen sured Pearce severely for his auto cratic treatment of sister and nephew, but his criticism and counsel alike were totally ignored by the irascible old man. Dunn appeared at the office of Pearce one day with his automo bile. "I want your company for a few hours." he said. "I've got to make a trip to Lyndon," and Pearce made a wry face, for that town was where his "disobedient relatives" lived and he had little liking for it. Pearce eyed his friend keenly, but there was noth ing in his face to indicate that he was concealing any ulterior motive in the suggested auto ride. They chatted casually as they drove along, but when the machine halted in front of what Pearce knew to be the humble home of his discarded sister, his face flushed . and there came a wrathful gleam Into his eyes. "What is this!" he growled out, "a trap?" "Call it what you like," retorted coolly, "but I have an object in view in bringing you here, and after all my trouble I'm going to carry it through. Besides, I have some business here," and he lifted from the auto a satchel so heavy apparently that its weight made him quite lopsided. "Don't you pull back, Pearce. for it won't do you any good. I'm bigger and stronger than you, and I'm going to show you something in that house if I have to carry you there. Don't fret, now—no one is at home, I've arranged that." Very rehictantlv Aaron Pearce al lowed himself to be led into the little cottage. As if following out a set program and entirely familiar with the place, Dunn entered a little room hung with the national colors. Upon a table were spread out a variety of war relics and a helmet hat. Beside it were sev eral medals and scrolls. "Pearce, old friend," spoke Dunn with a serious emphasis, "those me mentoes of a brave young fellow's valor and patriotism tell the story of your nephew's military career. He has come back so poor that he has to wait maybe for years before he can afford to marry the girl of his choice, but with a townful of honest, loyal admir ers who recognize his bravery and sacrifice for his country. Another hero!" and Dunn faced his companion around to a niche where the portrait of a man in Union army uniform was hung, decorated with the stars and stripes. Aaron Pearce thrilled. It was the portrait of himself, painted over fifty years ago and treasured by his faith ful loving sister. "You can Imagine." observed Dunn softly, "how proud Nellie Winston Is of the two heroes in her family— brother and son. "It's the true fight ing blood and Earle is worthy of you, old friend. Now then, I've anticipated what you are going to do. vecognizing as you must the indulgence and duty you owe to this brave young soldier. In this satchel I have enough double eagles to fill that war helmet to over flowing, I know your generous nature, j and I brought them along so you could do the graceful thing without delay. You can reimburse me later. Here von are. Dump them Into the helmet, leave your card by the side of it and. having done an act of justice, go home with a clear conscience and a happy heart." "See here, Dunn —" began Pearce stormilv. "And when you get blue, or cross, or stubborn, think of the joy you are bestowing in making It possible for two young hearts to become united," interrupted Dunn buoyantly. "Anything else?" questioned Pearce satirically. "Why. yes. In a day or two come around here by yourself, shake hands with your sister, slap that brave nephew of yours on the shoulder and greet him as a fellow soldier who has done his duty well. Then kiss the bride that is to be, and instead of act in; the gruff, unmannerly bear you pretend to be. become the goodhearted, helpful brother and uncle nature in tended ' 'j should be. A helmet of goU'' rr nir<r return to n of bright, last ing peace and jov!" Stalled J j in n I if Wej| ||| Famished Soul j;|| |; | EVELYN LEE ; ; j (Copyright, 1913 by the Westers News paper Union.) It might have been wicked that Madge Griscom experienced a sense of relief when the funeral of her hus- I band was over. She had never loved him and he knew it, and she could not regret the sense of freedom that had come to her. To the last hour of his life she had been kind, attentive and considerate towards him. She had fulfilled every wifely duty, she had even given over to him the means to finance him in business. It was true that she had now inherited the same, many times augmented, but she had worked side by side with him at a J desk, and the first thing she had done in taking over his estate was to place a charge against it that would insure a competence for his aged parents. "And now you can follow out your own ideas and enjoy life," reminded ; her sister, but Madge's lips were set ! sinilelessly. "No, Edna," she responded. "The host years of my life are gone. I feel as though my heart was dead. There is a certain interest that is not un ! pleasant in business and I shall con tinue." "To keep from thinking, poor | thing!" Edna later imparted to a spe cial friend. "You know Madge has led a life of positive slavery for ten years. I don't know how it was that papa took a strange liking to Mr. Gris com —nothing would do but Madge must marry him. He chilled her, froze all that was tender and gentle in her nature. He tied her down to a desk—oh, It was dreadful!" I Madge became a boarder at the home of Edna. The latter, after half | a dozen years of marriage, was just i as much a girl as ever, but somehow | Madge was not in harmony. She felt and acted old. Across the corridor from the office suite was a room fronting on a court, and more than once Madge had no ! ticed its occupant, a delicate looking j young man with refined features and | a gentle gravity of manner that | seemed akin to sadness. Somehow she was attracted, and If she had closely analyzed her impression she would have found that something in the quiet, resigned manner of the young man had suggested Itself as ' akin to her own somber frame of mind. One day there came the Im pulse to learn something closer con cerning her opposite neighbor and op portunity abetted It. The postman had misdelivered a letter addressed to Mr. Paul Derby, and that was the name on the door of the office. Mrs. Griscom took the letter across the ; hall. It was a bare, dismal place, looking out upon a court, and the heat was oppressive on account of j such scant direct ventilation. The young man was bent over some manu script which he seemed to be studying 1 closely and transcribing. Later Mrs. Griscom learned that he was a trans lator and a master of several lan | guages. He arose somewhat confused, but I the courteous gentleman complete, and accepted with thanks the letter ' tendered by his attractive looking vis itor, who could be most gracious and smiling when occasion or her mood accorded. She could not very well re main. but she observed, less casually ; than it seemed on the surface. "It must be very warm and oppres sive here when the breeze is not right, Mr. Derby," and then: "One of our offices is directly opposite, and if its door was kept open, you would have a direct draft through to the court.** and the pleased expression in the young man's face encouraged his thoughtful visitor to the extent that when she returned to her own office and opened the door, the effect of the current of air was noticeable in the fluttering of the papers on the desk of the translator, and he sat more erect and comfortable as though en- I joying the change in the temperature. As time went on Madge, as she passed down the corridor daily, would nod in a friendly way to Derby and he seemed to brighten up because of the attention. Then one day there was a change of wind and a shf 't of paper came fluttering across the hall and into the private office what* ?sffs. Griscom sat. It was a brief letter. dT rected to Derby, and it notified him that the manuscript of an unpublished work by Spain's most noted writer could be had of a priest for two thou sand dollars cash and a like amount on time. At the bottom of the sheet was a penciled reply: "I am In despair. It would be Impossible for me to raise one-teijth of the amount named, so I must allow this great opportunity of my life to drift by." Madge was grave and thoughtful as she took the letter and crossed the f corridor. "Mr. Derby," she said clearly, "I am a business woman and inadvertently I have read this letter. It seems to In volve some cherished undertaking you cannot encompass because of lack of capital. Will you allow me to finance you and share your risk and profits?" What could come of It all but suc cess for Paul Derby, strengthened by the sympathy and co-operation of a true woman? What could come to Madge Griscom, after all the sordid years, but an awakening heart longing, and so there was for that famished soul the glory of the later real love of her life. START ROAD WORK IN SOUTH All States Now Actively Engaged in Improving Highways for Better Transportation. Road construction, which has been suspended or partly suspended in every part of the South since the United States entered the war, is re suming in all southern stafies on a far greater scale than ever before in the history of that section of the coun try. In Virginia, West Virginia and Kentucky the work of making per manent and new highways cannot pet full swing during the winter season. bul extensive preparations are under way in these states for intense activ ity in the sprit# In the balance of the southern states where as good work can be done in the winter as In the summer, big starts have already been made. Great activity is reported in Louisiana and Mississippi. ROADS FOR PASSENGER HAUL Highways Are Now Used to Greater Extent Than Railroads— Change Made Recently, The need for good toads is the ac knowledgment by government officials that for passenger haul the public roads are used to a greater extent than the railroads. This condition has been created within a single genera tion. SEES PICKWICK AS JOHNSON Canadian Writer Believes Dickens' Famous Character Was Sketch of the Great Lexicographer. A discussion has arisen between E. R. Thompson In the Nineteenth Cen tury and a writer in the Toronto Mail and Empire as to whether Dickens* famous character of "Mr. Pickwick" is an adaptation of the personality of Dr. Samuel Johnson. The magazine writer holds that this is the case; that the novelist was inspired by James, Boswell's "Life of Johnson" and that the alleged plagiarism is proved by a| certain characterization of Pickwick which coincides almost to a word with one of Boswell's descriptions of John son. The Toronto writer believes If Dickens did copy his character from' the noted lexicographer he did it un consciously and without any attempt to steal the fruits of Boswell's writing. It Is admitted that there are many points of resemblance between Pick wick and Johnson. Both were rather portly, burly men. They had a com mon weakness for the use of resound ing and dignified speech; both had little difficulty in summoning immense reserves of dignity to suppress the iro pudent or the flippant, and both had great hearts. "But," says the Mail and Empire writer, "we have not the imagination to picture Doctor Johnson disporting himself on skates after the fashion of Mr. Pickwick, and there Is a sort of kindly credulity about the latter that we find distinctly lacking irr Johnson. Moreover, we never suspect Mr. Pick wick of being a bully, although it is to be admitted that when he orders the skates of Mr. Winkle to be re moved he shows a Johnsonian stern ness and Impatience with pretense." j
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers