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MISS CRANE'S CHANCE:
HE next day dropped down out of
heaven with out a cloud; and
through all its palpitating golden
splendor, there radiated that name
less, indefinable charm that comes
sometimes with early spring. The
half-suppressed glory and gladness
of Nature’s resurrection, from her
long winter sleep, vibrated through
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the air with suggestions of color and perfume—
it was balmy, sweet and intoxicating, as the
breath of the gods. It was a joy undeserved
and a privilege unmerited, just to be alive —
on such a day. Miss Crane, fully dressed,
stood at a window of her bedroom, in the
Y. W. C. A. Home. She was apparently watch
ing the circling flight made by some bluebirds,
from the branch of an elm tree to the tiled side
walk, the bright whirr of their wings, the som
ersaults and noisy chatter, all seemed to inter
est her. But the glory of the morning, and
the part the birds had in it, had only a second
ary place in her mind, for she was thinking over
the big idea which had brought her to the city,
and was secretly as enthused over it, as a girl.
She felt thankful, as she never had before, it
seemed to her, for the possibilities in the pow
er, with which her dead lover’s trust had en
dowed her. For, it had been coming to her
of late, very slowly, as a flower pushes its way
up out of the dark earth, that Powhattan Gray
had not only loved her, but he had made an
exhaustive study of her character. In other
words, he had “sized her up,” with the big,
clear brain of a Captain of Industry, that he
had been familiar with both the reservations
and limitations of her personality. He knew,
because he had the perfect understanding
which love gives, wherein she was weak, and
wherein sflie was strong. And, while he had
apparently done a foolishly romantic thing, in
leaving her his fortune, without conditions, he
had, in fact simply used the same kind of supe
rior wisdom, which had made the fortune pos
sible, and he himself what he was, an acknowl
edged leader among men. For she was the
sort of woman who, without whip or spur, or
bridle, would, if given the right kind of incen
tive, pull a ton. But who, if lashed, and handi
capped and limited, would be more than likely
to be as stubborn as a mule, and consequently
do nothing at all. The consciousness sang
through her veins like an elixir of joy, this
morning, that Powhattan Gray had known her;
had indeed turned the leaves in the book of her
soul, in those long rides from the city. The
memory of her enthusiasm under the brown
mesmerism of his glance came back,
how she used to forget herself and
talk on and out of her heart like
a girl. And always she had known that
he had comprehended her. Their long silences,
when together, had been as eloquent of con
geniality as the many thoughts, profound and
light, which they shared in words. How often
had she lain awake half the night, after one
of those delightful trips, living over their con
versations. Nor could she forget his profound
personal interest toward her. She always be
lieved he cared, while she w T as with him, but
the splendor of the vision invariably faded
away after the night of retrospect and happi
ness which was usually the climax of her jour
neys from the city. The morning always
brought cold analysis and doubt. He did not
call on her although he must have known there
was nothing to prevent it. He never, appa
rently, made any effort to see her —but all the
same the gates of Paradise clanged behind
them both, whenever they met by accident.
It was heaven just for them to be together, and
whether he ever acknowledged it to himself
as she did at times, the fact remained the same.
But now, that Powhattan Gray was gone, and
while he had refused to put out his hand and
claim her for his own still he had given her
CHAPTER XII.
The Golden Age for January 16,1913.
every other evidence of his great love. She
felt, as she stood with the gladness of the
early morning about her, that somehow he knew
she was making good, that already she had
begun to largely justify the wisdom of his
trust in her.
After breakfast she went into the parlor, and
examined a number of religious papers and
periodicals, which were lying on a mahogany
table in one corner of the room. One of about
sixteen pages she read through from cover to
cover for the publication had been coming
into her home for a number of years, she had
not seen the last issue, and for some reason she
seemed to be making an exhaustive study of it
this morning. After awhile, Miss Lingle came
in, looking rather girlish in a dark red house
gown, her face indicating a cheerful mood —
which is always to be reckoned with as a charm
ing asset.
“Louise, what do you think,” Miss Crane in
quired, in an interested tone, “of The Granite
Times ? ’ ’
“Why, I like it unconditionally,” the secre
tary replied, “because it is such a stalwart
champion of truth and righteousness. Its edi
tor, Walter David Howard, is a brainy, brilliant
young man, who lectures quite as eloquently
and convincingly as he writes. lam really
very proud of him, and also of the fact that
he happens to be a personal friend of mine.”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” Miss Crane replied,
“for I, too, have heard of him as a remark
ably gifted young man, and his editorials are so
powerful and deeply interesting that I enjoy
reading them immensely. It is like taking an
invigorating mental tonic, weekly; besides
you always know where to find him.”
“On the right side of everything,” Miss Lin
gle affirmed. “From prohibition to a street
ordinance.”
“Assuredly,” Miss Crane answered, as the
young woman took a cluster of violets from a
vase on the table and, crossing the floor to her
side, pinned them on the gray lapel of her jack
et.
“You will come back to dinner, Miss Caro?”
the secretary inquired, with a degree of anx
iety, for it had not escaped her notice that
Miss Crane had on her hat and gloves.
“I do not know, Louise,” Miss Crane re
turned, “but if I find that I have to go home,
I’ll tell you ‘good bye’ by phone.”
“Oh, my fairy godmother,” Miss Lingle ex
claimed, with a dramatic gesture, from the door
way, “I wish you would not go at all, but
stay with me forever.”
Miss Crane walked down town, because she
felt she could think more clearly in God’s great
out of doors. She had settled mentally every
phase of the big idea, which had brought her
to the city, except one, and she hoped to dis
pose of that before she arrived at the office she
intended to visit. She passed slowly through
the residence section, but when she reached the
vivid life and pulsing mid currents of the busi
ness part of the city, she involuntarily, quick
ened her steps, and came to the end of her des
tination at last, in a grey marble building of
the sky-scraper variety. Passing through the
spacious vestibule, she entered the big steel ele
vator and was swept up quickly to the tenth
floor, found the number 1020, and,
in answer to her knock, was ad
mitted by a young woman, evident
ly the stenographer, to a plainly furnished
reception room. She called for the editor of
“The Granite Times,” and was taken through
a long room, filled from floor to ceiling, with
great stacks of papers and folios. It looked,
indeed like sample copies of a thousand edi
tions might be stored here. The private sanc
tum of the editor was at the end of this news
paper row. The stenographer opened the door,
and Miss Crane introduced herself, as he rose
up from a big oak desk. She accepted the
By ODESSA STRICKLAND PAYNE
chair he placed by the one big window which
lighted the room. The editor, a man about
thirty-eight years old, of the blonde type, with
brilliant blue, scintillating eyes, and red brown
hair, was not very tall, but his figure was good,
and he held himself so perfectly erect, that it
gave him a certain air of distinction. His
manners were high-bred, but tempered with
that sort of cordiality which always betrays
the man with a heart.
“I have been a reader of your paper,” Mr.
Howard, “for a number of years,” said Miss
Crane, “and have enjoyed your editorials so
much, that I felt, while I was in the city, I ought
to come up and see your personally, and ac
knowledge my indebtedness.”
“Well, I am very glad you came, Miss
Crane,” he replied, in a rich, masculine voice,
‘ ‘ and, incidentally, lam also gratified to learn
of your approval of my editorial work. You
see,” he went on, in a graver tone, “our cham
pionship of religion and personal and civic
righteousness does not always appeal to every
body. You know we stand square and flat
footed on the fundamentals, and while we are
aware of the fact that we have the sympathetic
backing up of all really Christian people, still,
sometimes, the fight is hard.”
‘ ‘ Do you mean financially ? ’ ’ the lady in grey,
asked, in a quiet voice.
He laughed, in a musical way, and the smile
which came into the brilliant blue of his eyes,
was like an electric flash.
“Well, yes,” he admitted. “Our subscrip
tion list totals ten thousand, but all the same
collections are so hard to make, and our run
ning expenses are so high, that they run away
with us every year. And if I did not lecture
from the mountains to the seacoast, and occa
sionally sell a big block of Granite Times’ stock,
I fear the paper would soon become hopelessly
involved in debt. For, alas,” he went on with
a shadow on his handsome face, “the right side
of things is not the popuar side, as I have often
been made to realize by the lack of money. I
feel that I am doing the Lord’s work, and while
I am perfectly sure that He is going to take
care of it, still I do not see how He is going to
do it, sometimes. For instance: I need
$4,000 this morning imperatively, but where
it is to come from I do not understand. I
only know if it does not come soem, from a
human point of view, it will apparently mean
ruin, spelled with illuminated letters.”
“I see,” Miss Crane answered in a voice of
tenderest comprehension, for she did see much
farther into the editor’s dark problem of fi
nance, than he could imagine, for she knew
that he had been led to talk to her in this
frank fashion, by some power higher than him
self.
“Would four thousand dollars,” she inquir
ed in an interested tone, “relieve you of all
embarrassment, if you could get it at once?”
“Oh, yes, indeed, for the present,” he replied,
in a more hopeful voice. “But as I want to
enlarge the paper, get it out with an artistic
cover, that will be a thing of beauty, and a
joy forever, and put it on a paying business
basis, I really need ten thousand to carry out
all my plans. - So you can see for yourself Miss
Crane, that while I believe that humility has
its place in the scheme of things, still I am not
a modest fellow at all.”
“Perhaps not,” she admitted with a slight
smile. “But if you had all this money which
you think you need now, how long would it
enable you to run the paper on successful
lines?
“A year, perhaps continually,” he returned,
with a sigh. But where on earth is the money to
come from? for there is not a sign in the
clouds —as yet. But if I have not hewed to
the line without fear or favor, on all subjects
of vital importance to the people, it has been
(Continued on Page 14.)
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