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THE STORY
CHAPTER I.—On her eighteenth
birthday, Barbara, motherless daughter
of Christopher Thorne, lovable but im
practical artist, receives, among her
other presents a birthday ring from
Bruce Mac Lain, young artist friend of
the family, but more than friend to
Barbara.
CHAPTER ll.—Barbara and Bruce
go picknicking on the sands at Prov
incetown. Taking shelter from a sud
den storm Bruce tells her a story of a
gypsy boy, a little gypsy girl whom he
loves, and the song of a silver flute.
She knows it is her own love tale.
Her happiness turns to sorrow when
she returns home to learn her father
has been drowned in the storm.
CHAPTER lll.—The first shock of
Borrow to Barbara is followed by the
fear that she and her brothers and
sister will be separated, as had beer,
the case when their mother died.
Cousin Evie, Aunt Lola, Cousin Jnlia,
and Uncle Herbert arrive and (Ake
charge of things,
CHAPTER V.—Stephen Drake, bach
elor, forty years old, still has vivid
recollections of the beautiful younf
matron, Barbara's mother, whom he
had loved eighteen years before. He
had made up his mind to propose that
night to Emily Trent, so that his well
ordered household might have a per-’
manent head. But the children arrive
and the proposal is interrupted.
CHAPTER IV.—Having been almoat
a mother to the others, Barbara can
not think of Kit’s sensitive nature
bruised in Uncle Herbert’s household
by his rough-and-ready cousins; Gay
■polled by her association with silly
Aunt Lola, and Jamie heartbroken be
cause he will be unable to keep his
dog. Chips. Bruce urges immediate
marriage, but that would mean separa
tion, the young artist being financially
unable to keep the children. Desperate,
the four Thornes plot to run away to
Barbara’s godfather, "Uncle Stephen"
Drake, whom they have never seen.
CHAPTER Vl.—When the children
have been put to bed, Stephen's aunt,
Edith, who manages his establishment,
wants to know what he proposes doing
about them. He admits he doesn't
know. Barbara tells him why they ran
away, and he feels his heart warm to
the brave small daughter of his early
love. But he tells her he must send
them all back.
‘ CHAPTER Vll.—Kit la taken 111, and
there can be no question of the chil
dren’s leaving, for the present. Stephen
finds himself strangely unable to re
sume his lover-like feeling for Emily.
CHAPTER Vlll.—Uncle Herbert and
Aunt Lola arrive, highly annoyed and
vociferously disapproving. Stephen
pacifies them. Despite Aunt Edith’s
expressed distaste for the arrange
ment, the youngsters become A. recog
nized part of the household. Barbara
writes Bruce, extolling Stephen for his
kindness to them all.
i
CHAPTER IX.-~rieaseu yvitV his role
of guardian, Stephen buys pretty
clothes for the girls and presents for
the boys, telling himself he is doing it
for the Barbara of his youth, Emily
perceives he has changed, and is jeal
ous of Barbara. Aunt Edith warns
Stephen against falling in love with the
girl, warning him that Barbara IB hot
n child. He scoffs at the idea as fan
tastic, considering the difference in
their ages.
CHAPTER X.—At Barbara's request
Stephen invites Bruce for a Christmas
visit. She has been unable to tell him
of her attachment for Bruce, hardly
knowing why but believing it to be
unwillingness to hurt her "godfather.”
Bruce and Barbara renew their love
troth, but the girl refuses to leave the
children to become his wife. Kit re
covers. Stephen takes the plunge and
arranges with their relatives to keep
the children indefinitely.
CHAPTER Xl.—Aunt Edith is out
spoken in condemnation of Stephen's
assuming the guardianship of the chil
dren, accusing him of being in love
with Barbara. He thinks she is ab
surd. but does not tell her of his af
fection for the mother. Natalie. Ste
phen’s sister, watching with sympa
thetic Interest her brother's attach
ment, is satisfied tffiit, almost unknown
to himself. Barbara has aroused a more
than tender feeling In his heart. Emily,
realizing her love affair with Stephen
is ended, leaves Philadelphia.
CHAPTER Xll.—Barbara, in letters
to Bruce, tells him of the arrangement
for their staying in Philadelphia, again
dwelling on Stephen’s unremitting
kindness to all of them, and admitting
that she has not told him of their at
tachment. Aunt Edith has gone on a
visit to California, because of the pres
ence of the children, Barbara confides
to Bruce. He urges her to make their
engagement known to Stephen, but still
she hesitates.
CHAPTER Xlll.—Stephen experiences
a renewed interest in life in associa
tion with the children, but he feels
that Barbara is undeniably unhappy.
The truth is she has not heard from
Bruce for three weeks and fears he
believes she has ceased to love him in
the glamor of Stephen’s wealth and
position. Stephen arranges a large
garden party in her honor, at which
he comes to the full realization that
his love for the "Babbie" he has be
friended is more than the recalling of
his youth’s romance, and that he has
been deceiving himself. Barbara, though
knowing her fondness for him is not
the love he desires, allows him to hope.
CHAPTER XIV
Barbara lay on the beach, her arms
folded under her head, her eyes dream
ing up into the cloudless blue of the
eky. Kit sat beside her, sketching.
At a little distance. Gay in a brief
green bathing suit was the center of a
noisy chattering group. Jamie and
the Parrish twins, freckled and brown
as gypsies, were building a miniature
golf course. “Chips” and the Parrish
Airedale were engaged tn a friendly
tussle, their frisky feet flinging up
showers of sand.
Barbara had forgotten Kit and the
children. She lay very still, thinking
of many things. Summer was over.
This was their last day at Bay Head.
Tomorrow they would return to
“Thornhedge. “ What then? “When
the summer is over.” Uncle Stephen
had said.
She thought, with a faint confused
feeling, of what that might mean.
“When the summer is over.” She
knew, now, that she had tried to hold
the days, to keep them from passing
too rapidly. Each of them was pre
cious, sunny days, gray days wrapped
in blankets of fog, stormy days when
the wind blew from the northeast and
the breakers pounded against the
shore. Another day. Something might
happen. Weeks ahead. Passing, pass
ing too rapidly, sunny days, cloudy
days, days when the storm wind blew.
She could not hold them. They were
gone. "When the summer is over,”
Uncle Stephen had said.
She remembered the day he had
said it, the day after her party when
Uncle Stephen had kissed her beside
the lily pond in that new and fright
ening way. It was late in the after
noon. She had sat in the library al
cove. hidden by the hangings, trying
to write a letter to Bruce, a sad diffi
cult letter, a letter to tell him that
she must stay with Uncle Stephen. She
was tired, so dreadfully tired. The
rain against the window had been
soothing. She had gone to sleep, tired,
so dreadfully tired.
Voices had roused her, Uncle Ste
phen’s voice, the plushy fat-sounding
voice of Aunt Edith’s friend, Mrs.
Beach. She had meant to come from
behind the curtains. It wasn’t polite
to listen to a conversation when no
one knew you were there.
And then she had discovered that
Mrs. Beach was talking about her.
She couldn’t come out them She had
been too shy and hurt and ashamed,
too sorry for Uncle Stephen.
Susie Monroe, she had heard, had
seen Uncle Stephen kiss her beside the
lily pond. Susie had told her grand
mother and her grandmother, a friend
of Aunt Edith’s, had told Mrs. Beach.
Everybody was talking, Mrs. Beach
reported. She felt it her duty to tell
Stephen.
Uncle Stephen had been very angry
indeed—angry but very polite. He
had said very little. Barbara knew,
by the tone of his voice, that he was
angry and hurt She had been so
sorry for Uncle Stephen, hearing Mrs.
Beach talk. He had been kind to her
and the children, so wonderfully gen
tle and kind. She wanted to help him,
somehow. There was nothing shq
could do.
Uncle Stephen, at last, had rung for
Henry. Mrs. Beach had rustled out
of the room.
Barbara had not meant Uncle Ste
phen to know that she had overheard
the conversation. She waited until
she thought he had left the room. Then
she stepped out from behind the cur
tains. He was there, standing beside
the hearth, his brows drawn down over
his angry eyes. He had looked sorry
when he saw her, sorry and angry and
hurt.
"You heard?” he had asked.
“I’m sorry. Uncle Stephen.”
"D—n them,” he had said, meaning
Mrs. Beach and Susie Monroe and
Susie’s gossiping grandmother.
“I’m so terribly sorry.” He had
looked so sorry and angry that she
had wanted to help him. “People will
talk. Uncle Stephen. There’s nothing
you can do."
"There's one thing,” he had said.
She knew what he meant. She could
tell by the expression in his eyes. A
weight had settled into her heart If
he hadn’t kissed her the evening be
fore in that frightening sort of way she
would have thought that he meant
only to protect her. But he had kissed
her. She knew about being in love.
“Barbara—” he had said.
She had wanted to stop him. Think
ing of Bruce, she had wanted to run
away. He must have seen that she
was confused. He had not touched
her.
"We won’t talk about it now,” he
had said. “When the summer is
over—”
Uncle Stephen had taken them to
Bay Head with Sarah and a brown
cook named Eliza. He had come down
only for week-ends. Barbara was
grateful for that Since the evening
beside the lily pond, since Mrs. Beach
had swept out of the library, it had
embarrassed her to be with Uncle
Stephen. It hurt her to feel that way.
But she couldn't help ft no matter how
hard she tried.
He had been as kind as ever. But
his manner had changed. He treated
her like a grown-up young lady. He
never kissed her as he did Gay or
tousled her hair or ducked her under
the waves. He never called her Bab
bie. He called her Barbara now, all
the time.
She might have thought that she
had imagined that evening beside the
lily pond except that, sometimes, he
looked at her in a wistful sort of way.
And now it was September. “When
the summer is over," Uncle Stephen
had said. . . .
“Do you know where Bruce. Is,
EARLY COUNTY NEWS, BLAKELY, GEORGIA
Babs?” Kit, lounging beside her,
asked.
“No,” she said, turning her head to
avoid Kit’s eyes. She didn’t know.
He had not answered the difficult let
ter she wrote him, the letter which
told him that she must stay with Un
cle Stephen. Her following letters
had been returned unopened. Bruce
had disappeared without telling her
that he understood, without a consol
ing word, Bruce who had loved her
so much. . . .
“I should think he would write to
us,” Kit grumbled. “I thought he
liked us a lot Remember how he used
to take us swimming?”
Barbara nodded, unable to speak
because of a lump in her throat. . . .
"He was afraid to tell her how deeply
he loved her because she was a little
girl no higher than his heart and he
wasn’t sure that she knew about be
ing in love. . . .”
"And how nice he was when Father
died?” Kit asked, rem< mbering Bruce.
Again Barbara nodded, her lashes
wet with tears which Kit could not
see. . . . “The flute knew only one
song. *1 love you, pretty gypsy girl
with the roses in your hair. . . .’”
“Babs," Kit said, after an Interval
of silence.
“Yes?”
“This is sort of a funny question I’m
going to ask.”
"What is it, Kit?”
"Well, I was thinking—” Kit flushed
and looked embarrassed. "I mean,
wouldn’t it be funny if you should
marry Uncle Stephen?”
“What put that idea in your head?”
“Sarah told Eliza you are." Kit’s
flush deepened. “Os course 1 don’t
listen to servants’ talk. But Gay told
Sally Parrish.”
“You know how Gay is, Kit”
"Yes. I know.” Kit rolled over on
his side. “But I was Just thinking—
wouldn’t it be sort of funny, Babs?”
"Would you like it?” Barbara asked.
“I think it would be swell,” Kit an
swered promptly. “Then we could all
stay together. You have to marry
somebody, I suppose.”
“Maybe not.”
"Gee, Babs I” Kit’s voice held a
note of distress. “You don’t want to
be an old maid!”
"I won’t be,” she said, smiling faint
ly. “Not for a year or two.” If she
wouldn’t keep thinking of Bruce. If
there wasn't always an aching lump in
her throat . . .
They were quiet after that Barbara
lay with her arms crossed under her
head, her eyes dreaming up into the
shining blue of the sky. Where was
Bruce? Bruce had gone. Nothing
mattered. Nothing mattered at all. . . .
Kit’s voice broke the lazy silence.
“Here comes Uncle Stephen,” he
said, springing up from the sand.
“He’s early today. I guess that’s be
cause we’re going home.”
Going home! But home was the
gray-shingled house in Provincetown.
She could never think of "Thorn
hedge” as home. They were going
back tomorrow. "When the summer
is over,” Uncle Stephen had said. . . .
Barbara saw Uncle Stephen walking
toward them down the beach, tall
and erect In his bathing suit, tanned
by week-ends with them at the shore.
She saw Gay leave the chattering
group and run to meet him. She saw
Jamie racing toward him. She saw
Kit, his face shining with shy excited
pleasure, crowding Gay and Jamie
aside. The children loved Uncle Ste
phen. She loved him, too. But she
wanted to run away.
“How’s my girl?” Stephen asked,
dropping down on the sand beside her.
“Fine,” she answered, crawling in
side the secret shell of herself. She
didn’t like to hide from Uncle Stephen.
But she had to. somehow. It was
something she couldn’t help.
The children clustered about him.
There were many things to discuss.
Kit’s boat had a broken rudder but
there was no use having it mended
since they were leaving tomorrow.
Sally Parrish had invited Gay to visit
her in New York. Did Uncle Stephen
think she might go the week-end after
next? Jamie had cut his foot on a
piece of broken glass. But it wasn’t
anything much though Sarah predicted
lock-jaw. How were Henry and Katie?
Had the kittens grown into cats? Did
Jamie’s pet frog still live in his moated
castle beside the lily pond?
Barbara saw and loved his patience
with the children. It was lovely to see
them together, healthy and happy and
brown and carefree. They wouldn’t
be here, of course, if it wasn’t for
Uncle Stephen. She could never be
grateful enough.
But he didn’t want her to be grate
ful. He wanted her to be happy.
Would she be happy after a while?
Would she forget about Bruce? Would
the ache in her throat disappear? Per
haps—if she tried very hard.
“Run along,” Stephen said presently.
"I want to talk to Barbara.”
"Can’t we hear, too?” Gay asked.
"Come on,” Kit said with a scowl
for Gay. "Haven’t you any manners
at all?”
They scattered in various directions.
Barbara sat very still. What would
Uncle Stephen say? “When the sum
mer is over. . . .”
It was about the house in Province
town.
“1 had a letter from the real estate
agent,” Stephen said. “Someone wants
to buy IL”
“Oh. Uncle Stephen 1” Barbara felt
a strange lonely ache in her heart.
She couldn’t bear the thought of sell
ing the gray-shingled house.
i “Do you mind so much?” Stephen
asked, seeing a shadow slip across her
, face, seeing her hands clasping each
i other tightly.
“I loved ft” she said with a little
catch in her voice. She had liked to
think it was waiting there, waiting
for Bruce and for her.
“But you won’t need it, probably,”
Stephen said. What was she think
ing? he wondered. He knew so little
about her. The summer had made no
difference. She seemed more distant
from him than she had in the spring.
What could he do?
“No,” she agreed with a little sigh.
“We won’t ever need it again.”
"It’s rather a good offer,” Stephen
continued. "What do you want to
do?”
“Sell it, I guess.” It would be hers
no longer, the gray-shingled house she
had loved. She wouldn’t live there
with Bruce. It might just as well be
sold. "There’ll be money,” she added.
“I can pay for the clothes.”
“Must you?” Stephen asked, liking
her independence but a little hurt as
well.
"I’d feel better,” she said. “That
was the agreement, you know."
“Yes, 1 know. But I’m your guar
dian now.”
“You weren’t then.” She smiled
faintly. “I think that makes a dif
ference."
Was she happy? Stephen wondered.
What lay behind the smile, behind the
sadness in her eyes? She was dear to
him, so very dear. Should he have
waited? Should he have asked her
to marry him that night beside the lily
pond? She had seemed so small and
so very young. Was it her mother he
had kissed, the Barbara he had loved
a very long time ago? He had wanted
to be sure. He wasn’t sure, even now.
“Would you like to go to Province
town?” he asked.
“There are some things 1 would like
to have.” The dark lashes lifted.
“The bed Father made for me, his
paintings, my chest. Yes, I think I’d
like to go.”
“We can go next week.”
“All of us?”
The question hurt Stephen a little.
She didn’t want to be alone with him.
All summer she had clung to the chil
dren. Why?
“If you like,” he agreed. “Is it a
good idea?”
She nodded slowly, avoiding his
eyes.
“Then that’s settled,” he said.
Suddenly she couldn’t bear the
thought of losing the gray-shingled
house. She felt her eyes fill with
tears. But she mustn’t let Uncle
Stephen know. She pulled herself up
from the sand.
“Let’s go in swimming,” she said,
forcing her voice to sound gay. “I’ll
race you, Uncle Stephen.”
She ran down the beach to the edge
of the curving waves. He caught up
with her as she dove through a foam
ing breaker.
“I won!" she cried, breathless, smil
ing.
The tears didn’t show through the
water that streaked her face.
The moon rose out of the ocean, mak
ing a path of silver across the waves.
It shone on the cottage veranda where
Stephen sat with Barbara.
"The summer is over.” he said, break
fl long uneasy silence. "Have you
been happy?"
“Yes," she said slowly. "I’ve liked
it here. It’s been splendid for the
children."
"Do you always think first of them?
I want you to think of yourself now,”
Stephen said gravely. “Don’t con
sider the children.”
There was something in his voice.
What was he going to say? She sat
very still, almost holding her breath.
"Would you like to go to Europe?”
he asked, wishing that he could see
her eyes.
“All of us?”
“Just you and I—and Kit, perhaps."
“Oh!” The exclamation was a soft
little sound. Startled? Frightened?
Happy? Stephen could not tell.
“Do I seem very old to you?” he
asked.
“I don’t think about your age," she
said, afraid he might be hurt She
slipped her hand into his to tell him
that she loved him. “I just think
you’re very nice.”
Stephen held her hand tightly. If
only he might be sure!
“Would you like to go with me—
just you and I and Kit?”
She knew what he meant She did
not answer at once. It would be
splendid for Kit. And Uncle Stephen
was nice. Bruce had gone. Nothing
else mattered at all.
“Yes." she said softly. “Yes, I
would like to go.”
“You know what 1 mean?” he asked.
"Yes. Uncle Stephen, 1 know.”
"Will that make you happy?” he
persisted. He didn’t know. She sat
so quietly beside him, her hand held
fast in his. Wasn't she too quiet, too
reasonable? What lay behind the soft
notes in her voice?
“Yes.” she said. She left her own
chair and sat on the arm of his, want
ing to feel closer to him, afraid of the
queer lonely pain in her heart
"Are you really happy?” he asked.
“Cross my heart” She made the
sign on the bodice of her frock. The
childish gesture touched him, and
troubled him, too. Was she old
enough? He thought that she was.
He would be very gentle.
“We’ll stay until spring,” he said.
"1 haven’t had a real vacation for
years."
He had thought of it constantly dur
ing the summer. It would be easier,
he had decided, to make the necessary
adjustments away from home. Aunt
Edith would come back to live at
“Thornhedge.” Gay and Jamie could
be there for vacations. Aunt Edith
was fond of the younger children.
When they returned from Europe,
Aunt Edith would have become accus-
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tomed to the idea. It seemed a sensi
ble plan.
“Do you want to take Kit?” she
asked.
“If you would like him to go." He
thought that she might be unhappy
without the children. He wanted her
to be happy. She was dearer to him
than anything in the world.
“It will be splendid for Kit,” she
said and Stephen knew that he had
judged correctly. She didn’t want to
be entirely alone with him. Had he
misunderstood her impulsive "I do love
you. Uncle Stephen 1” that night be
side the lily pond? But she had no
interest in boys. She had discour
aged them all summer, had seemed to
be content with the children and him.
The children and him. That, of course,
was the source of his anxieties and
doubts. I .
“Barbara,” he said.
“Yes? . . ."
Her arm was around his neck. He
felt her hair, silky and soft, brushing
against his cheek. Barbara’s hair
would have felt like that —the Bar
bara he had loved. Why did he think
of her when the younger Barbara was
there beside him, close and warm and
fragrant? Was it her mother he
loved? It troubled him to realize that
he couldn’t be quite sure.
"You mustn’t do this for me,” he
said gravely. "Or for the children.
You must think of yourself.”
But it didn’t matter about her.
Bruce had gone. The silver flute was
silent, lost perhaps. It would never
play again, “I love you, pretty gypsy
girl with the roses in your hair.”
Bruce was lost, the lovely things they
had planned . > .
“We’ll count the stars through our
skylight and every morning for break
fast I’ll sing you a brand-new song."
“Bruce! A new one every day!”
"And a special one for Sundays.”
—And heart-shaped gates to keep away
The world and all its cares
From one small table, dear.
And two small chairs. . . .
The gates hadn’t been strong
enough. Bruce was gone. It hadn’t
been her fault or his. It was some
thing that had happened. Uncle Ste
phen loved her. He had done so
much for the children. She could
never be grateful enough.
“I want to,” she said with a little
catch in her voice. “I do love you,
Uncle Stephen!”
“Darling!” He drew her down from
the arm of the chair, held her close in
his arms. Doubts and uncertainties
vanished while she lay there against
his heart. He thought of taking her
to Europe. They would revisit the
village in southern France. There,
with this younger Barbara, he would
find the romance he had missed. She
loved him, he was sure of that. She
seemed content to lie against his
heart.
“Darling,” he said huskily. "You are
dearer to me than anything in the
world.”
“I love you, Uncle Stephen,” she said
with a soft little quivering sigh.
Stephen did not hear the sigh. It
did not seem odd to him that she
called him "Uncle Stephen.” His lips
were against her hair, soft and silky
and faintly scented.
(To be continued)
STRAY—One brindle white-faced
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paying expenses. GENE MARTIN,
Hilton, Ga.
MASONIC NOTICE.
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on the first and third
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each month. The
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TO DEBTORS AND CREDITORS
GEORGIA, Early County:
Notice is hereby given to all
creditors of the estate of Mrs. Tom
mie C. Haddock, late of Randolph
county, deceased, to render in an
account of their demands to us with
in the time prescribed by law,
properly made out and verified, and
all persons indebted to said deceased
are hereby requested to make im
mediate payment to the undersigned.
I. P. JAY, Sr.,
L. W. JAY,
Z. E. JAY,
as executors of the estate of
Mrs. Tommie C. Haddock.
Dr. G. O. Gunter
BLAKELY, GA.
Office in Howell Drug Co. Building.
Phenes: Office 66, Residense 59.
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BLAKELY : : GEORGIA
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Phone 157.
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Attorney at Law
Alexander Bldg.
BLAKELY, GEORGIA
C. T. ALEXANDER
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