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GRADY COUNTY' PROGRESS, CAIRO, GEORGIA,
mtcieon
mU5TRAnON$ &-m. mTEKS
COPYMMr. W/+,
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swo coPmStr
8YNOP8I8.
hla inS N ?, w T 0 * home »f James Brood,
frnm“ nim FrC i? or .i°’ , rec 1 el ,ve«. a wireless
t™* n , hUfL Frederic tells Lydia Des
mond, Ills flancee, that the message an
nounces his father’s marriage, and orders
Lv,H„' o D , C „ a ",\ 0nd ’. the housekeeper and
r. , i“' I 5, ot , her l t0 Prepare the house for
an Immediate home-coming. Brood and
w n,1? a , rrlvo ’, 81,0 wlna Fredericks 11k-
smi vLus 1 ! n,e .5i. w " ? roo<1 shows dislike
S 'e'led hostility to his son. l.ydla and
“"■Brood met In the Jade-room, where
j works as Brood s secretary. Mrs.
IbnHo h S atartled by the appearance of
Ranjab, Broods Hindu servant. She
makes changes In the household and gains
s m . n - 8 consent to send Mrs. Des-
mond and Lydia away. She fascinates
Srederlc. She begins to fear Kanjab In
nis uncanny appearances and dlsappear-
ances,. and Frederic, remembering his
fathor s East Indian stories and lion be
lief In magic, fears unknown evil. Ran-
Performs feats of magic for Dawes
and Riggs. Frederic’s father. Jealous, un
justly orders his son from the dinner table
“ drunk. Brood tells the story of Ran-
i a m 8 “to t0 his guests. "He killed a worn-
an who was unfaithful to him. Yvonne
Plays with Frederic’s Infatuation for her.
Her husband warns her that the thing
must not go on. (She tells him that he
atlll loves his deacr wife, whom he drovo
from his home, through her, Yvonne.
Yvonne plays with Brood, Frederic and
Lydia as with figures on a chess board.
Brood, madly Jealous, tells Lydia that
Frederic is not his son, and that he has
brought him up to kill his happiness at
the proper time with this knowledge.
Frederic takes Lydia home through a
heavy storm and spends the night at her
mother s house. HU wavering allegiance
her is strengthened by a day spent
with her. Yvonne, over the phone rouses
Frederic's Infatuation for her again. Lydia
goes to beg Brood not to tell Frederio of
his unhappy
her purpose.
i unhappy parentage, but Is turned from
CHAPTER Xltl—Continued.
Lydia resolved to take the plunge.
Now was the time to speak plainly to
this woman of the thing that was hurt
ing her almost beyond the limits ot
endurance. Her voice whs rather'high-
pitched. She had the'fear that she
would not be able to control It. "
“I should be blind not to have ob
served the cruel position In which you
are placing Frederic. Is It surprising
that your husband has eyes as well as
I? What muBt be. tis' thOughtSv'Mrs.
Brood?"
She expected an outburst, a torrent
of indignation, an angry storm of
words, and was therefore unprepared
for the piteous, hunted expression that
came swiftly into the lovely eyes, bent
so appealingly wpon her own, which
were cold and accusing.. Here was a
new phase to this extraordinary crea
ture’s character. She was a coward,
after all; and Lydia despised a coward.
The look of scorn deepened in her
eyes, and out from her ^ heart rushed
all that was soft and ’ tender in her
nature, leaving it barren of. all com
passion.
"I do not tyant to hurt Frederic,”
murmured Yvonne. “I—I am sorry
if-’’ , ■ '
' “You are hurting him dreadfully,”
said Lydia, suddenly choking up with
emotion. 1
“He is not—not in love with me,"
declared Yvonne.
■’No,’’ said thft girl, regaining con
trol of herself, "he is not in love with
you. That is the whole trotible. Ho
ls In love with . me. But—can’t you
see?” ', ,, < , f .
“You are a wise young woman to
know men so well,” said the other
enigmatically. ”1 have never believed
in St. Anthony.”v'. - t .
“Nor I,” said Lydia, and was sur
prised at herself.
"Do you consider mo to .be a bad
woman, Lydia?” .Her lips'l'tr^mbled.
There was a suspicious quiver to her
chin. • ’i
"No, I do not,” pronounced the girl
flatly; "If I coula omy think'’that'of
you it would explain everything and
I should know just How; fortredt you.
But I do hot think it of you.” '*
With a long, deep sigh, Yvonne crept
closer and laid her head against Lyd
ia’s shoulder. The girl’s body stif
fened, her brow grew. dark with an
noyance. v ' ' - . :
“I am afraid you do not understand,
Mrs. Brood. The fact still remains
that you have not. considered; Fred
eric's peace of mind.”
"Nor’ yours," murmured, the other,
abjectly. •
“Nor mine,” confessed Lydia, after
a moment.
“I did not know that you and Fred
eric were in love with each.other until
I had been here for some lime,” Mrs.
Brood explained, ■ suddenly fretful. •
“What kind of a woman are you?"
burst from Lydia’s Indignant .soul.
“Have you! no conception of the finer,
nobler—” .
Yvonne deliberately put hex' hand
over the girl’s lips, checking the fierce'
outburst. She smiled rather plain
tively as Lydia tried to .jerk her head
to ono side in order to continue her
reckless indictment.
"You shall not say.it, Lydia. Lam
not all that you think I am. No, no,
a thousand times no. God pity, me, I
am more accursed than you may think
with the finer iind -nobler instinct. If
it were not so, do you think I should
be where I am Row?—cringing here
like a beaten child? No, you cannot
understand—you. never will under
stand. I shall say no more. It Is
ended.. I swear on my' soul that I
did not know' you were Frederic’s
sweetheart I did n'ot know—”
i'Bht you knew almost immediately
after you came here;” exclaimed
Lydia, harshly. "It is not myself 1
am- thinking of, Mrs. Brood, but
Frederic. "Why havo you dono thli
abominable thing to him? Why?"
“I—I did not realize what it -woultj
mean to him,” said the other, desper
ately. “I—I did not count all the cost-.
But, dearest Lydia, it will come oul
all right again, I promise'you. I have
made a horrible, horrible mistake, J
can say no more. Now, let me lie here
with my head upon your breast. 1
want to feel the beating of your pure,
honest heart—the heart that I have
hurt. I can toll by its throbs whether
it will ever soften toward me. Do not
say anything now—let us be still." '
It would .be difficult to describe the
feelings of Lydia Desmond as she sat
there with the despised though to be
adored head pillowed upon her breast,
where it now rested in a sort of confi
dent repose, as if there was safety in
the very strength of the young girl’s
disapproval,- Yvonne had twisted her
lithe body on the chaise longue so that
she half-raced Lydia. Her free arm,
from which the loose sleeve had
fallen, leaving it bare to the Bhoulder,
was about the girl’s neck.
For a long time Lydia stared
straight before'"her, seeing nothing,
positively dumb with wonder and ac
knowledging a sense of dismay over
her own disposition to submit to this
extraordinary situation. She was ask
ing herself, why she did not oast the
woman away, why she lacked the
power to resent by deed as well as by
thought. Life—marvelous, adorable
life rested there on her breast. This
woman had hurt her—had hunt her
wantonly—and yet there came steal
ing over her, subtly, the conviction
that she could never hurt her In re-*'
turn. She could never bring herself
to the point of hurting this wondrous,
living, breathing, throbbing' creature
who; pleaded, not only with her lips
hiid ’.eyes, .but with the gentle heart-
beaUftWatVose and fell in her throat
After a long time, in 1 which there
was conflict, she suddenly pressed her
warm lips to Yvonne’s. Then in an
abrupt revulsion of feeling her arms
fell aw.ay fropi the warm, sweet body
and almost roughly she pushed Yvonne
away from her.
“I—I didn’t- mean to do that!” she
gasped. -. .
The other smiled, but It was a sad.
plaintive effort on her part. “I knew
that ’you-would,” she repeated.
Lydia -sprang to her feet, her face
suddenly flaming with embarrassment.
“I must see Mr; Brood. I stopped ‘in
to tell him that—” she began, trying
to cover,.hqjj confusion, but Y.vonne in
terrupted.' • 1
“I know that you could not help it,
my dear,” she said. .Then,’ after a
pause: ”You ,will let me know ■ what
my husband has to say about It?”
“To—say about It?”
' “About'your decision to marry Fred
erlo in spite of his ohiections.”
Lydia felt 4 little Bhlver race.over
her as she looked toward the doqr.
“You. will help us?” she said, trem
ulously, turnin'g to Yvonne. f Again she
saw the drawn, pained look about the
dark eyes and] was startled.
’"You can do more with him than
I,” was the response.
a moment of Indecision. “I will come
tomorrow.”
Then she slunk downstairs and out
of the house, convinced that sho had
tolled Frederio In his hour ot great
est heed, that tomorrow would be too 1
late. i
• * • • • • ‘ ; J
Frederio did not como In tor dinner
until after his father and Yvonne had
gone from the house. lie did not in
quire for them, but Instructed Jones
to say to tho old gentlemen that ho
would bo pleased to dine with them
If they could allow him the time to
“change." He also told Jones to open
a single bottle ot champagne and to
place' three glasses.
. Later on Frederio made his an
nouncement- to the old, men. In the
fever ot an excitement that caused
him to forget that Lydia might .be en
titled to some voice in the matter, he
deliberately committed her to the proj
ect that had become a fixed thing In
his mind tho Instant ho sot foot In
the house and found it empty—oh, so
empty!
Jones’ practiced hand shook slightly
qs he poured tho wine. The old men
drafllc-rather noisily. They, too, were
excited. Mr. Riggs smacked his lip?
and squinted at the chandelier as If
trying to decide upon the vintage, but
in reality doing hlB best to keep from
coughing up tho wine that had gone
the wrong way In a moment ot pro
found paralysis. -
"The best news I’ve heard since Ju
das died,” said Mr. Dawes, manfully.
"Fill ’em up again, Jones. I want to
propose the health of Mrs. Brood.”
“The future Mrs. Brood," hissed Mr.
Riggs, wheezlly, glaring at his com
rade. “Ass I”
“I’m not married yet, Mr. Dawes,”
exclaimed Frederic, grinning.
“Makes no difference,” said Mr.
Dawes, stoutly. "Far as I’m concerned,
you are. We’ll be the first to drink
to Lydia Brood! The first to call her
by that name, gentlemen. God bless
her!”
"God bless her!” Bhouted Mr. Riggs,
“God bless her!” echoed Frederic,
and they drained their glasses to
Lydia Brood.
. “Jones,' open another bottle,” com
manded Mr. Dawes, loftily.
Frederic shook his head and two
faces fell. Right bravely, however, the
old men maintained a joyous interest
in the occasion. The young man
turned moody, thoughtful; the unwont
ed exhilaration died as suddenly as it
had come into existence. A shadow
crossed his vision' and he followed it
with his thoughts. A sense of utter
loneliness came over him with a swift
ness that sickened, nauseated him. The
food 'was flat to his taste; he could
not eat. Self-'commlseratlon stifled
him. He suddenly realized that he
had never been so lonely, so unhappy
in all his life as he was at this mo
ment.
His thoughts were of his father. A
vast, inexplicable longing possessed
his soul—a longing for the affectlpp of
this man who was never tender, who
stood afar oft and was lonely, too. He
could not understand this astounding
change of feeling. He had never felt
just this way before. Thera had been
times—and many—when his heart was
sore with lodging, but they were of
other days, childhood’ days. Tonight
he could not crush out the thought of
’7
CHAPTER XIV.
Sensations.
Lydia stopped for a. moment in the
half aftdr closing the door behind her,
to pull herself together for the ordeal
(hat wS6 still -to come. She was
trembling; a : weaknfess had, assailed
her.. She had, left. Evonne’s presence
in a .dazed, unsettled condition of
mind. There was a lapse of some kind
that she could neither account for nor
describe!, even to herself. The blaok
velvet'coat that formed a part of her
trig suit, hung limply in her hand,
dragging along the floor as ,sbe moved
vdth,‘hesitating : steps-in the' direction
of James Brood's study. A sickening
estimate of her own strength of pur
pose confronted her. She was sud
denly .afraid of the man who-, had
always been her friend. 'Somehow
she felt that he. would turn upon, her
and rend her, this man who'had .al
ways bgen so gentle and considerate—
and who-had killed'things!' t
Ranjab appeared at the hea^ of the
stairs.. She.waited for his signal to
ascend, somehow, feeling that Brood-
had dent hfin - . forth to’ summon' her.
Her hand--sought the stair rail and
gripped it -tightly. Hdr lips parted In
a stiff smllp. Now she knew that she
was-’turning' coward, • that she longed
to- put off the meeting' until tomor
row—tomorrow.!- ,
, The, Hindu came 'down .the'stairs,
quickly, noiselessiyj. _. .
“The master sfiy to comp tomorrow,
tomorrow as usual,” He said, tfs he
palmed above her bfi-tho steps.
"It—it must’be today,” she said, dog
gedly, even as the thrill ,of relief shot
through her.
"Tomorrow,” said-the> man. His eyes
were kindly inquiring. "Sahib say you
are to rest.” There was a pause., "To
morrow will not be too late. 1 "
She started. Had he read the thought
that was.in hep mind? .
"Thank you, Rqnjati,” she sajd, after
Lydia Stopped for a’ Moment In the
Hall.
how ineffably h'appy, how peaceful life
would be if his father were to lay his
hands upon his shoulders and say; “My
son, I love you—I love you dearly.'
There, would be no more lonely days;
all that was bitter in his life would be
swept aw’hy in the twinkling of an
eye;' the world would be full-of Joy for
.him and tor Lydia.’
- When he entered the house that
evening' he was full of resentment
toward his father, and‘sullen with the
remains of an ugly rage. And now to
be actually craving the affection of the
man who hlimbled'' him, even in the
presence of servants! It was unbe
lievable. He could not understand
himself. A wonderful, compelling ten
derness filled his heart. He longed to
throw himself at-his father’s feet and
crave his pardon for the harsh, venge
ful thoughts he had spent upon him
In those black hours. He hungered
for a word of kindness or of under
standing on which he could feed his
starving soul. He wanted his father’s
love. He .wanted, more than anything
else in the world, to love his father.
Lydia slipped out of his mind,
Yvonne was set aside in this immortal
moment. He had not thought of them
except in their relation to a completed
state of liapplnoBs for his fathor. In
distinctly ho recognized them as essen
tials.
Ay, ho was lonely. The houso was
ns bleak us the steppes ot Siberia. Ho
longed for companionship, friendship,
kludnosB—and suddenly in tho midst
of it all ho leaped to Ills feet.
"I’m going out, gentlemen," he ex
claimed, breaking In upon an unappre
ciated talo that Mr. Riggs was relat
ing at some length and with consider
able fierceness In view of the fact that
Mr. Dawes had pulled him up rather
sharply once or twice In a matter of
inaccuracies. "Excusb mo, please.”
He left them gaping with astonish
ment and dnBhed out Into the hall for
his coat and hat. Even then' he had
no definite notion as to what his next
move would be, save that he was going
out—Bomowhere, anywhere, ho did not
care.
Somehow, ns he rushed down the
front steps with tho cool night air
blowing in his face, there surged up
within him a strong, overpowering
sense of filial duty. It waB his duty to
make the first advances. It was for
him to pavo tho way to peace and hap
piness. Something vague but disturb
ing tormented him with tho fonr that'
his father faced a grave peril and that
his own placo was beside him and not
against him, as he lmd been in all
these illy directed years. He could
not put it away from him, this thought
that hiB father waB in danger—in dan
ger of something that was not phys
ical, something from which, with all
his valor, he had no adequate form of
defense.
At the corner he paused, checked by
an irresistible impulse to look back
ward at the bouse he had just left. To
his surprise there was a light la the
drawing-room windows facing the
street. The shades In -one of them
had been thrown wide open and a
stream of light flared out across the
sidewalk,
Framed in this oblong square of
light stood the figure of a man. Slowly,
as if drawn by a force he could not
resist, the young man retraced his
steps until he stood directly In front
of the window. A questioning smile
was on his lips. He was looking up
Into Ranjab’s shadowy, unsmiling face,
dimly visible in the glow from the
distant street lamp. For a long time
they stared at each other, no sign ot
recognition passing between them. The
Hindu’s face was as rigid, as emotion
less as if carved out of atone; his
eyes were unwavering. Frederic could
see them, even in the shadows. He
had the queer feeling that, though the
man gave no sign, he had something
he wanted to say to him, that he was
actually calling to him to come back
into the house.
Undecided, the man outside took
several halting steps toward the door
way, his gaze still fixed on the face in
the window. Then he broke Uie spell.
It was a notion on his part, 'k l 8 1 Wued.
If he had been wanted his father’s
servant would have beckoned to him.
He would not have .stood there like
a graven image, staring out into the
night. Having, convinced himself of
this, Frederic wheeled and swung off
up the street once more, walking rap
idly, as one who is pursued. Turning,
he waved hi3 hand at the man in the
window. H6 received no response.
Farther off he looked back once more.
The Hindu still was there. Long after
he was out ot sight of the houso he
cast frequent, glances over his shoul
der as if still expecting to see the
lighted window and its occupant.
As he made his way to Broadway!
somewhat hazily bent on following that
thoroughfare to the district where the
night glittered and the stars were
shamed, he began turning over in his
mind a queer notion that had just sug
gested itself to him, filtering through
the maze of uncertainty in which he
had been floundering. It occurred to
him that he had been mawkishly sen-
1 tlmental in respect to his father. His
attitude had not changed—he was seri
ously impressed by the feelings that
had mastered him—but he found him
self ridiculing the idea that his fathor
stood in peril of any description. And
suddenly, out of no . particular trend of
thought, groped the sly, persistent sus
picion that he had not been altogether
responsible for the sensations of an
hour ago. Some outside Influence had
molded his emotions for him, some
cunning brain had been doing his
thinking for him.
Then came the sharp recollection
of that motionless, commanding figure
in the lighted window, and his own
puzzling behavior on the sidewalk out
side. He recalled his Impression that
someone had called out to him just
before he turned to look up at the
window. It was all quite preposterous,
He kept on saying over and over again
to himself, and yet he could not shake
off the uncanny feeling.
Earlier in the evening, without warn
ing, without the slightest encourage
ment on his part, there had suddenly
leaped Into existence a warm, tender
and wholly inexplicable feeling toward
his father. At first he had been
amazed by this unwonted, almost un
natural feeling, which later on devel
oped Into something quite tangible in
the way of an emotion, but he was be
ginning to realize that tb,e real mys
tery lay outBide of any self-analysis
he qould make. Like a shot there
flashed Into' his brain the startling
question; Was Ranjab the solution?
Was It Ranjab’s mind and not his own
that had moved him to such tender
resolves?' Could such a condition be
possible? Was there such a thing as
mind control?
An hqur later Frederic approached
the box office of the theater mentioned
by Yvonne over the telephone that
morning. The play was half over and
the, house was sold out. He bought
a ticket of admission, however, and
lined up with others who wore content
to stand at tho back to witness tho
play. Inside tho theater ho loaned
weakly against tho railing at tho back
of the auditorium and wiped his brow.
What was it that lmd dragged him
there-against his will, In direct oppo
sition to his dogged determination to
shun tho placo?
The curtain was up, the houso was
still, savo for the occasional coughing
of those who succumb to n.habit that
can neither be helped nor explained.
There wore people moving on the
stago, but Frederio had no eyes fob
them. He was seeking in tho dark-
He Was Looking Up Into Ranjab’s
Shadowy, Unsmiling Face.
ness for tho two figures that he knew
were somewhero in the big, tense
throng.
The lights wont up and the house
was bright. Men began Bcurrylng up
the aisles. He moved up to the railing
again and resumed his, eager scrutiny
of the throng. He could not find them.
At first he was conscious of disap
pointment, then ho gave way to an
absurd rage. Yvonne had misled him,
she had deceived him—ay, sho had
lied to him. ’ They were not In tho
audience, they had not even contem
plated coming to this thoater. He had
been tricked, deliberately tricked. No
doubt they were seated In some other
place of amusement, serenely enjoying
themselves. Tho thought of it mad-
dened him. And then, just as he was
on tho point of tearing out of the
house, he saw them, and the blood
rushed to his head So violently that
he was almost blinded.
He caught sight of Ills father far
down in front, and then the dark, half-
obscured head of Yvonne. He could
not see their faces, but there was no
mistaking tliem for anyone else. He
only marvelled that he had not seen
them before, even In the semldarkness.
They now appeared to be the only
people In the’theater; he could see no
one else.
James Brood's fine, aristocratic head
was turned slightly toward his wife,
who, as Froderlc observed after chang
ing his position to ono of better ad
vantage, apparently was relating some
thing amusing to him. They undoubt
edly were enjoying themselves. Once
more the great, almost suffocating
wave of tenderness for his father
swept over him, mysteriously as be
fore and as convincing. He experi
enced a sudden, inexplicable feeling
of pity for the strong, virile man who
had never revealed the slightest symp
tom of pity for him. The same curi
ous desiro to put his hands on Ills
father's shoulders and tell him that
all was well with them came oyer him
again.
Involuntarily he glanced over his
shoulder, and the fear was In Ills heart
that somewhere in the shifting throng
his gaze would light upon the face
of Ranjab!
Long and Intently- his searching
gaze went through the crowd, seeklug
the remote corners and shndows of the
foyer, and a deep breath of relief
escaped him when it became evident
that tho Hindu was not there. He had,
In a measure, proved his own cause;
his emotions were genuinely, his own
and not the outgrowth of an influence
for good exercised over him by the
Brahmin.
He began what he was pleased to
term a systematic analysis of his emo
tions covering the entire evening, all
the while regarding the couple in the
orchestra chairs with a gaze unswerv
ing in its fidelity to the.sensation that
now controlled him—a sensation ot
Impending peril.
All at onqe ho slunk farther back
into the shadow, a guilty flush mount
ing to his cheok. Yvonne had turned
and was staring rather fixedly In his
direction. Despite the knowledge that
he was quite completely concealed by
the intervening group of loungers, he
sustained a distinct Bliock. He had
the uncanny feeling that she was look
ing directly into his eyes. She had
turned abruptly, as if some one lmd
called out to attract her attention and
she had obeyed the sudden impulse.
A moment later her calmly Impersonal
gaze swept on, taking in the sections
to her right and tho balcony, and then
went back to her husband’s face.
Frederic was many minutes in. re
covering from the effects of the queer
shock he had received. He could not
get it out of his head that she know
he was there, that Bhe actually turned
in answer to the call of his mind. She
had not searched for.him; on the'eoh-
trary, Bhe directed her gaze Instantly
to the spot where he stood concealed.
Actuated by a certain sense of guilt,
ho decided to leave the theater as
soon as tho curtain want up on th»
next act, which was to be the last. In
stead ot doing so, however, ho lin
gered to the end of tho play, securo in
his conscienceless espionage. It had
come to him that If ho met them In
front of tho theater as they enmo out
ho could Invito thorn to Join him at
supper in ono ot the nonrby restau
rants. Tho Idea plensod him. He
coddled it until It became a sensation.
When James Brood and hla wife
reached tho sldowalk they found him
there, directly In their path, as thoy.
wedged tholr way to the curb to await
tho automobile. He was smiling
frankly, wistfully. There'was an hon
est gladness In his fine, boyish face
and mi eager light In his eyes, lie no
longer lind tho sense of guilt in hi*
soul. It hud been a passing qualm,
and ho felt regenerated for having ex
perienced it, even so briefly.. Some
how it had purged his soul ot the one
lingering doubt as to the sincerity ot
his impulses.
"Hello!" he said, planting himself
squaroly in front of them.
Thoro was a momentary tableau. He
was vividly nware of tho toot that
Yvonne had shrunk back In alarm, and
that a swift look of fear leaped Into
her surprised eyes. She drew closer
to Brood's side—or was It the jostling
of the crowd that made it seem to ba
so? He.realtzed then that she had not
seen him In tho theater. Her surprise
was genuine. It was not much short
of consternation, a fact that he re
alized with a sudden sinking of the
heart.
Then his eyes went quickly to hla
father’s face. JameB Brood was re
garding him with a cold, significant
smile, as one who understands and
despises.
"Thoy told me you wore here,” fal
tered Frederic, tho words rushing hur
riedly through his lips, "and I thought
wo might run In Bomowhore and have
a blto to eat. I—I want to tell you
about Lydia and myself and what—”
The carriage man bawled a number
In his car and jerked open the door
of a limousine that had just pulled up
tho tho curb.
Without a word, James Brood hand
ed his wife into tho car and then
turned to the chauffeur,
“Home," he Bald, and, without so
much as a glance at Frederic, stepped
inside. The door was slammed and
the car slid out into the maelstrom.
Yvonne had sunk back Into-a corner,
huddled down as If suddenly doprlved
of all her strength. Frederic saw her
face as the car moved away. Sho was
staring at him with wide-open, re
proachful eyes, as If to say: "Oh, what
have you done? What a fool you are!”
For a Bocond or two he stood as if
petrified. Then everything went red
For a Second or Two He Stood as If
Petrified.
before him, a wicked red that blinded
him. He staggered as' if from a blow
In tho face.
"My God I" slipped from his stiff
lips, and tears leaped to. his eyes—
tears of supremo mortification. Like
a beaten dog ho slunk away, feeling
himself pierced by .the pitying gaze
of every mortal in the street.
tTO BE CONTINUED.)
Vogue of White Paint.
A clover decorator who remodeled
the dining room In a New England
farm house has even gone so far irx
her use of white paint as to finish the
floors with it. Tho woodwork and
furniture were also white, but plenty
of color was Introduced by' bright
chintz-patterned paper nnd plain
bright green rugs. The white dining
room table was always bare, which
allowed the mistress to use mauy at
tractively colored doily sets. Her
china Bhowed up to splendid advan
tage on this white ground, and the!
flowers from tho garden seemed un
usually bright and pretty In' the midst
of all this white. A country house
near Cleveland Has all its floors paint-
ed white, with bright, green, blue and
purple rugs used to carry out certain
color schemes. Of course, using white
on floors Ib practical only when you
are far from the city’s smoke or mo
tor’s dust.—The Countryside Mag*
zlno.
Happy Times.
“The cotton growors seem to b«
hard hit."
“Yes. And many of them are long
ing for tho good old days when all they
had to worry about was tho boll we*
vil.”