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ZEN of the Y. D.
A Kovel of the Foothills *
B v ROBERT
*hor of'
Cjpytiiht by ROBERT CTEAD
CHAPTER X—Continued
_l3
. of vnl , me cii,” she said.
“! know what ou nje }q
“There’s too much co * rtesles and
yet one always ‘sir’d’ your
not be sen 11 ■ j dld lt because I
'>“>■- ih * ato ' Aad
ns.Ue
•t-' - > s *
.•Very well, sir. Do y* wish to die
'“Grant found a little apartment
Ilo r o n a side stree , overlooking the
la! e Here was a plica where the vl-
Jnuld leap ov without being
, 0k by blades f stone
„rick. Tie rest! his eyes on he
Sauce, and assu-'d the inveigling
landlady that the roms would do, and
he would arrange f decorating at his
own expense.
* s he was arra'lng the books on
Ids shelf a ellppW with the account
of Zen’s wedding ii to the floor. He
6at down in his cm and read it slow
ly through. Latene went out for a
walk- . _
It was In his loi walks that Grant
found the only rea-’omfort of his new
]ir P To be sure, Kas not like roain
ln" the foothills ;here was not the
soft breath of tl Chinook, nor the
deep silence of thaiglity valleys. But
there was movenit and freedom and
a chance to thir The city offered
artificial attracth in which the foot
hills had not rtpeted; faultlessly
kept parks andiwns; splashes of
perfume and er; spraying foun
tains and vagri strains of music,
lie reflected tlicome merciful prin
ciple of competlon has made no
place quite per: and no place en
tirely undesira He remembered
also‘the toil of life In the saddle;
the physical hship, the strain of
long hours nnd>ken weather. And
here, too, In a ffent way, he was in
the saddle, ahe did not know
which strain i the greater. He
was beginning have a higher re
gard for the tun the saddle of busi
ness. The wesaw only their suc
cess, or, it m.-e, their pretense of
success. Bupre was a different
story from allt, which each one of
them could hiold for himself.
On this ev< when liis mind had
been suddenirned Into old chan
nels by the ng of the newspaper
clipping dearth the wedding of
Y.D.’s dauglvrant walked far into
the outskirtithe city, paying little
attention to course. It was late
October; tbves lay thick on the
sidewalks through the parks;
there was 1 the air that strange,
sad, sweeticiness of the dying
summer. . Grant had tried
heroically ep his thoughts away
from Tran wife. The past had
come backm, had rather engulfed
him, In th le newspaper clipping.
He let lili>vonder where she was,
and whetiarly a year of married
life had sher the folly of her de
cision. pk It for granted that
her declsd been folly, and he ar
rived at 'Osltlon without any re
flection Transley. Only—Zen
had beerve with him, with him,
Denniso**! Sooner or later she
must difthq tragedy of that fact,
and yet>hi himself he was big
enough >e she might never dis
cover iwould be best that she
should him, as he had —almost
—forger. There was no doubt
that w best. And yet there was
a dellgadness In thinking of her
still, aing that some day— He
was able to complete the
thougl
He walking down a street
of incomes; the bare trees
gropei Bky clear and blue with
the fll pre&ige of winter. A'
qulckill unheeded by his side;
the ged, hesitated, then turned
and
“YPreoccupied, Mr. Grant.”
“O Bruce, I beg your pardon.
I ans see you.” Even at that
monhad been thinking of Zen,
and* he put more cordiality
Intods than he intended. But
he m to have considerable re
gar-' own account, for this un
usu'ho was not afraid of him.
He nd that she was what he
cal'od head.” She could take
a (View; she was absolutely
faias not easily flustered.
;had fallen into swing with
hh
not often visit our part of
ti,he essayed.
i here?”
Will you come to see?"
and with her at a corner, and
t up a narrow street lying
pad leaves. Friendly domes
t.*s could be caught through
\ windows.
“This is our home,” she said, stop
ping before a little gate. Grant’s eye
followed the pathway to a cottage set
back among the trees. “I live here
with my sister and brother and moth
er. Father Is dead,” she went on hur
riedly, us though wishing to place be
fore him a quick digest of the family
affairs, “and we keep up the home by
living on with mother as boarders;
that Is, Grace and I do. Hubert is
still in high school. Won’t you come
in?”
He followed her up the path and
Into a little hall, lighted only by
chance rays falling through a half
opened door. She did not switch on
the current, and Grnnt was aware of
a comfortable sense of her nearness,
quite distinct from any ofllce experi
ence, as she took his hat. In the liv
ing-room her mother received him with
visible surprise. She was not old, but
widowhood and the cares of a young
family had whitened her hair before
Its time.
“We are glad to see you, Mr. Grant,”
she said. “It Is an unexpected pleas
ure. Big business men do not often —”
“Mr. Grant is different,” her daugh
ter Interrupted, lightly. “I found him
wandering the streets and I just—re
trieved him.”
“I think I am different,” he admlt
ed, as his eye took in the surround
ings, which he appraised quickly as
modest comfort, attained through
many little economies nnd makeshifts.
"Phyllis is a great help to me —and
Grace,” the mother observed. "I hope
she is a good girl In the office."
At this moment Grace and Hubert
came In from the picture-show to
gether, and the conversation turned to
lighter topics. Mrs. Rruce insisted on
serving tea and cake, and when Grant
found that he must go Phyllis accom
panied him to the gate.
“This all seems so funny,” she was
saying. “You are a very remarkable
man.”
“I think 1 once passed n similar
opinion about you.”
She extended her hand, and he held
It for a moment. ‘‘l have not changed
my first opinion,” he said, as he re
leased her fingers and turned quickly
down the pavement.
CHAPTER XI
Grant's first visit to the home of his
private stenographer was not his last,
and the news leaked out, as It is sure
to do in such cases. The social set
confessed to being on the point of be
ing shocked. Two schools of criticism
developed over the five o’clock tea
tables; one held that Grant was a
gay dog who would settle down and
marry In his class when Le had had
his fling, and the other that Phyllis (
Bruce was on artful hussy who was
quite ready to sell herself for the
Grant millions. And there were so
many eligible youn~ women on the
market, although none of them were
described as artful hussies!
Grant’s behavior, however, placed
him under nc cloud in so far as social
opportunities were concerned; on the
contrary, he found himself being show
ered with Invitations, most of which
he managed to decline on the grounds
of pressure of business. When such
an excuse would have been too trans
parent be accepted and made the best
of It, and he found no lack of encour
agement in the one or two incipient
amorous flurries which resulted.
From such positions lie always suc
ceeded In extricating himself, with a
quiet smile at the vagnrle- of life. He
had to admit that some of the young
women whom he had met had charms
of more than passing moment; he
might easily enough find himself chas
ing the rainbow. . . .
But his attention was at once t' be
turned to very different matters. A
stock market, erratic for some days,
went suddenly Into a paroxysm. Grant
escaped with as little less as possible
for himself and his clients, and after
three sleepless nights called his staff
together. They crowded Into the
board-room, curious, apprehensive, al
most frightened, and he looked over
them with an emotion that was quite
ne w to his experience. Even In the
aloofness which their standards had
made It necessary for him to adopt
there had grown up in his heart,
quite unnoticed, n tender, sweet
foliage of love for these men
and women who were a part of
Ids machine Now, as lie looked In
tlielr faces he realized how, like l.ttle
children, they leaned on him—how,
like little children, they feared his
power and his displeasure—how, per
haps like little children, they had
learned to love him, too. lie realized,
ns he had never done before, that tney
were children; that here and there
In the mass of humanity is one who
was born to lead, but the great mass
itself must b' children always, doing
as they are bid.
“My friends,” he managed to say,
“we suddenly find ourselves In tre
mendous times. Some of you know' my
attitude toward this business In which
THE DANIELSVILLE MONITOR, DANIELSVILLE, GEORGIA.
we are engaged. 1 did not seek It; I
tried to avoid it; yet, when the re
sponsibility was forced upon me I ac
cepted that responsibility. I gave up
the life I enjoyed, the environment In
which I found delight, the friends I
loved. Well —our nation Is now la a
somewhat similar position. It has to
go Into a business which lt did not
seek, of which lt does not approve, but
which fate has thrust upon it. It has
to break off the current of its life and
turn It Into undreamed-of channels,
and we, ns individuals who make up
the nation, must do the same. I have
already enlisted, and expect that with
in a few hours I shall be In uniform.
Some of you are single men of mili
tary age; you will, I am sure, take
similar steps. For the rest —the busi
ness will be wound up as soon ns pos
sible, so that you may be released for
some form of national service. You
will all receive three months’ salary In
lieu of notice. Mr. Murdoch will look
after the details. When that has been
done my wealth, or such part of It as
remains, will be placed at the dis
posal of the government. If we win It
will be well invested In a good cause;
if we lose, It would have been lost
anyway.”
No one knew just how the meeting
broke up, but Grant had a confused
remembrance of many handclasps and
some tears. lie was not sure that he
hud not, perhaps, added one or two to
the flow, but they were all tears of
friendship nnd of an emotion born of
high resolve. . . .
As he stood In liis own office again,
trying to get the events of these last
few days Into some sort of perspective,
Phyllis Bruce entered. lie motioned
dumbly to a chair, but she came nnd
stood by his desk. Her face was very
white and her lips trembled with tbe
words she tried to utter.
“I can’t go,” she managed to say at
length.
"Can’t go? I don’t understand?"
“Hubert has Joined,” she said.
“Hubert, the boy! Why, he Is only
In school —’’
“lie is sixteen, and large for his age.
He came home confessing, nnd say
ing it was his first lie, nnd the first
Important thing he ever did without
That Was When They Potted Him In
No Man’s Land.
consulting mother. He snld he knew
he wouldn’t be able to stand It if he
told her first."
“Foolish, but heroic," Grant com
mented. "Be proud of him. It takes
more than wisdom to be heroic.”
“And Grace is going to England. She
was taking nursing, you know, and
so gets a preference. We can’t all
leave mother.”
He found It difficult to speak. “You
wanted to go to the Front?” he man
aged.
“Of course; where else?”
Her hand was on the desk; his own
slipped over until It closed on it.
“You are a little heroine,” he mur
mured.
“No, I’m not Pm a little fool to
tell you this, but how can I stay—
why should I stay—when you are
gone?”
She was looking down, but after her
confession she raised her eyes to his,
and he wondered that he had never
known how beautiful she was. Fie
could have taken her In his arms, but
something, with the Dower of Invisible
chains, held him back. In that su
preme moment a vision swam before
him; a vision of a mountain stream
backed by tawny foothills, and a girl
as beautiful as ever. this Phyllis, who,
had wrapped lilm In her arms . . .
and said, “We must go and forget."
And lie had not forgotten. . . .
When he did not respond she drew
herself slowly away. “You will hate
me,” she said.
“That is impossible,” he corrected,
quickly. “I am very sorry if I have
let you think more than I intended. I
care for you very, very’ much indeed.
I care for you so much that I will not
lot you think I care for you more. Can
you understand that?”
“Yes. You like me, but you love
someone else.”
He was disconcerted by her Intui
tion and the terse frankness with
which she stated the case.
“I will take you Into my confidence,
Phyllis, If I may," he said at length.
“I do like you; I did love some
else. And that old attachment Is still
so strong that It would be hardly fair
—lt would be hardly fulr —”
“Why didn’t you marry her?" she
demanded.
“Because someone else did.”
“Oh I"
Her hands found his this time. “I’m
sorry,” she said. “Sorry I brought
this up—sorry I raised these mem
ories. But now you—-who have known
—will know—”
“I know—l know,” he murmured,
raising her fingers to Ills Ups. . . .
“Time, they say, Is a healer of all
wounds. Perhaps—”
"No. It Is better that you should
forget. Only, I shall see you off; I
shall wave my handkerchief to you;
I shall smile on you In the crowd.
Then —you will forget." . . .
Four years of war add only four
years to the rtfo of a man, according
to the record In the family Bible, If
he happen to spring from stock In
which that sacred document Is pre
served. But four years of war add
twenty years to the gray matter be
hind the eyes—eyes which learn to
dream -and ponder strangely, nnd
sometimes to shine with n hardness
that has no part with youth. When
Cnptaln Grant nnd Sergeant Linder
stepped off the train at Grant’s old
city there was, however, little to sug
gest the ageing process that commonly
went on among the soldiers In the
great war. Grant had twice stopped
an enemy bullet, but his line figure
and sunburned health now gave no
evidence of those experiences. Linder
counted himself lucky to carry only an
empty sleeve.
They had fallen In with each other
In France, nnd the friendship planted
in the foothills of the range country
had grown, through the strange prim
ings nnd graftings of war, Into a tree
of very solid timber. Linder might
have told you of the time his cnptaln
found him with bis arm crushed under
a wrecked piece o? artillery, and Grant
could have recounted a story of being
dragged unconscious out of No Man’*
Land, but for either to dwell upon
these matters only nroused the resent
ment of the other, and frequently led
to exchanges between captain and
sergeunt totally Incompatible with
military discipline. They were con
tent to pay tribute to each other, but
each to leave bis own honors unher
alded.
“First thing is a place to eat," Grant
remarked, when they had been dis
missed. Words to similar effect iiad.
Indeed, been ills lira' remark upon
every suitable opportunity for three
months. An appetite which has been
four years in the making Is not to be
satisfied overnight, and Grant, being
better fortified financially agninst th
stress of a good meal, sought to be
always nrst to suggest It. Linder ac
cepted the situation with the com
placence of a man who Ims been four
years on army pay.
“Got any notion what you will do?”
said Linder, when the menl was tln
lshed.
“Not the slightest. I don’t even
know whether I’in rich or broke. 1
suppose if Jones nnd Murdoch are
still alive they will bo looking after
those details. Doing their best, doubt
less, to embarrass mo with additional
wealth. Whut are you going to do?’’
“Don’t know. Maybe go back and
work for Transley.”
The mention of Transley threw
Grant’s mind back Into old channel*.
He had almost forgotten Transley
He told himself he had quite forgotto)
Zen Transley, but once he knew he
lied. That was when they potted hire
in No Man’s Land. As he lay there,
waiting ... he knew he had not
forgotten. And he had thought many
times of Phyllis Bruce. At first h
had written to her, but she had not
answered his letters. Evidently she
meant him to forget. Nor had she
come to the station to welcome him
home. Perhaps she did not know.
Perhaps— Many things can happen
in four years.
Suddenly It occurred to Grant that
it might be a good idea to call on
Phyllis. lie would take Linder along.
That would make It less personal, lie
knew ills man we!) enough to keep his
own counsel, and eventually they
reached the gate of tho Bruce cottage,
as though by accident.
“Let’s turn in liere. i used to know
these people. Mother and daughter;
very fine folk.”
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
Satisfactory
“So you want to marry m,r daugh
ter? What Is your financial standing?”
“Well, sir, I’ve figured out every ex
emption possible; I’ve had the best
legal advice that money would secure;
I’ve done everything I could do tt
dodge it—and I still find that I cannot
escape paying an income tax.”
“Take her. She’s yours.”—Bosto:
Transcript.
No man can hope to be happily ina.
rled unless he is a good listener.
capM
BELLS jjy,
SOMETHING JUST AS GOOD
Katherine’s father Is not a demon
strative man, nnd one day the child,
after a visit to a little friend, com
plained to her mother that “papa nev
er calls us children ‘dearies,’ like Mary
Barker's father calls her."
Her younger sister was standing by,
and, quick to defend her daddy, she
said: “Well, I don’t care if lie doesn’t
call us ‘dearies’; Just plenty of times
he calls us ‘dummies.’” —Boston Tran
script.
Oh, Dear!
Mrs. Silo —I’m surprised to find you
have charged me much more than we
agreed upon.
Carpenter —Yes, but tbe work was
more than I expected.
Mrs. Silo —Tlnm you are dearer to
me now than when you were first en
gaged.
Out-Bunking J. B.
Londoner —What -do you think of
that tower for height?
New Yorker (übrond) —Do you call
that tower high? Say, in our ninety
first floor bedrooms we have to closo
all the windows at night to / keep the
clouds from rolling in.—London Opin
ion.
A MAN'S ASHES
“A man makes two pounds of ashes
when lie’s cremated-”
“But when you got him to build a
simple little lire lie makes a bushel or
more.”
That's the Question
Here la <lo mesnago fer you—
Hard on do head It may lilt you;
Ef you will give do devil his due.
Ain't vou afraid ho will git you?
Alternative
Customer —I want two pounds of
four-penny nails.
New Clerk—We’re out of four-pen
ny nails, but I can let you have
four pounds of two-penny nails.—
Good Hardware.
A Backward Student
Mr. L.—How Is your boy getting
tilong in high school?
Mr. S.— A< li! He’s halfback on the
football team and all the way buck In
his studies.
Quality
Alice —I hud ten proposals Ibis
week.
Virginia— Gracious I From whom?
Alice —Dick.
Forgot Hia Troubles
“Did you enjoy youreslf at your wed
ding, Ssirii?"
“Vais, suh. Ah had seek a good time
Ah forgot dat Ah wuz do groom.”
Fly Stuff
Mrs. Bonham —You stick to that pa
per ns if it were fly paper.
Benbain—lt is; it Is an avlutlot
Journal.
IN CONFIDENCE
'J' ' -
r~^ v 1
"Was there anything In that story
i about you and Mr. Fritters?”
“Nothing to speak of."
I “Fine! Tell me all about it anil I'll
[ not speak of it to a soul.”
Rare Birds
Some folks we know have taking way*.
Ilut, oh! alas! alack!
I There arc but few we know of who
Have ways of bringing hick.