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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.