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ZEN of the Y. D. oA Novel of the Foothills % By ROBERT STEAD Author of "Tht Cow Punchtr" Th t Homesteadtn"' — “NtighboTt." tte. Copyrighi by ROBERT STEAD CHAPTER XV—Continued. — lB— Bruce —rather a nice name.” "What was I saying? Oh, yes; Phyllis. 1 grew to like her —very ujiicli—but I couldn’t marry her. You know why.” “Denny, you big, big boy!” she murmured. “Do you suppose every man marries his first choice?” “It has always seemed to me that a second choice is a makeshift. It doesn’t seem quite square—” "No. I fancy some second choices are really first choices. Wisdom comes with experience, you know.” “Not always. At any rate I couldn’t marry her while my heart was yours.” "I suppose not,” she answered, and again he noted a touch of weariness In her voice. “I know something of what divided affection—if one can even say it is divided —means. Denny, I will make a confession. I knew you would come back; I always was sure you would come back. ‘Then,’ I said to my self, ‘I will see this man Grant as he is, and the reality will clear my brain of all this idealism which I have woven about Idm.’ And so I have encouraged you to come here; I have been most unconventional, I know, but I was always that—l have cultivated your acquaintance, and, Denny, I am so dis appointed !” “Disappointed? Then the mirage has cleared away?” “On the contrary, It grows more distorted every day. I see you tower ing above all your fellow humans; reaching up Into a heaven so far above them that they don’t even know of its existence. I see you as really The Man-on-the-Hill. The idealism which, I thought must fade away Is Justi fied—heightened—by the reality.” She had turned her face to him, and Grant, little ns he understood the ways of women, knew that she had made her great confession. For a moment he held himself in check. . . . then from somewhere in Ills subconscious ness came ringing the phrase, “Every man worth his salt . . . takes what he wants.” That was Transley’s mor ality ; Transley, the usurper, who had bullied hhnseif into possession of this heart which he had never won and could never hold; Transley, the fool, frittering his days and nights with money! He seized her In his arms, crushing down her weak resistance; lie drew her to him until, as in that day by a foothill river somewhere in the sunny past, her lips met his and returned their caress. He cared now for nothing—nothing In the whole world but this quivering womanhood within his arms. . . . “You must go,” she whispered at length. "It Is late, and Frank’s habits are somewhat erratic.” He held her at arm’s length, his hands upon her shoulders. “Do you suppose that fear —of anything—can make me surrender you now?” “Not feur, perhaps—l know It could not be fear—but good sense may do It. It was not fear that made me send you home early from your previous calls. It was discretion.” “Hut I must tell you,” she resumed, “Frank leaves on a business trip to morrow night. He will be gone for some time, and I shall motor Into town to see him oft, I am wondering about Wilson,” she hurried on, ns though not daring to weigh her words; “Sarah will be away—l am letting her have a little holiday—and I can't take "’lson Into town with me because It w 'iH be so late.” Then, with a burst °f confession, she spoke more delib erately. "That’s Isn’t exactly the rea *°n, F'ennison; Frank doesn’t know I *ave let Sarah go, and I—l can’t ex plain.” H-r f acc shone pink and warm in ’ e glow of the firelight, and as the p”* -mance of her words sank In upon bant marveled at that wizardry ? f be gods which could bring such 101 1: '“ to the foot of man. A tender y„. . as had never known suf -im; her very presence was holy. ■ ng the boy over and let him the night with me. We are ” 7 chums and we shall get along splendidly- CHAPTER XVI an f,r " nt p Pent his Sunday forenoon In .."austlve house-cleaning cam paign. Bachelor life on the farm U not conducive to domestic delicacy. When he was able to view his handi work with a feeling that even femi nine eyes would find nothing to offend, Grant did an unwonted thing. He unlocked the whim-room and opened the windows that the fresh air might play through the silent chamber. When he had lunched and dressed he took a stroll over the hills, thinking a great deal, but finding no answer. On his return he descried the familiar figure of Linder in a semi-recumbent position on the porch, and Linder’s well-worn car In the yard. “How goes it, Linder?” he said, cheerily, as he came up. “Is the Big Idea going to fructify?” “The Big Idea seems to be all right. You planned It well.” “Thanks. But is it going to be self supporting—l mean In the matter of motive power. Would it run If you and I and Murdoch xvere wiped out?” “Everything must have a head.” “Democracy must find Its own head —must grow It out of the materials supplied. If It doesn’t do that it’s a failure, and the Big Idea will end in being the Big Fizzle. That’s why I’m leaving it so severely alone—l want to see which way it’s headed.” “I could suggest another reason,” said Linder, pointedly. “Anoth.r reason for what?” “For your leaving It severely alone.” “What are you driving at?” demand ed Grant, somewhat petulantly. “You are In a taciturn mood today, Linder." “Perhaps I am, Grant, and if so it comes from wondering iiow a man with as much brains as you have can be such a d —d fool upon occasion.” “Drop the riddles, Linder. Let me have it in the face.” “It’s just like this, Grant, old boy," said Linder, getting up and putting his hand on his friend’s shoulder; “I feel that I have an interest in the chap who saved all of me except what this empty sleeve stands for, and it’s that interest which makes me speak about something which you may say Is none of my business. I was out here Mon day night to see you, and you* were not at home. I came out again Wednesday, and you were not at home. I came out last night and you were not at home, and had not come back at midnight. Your horses were In the barn; you were not far away.” “Why didn’t you telephone me?” “If I hadn’t cared more for you than I do for my job and the Big Idea thrown In, I could have settled it that way. But, Grant, I do.” “I believe you. But why this sudden worry over me? I was merely spend ing the evening at a neighbor’s.” “Yes—at Transley’s. Transley was in town, and Mrs. Transley Is—not responsible— where you are con cerned.” “Linder 1” “I saw It all that night at dinner there. Some things are plain to every one—except those most Involved. Now It’s not my job to say to you what’s right and wrong, but the way it looks to me Is this: what's the use of all your big-heartedness if you’re going to be small In matters like this?” Grant regarded his foreman for some time without answering. “1 ap preciate your frankness, Linder,” he said at length. “Your friendship, which I can never question, gives you that privilege. Man to man, I’m going to be equally frank with you. To begin -vlth, I suppose you will admit that Y.D.’s daughter Is a strong char acter, a woman quite capable of direct ing her own affairs?” “The stronger the engine the bigger the smash if there’s a wreck.” “It’s not a case of wrecking; It’s a case of trying to save something out of the wreck. Convention, Linder, Is a torture-monger; It binds men and women to the stake of propriety and bids them smile while It snuffs out the soul that’s In them. “Let me put it another way: Trans ley is a clever man of affairs. He knows how to accomplish his ends. lie applied the methods—somewhat modi fied for the occasion—of a land shark in winning his wife. He makes a great appearance of unselfishness, but in reality he is selfish to the core. He lavishes money on her to satisfy his own vanity, but as for her finer na ture, the real Zen, her soul if you Uke he doesn’t even know she has one He obtained possession by false pretenses. Which Is the more moral thing—to leave him in possession, or to throw him out? Didn’t you your self hear him say that men who are worth their salt take what they want?” “Since when did you let him set your standards?” “That’s hardly fair.” “I think it is. I think, too, that you are arguing against your own convic tions. Well, I’ve had my say. I de liberately came out today without Murdoch so that I might have It You would be quite Justified in firing me for what I’ve done. But now I’m through, and no matter what may hap pen, remember, Linder will never have suspected anything. “That’s like you, old chap. Well drop it at that, but I must explain that Zen is going to town tonight to meet Transley, and Is leaving the boy with me. It is an event in my young life, and I have house-cleaned for It THE DANIELSVILLE MONITOR, DANIELSVILLE, GEORGIA. appropriately. Come Inside and ad mire my handiwork.” Lirider admired as he was directed, and then the two men fell into a dis cussion of business matters. Eventu ally Grant cooked supper, and just ns they had finished Mrs. Transley drove up in her motor. “Here we nrel” she cried, cheerily. "Glad to see you, Mr. Linder. Wilson has his teddy-bear and his knife and his pajamas, and is a little put cut, I think, that I wouldn’t let him bring the pig.” “I shall try nnd make up the defi ciency,” said Grant, smiling broadly, as the boy climbed to his shoulder. “Won’t you come in? Linder, among his other accomplishments learned in France, is an excellent chaperon." “Thank ycu, no; I must get along. I shall can early in the morning, so that you will not be delayed on Wil son’s account.” "No need of that; he can ride to the field with me on Prince. He is a great help with the plowing.” “I’m sure.” She stepped up to Grant and drew the boy’s face down to hers. “Good-by, dear; be a good boy,” she whispered', and Wilson waved kisses to her as the motor sped down the road. Linder took Ids departure soon after, and Grant was surprised to find him self almost embarrassed in the pres ence of his little guest. Where to start on the bedtime prep arations was a puzzle, but Wilson him self came to Grant’s aid with explicit instructions about buttons and pins. “You must hear my prayer. Uncle Man-on-the-Hlll,” said tlu boy. “You have to sit down In a chair.” Grant sat down and with a strange mixture of emotions drew the little chap between Ids knees as he listened to the long-forgotten prattle. At the third line the hoy stopped. “You have to tell me now,” he prompted. “But I can’t, Willie; 1 have for gotten.” “Huh, you don’t know much," the child commented, and glibly quoted “What Are You Driving at?" Demand ed Grant Somewhat Petulantly. the remaining linos. “And God bless Daddy and Mamma and teddy-bear and Uncle Man-on-the-Uill and the pig. Amen,” he concluded, accompanying the last word with a Jump which landed him fairly In Grant’s lap. His little arms went up about his friend’s neck, and his little soft cheek rested against a tanned and weather-beaten one. Slowly Grant’s arms cloed* about the warm, lithe body and pressed It to his in anew passion, strunge and holy. Then he led him to the whim room, turned down the white sheets in which no form hud ever lain and placed tlie boy between them, snuggled his teddy down by his side and set his knife properly In view upon the dresser. And then he leaned down again and kissed the little face, and whispered, “Good night, little boy; God keep you safe tonight, nnd always.” And suddenly Grant realized that he had been praying. . . . He withdrew softly, and only partly closed the door; then he chose a seat where he could see the little figure lying peacefully on the white bed. “The dear little chap,” he murmured. "I must watch by him tonight. It would be unspeakable if anything should happen to him wliile lie is under my care.” He felt a sense of warmth, almost a smothering sensation, and raised his hand to his forehead. It came down covered with perspiration. “It’s amazingly close,” he said, and walked to one of the French windows opening to the west. The sun had gone down, and a brooding darkness lay over all the valley, but far up in the sky he could trace the outline of a cloud. “Looks like a storm,” he commented, casually, and suddenly felt something tighten about bis heart. He turned to his chair, but found himself pacing the living room with an altogether inexplicable nervousness. “D—n Linder, anyway!” he ex claimed presently. “I believe he shook me up more than I realized. He charged me with insincerity; me, who have always made sincerity my special virtue. . . . Well, there may be something in it." A faint, indistinct growling, as of the grinding of mighty rocks, came down from the distances. “The storm will be nothing,” he as sured himself. Even as he spoke the house shivered In every timber as the gale struck it nnd went whining by. He rushed to the whim-room, but found the boy still sleeping soundly. “I must stay up," he reasoned with himself; “I must be on hand In case ho should he frightened.” Suddenly it occurred to Grant that, quite apart from his love for Wilson, if anything should happen the child in ills house a very difficult situation would be created. Transley would demand explanations explanations which would be hard to make. Why was Wilson there at all? Why was he not at home with Sarah? Sarah away from home! Why had Zen kept ttiat a sercet? ... The gale subsided ns quickly as It had coine, and the sudden silence which followed was even more awesome. It lasted only for a moment; a flash of lightning lit up every corner of the house, hurstlng like white fire from every wall nnd celling. Grunt rushed to the whim-room nnd was standing over the child when the crash of thun der came upon them. The boy stirred gently, smiled, and settled back to his sleep. Grunt drew the blinds In the whim room, nnd went out to draw them in the living room, but the sight across the vnlley was of a majesty so terrific that It held him fascinated. Turning from the windows, Grant left the blinds open. “Only cowardice would close them,” he muttered to himself, "and surely, in addition to the other qualities Linder has attributed to me, I am not a coward. If It were not for Willie I could stand and enjoy it." Presently rain began to fail; a few scattered drops at first, then thicker, harder, until the roof and windows rattled and shook with their force. The wind, which had gone down so -suddenly, sprang up again, buffeting the house as It rushed by with the storm. As the night wore on the storm, in stead of spending Itself quickly ns Grant lind expected, continued un abated, but his nervous tension grad ually relaxed, und when at length Wilson was awakened by an excep tionally loud clap of thunder he took tlie boy in ids arms and soothed his little fears ns a mother might have done. They sat for a long while In a big chair In tlife living room, and ex changed such confidences as a man may with a child of five. After the lud hud dropped buck into sleep Grnnt still sat with him in ills arms, think ing. . . . And what he thought was this: He was a long while framing the exact thought; he tried to beat It back In a dozen ways, but it circled around him, gradually closed in upon him and forced its acceptance. “Linder called me a fool, nnd he was right. He might have called mo a cowurd, and again he would have been right. Linder wua right.” Some way it seemed easy to reach that conclusion while this #Ktle sleep ing form lay In his arms. Now was the time to do something that would cost; to lay his hand upon the prize and then relinquish it—for the sake of Wilson Transley! “And by God I’ll do It I” he ex claimed, springing to ids feet. He car ried the child back to his bed, and then turned again to watch the storm through the windows. It seemed to be subsiding; the lightning, although still almost continuous, was not so near. “What little Incidents turn our lives!” he thought. “That boy; In some strange way ho has been the means of bringing me to see things ns the y are —which not even Linder conld do. The mind has to be fertilized for the thought, or it can’t think It. He brought the necessary influence to bear. It was like the night at Mur doch’s house, tlie night when the Big Idea was born. Surely I owe that to Murdoch, and bis wife, nnd Phyllis Bruce.” (TO BE CONTINUED.) Want; ’Em ’Liminated “Of course, if you don’t care for those towers,” explained the archi tect, “we can easily have them elim inated.” Mr. BulHon-Bagge furrowed his brows and puffed out ills cheeks. Then he looked up from the plans. “H’rn I” he grunted. “They look real handsome ns they are, but if you think ’liminatin’ ’em will make ’em nny ’andsomer, then, I sez, let’s ’ave ’em Tlmlnated.” Elutive Man who makes easy money Is the man with the idea that wasn’t so easy to corral. No man or woman on earth really believes that the good die young. oOAP. 1 feBWtRDfG ROAD CONSTRUCTION IN UNITED STATES The chief of the United States bu reau of public roads, Thomas H. Mac- Donald, is in constant touch with the road-building programs of the states and is ever watchful for the interests of the federal-aid appropriations be fore congress each year. "Tlie estimate of $91,000,000 to be put under contract tlie current fiscal year,” said Chief MacDonald, “It is believed will lie reached, with tlie probability of an increase for 1925 to $94,000,000. This latter figure is con tingent upon conditions in fields of other construction, rail transportation and labor. Public road work is re tarded when there Is a large construc tion program of a private character and accelerated when the other con struction work decreases. Tlie gen eral tendency of the federal-aid road work at tills time is upward. “If the estimate of $91,000,000 to go under construction for 1925 is not reached, but Is reduced by $5,000,000, or even $10,000,000, the balance avail able for new construction would not be sufficient t<> curry any reasonable program for 1920, and that was the reason for tlie liberal appropriation made by congress at tills session. “One of the fundamental principles of the federal budget plan is elimina tion of waste and inefficiency in the expenditure of public funds. There Is probably no other field of public ex penditure in which at this time greater savings are possible through efficient administration. Efficient administra tion and organization demand positive ly first, a continuing road program, and, second, foreknowledge of tlie di mensions of the future annual pro gram.” In discussing (lie road-building achievements since the passage of the federal-aid act, (.thief MacDonald said: "Up to March I of tlds year the federal aid highways which have been completed since 1010 totaled 80,030 miles, and 13,800 miles were under construction and reported as 50 per, cent complete. The total roads com pleted and under construction amount ed, therefore, to 40,830 miles. Of the mileage reported as completed on Feb ruary 20, 1024, 0,307 miles had been completed during the current llsenl year. All but a very small percentage of this mileage is on the federal aid highway system as now established. "In addition to the roads of the sys tem Improved with federal aid, parts of It have been Improved without fed eral assistance. A careful study Is being made of the improvement status of the system, and an approximate estimate based upon these Incomplete studies Is that at the end of the year there were about OO,tKK) miles of sur faced roads and 8,700 miles graded, which leaves nearly 110,000 miles cjf the federal system yet to be surfaced. “To bring this system up to service able standards, therefore, within the full decade ahead, would mean a sur facing program of about 11,000 miles for each of the ten years—this In addi tion to the additions to the system, the separation of grade-crossings, recon struction and much other necessary work.” That road construction Is progress ing throughout the country without federal aid as well as with It Is dem onstrated by statistics available to the bureau of roads, which show that to tal expenditures In 1921, a banner road year, for all rural highways and city streets for all places with a population of 2,500 and over, Including all street and alley surface construction, repair, maintenance, street cleaning and street lighting, was $1,419,500,858. Better Highways Wanted The continued high Importation of motor vehicles Into the Argentine re public is causing considerable thought to be devoted to the need of good roads, the present lack of which bus prevented automobile importations from reaching even higher figures. The Argentine statistical bureau reports that up to the present time 110,940 passenger curs and trucks have en tered the country. Of this number, about 80, 000 are In operation. Highway Hints The total highway mileage of the United States equals 2,940,0 W, of which 430,000 miles ure surfaced high ways. • * * The longest motorbus route In France is operated by tbe I’arls-Lyon- Mediterranean railroad, and runs from Belfort to Nice through the Alpine dis trict. With Its branches It totals 37P miles in length.