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The SILVER FLUTE
By Lida Larrimore
©, Macrae-SmKh Company
WNU Service.
SYNOPSIS
On her eighteenth birthday, Bar¬
bara, motherless daughter of Christ¬
opher Thorne, artist, awakes with an¬
ticipation of the Joys of the day. She
receives a birthday ring from Bruce
MacLain, young artist friend of the
family, but more than friend to Bar¬
bara. Barbara and Bruce go picknick
lng on the sands at Provincetown. lie
tells her a story of a gypsy boy, a lit¬
tle 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.
CHAPTER III—Continued
—5—
The plans seemed possible at night,
lying awake with (lay close and warm
beside her. In the morning, however,
with Cousin Julia managing every¬
thing and Cousin Evie acting as though
she were no older than Gay, the plans
would seem silly and childish. Iiit
by bit hope would vanish and her
heart would feel heavy as lead. She
seemed, visibly, to grow thinner. The
color left her cheeks and her eyes
were tragically large.
Bruce, who had postponed his re¬
turn to New York, was constantly at
the Thornes’. But lie seldom saw Bar¬
bara alone. She seemed content, in a
measure, only when she was with the
children. Loving her, it hurt him to
know how completely they filled her
mind. Even when, occasionally, he
held her in his arms, he felt that she
wasn’t there. Something had gone.
The warm loving part of her which,
for a few hours had been his, was now
absorbed by the children. He felt hurt
and helpless and left behind.
In his studio Bruce spent many sleep¬
less hours. Was she old enough? he
asked himself. Did she know how
deeply he loved her? Had he let him¬
self in for unhappiness? He asked
her none of these questions. Loving
her deeply, he tried, when he was with
her, to forget, for the moment, his own
disturbing emotions. He knew she
was glad that he had postponed his re¬
turn to New York. When he left her
at bedtime, she clung to him.
The gray-shingled house filled with
flowers. There were all sorts of let¬
ters and cards. Mr. Tubbs, the post¬
man, brought a letter from “Uncle
Stephen.” It was a very nice letter.
Barbara read it to the children ns they
sat on the studio steps. "Uncle
Stephen" had seen in a paper, the let¬
ter said, an account of Father's death.
He sent sympathy to his “little fillette."
‘‘What’s a ‘fillette'?” Gay wanted to
know.
‘‘That’s French for goddaughter,”
Barbara explained.
“Is he a Frenchman?” asked Jamie,
to whom Frenchman meant the French
Canadians who lived in Augusta,
Maine.
“Of course not,” Kit answered.
“Don’t you remember how Father used
to tell us tiiat he was the only other
American, besides Mother and Father,
in the town where Babs was born?”
The children talked, in low voices,
about Father. Barbara read the letter
again. It was nice and friendly, she
thought. She lingered over the con¬
cluding sentence. . . . "If a crusty old
bachelor can be of assistance, please
let him know at once. ...” A crusty
old bachelor! Then he wasn’t mar¬
ried. And he must be older than she
had thought. But he didn’t sound
“crusty.” "Fillette” was a charming
word. Saying it over made her feel
that she knew “Uncle Stephen.” . . .
“My little fillette.” . . . She tucked
the letter inside her blouse and felt
she had found a friend.
And then, on a day so blue and
golden, so filled with sunshine and gen¬
tle wind and the smoky fragrance of
autumn that It didn’t seem possible
there could be sadness in the world,
they left Father beside Mother in the
cemetery on the hill. The house
seemed desolate when they returned,
too quiet, too tidy and neat. Father
was gone.
That evening they sat around the
living room hearth. It grew chilly
when the sun went down and Bruce
had built a fire. Cousin Evie had gone
to bed with a headache. Cousin Julia,
in Jamie’s room upstairs, was writing
a letter to Cousin Will. The children
were glad to he alone. Barbara told
them about the plans she made at night,
lying awake in the low carved bed.
The children accepted them with en¬
thusiasm.
“I can get a Job after school,” Kit
said, his face brighter than It had
been since the day of the storm.
“Dicky Woods says I can he his de¬
livery boy,” Jamie announced from the
hearth rug. “I've already asked him
about it.”
“If Martha goes, I’ll do the dishes,”
Gay said nestling close to Kit, her
head against his shoulder.
“Stout fella’!” Kit said softly, know¬
ing how Gay hated washing dishes and
dusting and making beds.
“Other people have shops,” Barbara
continued, loving the children for
wanting to help. She lifted her face
to Drue*, feeling hopeful, wanting to
be assured. “We could, couldn't we,
Bruce/ Isn’t It a sensible plan? Don’t
you think we could?"
Bruce smiled but kis eyes were
grave. What a child she was, no older
than Gay, making her fairy-tale plans.
If he could bear if fof her—the certain
disappointment. She was too small to
bear it herself, too young in spite of
her courage. If be could .bear it for
her—he loved her, he loved her so
much- . . .
The plans seemed possible, talking
about them in front of the fire, sur¬
rounded by things that were familiar
and friendly and dear. They needn't
be separated. They could stay in the
gray-shingled house.
And then she knew that they
couldn’t. The plans vanished like bub¬
bles touched by a careless hand.
Cousin Julia, rosy and handsome and
very kind, appeared at the living room
door.
“Ten o’clock,” she said in the brisk
cheerful voice that made Barbara feel
small and rather foolish. "Time for
tired kiddies to be in bed.”
“We can’t, can we, Bruce?” Bar¬
bara asked when the children, mar¬
shaled by Cousin Julia, had gone up¬
stairs to bed. “We can’t stay here to¬
gether.”
“I’m afraid not, Babbie,” he an¬
swered, his face very troubled and
grave.
“I guess I knew it all along,” she
said wearily. "Fairy tales.” Her voice
quivered. Looking down, he saw that
her lashes were jeweled with tears.
“Don’t mind so terribly, darling.
Please try not to mind so much.”
“I—I can’t help it, Bruce.”
He knew that she couldn’t help it.
He knew that words were useless. He
held her close, wanting to bear it for
her, racked by her shaking sohs. Grad¬
ually the sobs grew less. She sighed
and then was still, so still that he
thought she had gone to sleep. But
presently she stirred.
"Bruce. ...”
“Yes, darling?”
“When are you going back to New
York?”
“Tomorrow. . . ,
She clung to him for a moment, then ’
raised her head from his shoulder.
“I don’t suppose—” She paused
“Yes,” She Sighed Contentedly, “Nov
We’re Really Engaged.”
and he saw, In the firelight, a faiui
pink flush creeping into her cheeks.
“What, Babbie?”
“I don’t suppose—” Her eyes were
suddenly shy. “You couldn’t take us
with you—Kit and Gay and Jamie and
me?”
“Why, Babbie—”
“No, I suppose you couldn’t.” She
was grown up, now, and reasonable.
too reasonable, for her years. “Shoes
and things are expensive and boys eat
such a lot.”
"But I can take you." Bruce brushed
the soft hair back from her brow.
“You and I in my studio. We can
count the stars through our skylight
and every morning, for breakfast. I’ll
sing you a brand-new song.”
Her eyes brightened. A little sinlls
touched her lips.
“Bruce!” she whispered. “A new
one every day 1”
“And a special one for Sunday,” he
promised, loving the shine in her eyes.
It faded away, leaving her forlorn.
"You mustn’t, Bruce. I have to
think of the children.” She squared
her shoulders and lifted her firm little
chin. “I’m the oldest. They’ve no one
at all but me. Kit hates It at Uncle
Herbert's.” She steadied the quiver¬
ing of her lips. “They tease him be¬
cause he wants to be an artist. Uncle
Herbert will probably make him sell
life insurance or something he wouldn’t
like. And Kit’s so splendid, Bruce.
Don’t you see. And Aunt Lola is so
silly. She lives mostly in hotels since
Uncle George died. That isn't good
for a child like Gay. And Jamie—”
She paused and drew a long breath.
“Don’t, Babble,” Bruce said gently.
“You’re so tired. Don’t think about it
tonight.”
"I can’t help thinking. You’ve seen
it, Bruce, the way Jamie looks at
‘Chips.’ Cousin Julia won’t have a
dog in the house. She’s kind, of
course, but she doesn’t know about
boys. And Jamie’s so funny and
dear.”
“But what can you do?”
“Something ... I don’t know.”
Bruce felt a vague sort of fear. She
looked so small and determined, so
very dear In her velveteen frock with
Its childish white collar and cuffs. If
he should lose her—
“Babbie”—he held her closer, afraid!
she might slip away—“if you can’t
manage it, you’ll come to me?”
“Yes, Bruce—if I can’t.”
He wanted to be further assured.
Very gently he changed the birthday
ring from her right hand t© her left.
"Now we’re vogefeA," he said.
“Yes,” she sighed contentedly. “Now
we’re really engaged ”
(TO BE CONXXNUED.)i
CLEVELAND COURIER
TITHE A RELIC
OF OTHER DAYS
But Is Recognized as Property
by English Law.
The recent revolt of 10,000 farmers
In southern England to resist the
payment of tithes directs attention
to tliis form of taxation, which has
from time to time been the cause of
considerable agitation in that coun¬
try. More than a year ago reports
came from a Sussex town to the ef¬
fect that angry farmers had at¬
tacked n bailiff who attempted to
seize -sheep belonging to a neighbor
who had failed to meet his tithe pay¬
PAINTING REVIVAL
GRIPS NATION I
SHERWIN-WILLIAMS FOR ME
IS SLOGAN
WE DO OUR PART
COW CALLER SOUCIE
CATCHES “FEVER.”
Manteno, III. —Celeb¬
■ .it rities in all walks of
i. life are catching the
painting fever. Mr.
Treffle Soucie, 75 years
old, seven times a
champion cow caller,
still brings ’em in from
half a mile away—
without a megaphone.
He’s painting his bam
with S-W Common¬
NIGHT PAINTING PRECEDES “4 GENERATION” wealth Barn Red—a
PARTY. Essexville, Mich. (R. R. No. I)—With “quality” champion,
the aid of motor car headlights, painter works , too.
hoose” far tot* into intA of night mrrht Mrs. tn to A. finish rttnioVt MacDonald, nomfinfr painting 87 tno the 1 “wee nma of bit fr j# WBJa iita-i, wZm- C
years age, fc-jT ®llllf 1 !j Iw
in time for the gathering of the clan. The occa
sion is Grandma MacDonald’s birthday party for ;e > •'
her youngest great granddaughter—6 months
old. Four generations MacDonalds of MacDonalds were represented. Sherwin-Williams Paint, the preferred
brand of the for many years, was used on this job.
“SHERWIN-WILLIAMS
FOR ME!” Indianapolis,
Ind .—A typical scene in
leading department and
Sherwin-Williams dealer
stores everywhere as
“back-to-the-paint-brush”
movement gains speed.
1
New NEW York YORK City, ARCHITECT N. Y. —Mr. DOES Perry MASTERPIECE M. Duncan, winner IN PAINT. of the f§|f W J§1
coveted Winchester Fellowship at Yale University, has produced exquisite room
effects in his beautiful new Bronxville home with Sherwin-Williams quality paints.
Mr. Duncan says “I found the Sherwin-Williams book ‘The Home Decorator’ a valu¬
able source for suggestions in planning exteriors and interiors of homes.”
COCA-COLA ON BIG TIME! Atlanta, Ca.
—This big, timely reminder to “pause and
refresh yourself” is 15 feet across. It is the
brightest spot in the “upper stratum” of
Atlanta. Thousands daily seek its big, red
face or call Walnut 8550 and hear a sweet
“electrical” voice recommend Coca-Cola and
give the correct time, night or day. This
mammoth timepiece _ is finished with Kem
Bulletin Colors —another Sherwin-Williams
Quality paint.
i* i «*i HOLD IT! WIN $25 CASH.
TINIEST OFFER! Cleveland, 0. —Del Long and
MAN GETS HUGE Clarence Schultz—S-W News
Chicago, III. —Mr. Elmer St. Aubin, Photographers—want interest¬
world's smallest man, contemplates ing pictures. $25 for every one
an offer of $500 to paint huge Sher¬ published. Sherwin-Williams em¬
win-Williams spectacular sign with ployees excluded. Pictures must
S-W Kem Finishes. This mammoth be unusual, newsy—include the
sign faces “A Century of Progress” use of some Sherwin-Williams
and the Illinois Central Railway product. Send pictures to Dei
right-of-way, at 24th St. and the and Clarence care The Sherwin
Outer Drive, Chicago. The midget, Williams Co. Enclose self-ad¬
Mr. St. Aubin, is 36 inches tall, weighs dressed stamped envelope, if
29 pounds and is 22 years old. you wish photographs returned.
ments due tlie Church of England.
In the present situation, auctioneers
who have tried to sell the property
of farmers who owe tithes have met
with as little success ns tlie auc¬
tioneers In foreclosure sales in parts
of our own Mid-West.
Tithe payments are a relic of an¬
cient days, when persons were called
upon to pay one-tenth of the produce
of all land and labor to the support
of tlie church. They were stabilized
in England in 192.1 by an act of par¬
liament, which laid down a fixed
schedule of payments. Since then,
however, the prices of live stock and
agricultural produce have dropped by
about 50 per cent.
Tlie tithe probably originated in a
tribute levied by a conqueror or
ruler upon his subjects, and perhaps
(lie custom of dedicating a tent It of
the spoils of war to the gods led to
the religious extension of the term.
Before tlie Eighth century pay¬
ment of tithes was enjoined by ec¬
clesiastical writers and church coun¬
cils, but tlie earliest authentic ex¬
ample of a law of the state enforc¬
ing payment is probably that in the
Capitularies of Charlemagne.
In England the earliest example
of legal recognition of tithes is be¬
lieved to be a decree of a synod In
78G. Tlie church received tithes in
the Middle Ages, but trouble arose
under the reign of Henry VIII.
When this monarch raided the mon¬
asteries he transferred their tithe
privileges to his friends. The tithe
is property, and if the government
abolished it or even amended it in
principle, it is argued, it would then
have to reform all property laws. So
tlie tithe question is one of parlia¬
ment’s knottiest problems.
Boy’s Paradise
Dad (reading)—In some parts of
Africa tlie natives wash only once a
year.
Billy—Let's move to Africa.—
Times of India.
Epilepsy, Epileptics t Detroit lady finds com
plete relief for husband. Specialists home
abroad failed. Nothing to sell. All letters
answered. Mrs. (ie«». Dempster, Apt. 6900
Lafayette Bird. Went. Detroit, Michigan.
WNU—7 37.-33-
