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Any Child Will Love
This Washable Pony
By RUTH WYETH SPEARS
*T*HIS pony may be made of oil
cloth ar other waterproof fab
ric. It is stuffed with cotton or
bits of soft cloth, and is a fascinat
ing toy for a gift or to sell at
bazaars.
Rule paper into 1-inch squares;
number them; then draw pattern
outlines, as shown. The pattern
for the body is shown at A; the
av? blue ano""
WHITE WITH
MAKE
x A RATTERN A-yzi* | raw 4pecs
mane at B; tail C; ears D. The
atrip E joins the two sides of the
body. Ilie openings are for mane
and tail. The projections show
where ears are sewed. Cut two
pieces for each ear, and the tail;
sew together, padding slightly.
Strip F is for bottoms of feet;
and under part of body and legs.
The raw edges are sewn togeth
er on the right side as at the lower
right, with heavy thread to match
tail and mane.
• • •
NOTE: Mrs. Spears* 32-page
Sewing Book No. 4, contains di
rections for making dolls; gift
items for all ages; and novelties
that have sold unusually well at
bazaars. She will mail copy upon
receipt of name, address and 10
cents in coin.
Write Mrs. Spears, Drawer 10,
Bedford Hills, New York.
Definitions
By “radical” I understand one
who goes too far; by “conserva
tive” one who does not go far
enough; by “reactionary” one
who wen’t go at all. I suppose I
must be a “progressive,” which I
take to be one who insists on rec
ognizing new facts, adjusting poli
cies to facts and circumstances as
they arise.—Woodrow Wilson.
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O MARTHA OSTENSO—WNU SERVICE
CHAPTER IX—Continued
Linda Parr had turned large and
wondering eyes upon the Laird. “It’s
probably not my place to speak, Mr.
Dean,” she ventured, “but the whole
affair was quite accidental and we
regret it quite as much as you do.
We probably regret it more, since
it was we who had to sleep out. On
the other hand, young people are
quite capable of taking care of
themselves nowadays.”
Autumn was amazed at Linda’s
sudden garrulity. At the quick glare
of the old man’s eyes, however, the
girl ceased abruptly, and biting her
lip, looked rather hopelessly toward
Autumn.
“I’ll not have my daughter’s name
bandied about the country as though
she were a common strumpet!” the
Laird roared, and brought his hands
down resoundingly upon the arms
of his chair.
Linda got to her feet with char
acteristic languor, and begging to
be excused, left the room and went
upstairs. Autumn surmised, with a
cynical affection for the girl, that it
was the desire for a cigarette that
sent her off, rather than any marked
distaste for the scene.
“You are carrying on quite un
necessarily, Father,” Autumn ob
served quietly when Linda had gone.
“It isn’t good for you—and I’m sur
prised that you should treat such a
simple situation so seriously.”
“Simple? Simple?” Jarvis was al
most inarticulate. “Have you no
sense of decency, girl? You put
yourself in a position where men en
gage in a brawl over you in a gam
bling dive—and you call that sim
ple!”
“I have tried to explain to you.
Father, that it was an accident,”
Autumn persisted. “We were miles
from anywhere. What on earth
were we to do, at three o’clock in
the morning?”
The Laird drew himself up and
his nostrils flared in the magnifi
cence of his indignation. “You had
no business being there—or any
where else but in your bed at three
o’clock in the morning. And I’ll
have no more of it!”
Autumn’s eyes narrowed. She
glanced sharply at Hector, who was
slumped wearily in his chair. “What
do you propose to do, Father?” she
asked finally in a cold voice. “Keep
me under lock and key?”
A dull flush lay like a sultry shad
ow on the old man’s cheekbones.
Autumn knew that her words had
started the ripples of an old and
cruel memory in the depths of his
consciousness, and for a moment
she was sorry for what she had
said.
For some moments Jarvis did not
reply to her question. Then, his
mouth grimly set, he pronounced
his ultimatum. “You will conduct
yourself from now on like a lady—
or back you go to where you came
from! I’ll not have the Dean name
made the cause of drunken brawls
in public dives!”
Autumn got angrily to her feet. In
that moment, all the wretchedness
of those long summer weeks came
back upon her, those weeks of striv
ing to tear the love of Bruce Landor
from her heart, and instantly her
regret for the pain she was causing
her father retreated.
She confronted him now with
wide, blazing eyes. “The Dean
name!” she said. “That’s what’s be
hind all this! It isn’t what will hap
pen to me that you are thinking
about. You know I can look after
myself. I’ve done it for years with
out giving you anything to worry
about. But the Dean name must be
defended! It hurts your pride to see
it defended by Bruce Landor. You
have been living in the past so long
that it’s more real to you and more
important to you than your own
daughter. Well, let me tell you, Da
—I don’t give a damn for a name
that needs defending. I’ve suffered
what you will never know—ever
since I came back—defending the
Dean name. I can’t go on—l won’t
go on! Let the name of Dean—”
The Laird was on his feet instant
ly, his huge frame trembling with
emotion. “Stop it!” he cried. “Stop
it! You’ve gone far enough. You’ve
gone—far—enough! ’ ’
Autumn stood for an instant star
ing at him. He seemed to have
gone suddenly feeble, defeated. He
turned away from her and stretched
his hand out to support himself by
the mantelpiece. His body appeared
to crumple forward, to sag and
dwindle as though shrinking from a
blow. In that moment Autumn’s
compassion for him rose again, and
her impulse was to go to him and
throw her arms about him in an ef
fort to make peace between them.
But Hector was already beside him
and was waving her away. She
turned silently and left the room.
Long after Linda was asleep in the
room next her own, and the house
stood in its dark silence, Autumn
lay awake, turning over and over
in her mind the restive thoughts
that had had their incipience in that
disconcerting clash with her father.
At last, unable to bear any longer
the confining darkness of her own
room where thinking had become a
torment, she got up and put on a
dressing-gown and slippers.
Noiselessly, Autumn went out into
the hall. Her father’s hound. Saint
Pat, who slept on a mat outside the
Laird’s door, rose at her approach,
but she caressed him reassuringly,
and he flung himself down again and
Autumn continued on down the
stairs and out of the house.
She stole quietly to a secluded
nook in the garden where, within the
circle of flowering mock-orange
trees, her mother’s bronze sundial
still stood on its low pedestal. Here
the smell of roses lay in a still,
dark pool of heavy sweetness; in
the purple field of the sky over
head the stars leaned down, a white
blur stooping to the fainter nimbus
of the white and yellow roses. Here
Millicent Dean had counted out the
days and nights of her last summer.
It was because of Millicent that old
Hannah had kept the retreat un
changed; it held still the spellbound
air of plaintive sanctuary.
Autumn seated herself on a bench
beside the sundial and gathered her
robe closely about her. A curious
vacantness seemed to possess her
mind now, a receptivity to some
strange reassurance, to some strong
and calming influence that drifted
in upon her from the sweet clois
tered gloom of the flowery crypt that
had been her mother’s. A quieting
affirmation was growing upon Au
tumn. Millicent Odell was living
again, rising above her own tragedy
and that of Jarvis Dean and Geof
frey Landor, and the poor, unhappy
Jane. Autumn closed her eyes in
the buoyancy of her spirit, where
the knowledge had dawned that her
love for Bruce was an inevitable
and inexorable predetermination of
life that Jarvis Dean’s opposition
could neither change nor destroy.
She was startled suddenly out of
her absorption by a sound behind
her. Turning quickly, she saw Hec
tor Cardigan standing within the
dimness of the crypt.
“Hector!” she said softly. “What
ever brings you out at this time of
night?”
He chuckled in an embarrassed
way.
“It isn’t the first time I’ve prowled
around here,” he said in a low, odd
ly strained voice, “but it’s the first
time I’ve been caught at it.”
She did not have to ask why he
had come. Millicent lived for him
here, as she was living for Autumn
herself.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she told him,
“—after that scene with father.”
Hector came and seated himself
on the bench beside her. “It was
rather bad, wasn’t it?” he said
heavily. “But I think I warned you
that your father would be difficult,
though I had not foreseen—quite
this, I confess.”
“What am I to do?” she asked
him.
“You will know that yourself—
better than I can tell you,” he re
plied.
Autumn plucked a blossom from a
low-hanging branch and held it to
her lips. “I love father,” she said
simply, “and I love everything I
have come home to. I don’t want to
leave it.”
Hector was silent for a moment.
Then, as though he were talking to
some third person who was present
beside them, he said, “Autumn is
in love with Geoffrey’s son.”
She straightened herself involun
tarily against the weird sensation
that had come over her.
“Is it so evident as that, Hector?”
she said.
“The past is repeating itself,” he
said. “My eyes are not too old to
see that.”
“It is the past that has come be
tween .us, Hector—between Bruce
and me,” she said.
Hector leaned forward and patted
the back of one hand against the
palm of the other. “I shall have
something to say about that, my
dear, when the time comes that I
must.”
Autumn stared at the ghostly blur
of a heavily flowered white rose
bush. “If you had told me all you
knew—when I first came home,” she
said, “we might have been spared
much of what happened tonight.”
Hector drew a deep and unhappy
breath. “You forget, my child, that
there is such a thing as loyalty still
left in the lives of some of us,” he
said. “If I did not tell you every
thing I knew, it was because I could
not tell it.”
“It doesn’t matter, after all,” she
said. “It is too late now.”
“On the contrary,” he replied, “it
is still too soon.”
Autumn shifted impatiently. “How
long must you hold your silence,
then?” she asked him.
“Until I can hold it no longer,”
he replied.
A slight wind stirred in the tree
above them, and a shower of white
petals fell on the grass at their feet.
On the following morning, when
Linda telephoned to the Landor
place with the intention of paying
Bruce a visit during the day, the
foreman, Andrew Gilly, informed
her that Bruce had gone to Van
couver on business and would not
be back until the end of the week.
“So that will be that!” Linda ob
served, stretching herself on the
couch in the sunlit drawing room
and opening a volume of French
verse which she had brought down
from Autumn’s room.
The announcement that Bruce had
BAKER COUNT! NEWS
gone to Vancouver filled Autumn
with an unaccountable loneliness
and impatience that annoyed her as
she thought of it. She knew now
that throughout the weeks of their
estrangement, the mere fact that
he was always there, just a few
miles from her, had been a com
fort to her, and that in the depth of
her consciousness she had never
really relinquished the hope that
somehow, somewhere, they would
come together again.
Autumn sat at the piano and
played softly while Linda read. Jar
vis had left the house immediately
after breakfast, deep in the soli
tude of one of his unapproachable
moods. Hector had returned to
town, and the girls had been alone
ever since.
Suddenly Linda tossed her book
across the floor. “What a fine old
maid I’m getting to be!” she ex
claimed.
“What’s the matter now, Lin?”
Autumn asked, turning from the pi
ano.
“It’s a bad sign when a girl be
gins to live vicariously in erotic po
etry,” she said.
“At least, it saves one a lot of
trouble,” Autumn remarked.
“And leaves you where you start
ed. There’s a little satisfaction in
trouble, at any rate. It has the
spice of variety in it, if nothing else.
“I don’t know what you are
talking about.”
I’m dying of nothing to do, Autumn.
You can at least work up a good
fight in your own family now and
then."
Autumn stared moodily at the
floor. “I’m not particularly proud
of that,” she said. “It was rather
a mess—the whole affair—innocent
as it was.”
In her preoccupation with the new
evidence she had had of her fa
ther’s strange fixation, she was
scarcely aware of what she said.
But Linda must be given no inkling
of the shadow that lay over her
mind.
“I’d love a mess,” Linda com
mented dreamily, “so long as I
could have Bruce Landor to cham
pion me. You’re an unappreciative
wench; Autumn.”
Autumn got abruptly to her feet
and went over to the window and
stood looking out into the garden,
where she had experienced so
strange an exaltation the night be
fore. Now, in the spread of the
midsummer morning, she knew that
that almost supernatural assurance
of the night in the garden had been
a delusion. There was nothing for
her to do but carry on, for her
father’s sake as well as for Bruce
Landor’s.
“How can you be anything but
head over heels in love with him.
Autumn?” Linda asked.
“I? With whom?”
Linda clicked her tongue in ex
asperation against the roof of her
mouth. “With whom? You know
very well whom.”
Autumn did not turn from the win
dow. “You’re getting positively te
dious, Lin,” she said mechanically.
Linda rolled over on her stomach
and looked narrowly at Autumn’s
straight back. “Do you know
what?” she said at last. “I honestly
believe you’ve been in love with him
from the very first.”
“You must have your own rea
sons for thinking so, Lin,” Autumn
evaded.
“I have, my dear. In the first
place, your cutting-up doesn’t ring
true to me. I cut up because I like
it. But you—you don’t like it.”
Autumn turned and walked to a
table, picked up a magazine, and
seated herself. She thumbed the
pages slowly. “I don’t know what
you’re talking about,” she said in
differently.
Linda reflected for a moment.
“Well—you have no heart in it.
You’re absent-minded—and you’re
downright inattentive at bridge.”
She paused and looked at Autumn.
“My dear,” she said at last, “you’re
in love—or I’m a mental defective.”
Autumn reached across the table
and helped herself to a cigarette.
By
MARTHA
OSTENSO
“You’re a dear imbecile, then, Lin,"
she smiled carelessly.
“I’m a fool in more ways than
one,” the girl replied. "But even a
fool may have eyes. Why don’t you
cut Florian and his gang? You’re not
in love with the boy and you never
will be—and you’re bored to death
with his friends.”
“Not all of them, Lin.”
“I’m the single exception, my
dear—and I’m catty as the devil. I
could have cut your pretty throat
that night when Bruce hauled you
out of that mess in the billiard
room and carried you into the gar
den. Fancy any man doing that for
me! And I could have cheerfully put
poison in your coffee yesterday
morning when Florian told us that
Bruce had taken it upon himself to
defend your honor against Curly Bel
fort. In this day and age, my dear!
Any man I have ever known would
die laughing before he could bring
himself to do as much for me. But
you—you take it out in nursing a
grudge.”
“Lin, you’re positively idiotic!”
Autumn protested.
“I know it—l know it! But there’s
one particular kind of idiot that I
am not—and never intend to be. I
am not the kind that goes on for
ever when I know there’s no hope
for me.”
Autumn laughed dryly and got to
her feet. “Let’s take our ride be
fore it gets too warm,” she sug
gested.
Linda stretched in sinuous luxury
and rose from the couch. “Which—
being interpreted—means, for heav
en’s sake, lay off!” she said, and
went with Autumn to prepare for
the ride.
On the following morning, Bruce
Landor’s foreman drove his car in
at the gates of the Castle. Linda
Parr had departed for home only
an hour before, and Autumn was
cutting roses in the secluded recess
of the garden. It was no usual
thing for Bruce Landor’s foreman
to visit the Dean ranch, and a swift
shock of apprehensiveness for Bruce
passed through her. She gathered
her flowers together at once and
went to the house.
In the yard before the door,
Bruce’s foreman was talking with
Tom Willmar. Autumn hesitated for
a moment, but at an odd glance
from Tom she stepped down and ap
proached the men.
Andrew Gilly turned his cap awk
wardly about in his hands as she
came up to him. His expression was
one of utter distraction.
“Good morning, Miss Dean,” he
greeted her. In a fleeting moment
of intuition, Autumn felt that there
was something vaguely resentful in
his attitude toward her.
“Good morning, Mr. Gilly,” she
returned with a smile. “Has Bruce
come back from Vancouver yet?”
The question had slipped from her
tongue before she had time to think
of what she was saying.
“No,” Gilly replied, “he hasn’t.
And I’m in no hurry to see him, ei
ther. I’ll have very bad news for
him when he comes.”
“Bad news? What has happened?”
Autumn asked.
Tom Willmar cleared his throat.
“Gilly found over thirty of his sheep
dead in the pasture this morning,”
he told her.
Autumn clutched her flowers tight
ly in hands that had gone suddenly
cold. “Not—his prize sheep—the
Merinos he was experimenting
with?” she asked breathlessly.
“The same,” said Tom Willmar.
“Poisoned, they were. Poisoned with
strychnine in the salt trough.”
“It’ll come near to breaking the
boy’s heart,” Gilly observed in a
voice that was shaken with agita
tion.
“Oh!” Autumn felt an abrupt
stricture in her throat that made
further speech impossible.
“I come over to see if you folks
had had any trouble,” Andrew Gilly
went on, “but Tom tells me there’s
been none of it here.”
“No,” Said Tom quietly. “There’s
been a bit of vetch about that’s—”
“Nature had no hand in this,”
Andrew interrupted. “It was' a
sneak that did it—and he must ’a’
crawled on his stomach during the
night to get to the trough or the
dogs would’ve been at him.”
“Have you any idea who did it?”
Autumn asked faintly. It seemed to
her that her heart had sunk entirely
out of her body.
The man had the sensibility to
avoid her eyes. He looked away,
but the expression that came to his
weathered face was ane of bitter
fury.
“I have my own opinion,” he said
significantly, “and I think I’m not
far wrong. I think the boy will
agree with me, too. Though a lot of
good that will do either of us.
There’s no proof—not a whit!"
Autumn knew what he was think
ing. “You suspect Belfort, don’t
•you, Mr. Gilly?” she asked bluntly.
He gave her a direct look from
eyes that were angrily misty. “You
can make a shrewd guess,” he said.
“There’s no doubt in my mind—and
that’s something more than a sus
picion.”
Tom shook his head. “It’ll be a
tough job to get anything on Curly
Belfort’s gang,” he remarked.
“Gosh, what a shame!”
Autumn stood for a moment help
lessly trying to beat back the team
that sprang to her eyes. Then, her
emotions collapsing within her, she
turned and fled into the house.
As she did so, Jarvis Dean came
slowly up the path from the cor
rals, Saint Pat at his heels.
(TO BE CONTINUED} .
Tot Will Be Happy
For Crocheted Set|
Pattern 2321
T'HIS crocheted set of hood with
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