THE ENCHANTED BARN copyright 1918, by J. B. Lipplncott Co. Shirley settled back in h^r seat and leaned her head against the window sash wearily. She. felt so tired, body and soul,'that she would have been glad to sleep and forget for a little while, only that there was need for her to be up and doing. Her room had been oppressively warm the night be fore; and Doris, who slept with her, had rolled from one side of the bed to the other, making sleep well nigh Impossible for Ihe elder sister. She felt bruised and bleeding in her very soul, and longed for rest. The ear was passing through the thickest of the city’s business thoroughfare, and the noise and confusion whirled about her ears like some fiendish monotonous music that set the time for the mad dance of the world. One danced to it whether one would or not, and danced ou to one’s death. Around the city hall the ear passed, and on up Market street. They passed a great fruit store, and the waft of air that entered the open windows came laden with the scent of overripe bana nas, late oranges and-lemons; a moment later with sickening fumes it blended into a deadly smell of gas from a yawning hole in the pavement, and mingled with the sweat of the swarthy foreigners grouped about it, picks in hand- It seemed as though all the smells in creation were met and congregated in that street within four or five blocks; and one by one they tortured her, leather and paint and metal and soap, rank cheese in a fellow traveler's market basket, thick stifling smoke from a street en gine flint was champing up the gravel they fed it to make u new patch of paving, the stench from the cattle, sheds as they passed the railroad and stock yards, the dank odor of the river as they crossed the bridge, and then an oilcloth factory just beyond ! The faint sweet breath of early daffo dils and violets from an occa sional street vendor stood no chan/e at all with these, and all the air seemed sickening and dreadful to the girl as she rested wearily against the window with closed eyes and vried to think. They slipped at last into the subway with a whir and a swish, where the eool, clean smell of the cement seemed gradually to rise and drown the memory of the upper world, and came re- I freshingly in at the windows. Shirley had a passing thought, wondering whether it would be like that iu the grave, all lustful and sweet and quiet and clean, with the nbisy, heartless world roaring overhead. Then they camp up suddenly out of the sub .. .. tiL t_ • 1 i » i *T»T, niiu n, nuiu Vi i ■ ill in | mi n n leap ami shout of brakes and wheels, into the light and sun shine above, and a new world. For here were broad streets, clean pavements, ample bouses, well trimmed lawns, quiet people walking'in comfort, bits of flow er bojces on the window sills filled with pansies and hyacinths; and the air was sweet and clean. The difference made Shirley sit up and look about her, and the con trast reminded her of the heaven that would be beyond the grave. It was just because she was'so tired and disheartened that her thoughts took this solemn form. But now her heart sank again, for she was in the world of plen ty, far beyond her means, and there was no place for such as she. Not in either direction could she see any little side streets with tiny houses that would rent for $15 a month. There were such in the city, she knew-; but they were scarce and were gobbled up as soon as vacant. But here all was spaciousness, and even the side streets had three stories and smug porches with tidy rockers and bay win dows. She looked at the great plate glass windows with their cob webby lace draperies, and thought what it would be if she were able to take her mother ami the children to such a home as one of those. Why, if she could ufiord that, George could go to •college and Doris wear a little ^velvet coat with rosebuds in-her bonnet, like the child on the side walk with her nurse and her doll carriage. But a thing like that could mever come to her. There were rich uncles to leave them a fortune; she was not bright and gifted to invent some wonderful toy or write a book or paint a picture that would bring the for tune; and no one would ever come her way with a fortune to marry her. Those things hap pened only in story books, and she was not a story book girl; she was just a practical, every day, hard working girl with a fairly good complexion, good blue eyes and a firm chin. It was eating into her soul, and she could feel a kind of mental paralysis stealing over her from it, benumbing fier faculties hour by hour. The car glided on, and the houses grew less stately and far ther apart. They were not so pretentious now, but they were still substantial and comfortable, with more ground and an air of having been there always, with no room for newcomers. Now and then would come a nucleus of shops and an old tavern with a group of new groceries and crying competition of green stamps and blue stamps and yel low stamps posted alluringly in their windows. Here busy, hur ried people would swarm, and .children ran and shouted; but every house they passed seemed full to overflowing, and there was nowhere any place that seemed to say: “Here you may come and find room!” And now the ear left the paved and built up streets, and wan dered out between the open fields, where trees arched lav ishly overhead, and little new green things lifted up unfright ened heads, and dared to grow in the sunshine. A uew smell, the smell of rich earth and young green growing things, of skunk cabbage in bloom in the swanyis, of budding willows and sassa fras, roused her senses; the hum of a bee on its way to find the first honey drops came to her cars. Sweet, droning, restful, with the call of a wild bird in the distance and all the air balmy with the joy of spring. Ah ! This indeed was heaven! What a con trast ! Truly, this was heaven! If she could but stay, and all the ■ dear ones come! .She bad spent summers in the country, of course; and she knew and loved nature, but it had been five years since she had been free to get outside the city limits for more than a day,, and then not far. It seemed to her now that she had never sensed the beauty of the country as today; perhaps because she had never needed it as now* The road went on 'Smoothly straignt aneaa, witn now a rounding curve, and then anoth er long stretch of perfect road. Men were plowing in the fields on one side, and on the other lay the emerald velvet of a field of spring wheat. More people had got into the ear as it left the city. Plain, substantial men, nice, pleasant, women; but Shirley did not. notice them; she was watch ing the changing landscape and thinking her dismal, pitiful thoughts. Thinking, too, that she-had spent her money—or would have when she returned, with nothing to show for it, and her conscience condemned her. They were coming now to a wide, old fashioned barn of stone, with ample grassy stoue coped entrance rising like a stately carpeted stairway from the barn yard. It was resting on the top of a green knoll, and a great elm tree arched over it protectingly. A tiny ydream purled below at one sido, and the ground sloped gradually off at the other. Shirley was not no ticing the place much except as it was a part of the landscape until she heard the conductor talking to the man across the aisle about it. ‘‘Good barn!” he was saying I reflectively. “Pity to have it standing idle so long; but they'll I never rent it without a house, and they won’t build. It be | longs to the old man's estate, and ! can't be divided until the young est boy's of age, four 'r five years yet. The house burned down two years ago. Some tr&inps set it afire. No, nobody was living in it at the time. The last renter didn’t make the farm pay—too fur from the railroad, I guess—and there ain't anybody rear enough 'round to use the barn since Halyer built his new barn,” and he indicated a great red structure down the road on the other side. w Halyer useta use this—rented it fer less’n nothing, but lie got too lazy to come this fur, and so he sold off half his farm fer a dairy ami built that there barn. So now I s’pose that barn'll stand idle and run to waste ’til th$t kid comes of age and there’s a boom up this .way and it’s sold. Pity about it, though; it’s a good barn. Wisht 1 had it up to my place; I could fill it.” “Make a good location for a house,” said the other man, look ing intently at the big stone pile. “Been a fine barn in its time. Old man must uv had a pile of chink when he built it. Who’d ya say owned it?” “Graham, Walter Graham, big firm down near the city hall— gueas you know ’em. Got all kinds of money. This ain’t one, two, three with the other places they own. Got a regular palace out Arden way fer summer and a town house in the swellest neighborhood, and own land all over. Old man inherited from his father and three uncles. They don’t even scarcely know they got this barn, I reckon. It ain't very stylish out this way just yet.” Be a big boom here some day; nice location,’’ said the passenger. “Not yetta while,” said the conductor sagely; railroad sta tion's too far. Wait ’til they, get a station out Allister avenue; then you ean talk. ’Til then it'll stay as it is, I reckon. There’s a spring down behind the barn, the best water in the county. I useta get a drink every day when the switch was up here. I missed it a lot when they moved the switch to the top of the hill. Wa ter’s cold as ice and clear as crystal—can’t be beat this side the soda fountain. I sometimes stop the car on a hot summer day now, and run and get a drink —it’s great.” The men talked on, but Shirley heard no more. Her eyes were intent on the barn as they passed it—the great, beautiful, wide, comfortable looking barn. What a wonderful house it would make! She almost longed to be a cow to enter this peaceful shel ter and feel at home for a little while. The car went on and left the big barn in the distance; but Shirley kept thinking, going over almost unaonsciously all the men had said about it. Walter Gra ham! Where had she seen that name! Oh, of course in the Ward Trust building, the whole fourth floor. Leather goods of some sort, perhaps, she couldn’t just remember yet; yet she was sure of the name. The mau had said the barn rented for almost nothing. What oould tflat mean translated in terms of dollars! Would the $15 a month that they were now pay ing for the little brick house cover it! But there would be the car fare for herself and George. Walking that distance twice a day, or even once, would be impossible. Ten cents a day, 60 cents a week—twice 60 cents! If they lived out«of the city they couldn t aiiord to pay but $1V5 a month. They never would rent that barn for that, of course, it was so big and grand looking; and yet—it was a barn! What did barns rent for, anyway ? And, if it could be had, could they live iu a barn? What were barns like, anyway, inside? Did they have floors, or only stalls and mud? There had been but two tiny windows visible in the front; how did they get light in side? But then it couldn't be much darker than the, brick house no matter what it was. Perhaps there was a skylight, and hay, pleasant hay, to lie down on and rest. Anyhow, if they could only manage to get t>ut there for the summer some how, they could bear, some dis comforts just to sit under that great tree and look up at the sky. To think of Doris playing under that tree! And mother sitting under it sewing? Mother could get well out thpre in that fresh air, and Doris would get rosy cheeks again. There would not likely be a school about for Carol; but that would not hurt her for the summer, anyway, and maybe by fall they could find a little house. Perhaps she would get a raise in the fall. If they could only get somewhere to go now! But yet—a barn! Live in a barn! What would mother say? Would she feel that it was a disgrace? Would she call it one of Shirley's wild schemes? Well, but what were they going to do? They must live somewhere, un less they were destined to die homeless. The car droned on through m ] the open country, coining now and then to settlements of pros | perous houses, some of them j small; but no empty ones seemed to beckon her. Indeed, | they looked too high priced to ! make her even look twice at 1 them; besides, her heart was left j behind with that barn, that j great, beautiful barn with the | tinkling brook beside it. and the arching tree and gentle green ' slope. At last the car ^topped in a commonplace little town in front of a red brick church, and everybody got up and went out. The conductor disappeared, too, and the motorman leaned back on his brake and looked at her significantly. “End of the line, lady,” he j said with a grin, as if she were dreaming and had not taken no tice of her surroundings. “Oh,” said Shirley, rousing up, and looking bewdderedly about her. “Well, you go back, don’t you?” “Yes. Go back in 15 minutes,” said the motorman indulgently. There was something appealing in the sadness of this girl’s eyes that made him think of his little girl at home. I/O you go uaeK jusi uie same jway?” she asked with sudden I alarm. She did want to see that | barn again, and to get its exact location so that she could come i back to it some day if possible. “Yes, we go back just the same way,” nodded the motor man. Shirley sat back in her seat again, and resumed her thoughts. The motorman took up his din ner pail, sat down on a high stool with his back to her, and began to eat. It was a good time now for her to eat her little lunch, but she was not hungry. How ever, she would be if she did not eat it, of course; and there would be no other time when people would not be around. She put her hand in her shabby coat pocket for her handkerchief, and her fingers came into contact with something small and hard and round. For a moment she thought it was a button that had been off her cuff for several days. But no, she remembered sewing that on that very morn ing. Then she drew the little object out, and behold! it was a 5-cent piece. Yes, of course, she remembered now. It was the nickel she put in her pocket laht night when she went for the ex tra loaf of bread and found the store closed. She had made john ny cake instead, and supper had been laje; but the nickel had stayed in her coat pocket forgot ten. And now suddenly a big temptation descended upon her, to spend that nickel in car fare riding to the barn and getting out for a closer look at it, and then taking the next car into the city. Was it wild and foolish, was it not perhaps actually wrong, to spend that niekel that way when they needed so much at home, and had so little! A crazy idea—for how could a bafn ever be their shelter! She thought so hard about it , that she forgot to eat her lunch until the motorman slammed the cover down on his tin pail and j put the high stool away. The conductor, too, was coming out of a tiny frame house, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and calling to his wife, who stood in the doorway and told him about au errand she wanted him to do for her in the city. Shirley’s cheeks grew red with 1 excitement, for the nickel was burning in her lian'd, and she knew in her heart that she was gAing to spend it getting off that car near that barn. She would ' eat her lunch under the tree by the brook! How exciting that would he! At least it would be something to tell the children about at night! Or no! they would think her crazy and self- | ish, perhaps, to waste a whole i day and 15 cents on herself. Still, it was not oil herself; it was real ly for them. If they could only see that beautiful spot! (To Be Continued Next (Veek) Praises President’s Style. Krom the New York Times. Upon the literary quality of the presi dent's address to congress, coming so soon after his Inaugural address, it has pleased some university jurists to sharpen their wits. They have passed from one to another their little quips and catchy questions about Mr. Hard ing's U3e of words, Mnally, as was inevitable. M. H. Meneksd has started in to make rather ponderous fun of the president's style. The game Is easy, hut is it worth while? What do the fastidious critics think to he the object of a presidential utterance? 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