She Ragged Edge by Harold MacGrath But the aunt seized her in her arms and rocked with her. “A miserly old woman. Well, I’ve had to be. All my life I’ve had to fight human wolves to hold what I have. So I’ve grown hard—outside. What’s all this about, anyhowt You. Far away there was the one woman for this boy of mine—some human being who would understand the dear fool better than all the rest of the world. But God did not put you next door. lie decided that, Hoddy should pay a colos sal price for the Dawn Pearl— shame, loneliness, torment, for only through these agencies would he learn your worth. The fibre of his soul had to be tested, queerly, to make him worthy of you. Through fire and water, through penury and pestilence, your hand will always l>e on his shoulder. McClinfock wrote me about you; but all I needed was the sight, of your face as it was a moment gone.” Gently she thrust Ruth aside. Ruth’s eyes were wet, but she saw light everywhere: the room was filled with celestial aura. \i. The aunt rushed over to her Jtiei&ew, knelt and wrapped him iin her arms. “My little Iloddy! You used to love me; and I have always loved you. The thought of you, wondering from pillar to post, believing yourself hunt ed—it tore my old heart to pieces! For I knew yon. You would suffer the torments of the damned for what you had done. So I set out to find you, oven if it cost ten times sixteen thousand. My poor Iloddy! I had to talk harshly, or break down and have hysterics. I’ve come to take you back home. Don’t you understandf Hack among your own again, a«^mily a few of us the wiser. ll^^Bou suffered!” “Dear God! . . . e^kf hour since!” “The Spurlock conscience. That is why Wall Street broke your father; he was honest.” “Ah, my father! The way you treated him. . . . !” “Good money after had. You haven’t heard my side of it, llod dy. To shore up a business that never had any foundation, he wanted me to lend him a hundred ^thousand; and for his sake as •well as for mine I had to refuse. He wasn’t satisfied with an as sured income from the paper mills your grandfather left us. He wanted to become a million aire. So I had to buy out his in terest, and it pinched me dread fully to do it. In the end he broke his own heart along witli your mother’8. I even offered him back the half interest he had nold to me. You sent back my Christmas checks.” “1 had to. I couldn’t accept anything from you.” “You might have added * then’,” said Miss Spurlock, dri ly “I’m an ungrateful dog!” “You wTill be if you don’t in- ( stantly kiss me the way you used to. Hut your face! What hap pened here just before I came!” “Perhaps God wasn’t quite eure that I could hold what I bad, and wanted to try me out.” “And you whipped the beastt I passed him.” At any rate, i won, tor ne went away. But, Auntie, how ever in this world did you find this island!” She told him. “The eliief^>f the detective agency informed me that it would be best not to let Mr. O’Higgins know the truth; he wouldn’t be reckless with the funds, then. For a time I didn’t know we’d ever find you. Then came the cable that you were in Canton, ill, but not dangerously so. Mr. O’lliggins was to keep track of you until I believed you had had enough punishment. Then he was to arrest you and bring you home to me. When I learned you were married, I changed my plans. I did not know what God had in mind then. Mr. O’Higgins and I lauded at Copeley’s yesterday ; and Mr. McClintock sent lus vacht over for us this morning. Hoddy, what made you do it! Whatever made you do it!” “God knows 1 Something said to me: Take it 1 Take it! And . . . I took it. After I took the bills it was too late to turn back. I drew out what I had saved and boarded the first ship out. Wait!” lie released himself from his aunt’s embrace, ran to the trunk and fetched the old coat. With the aid of a penknife he ripped the shoulder seams and drew out the ten one-thousand dollar bills. Gravely he placed them in his aunt’s hand. “You didn’t spend it?” “I never intended to spend it —any more than I really intend ed to steal it. That’s the sort of fool your nephew is!” “Not even a good time!” said the aunt, whimsically, as she stuffed the bills into her reticule. “Not a single whooper-upter I Nothing but torment and re morse . . . and Ruth! Child ren, put your arms around me. In a While—to-morrow—all these tender, beautiful emotions will pass away, and I’ll become what | was yesterday, a cynical, miser ly old spinster. I'll be wanting my sixteen thousand.” bix, he corrected. “Why, so it is,” she said, in mock astonishment. “Think of me forgetting ten thousand so quickly!” * “Go to, you old fraud! You’ll never fool me again. God bless you, Auntie! I’ll go into the mills and make pulp with my bare hands, if you want me to. Home! •—which 1 never hoped to see again. Jfo dream and to labour: to you, my labour; to Ruth, my dreams. And if sometimes I grow heady—and it’s in the blood—remind me of this day when you took me out of hell— a thief.” “Nothing can change that, Dawn Pearl. Auntie has taken the nails out of my palms, but the sears will always be there.” .There fell upon the three the silence of perfect understanding; and in this silence each saw a vision. To Ruth came that of the great world, her lawful lover at her side; and there would be glorious books into each of which he would unconsciously put a little of her soul along with bis own, needing her always. The spinster saw herself growing warm again in the morning sun shine of youth—a flaring ember before the hearth grew cold. Spurlock’s vision was oddly of the past. He saw Enschede, making the empty sea, alone, forever alone. “Children,” said the aunt, first to awake, “be young fools as long as God will permit you. And don’t worry about the six thousand, Iloddv. I’ll call it my wedding gift. There’s nothing so sad in this world as an old fool, she added. The three of them laughed joyously. And Hollo, who had been wait ing for some encouraging sound, presented himself at the door way. He was caked with dried muck. He was a bad dog; ho knew it perfectly; but where there was laughter, there was hope. With his tongue lolling and his flea-bitten stump wag ging apologetically, he glanced from face to face to see if there was any forgiveness visible There was. THE END U. S. Used Billion Quarts Of Canned Milk in Year Chicago—Consumption of a case of evaporated milk by practically every family In the United States— nearly ten quarts of milk for each man. woman and child—was the con sumption record of this Industry last year, according to figures given out by the statisticians of the Evaporated Milk association. “Twenty million cases, or 1,000,000, 000 quarts of milk, seem a tremendous total," said the head of the associa tion’s home economies department, “yet considered against tne annual consumption of milk in this country, it shows that selling milk from which the water has been evaporated is an industry still In itfc infancy." DUMMY IN BOOTH Manchester, England.—A purse snatcher, running from police through a crowded street at night, dodged into a hotel lobby and was lost. Later police saw a figure la a telephone booth In the lobby and approached the booth cautiously with drawn guns. In the booth they found the wa\ figure of a clothing store dum my that the clever robber had placed j there as a decoy. BREEME HOUSE j By Katherine Newlin Burt I CHAPTER NO. I ENTER LORD' TREMONT The great liner lay at its pier in the north river at New York, half an hour before sailing-time. On deck two girls stood at the rail near the gangway, watching the arrivals. One of them held herself with the stiff grace pe culiar to the American woman who has had the advantage of cosmopolitan training. Claire Wilton was amusing herself mak ing mental observations on her fellow-passengers as they came aboard. The other showed no interest in the oncoming crowd. Her gaze was focussed anxiously upon each man as he arrived, and was quickly removed with a look of disappointment. “Do you notice how they all drop their masks while they’re crossing the gangway, Jane?” asked Claire Wilton. ”1 could stand rfTid watch them for hours, telling myself stories about them as they come on. On the way over it’s such fun seeing how nearly I’ve hit them off.” She looked down at her com panion, who stood beside her with the shy grace of the sheltered type of English girl. Claire smiled at her pre-occupa tion. “He’s not come, yet, Jane? There’s plenty of time; don’t worry,” she laughed. “He’ll make it.” “I suppose he will; but you don’t know Alec—he’s got such a happ-go-lucvky way of never noticing the time, and leaving everything till the last minute.” The smiling criticism or her brother did not altogether oust the anxiety from Lady Jane’s eyes. “You stay and watch your specimens, and make up your stories about them; I think I’ll go to the cab'in and rest. It’s such a whirl, Claire,” she said apolo getically. “I feel as though I were still on the edge of your American maelstrom, standing here.” “Very well, dear, do—and I’ll see if I can identify Lord Tre mont from the family likeness; I’ll come down as soon as we’ve started. But I’m sure you need n’t worry. There aren’t two Lord Tremonts, and you know they said when I phoned for you to the hotel this morning that he had arrived last night from Canada. ” And with a nod of encourage ment to Lady Jane, she resumed aer scrutiny of the arrivals. The close friendship between “laire Wilton and Lady Jane Fremont had developed at the French Convent boarding school they had both attended. The American girl’s natural self-de pendence had drawn to her, mag netically, the shy, reserved little daughter of the English Earl of Breeme, for whom the convent school veas the first experience of contact with a world other than the familiar one of Breeme House. Aristocrat though the child was, it had been apparent to Claire with her limitless purse that her little room-mate was pitifully poor, which only tended to increase in Jane that ait" of detachment which one less gifted svith insight into character might" easily have mistaken for snobbish superiority. Following this happy school friendship their intimacy had iontinued unbroken. It had required clever ma noeuvering on the part of Claire to arrange the recently accom plished visit of Lady Jane to America. Claire’s mother had died at her daughter’s birth and after the death of her millionaire father a year ago, Claire had gone to Europe under the chaperoaage of an Aunt, and had induced Lady Jane to be her guest on a tour through Spain. Then, on the plea of her Aunt’s sudden recall to America, and her own wish to see something of Eng land, Claire had persuaded Jane to show her the beauties of the English counties and Scotland. They wound up with a few weeks at Breeme House, to the delight of Lady Jane’s father, the Earl of Breeme, whose hobby Avas the study of the American Indian, and to whose semi-invalid exis tence Claire’s vivacity was a boon. To Claire Wilton’s svmpathe tie nature tu"»Breeme household was extraordinarily appealing. The earl's wife, the second Lady Breeme, devoted her whole time to her husband’s care. The two younger children, of school-room j age, were in the hands of a governess. One and all, includ ing old Robins, the general facto tum who had been bred upon the place, seemed to make it their chief object in life to shield the earl; and to lift from him the weight of wmrry. Theirs was the familiar story of a land-poor aristocracy, under the costly strain of a great and ancient in heritance. But it was apparent to Claire that there was a point in which the troubles of Breeme focussed more immediately. Despite the affectionate way in which the Earl spoke of his eldest son, Alec Tremont, and the hero-worship devoted to him by the small step brother and sister, it was evident from the very reticence of Lady Breeme and of Jane that Lord Tremont, with all his imputation for a charming and winning per sonality, caused them keen anxiety. It was with a sense of special interest, therefore, that Claire Wilton watched the faces and bearing of the younger men who came aboard the steamer. She was looking forward with no small curiosity to meeting Jane’s brother. And when, just ns the gang way was to be pulled back, Claire finally saw the unhurried ap proach of Lord Tremont, it was not alone the likeness to the pho tographs she had seen, nor the general family resemblance, which assisted in her quick iden tification of him. There was in his lean face, in the bearing of his tall figure, in the very way he wore his clothes, just that combination of contradictions she had expected to find. His face was not handsome, though it had the stamp of race which made it distinguished. In the rather narrow colorless eyes there was coolness, without se curity; in the mouth, purposeful ness without decision of charac ter; in the movements, graceful balance rather than vigor or strength. No one but would have said at once that Lord Tre mont was a charming fellow, though perhaps he might seem— well—a little unapproachable just at first. Lord Tremont on entering his stateroom looked with annoyance upon the signs of occupancy by a cabin-companion. He had left his booking til the last moment, and there was no sep&rate cabin available. Hopefully he specu lated that the other fellow might be all right, after all, and at once set to work to unpack his bag gage, whistling gaily. For the heir to the earldom of Breeme was as happy as a king who has just thrown from his shoulders a heavy care that had long oppressed him. Alec Tre mont’s trip to Canada had been a great success. Several years ago his father had made a small investment in land there, and to meet the demand of Lord Tre mont’s creditors it had been de cided that the young man should himself go over and at tend to the sale of it. The pro ceeds were far in excess of what had been expected. For the first time in several years Alec would be able to wipe out his debts, and start with a clean slate. (TO BE CONTINUED^) ' Dog Wears Red Light to Avoid Getting Run Over Cedar Grove.—A visiting autoist, passing through hero the other night, rubbed his eyes as he saw a dancing red light in the street ahead of his ca'r, made some remarks about post war liquor and stopped to investi gate. Closer inspection revealed a small dog, surmounted by a red electric light and with a dry-cell battery fastened about his mid-section. A local woman explained that her pet wouldn’t stay off the streets at night, so she rigged up the signal light to keep him from getting run over by an automobile. * Also a Counter Irritant. From the Houston Post. A feminine newspaper writer says no two people can live together in matrimony without friction and without getting on each other's nerves. But people must marry, and, some of them must live together, friction or no friction, nerves or no nerves. It aeems to us that under such circumstances children are not only a great help, but necessary. Some New Books 'Reviewed BY ELEANOR HUBBARD GARCT BY F. A. C. The Forsytes Again Last night I sat down to write a review of Galsworthy’s new book THE WHITE MONKEY and with pencil In hand, weakly said to my self, ‘‘R< ally to do justice to this story of Michael, Fleur and Soames, { should glance at the earlier story of them all In The Forsyte Saga.” Once again, I found the Forsyte Saga Completely absorbing. Long, detail ed and Involved as it is, It succeeds In creating an atmosphere so vital, that to all Intents and purposes I am the eery heart of all Forsytes, 'nstead cf a dispassionate critic. This newest tale of them all, goes a step l 'yond most fiction of tho post- wa; period and shows the flap per, mar: led. Michael poined to the arratic F’.eur, Soames, mellowed by age the fit upping” Sir Lawrence Mont are three splendidly portrayed men. If I feel that something of the force and somber beauty of THE MAN OF PROPERTY is missing, Galsworthy would reply, no doubt, ‘But, dear lady. It Isn’t that kind of a bock.” Different from all the other stoi les of the Forsytes, it ends tn. And -they-all-11 veil-happily-ever after. Cosmo Mamllton says that Gals worthy Is first, last and always a gentleman, with all that means in advantag ? and limitation. Some place or ( ther I read an enthusiastic review of his work, which called his Forsyte Saga one of the finest novels in the English language. Knowing Lord Jim, The Return of the Native, and The Egoist, I can’t quite agree. Galsworthy has a fine "style” in writing, a nice finish which surely neither Conrad or Hardy have. Their genius burns clear through any possible superticial trimming. (Meridlth, you see, I don’t even at tempt to classify). So, as the work of a great writer, if not the very great est, I reccmmend The White Monkey. A spirited Story It Is thus that The MacMillan company classifies MATILDA GOV ERNESS OF THE ENGLISH, by Sophia Cleugh. The wrapper on the book goe < on to say, ‘‘A pretty mystery is ravelled out in the course Of this gay romance of Matilda and the Marquis of Lassington and it all takes i cce among scenes of high life in the London and Paris of early Victorian days. Matilda’s career never lacks for excitement from the time she leaves Miss Nixon’s board ing school to the day when the titled husband she has married as proxy for an unwilling fiancee succeeds in winning her heart.” Heaven knows, if the above de scription sounds attractive to you perhaps you will be able to follow the very artificial silk thread of this ‘‘spirited story” through all its conclutlons. For myself when I read the publisher’s statement that “The tale reminds one not a little of Fanny Bruney’s ‘Evelina,’” all I can say is, ‘‘May a good Providence guard me from Miss Burney's handi work!” Four Short Stories of Old New York Mrs. Wharton’3 stories of New York of the ‘40’s, ‘50’s, ’60’s and ’70’s, are, to my mind, ahead of anything she has ever done except that stark little masterpiece ETHAN FROME. Though her long novels are excel lent, for she Is a most skillful wlrter, her supreme metier Is surely the short story. In this field she stands alone—If one can risk vague general ities such as that. She pares down non-esen;ial evaluates so surely, that her story THE OLD MAID compasses in brief the entire life of two women. We feel that we know Delia and Charlotte through and through. With exquisite taste she avoids sentiment ality but all the more moving is the poignant beauty of the close of her ; story of a true love In ‘‘New Years Day." If you are looking for a ‘‘gift book” for Christmas, nothing could be better than Mrs. W’harton’s four stories (D. Appleton—Publisher). Each is most attractively bound in a separate volume, all enclosed in a single box. Just the mere look at the outside is attractive, and when you consider the excellence of the in side the only fault of the whole is that probably once you get your hands on it you’ll be unable to part with it. Elaine at the Gates BY C. H. P. Little Elaine peered through the lofty 'iron gates of her great-aunt's estate, -‘‘at the golden sunlight, the greenly translucent shadows. It seemed to her as if sne was standing just outside the Gates of Happiness, could she have guessed her situation at that moment queerly symbolized a large part of her future life.” The Reverend Mark Awdrey, “who had made the dull little church of All Saints a place of vivid color” one feels as the distrubing factor in her pleasant, tranquil life. Dominating, forceful, with “an Iatrisic common ness of fibre’’ Elaine cannot under stand the peculiar type of silliness which lie inspires in most women, Including gentle old Mrs. ^asueiou. To Elaine he la repulsive, yet she must admit him genuine, “certainly not a. mountebank or imposter.” About these two the story centers. The third point of the triangle, la Elaine's lover, Arnold Thorne. Him, we scarcely perceive, except as th® being upon whom Elaine centers her noble and tender love. For a moment the gates stand ajar for Elaine, but close again, when Arnold feels that he la In honor bound to marry the vulgar Pearl. The scene For almost 150 years the family of the Rav. Frederick Seely Porter, pastor of the Trinity Baptist church of Oklahoma City, has not been without a minister of the ilaptist denomination. On both his mother's and his lather's side were pioneer ministers who went Into Canada from the United States in 1777 and there laid the foundation of a family of preachers and Bible teacners. Mr. Por ter reached his present charge front New Brunswick. Canada, last Febru ary. Formerly he was secretary of the British and Foreign Bible Society In Newfoundland and the Maritime pro vinces. After eight years spent In preparing himself for the ministry he received a commission as captain in the Canadian overseas forces and spent 39 months as chaplain at the front. He was promoted to major soon altar ha creased. in which Elaine, not understanding, tries to dissuade him is poignant. Made hideous, piteous and humble, “through her grief—to his eyes and to the eyes of the reader, she was beautiful and essentially grarid.” Elaine through a fluke loses her in heritance and becomes governess in a middle-class English family. Here the Reverend Mark reappears, boldly and firmly bears her to London, where she, after feebly remonstrating, be come his platonic wife. Thi3 i* hardly convincing. One feels thav E'aine could put up a much better fight than she does. However, she and Mark, set to work building a new church in the slums of London. Mark becomes a force, but almost loses his grip when he finds himself desperate ly in love with his wife. The Inevit able, somewhat melodramatic strug gle ensues. Mark, Elaine and Arnold emerge purified by life. Since Air. Maxwell has given us a well-written and absorbing romance, I think we may forgive him if Elaine ?e. ms a rather too greatly persecuted heroine. Gossip About Books and Authors A recent heroine in fiction for comfort turns to Conrad. “Any Con rad would do—None had ever failed her2" With that sentiment we heart ily concur, though not a harried soul, we find Conrad always completely satisfying. So we read with intense interest Lady Morrell’s impressions of Conrad. She says, ‘‘He was sur prising as his books are surprising. He was rather mysterious. But above all he was distinguished. To see him for the first time was almost a shock. He was so vivid, so remark able, so different from other men. It is sometimes said of all of us that we are living in exile, that we have here no continuing city, but looking forward—it may be back ward—to some ovner country. Of Conrad, with his foreign air and foreign accent, this old Biblical meta phor seemed peculiarly true. He was essentially a man of exile. But he was a supreme artist also. And he still enjoyed with an artist’s eye, “the waters of Babylon.’’ In January E. P. Duttons announce that they will pifbli^h Samuel Gomp ers’ autobiography, “Seventy Years of Life and Labor.” Because of the recent death of this pioneer labor leader it is fortunate that he had al ready written his own story. One phase of his work which the book bi.'ngs out is the connection of the A. jT1. of L. under his leadership, with the Mexican revolution of a few years ago that started this long mis-gov trned country on the path of social justice. Mr. Gompers’ interest in the conditions of Mexican labor began almost forty years ago when he talk ed with some Mexicans wno were fellow-laborers with him in a cigar making shop on the East Side of New York City. The Current Magazines J Our husband tossed the December SCRIBNER’S MAGAZINE over to us with the Injunction, “Read that. It’s as interesting book talk as I’ve ever read,” and what he Indicated was William Lyon Phelps department "As I Like It." We have great respect for our husband's opinion and the editor passes on to us the information that Mr. Phelps’ monthly lists, published in his department, are used in more than 750 libraries and 100 schools. So that’s that, but for ourselves we could dispense for life, as far as real criticism of books goes, with hts bub bling enthusiasms. He has a pleasant style, informal and chatty, and brings to the reader’s notice quantities of books- We can’t help but believe that In his heart of hearts he recognizes good workmanship. However, he chooses’instead to be suave and de lightful. He succeeds in that aim. A charming article by Robert Wat son Winston we are filing away for future reference. It tells how to be happy, though retired. It is entitled “A Freshman Again at Sixty.” Edith Wharton is starting a series of articles on THE WRITING OP FICTION. We consider that anything said by her on this subject is author itative (see review above). However, she can actually write fiction so much better than almost anybody else, that we begrudge the time she must have devoted to her scholarly treatise. - t The moj. comforting article in the December issue of THE HOUSE B'CAUTIFUL is ‘'The Shack” by Julio C. Walcott. I call it comforting be cause after reading of The Manor House of Sutton Courtenay, and the I>alatial apartment of Mr. Major, it is a solace to the humble writer to read of something that in simplified form, she might recognize. Most of thw articles in this and similar publica tions are so far removed from the simple life of most of us, that they are interesting only as fairy tales. Elsa Rchmann reviews some recent books on gardening. The one with the most alluring title, I thought, was A SMALL HOUSE AND A LARUE GARDEN, by Richardson Wright, No Chicken. From the Boston Transcript Wife (with sudden thought)—Dear, how would you like to have mother for lunch? Hub—No. thanks. My digestion isn’t what it used to be. Directed. From the Chicago News. An angler asked a feilow sportsman If lie could tell him of a really good fishing ground. "Yes,” he replied, pointing to a path marked "Private.” “Go along there until you come to a field marked "No Road.’ Cross- it. and on the other -