JJq i te ij inQCiv /K
^yf fountain^
Frances Shelleij Wees
CHAPTER VI—Continued
“Why not get Sally and Madeline
xip here? Oh, Simon too, of course.
Sally wouldn’t come without him,
and he’d be useful. You said Grand
mother wanted young company for
Deborah. Company now, and such
company as my delightful sister,
and her delightful husband, and his
more than delightful sister . . .
the way's been paved by those pres
ents, you see, and my mention of
the family relations . . her mind
would be too fully occupied to brood
over you. We can tip the kids off.
They’re all good sports. And, for
the deepest part of the plot—you
know how Sally trots around at Si
mon’s heels day and night, and
kisses him at all the most awkward
moments, and how they always
hang on each other’s arms?”
“Tubby,” Bryn said after a mo
ment, “you are a fool. Nevertheless
»»
“Exactly.”
Bryn considered, whistling softly.
His eyes began to sparkle. Tubby,
seeing them, reached across the
writing table for paper and a pen.
He wrote a note. He sealed it in
an envelope. He addressed it to
Mrs. Simon Vallance, at Hillsbor
ough, California. "There,” he said.
“They’re dying to come, anyway.’’
When Bryn went downstairs next
morning there was apparently no
one awake in the big house. Gary
and Deborah were sure to be up,
but they w’ere not In sight. He
stood for a moment on the top step,
breathing in the fresh cool air, and
then went around the house and
down the brook tow’ard the bridge,
on his way to the engine house.
He had filled the gasoline tank
In the engine and was rinsing his
hands in the icy brook water when
lie heard a footstep on the bridge
and looked up to see Deborah ap
proaching. He stood up and dried
his hands on his handkerchief. She
came to stand a little above him on
the raised plank, looking down at
him. To his surprise, the strain of
yesterday had not set a greater
coldness toward him in her dark
eyes. She was smiling a little at
him now, her lips curving — and
Grandmother was not watching. He
stared at her.
“I followed you because I want
to talk to you, if you don’t mind,”
she said.
“Why, of course I don’t mind. Is
there something I can do?”
She hesitated. When he looked
up, the long lashes had dropped
and lay close to her cheek. “I’m
not a very nice person," she said
at last. “I apologized once before
for being so difficult, but I don’t
think I tried any harder not to be
difficult. I mean It, this time. You
were awfully thoughtful, last night,
when Grandmother was so queer
and afraid. You do love her, don’t
you? You’re quite honest about it?
You would do anything to spare her
pain?”
“Yes.”
She nodded. “I can see that. I
don’t think I quite believed it un
til yesterday afternoon, when you
came home again, und last night,
when you were so troubled. I’ve
been very selfish. I’ve been think
ing of myself all the time, and feel
ing trapped, and hating it. I have
not been half as thoughtful of
Grandmother as you have. I’ve de
manded things for myself more
than for her, thought about myself
first, and what . . . what my posi
tion was. You haven’t thought about
yourself once. You haven’t com
plained. And this isn’t your prob
lem, after all, and yet you’ve put
yourself into such a position that
If anything went wrong, you would
lose most. You signed the note for
Mr. llolworthy, and assumed all the
financial responsibility, and you’ve
given me your name. I didn’t quite
see It until Tubby came yesterday.
And he talked about your friends,
and then he went on and nearly
ruined everything, and suddenly I
saw how dreadfully unfair that
would be for you, and how horrid
I’ve been." She looked at him
gravely. "Will you forgive me?”
“You haven’t been horrid, Debor
ah. You’ve been . . .’’ Bryn began,
and caught himself In time. But
she did not notice. «
“Yes. I have. You don't know all
the things that have been going on
in my mind. I’m sorry." She put
her soft hand out. momentarily, and
patted his, lying on the railing.
Bryn did not move.
“Bryn.”
“Yes. D . . . Deborah.”
“Grandmother Is In a stranee
state of mind. I.a«t night I was
very worried. I went into her room
to tuck her up and kiss her good
night. She looked at me directly
and asked me If I were happy. She
hasn’t asked me before. Not in the
same way. I think she began to
suspect everybody, even me."
“Did you tell her you were
happy?”
"Yes. But . . . she’s going to
be watching very closely for proof.”
She stopped. The color began to rise
under tier white skin.
“What . . . what are we going to
do about it?” he asked, lost.
"Happy with you," Deborah ex
plained, as If he did not understand.
"Does site think I'm In love with
you?"
“Yes,” Deborah replied, and
flushed violently. “You're a much
better actor titan I am. I’m sure
site's beginning to suspect me.”
“When you go out the door,”
Bryn explained, “I stand and look
after you. And when 1 hear you
coming I go to meet you. And when
you’re talking I keep looking at
you, when you're away I talk to her
about you. 1 tell her how beautiful
you are, how much more beautiful
titan any girl I ever knew, with
those lovely eyes, and your lashes,
as long ns a dream, and your mouth,
and your little white chin, and the
way you blush . . . and your throat,
so soft and white, and the way you
move your shoulders, and the color
of your hair, and the way it curls."
He drew a deep breath.
“Oh, dear,” site sighed. “No won
der site thinks I’m not in love with
you. I haven’t told her once any
thing about you. I’ve hardly ntei.-.
tioned you."
“Well," Bryn said after a mo
ment, “I’ll tell you. When you're
in love, Deborah, you hate to be
away from your . , . from your
sweetheart for a second. Every
thing she does is perfect and lovely
and sweet. You want to lift her
in your arms and hold her tight
against you, so close that you can
hear her heart beating. You want
to hear her say that she’ll never
leave you again, no matter what
happens. And if It happened that
she didn’t love you,” Bryn went on
slowdy, “there’d be a sick empty
feeling where your heart ought to
be, and you’d wish you were a kid
again, so you could cry. But If she
did love you, and she knew you
weren’t sure about her, she’d put
her arms around you, and put her
cheek against yours, and maybe
even . . . kiss you.’’
Deborah was staring at him.
After a moment she said breathless
ly, “Is that the way you love
your . . . your own girl?"
“Yes, Deborah.’’
“I don’t know anything about that
way of loving," she said at last. “I
"I Don't Know Anything About
That Way of Loving.”
couldn’t pretend that to Grand
mother.”
“No,” Bryn said.
“It wasn’t so much what I ought
to say to Grandmother, anyway,"
she said. "I hadn’t really thought
of talking to her about you. It was
the way I ought to act. I was won
dering ..."
“Yes?”
“It’s really Gary’s Idea,” she said
hastily. “He came to me about It
this morning. He’s afraid Grand
mother might get to wondering
about us. You see, she thinks we
... we love each other the way
other people do when they’re mar
ried," she explained.
“I suspected as much," Bryn said
lightly. “Well, is there something
I can do about It?”
“I’m afraid she’s going to be
watching for a while, anyway. Un
til she’s satisfied. I was wondering
. . . it’s Gary’s Idea, you know.
There’s a little sewing room just at
the head of the stairs. There’s a
door into my sitting room. Grand
mother never goes In there; If you
don’t mind dreadfully, yon could
have It for your bedroom.”
"Why, no,” Bryn said calmly. ”1
wouldn't mind. I’d have to go out
and In through your sitting room,
though. Wouldn’t you dislike that?”
“What I was trying to tell you
when I first started to talk,” she
reminded him, “Is that It’s too late
for me to keep thinking what I like
and what I don’t.”
So it was settled.
CHAPTER VII
(ifF THIS Isn’t heaven,” Sally
A sighed, looking about her In
supreme content, “then don’t both
er to tell me I’m not dead. I don’t
want to be disturbed.”
She sat on the cool grass in the
wavering shadow of the tree against
whose smooth trunk Deborah was
leaning. The leaves overhead rus
tied softly In the faint noonday
breeze. They had congregated, all
six of them, on the highest corner
of the sloping lawn. The orchard
behind them, a smooth stretch of
sward unrolling down to the stone
walls below. ,
“Me, too,” Simon muttered. He lay
stretched out In the grass, his pipe
In his mouth, his head on Sally’s
knee.
uryn signed, tie sniiieu ins posi
tion nnd moved a few Inches closer
to Deborah. He turned on his stom
ach, propped himself on his elbows
and gazed up at her. A few days
ago, before these others had come,
and after she and Bryn bad decid
ed to be friends, she would have
smiled down at him a little. It was
fun to smile at Bryn, once one had
started. He always looked ns if tie
liked being smiled at. But now
Deborah pretended not to know that
he was looking at her, nnd regard
ed steadily the hills far away. Be
cause Madeline was here now, and
Madeline might not like it.
A mist came into her eyes, as
she thought of Madeline, and the
hills swam In a noondny fog. Boor
Madeline wasn’t happy, for all her
pretense of light-heartedness, Debo
rah told herself. How could she be
happy, seeing Bryn married, actu
ally married, to another girl. Bryn
was lovely. He acted exactly as If
they really were married, really
loved each other, and he didn’t try
to keep Madeline from seeing.
That night, ns usual, Deborah
went Into Grandmother’s room to
make sure that she was settled
comfortably, and to kiss her good
night. Grandmother wns sitting up
in her big bed, her silvery hair
brushed smooth nnd drawn back
Into a neat little braid.
“Deborah.”
"Yes, Grandmother?"
"Do you not like these friends of
Bryn’s, my darling?”
Deborah looked up in surprise.'
“Why, yes. Yes, of course. I think
they are lovely. Sally Is sweet. She
Is like a talking doll. And she Is
very kind.”
“And Madeline?"
“Nobody could help liking Made
line,” Deborah replied. “She’s
charming, Isn’t she. Grandmother?
I love to hear her talk. It’s so
slow and lazy. It’s because she
and Simon are from Texas, Sally
says. And Madeline Is beautiful.
Don’t you think she’s beautiful,
Grandmother?"
“Not as beautiful as you are, my
child."Grandmother answered fond
ly. “But she Is very attractive.”
She was silent again. Then, “If
you like them, Deborah, and find
them pleasant company, what is it
that lias been troubling you ever
since they arrived?”
“Troubling me?” Deborah an
swered, startled. “But ... I am
not troubled.”
“Oh, Deborah,” Grandmother said
reproachfully.
Deborah raised her eyes, and
there was a deep, happy smile in
them. '
“I am happy, Grandmother dar
ling,” she said.
“And you love Bryn? He loves
you, of that I am sure. But of your
love for him . . . sometimes I am
not so sure. You admire him? You
think him strong and thoughtful
and quick, and kind?”
“Yes, Grandmother.”
“You respect him? You are proud
of whatever he does?”
“Yes, Grandmother."
“And,” she put her hand out gent
ly and lifted Deborah’s chin. “Why,
you are blushing, child! Surely
that ought to be sufficient answer
to my next question, but I must
have your words, Deborah. For
give me. But you know your com
plete happiness means everything
to me. Deborah, tell me; when
you see him, and he smiles that
twinkling smile of his. don’t you
want to go to him, and caress his
cheek, as you are caressing mine,
and [nit your hand on his hair, and
toucli his shoulder? Isn’t that wiint
you’d like to do, Deborah?”
Deborah caught her breath. Her
eyes darkened. Her lips quivered
faintly. And then, “Yes, Grand
mother," she said.
“Of course,” Grandmother said
happily. “Well, then you love him.
You couldn’t help loving him. Go.
my child. Kiss me good night. I
shall rest, tonight. I am happy.”
Out in the hall, safely away from
the door, Deborah stood and put
both her hands over her face. Her
brain was whirling. There was n
dreadful lump In her throat, and
something ached In her breast.
A voice spoke to her. It was
Bryn. He was In the hall beside
her. He was whispering, so ns not
to disturb Grandmother.
“Deborah.” he was saying anx
iously. “Deborah, what has hap
pened ?”
Deborah did not answer. Instead,
she dropped her hands and stared
up through the shadows at his face.
He drew a quick breath, then put
his arms out and held her close to
him. His coat was rough under
her cheek.
“Deborah, sweetheart,” he said
brokenly, "what’s happened to you?
Why are you trembling?"
For only a second she lay there,
and then she lifted her head and
pulled herself away. "Don’t touch
me,” she said in a furious whisper.
“Oh, don’t you dare to touch rae!”
and she flew down the stairs.
• ••••••
Deborah sat on the couch before
the long balcony window in her
own sitting room. The afternoon
was very hot. Bryn and Tubby
and Simon had gone following the
brook, looking for a pool to swim In.
There was a knock at her door.
Sally’s voice floated plaintively
through the keyhole. "Deborah!
May we come in?"
Deborah said: "Yes, of course,
Sally. Please do. And she tight
ened her dressing gown around her
Sally, in floating black chiffon py
jamas and tiny black mules, came
through the door, followed by Made
line in dull green. “Were you
sleeping?" Sally inquired. "Curl
yourself up again, Deborah. Ev
erything about you Is like the Sleep
ing Beauty herself," Sally said.
Deborah looked at Sally. "I think
you're sweet, too, Sally," she said
shyly.
Sally flew up from her chair,
flung her arms around Deborah and
kissed her. “That was darling,"
she said. "Wasn’t that darling.
Madeline?"
Madeline sighed. “Yes," she
agreed. "But you don't need It.
You’ve got Simon. You don’t have
to suffer In silence and alone, ns
I do."
Sally began to laugh. "You don't
exactly go around languishing, you
know, Idiot," she said.
Madeline sighed. "Not outwardly,
perhaps. But Inwardly, L suffer."
"Piffle," Sally answered. She
turned to Deborah. "Does she look
us if she were suffering?"
“Not exactly,” Deborah said faintly.
"She isn’t, either. She knows
perfectly well It’s ull a question of
time. And, I must say, Madeline,
It looks much more hopeful lately
than it ever did. Doesn’t It?"
Deborah couldn’t stand It any
longer. "Does she mean she's . . .
In love . . . with somebody?" site
asked faintly.
“Tubby," Sally answered. "Can
you Imagine It?”
"Tubby?”
“Tubby. Isn't it ridiculous?”
“1 don’t see anything ridiculous
about It," Madeline objected. "He
may not be what one would call u
romantic figure, I admit. He Is u
number of pouuds overweight, but
he's very good-tempered. And his
hair won’t lie flat; but I always
liked orlgirality. And I like his
dimple and I'm crazy about his lisp.
I could listen to him forever, If only
he’d say a few of the right things.
Deborah, honestly now, don’t you
think Tubby's a dear?"
Deborah was still staring at her.
Now she gave a deep sigh and sank
back against the couch. “Yes," she
said. “Yes. I think he’s Just as
nice as he can be."
CHAPTER VIII
IT HAD been a happy afternoon,
the happiest afternoon, Deborah
decided, that she had ever known.
The four of them, Sally and Simon
and she and Bryn, had gone for a
walk In the pine woods up on the
bill. At first she had walked be
side Sally, but Sally had obviously
wanted to be with Simon, and Deb
orah had dropped back and walked
with Bryn, lie could see how It
was, that she wasn’t thrusting her
self upon him, that It was a matter
of necessity, and he didn’t seem to
mind. As a matter of fact, Debo
rah said to herself, sitting on the
veranda in the twilight, he had
seemed to enjoy himself. He had
climbed a steep overhanging little
cliff once when she had seen a bril
liant tiger-lily up In the shadow,
and had brought It down to her tri
umphantly. When he gave it to her
their hands had touched, and he
had stood for a moment looking
down at her with a queer expres
sion that made her heart turn over
when she remembered. She had
wanted to smile at him then, Debo
rah recalled, but something had
made her draw away hastily, and
as she moved, his expression had
changed again, and he had begun
to talk quickly.
Deborah could not take her eyes
from Bryn's. It seemed to her that
in his there was a question that
she had to answer. She gazed at
him, so strong and fine, sitting
there against the pillar. A kind of
tense look that was constantly In
Ids face during these last few days
began to relax. Then he put his
hand slowly and covered hers, ly
ing beside her on the chair.
"No, no,” she said In a whisper,
but she couldn’t draw her hand
away, and she didn’t know what It
was she meant.
(TO BE CONTINUED)
The Needlework Guild
The Needlework Guild of Ameri
ca was started In 1885 by a small
group of Philadelphia women who
made garments by hand for needy
families. The organization took Its
pattern from one introduced In
England in 188:2 by Lady Wolver
ton of Dorsetshire. All the cloth
ing distributed by the members
must be new.
Llandudno, “Atlantic City” of
Wales, Now Is Tourist Magnet
Has Become One of Most
Popular Sea Resorts
of Britain.
American tourists who visit the
British Isles this summer may be
drawn to Llandudno beach, which
has been called the "Atlantic City of
the British Isles."
On the sand hills of Llandudno
beach “Lewis Carroll," an Oxford
mathematician whose real name was
Dr. Charles L, Dodgson, once strolled
with the children of his host, Dean
Liddell. Recently a white marble
murker was erected at the famous
Welsh resort to commemorate these
walks, and the literary classic, "Alice
In Wonderland," they inspired.
“Although Llandudno mny still
sound quite foreign to most Ameri
cans, It Is one of the chief seaside
resorts of the British Isles," says the
National Geographic society. “Situ
! a ted on the north const of Wales.
facing the Irish sea. It may he easily
I reached by thousands of summer vis
itors from Liverpool, Manchester,
i and the English Midlands.
"The town Itself Is built around a
vast semicircle of tlrm. sandy bench,
with the ends of the crescent tipped
with two towering masses of rock,
the Great Orme’s head and the Lit
tle Ormp. Neither Nice, nor Deau
ville, nor Biarritz, nor Schevenlngen,
nor any of lhe much-vaunted middle
Europe bathing resorts on ttie shores
of Hungary’s Lake Balaton, has a
situation comparable to this magnifi
cent watering place.
"And the Welsh people have made
excellent use of the opportunities
which nature presented. A concrete
•boardwalk’ wider than New York's
Broadway follows tHe graceful curve
of the bench for more than a mile
and a half; countless bathhouses on
i wheels follow the tide hack and
i forth, being drawn up and down the
sands by horses; droves of donkeys
are provided for the children’s rides
when they tire of digging In the
sand; n pier Jutting out Into the hay
for half a mile is the scene of dally
concerts and dances, while along Its
full length are booths of fortune tell
ers, catch-penny venders, and other
allurements which nttract those who
delight In such diversions while on
holiday.
“But It is the lncornpnrahle Marine
drive, chiseled out of the solid rock
of Great Onne’s Head, winding be
tween sea and sky, midway along the
precipitous cliff, which brings dis
tinction to Llandudno over all other
resorts. No similar stretch of the
Corniche drive along the Riviera can
excel It in grandeur.
“There are many, many spots
which lure the visitor: Happy Val
ley, nestling in a hollow of the Great
Orme, presented to the town by Lord
Mostyn ns a memorial of the Queen
Victoria Jubilee; the ‘Church of Our
Snvlour, in whose grounds Lewis
Carroll used to romp with his youth
ful friend Alice, the daughter of
Dean Liddell, whose residence was
nearby; and St. Tudno's church, a
medieval structure occupying the site
of the cell of St. Tudno, a hermit of
the Seventh century who gave his
name to Llandudno (linn meaning
church).
Properly Placed
Wife—Who Is that?
Husband — Kr — hardly anybody,
dear,
Jutt Like Hare Soup
A scientist suys that eating lion
meat will cure timidity. The com
plete recipe probably begins, “First,
catch your lion.”
.
Relax *
WITH ,
WfttG lev’s!
Small Kindnesses
LET the weakest, let the hum
blest remember, that In his
dally course he can. If he will,
shed around him almost a heaven.
Kindly words, sympathizing at
tentions, watchfulness against
wounding men’s senslnveness—
these cost very little, but they
are priceless In their value. Are
they not almost the staple of our
daily happiness? From hour to
hour, from moment to moment,
we are supported, blest, by small
kindnesses.
The actions of faith and mercy
are surw to repay the merciful.—
Mngoon.
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Love Lifts
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Bitter Truth
•‘Yes,” said the small boy regret
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Aik Ut Another
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Class (in unison)—Past tense.
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