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About The Loup City northwestern. (Loup City, Neb.) 189?-1917 | View Entire Issue (June 5, 1913)
FRAN BY JOHN BflFCKENMDGE ELLIS Jlfl't ILLUSTRATIONS BY" f o • mwiN • myee>s watt A¥'W - ^(COPyfclGHT 1912 eOBBS-MEPf&LLCO.) SYNOPSIS. Fran arrivrs at Hamilton Gregory’s home in l-ittleburg. ifut finds him absent conducting the chote. at a camp meeting. She repairs thither in search of him. laughs during the service and is asked to leave. Abbott Ashton, super.ntendent of school*. escorts Fran from the teat. . CHAPTER III.—Continued. The young man was astonished. "Didn’t you see him in the tent, lead ing the choir?” “He has a house in town,” Fran said timidly. ”1 don't want to bother him while be is in his religion. I want to wait for him at his house. Oh,” she added earnestly, ‘‘if you would only show me the way.” Just as if she did not know the way! Abbott Ashton was now completely at her mercy. ‘‘So you know Brother Gregory, do you?” he asked, as he led her over the stiles and down the wagon-road. • “Never saw him in my life,” Fran replied casually. She knew how;., to say it prohibitively, but she purposely left the bars down, to find out if the young mas was what she hoped. And he was. He did not ask a question. They sought the grass grown path bordering the dusty road; ' as they ascended the hill that shut out a view of the village, to their ears came the sprightly Twentieth Century hymn. What change had come over Ashton that the song now seemed as strangely out of keeping as had the peacefulness of the April night, when he first left the tent? He felt the prick of remorsq .because in the midst of nature, he had so soon forgotten about souls. Fran caught the air and softly sang —"We reap what we sow—” “Don’t!” he reproved her. ‘‘Child, that means nothing to you.” “Yes, it does, too,” she returned, rather impudently. She continued to sing and hum until the last note was smothered in her little nose. Then he v.^oto: "However—it means a differ ent thing to me from what it means te the choir.” < He looked at her curiously, "How different?" he smiled. “To me, it means that we really do reap what we sow, and that if you've done something very wrong in the past—ugh! Better look out—trouble’s coming. That’s what the song means to me.” “And will you kindly tell me what it means to the choir?” “Yes, I tell you what it means to the choir. It means sitting on benches and singing, after a sermon; and it * means a tent, and a great evangelist and a celebrated soloist—and then go ing home to act as if it wasn’t so.” Abbott was not only astonished, but pained. Suddenly he had lost “No body’s little girl,” to be confronted by an elfish spirit of mischief. He asked with constraint. “Did this critical at titude make you laugh out, in the tent?” “I wouldn’t tell you why I laughed," Fran declared, “for a thousand dol lars. And I’ve seen more than that tu my day.” They walked on. He was silent, she impenetrable. At last she said, -in a changed voice, “My name’s Fran. What’s yours?” He laughed boyishly. "Mine’s Ab bott” His manner made her laugh sympa thetically. It was just the manner she liked best—gpy, frank, and a little mischievous. “Abbott?” she repeated; "well—is that all?” "Ashton is the balance; Abbott Ashton. And yours?” “The rest of mine is Nonpareil— funny name, isn’t it!—Fran Nonpa reil. It means Fran, the small type; or Fran who’s unlike everybody else; or—Oh, there are lots of meanings to me. Some find one, some another, some never understand.” . It was because Abbott Ashton was touched that he spoke lightly: "What a very young Nonpareil to ' be wandering about the world, all by yourself!” She was grateful for his raillery. “How young do you think?” “Let me see. Hum! You are only— about—’’ She laughed mirthfully at ills air of preposterous wisdom. “About thirteen—fourteen, yes, you are more than fl-i-ifteen, more than . . . But take off that enormous hat, little Nonpareil. There’s no use guess m WMI// ill v ing in the dark when the moon's shining.” Fran was gleeful. "AH right,” she cried in one of her childish tones, shrill, fresh, vibratory with the mu sic of innocence. By this 'time they had reached the foot-bridge that spanned the deep ra vine. Here the \fagon-road made its crossing of a tiny stream, by slipping under the foot-bridge, some fifteen feet below. On the left lay straggling Littleburg with its four or five hun dred houses, faintly twinkling, and be yond the meadows on the right, a fringe of woods started up as if it did not belong there, but had come to be seen, while above the woods swung the big moon with Fran on the foot bridge to shine for. Fran's hat dangled idly In her hand as she drew herself with backward movement upon the railing. The moon light was full upon her face; so was the young man's gaze. One of her feet found, after leisurely exploration, a down-slanting board upon the edge of which she pressed her heel for sup port. The other foot swayed to and fro above the flooring, while a little hand on either side of her gripped the top rail. "Here I am." she said, shaking back rebellious hair. Abbott Ashton studied her with grave deliberation—it is doubtful If he had ever before so thoroughly en joyed his duties as usher. He pro nounced judicially, “You are older than you look.” “Yes,” Fran explained, “my expe rience accounts for that. I’ve had lots.” Abbott’s lingering here beneath the moon when he should have been hur rying back to- the tent, showed how unequally the good things of life—ex perience, for instance—are divided "You are sixteen,” he hazarded, con scious of a strange exhilaration. Fran dodged the issue behind a 3mile—“And I don't think you are so awfully old.” f Abbott W'as brought to himself with a jolt that threw him hard upon self consciousness. “I am superintendent of the public school.” The very sound -» 9' t >_ ^ “Goodness!" Cried Fran, "Does It Hurt That Bad?" of the words rang as a warning, and he became preternaturally solemn. “Goodness!” cried Fran, consider ing his grave mouth and thoughful eyes, “does It hurt that bad?” Abbott smiled. All the same, the position of superintendent must not be bartered away for the transitory pleasures of a boot-bridge. “We had better hurry. If you please,” he said gravely. “I am so afraid of you,” murmured Fran. “But I know the meeting wifi last a long time yet. I'd hate to have to wait long at Mr. Gregory's with that disagreeable lady who Isn't Mrs. Gregory.” Abbott was startled. Why did she thus designate Mr. Gregory’s secre tary? He looked keenly at Fran, but she only said plaintively: “Can't we stay here?” He was disturbed and perplexed. It was as if a fitting shadow from some unformed cloud of thought-mist had fallen upon the every-day world out of his subconsciousness. Why did this stranger speak ot' Miss Grace Noir as the “lady who isn't Mrs. Gregory?” The young man at times had caught himself thinking of her in just that way. School superintendents do not enjoy being mystified. "Really.” Abbott de clared abruptly, “I must go back to the meeting." Fran had heard enough about his leaving her. She decided to stop that once and for all. “If you go back, I go,*too!” she said conclusively. She gave him a look to show that she meant it, then became all humility. “Please don’t be cross with little Nonpareil,” she coaxed. “Please don’t want to go back to that meeting. Please don't want to leave me. You are so learned and old and so strong— you don’t care why a little girl laughs.” Fran tilted her head sidewise, and the glance of her eyes proved irresist ible. “But tell me about Mr. Greg ory,” she pleaded, “and don’t mind my ways. Ever since mother died I’ve found nothing in this world but love that was for somebody else, and trouble that w^s for me." The pathetic cadence of the slender throdted tones moved Abbott more than he cared to show. "If you’re in trouble," he exclaimed, “you’ve sought the right helper in Mr. Gregory. He’s the richest man in the county, yet lives so simply, so fru gally—they keep few servants—and all because he wants to do good with his money. I think Mr. Gregory is one of the best men that ever lived.” Fran asked with simplicity, “Great church worker?” “He’s as good as he Is rich. He never misses a service. I can’t give the time to it that he does—to the church. I mean; I have the ambition to hold, one day. a chair at Yale or Harvard—that means to teach in a university—” tie broke off, in explana tion. “You see,” with a deprecatory smile, “I want to make myself felt in the world.” Fran’s eyes shone with an unspoken "Hurrah!” and as he met her gaze, he felt a thrill of pleasure from the im pression that he was what she want ed him to be. Fran allowed his soul to bathe a while*in divine eye-beams of flattering approval, then gave him a littlte sting to bring him to life. “You are pretty old. not to be married," she remarked. “I hope you won’t find some woman to put an end to your high Intentions, but men generally do. Men fall in love, and when they finally pull them selves out, they’ve lost sight of the shore they were headed for.” A slight color stole to Abbott’s face. In fact, he was rather hard hit. This wandering child was no doubt a witch. He looked in the direction of the tent, as if to escape the weaving of her magic. But he only said, “That sounds —er—practical.” “Yes,” said Fran, wondering who “the woman” was, “if you can’t be practical, there’s no use to be. Well. I can see you now, at the head of some university—you’ll make it, be cause you’re so much like me. Why, when they first began teaching me to feed— Good gracious! What am I talking about?" She hurried on, as if to cover her confusion. “But I haven’t got as far in books as you have, so I’m not religious.” “Books aren’t religion,” he remon strated, then added with unnecessary gentleness, “Little Nonpareil! What an idea!” “Yes. books are," retorted Fran, shaking back her hair, swinging her foot, and twisting her body impatient ly. “That’s the only kind of religion I know anything about—Just books, just doctrines; what you ought to be lieve and how you ought to act—all nicely printed and bound between cov ers. Did you ever meet any religion outside of a boo"k, moving up and down, going about in the open?" He answered in perfect confidence, “Mr. Gregory lives his religion daily— the kind that helps people, that makes the unfortunate happy.” Fran was not hopeful. “Well, I’ve come all the way from New York to see him. I hope he can make me [ happy. I’m certainly unfortunate | enough. I’ve got $11 the elements he needs to work on.” "From New York!” He considered the delicate form, the youthful face, and whistled. ‘‘Will you please tell me where your home is, Nonpareil?” She waved her arm inclusively. ‘‘America. 1 wish it were concentrat ed in tome spot, hut it’,s just spread out thin under the Stars and Stripes. My country’s about all I have.” She broke off with a catch in her voice— she tried to laugh, but it was no use. Suddenly it came to Abbott Ashton that he understood the language of moon, watching woods, meadow-lands, even the gathering rain-clouds; all spoke of the universal brotherhood of man with nature; a brotherhood in cluding the most ambitious superin tendent of schools and a homeless Nonpareil; a brotherhood to be con firmed by the clasping of sincere hands. There was danger in such a confirmation, for it carried Abbott be yond the limits that mark a superin tendent's confines. As he stood on the bridge, holding Fran's hand in a warm and sympa thetic pressure, he was not unlike one on picket-service who slips over the trenches to hold friendly parley with the enemy. Abbott did not know there was any danger in this brotherly handclasp; but that was because be could not see a fleshy and elderly lady slowly coming down the hill. As su perintendent, he should doubtless have considered his responsibilities to the public; he did consider them when the lady, breathless and severe, ap proached the bridge, while every pound of her ample form cast its weight upon the seal of her disapprov ing, low-voiced and significant, “Good evening, Professor Ashton.” Fran whistled. The lady heard, but she swept on without once glancing back. There was in her none of that saline ten dency that made of Lot a widower; the lady desired to see no more. Fran opened her eyes at Abbott to their widest extent, as she demurely “Good Evening, Professor Ashton.” asked, "How cold la it? My ther mometer is frozen." The young man did not betray un easiness, though he was really alarmed, for his knowledge of the fleshy lady enabled him to foresee gathering clouds more sinister than those overhead. The obvious thing to be done was to release the slender hand; he did so rather hastily. “Have I got you into trouble?" Fran asked, with her elflsh laugh. "If so, we’ll be neighbors, for that's where I live. Who was she?" “Miss Sapphire Clinton,” he an swered as, by a common impulse, they began walking toward Hamilton Greg ory’s house. “Bob Clinton’s sister, and my landlady." The more Abbott thought of his adventure, the darker It grew; before they reached their des tination it had become a deep gray. “Do you mean the 'Brother Clinton’ that couldn’t get ‘through’?” “Yes . . . He’s the chairman of the School Board." 1 "Ah!” murmured Fran comprehend lngly. At Gregory's gate, she said, "Now you run back to the tent and I'll beard (he lion by myself. I know l it has sharp teeth, but 1 guess it won’t bite me. Do you try to get back to the tent before the meeting’s over. Show yourself there. Parade up and down the aisles.” He laughed heartily, all the sorrier for her because he found himself in .rouble. "It was fun whild It lasted, wasn’t it!” Fran exclaimed, with a sudden gurgle. “Part of it was,” he admitted “Good-by, then, little Nonpareil.” He held out his hand. "No, sir!” cried Fran, clasping hei hands behind her. “That’s what got you into trouble. Good-by. Run for it!” • CHAPTER IV. The Woman Who Was Not Mrs. Greg ory. Hardly had Abbott Ashton disap peared down the village vista of moon light and shadow-patches, before Fran’s mood changed. Instead of seeking to carry out her threat of bearding the lion in the den, she sank down on the porch-steps, gathered her knees in her arms, and stared straight before her. Though of skillful resources, of im pregnable resolution, Fran could be despondent tp the bluest degree; and though competent at the clash, she often found herself purpling on the eve of the crisis. The moment had come to test her fighting qualities, yet she drooped despondently. Hamilton Gregory was coming through the gate. As he halted in sur prise, a black shadow rose tslowly, wearily. He, little dreaming that he was confronted by a shadow from the past, saw in her only the girl who had been publicly expelled from the tent. * The choir-leader had expected his home-coming to be crowned by a vision very different. He came up the walk slowly, not knowing what to say. She waited, outwardly calm, in wardly gathering power. White-hot action from Fran, when the iron was to be welded. Out of the deepening shadows her will leaped keen as a blade. She addressed him, “Good evening, Mr. Gregory.” He halted. When he spoke, his tone expressed not only a general disap proval of all girls who wander away from their homes in the night, but an especial repugnance to one who could laugh during religious services. "Do you want to speak to me. child?” "Yes.” The word was almost a whisper. The sound of his voice had weakened her. "What do you want?” He stepped up on the porch. The moon had van ished behind the rising masses of storm-clouds, not to appear again, but the light through the glass door re vealed his poetic features. Flashes of lightning as yet faint but rapid in re currence, showed bis beauty as that of a young man. Fran remained si lent, moved more than she could have thought possible. He stared intently, but under that preposterous hat she was practically invisible, save as a black shadow. He added again, with growing impatience, "What do you want?” His unfriendliness gave her the spur she needed. “I want a home,” she said decidedly. Hamilton Gregory was seriously dis turbed. However evil-disposed, the waif should not be left to wander aim lessly about the streets. Of the three hotels in Dittleburg, the cheapest was not overly particular. He would take her there. "Do you mean to tell me,” he temporized, "that you are abso lutely alone?” Fran’s tone was a little hard, not because she felt bitter, ‘but lest she betray too great feeling, “Absolutely alone in the world.” (TO BE CONTINUED.) To Be Rigidly Exact. Regstaff—I hear you are doing some writing for one of the popular maga zines. Percollum—That’s slightly exag gerated; I haven’t bean able to get my stuff into any but the—er—unpopular ones yet. HOLD RECORD FOR FASTING Two Eccentric Englishmen Who Prac ticed Self-Denial Through Many Years of Their Lives. The most persistent faster of all lime was probably Roger Crabb. who lived In the time of the common wealth. In order to carry out bis Ideas most effectually he sold off his stock in trade, distributed the proceeds among the poor and took up his residence in a hut near Ickenham, where he lived on three farthings a week. “Instead of strong drinks and wines," says the eccentric Roger, “I give the old man a cup of water and Instead of roast mutton and rabbit I give him broth thickened with bran and pudding made with bran and turnip leaves chopped together." Vigorous health was the result, says Ithe London Chronicle, but his absten tion from food was regarded with oscb suspicion that on one occasion ibe narrowly escaped being burned alive aa a wizard. Another famous hermit who man aged to reduce diet to very simple proportions was James Lucas, with whom many of us are doubtless familiar a6 Mr. Mopes in Charles Dickens’ “Tom Tiddler's Ground” Lucas lived mainly upon bread and penny buns, though to these were added at times eggs and herrings and gin. A basket slung from the roof out of reach of the rats served him as a larder, and he abjured washing, all furniture and clothes, wrapping him self in an old blanket. A generosity with gin made him the friend of all the tramps in the king dom and eventually he had to employ two armed watchmen to protect him from their attentions. A hermit with a bodyguard is something of a parar dox. t Actor’s Triumph. In 1845 the Boulevard du Temple was the heart of the theatrical ^vorld of Paris. In the ten theaters that lined that comparatively short thor oughfare so much blood was shed on the stage every evening pt the popular plays that It was, known as the Boule vard du Crime. The audience became so passionate ly devoted to some of the characters interpreted for their pleasure that they sometimes showed quite fierce hostility to the actors who had to take parts inimical to them. One night, for instance, Briand, who had repre sented Hudson Lowe in a scene on the island of Saint Helena when Napoleon was imprisoned there, was seized by some roughs as he left the theater and flung into the basin of the Chateau d’Eau. This quite delighted him, and he gloated over it as a triumph when he was telling the tragi comic incident the next day.—From the Bookman. Where He 8hone. < The prisoner was charged with lar ceny and a lawyer of dubious reputa tion was defending him. "I submit,,gentlemen of the Jury.” shouted the lawyer, “that the facts dis closed do not constitute larceny, al though I will concede that the district attorney is usually a better judge of stealing than am I!” “But a less successful practitioner,” was the disconcerting reply.—Judge. , 'v , APRIL FOOL JOKE, ALL RIGHT Grocer, Hi* Wife, and Unknown a “Sucker” All Mixed Up in Pecu liar Little Comedy. “Oh, co, there won’t be any divorce," said the grocer. “Wife and I won’t speak to each other for the next three months, and then we’ll begin to get friendly again. You see, I had changed small bills for a fifty, and when I went home that night wife wanted a new dress. I told her I couldn’t afford it, as I had had a bad fifty passed on me, and when she doubted I showed her the bill. She took my word for it and said she'd wait” “That was good for her,” said the listener. “So it was, but you wait a minute. I shoved the bill into my vest pocket and thought no more of it ’till next morning—April Fool morning. The bill was gone and I humped for the bouse like a cyclone. Had shg seen it? She had. She had found it on the bedroom floor. Thank heaven.” “That was lucky.” “And then she told me that being It was a counterfeit, and being as it was April Fool’s day, she had taken it out to the sidewalk and then watched a man picking it up. She was laughing at his feelings when he hound himself stung.” ‘‘And you told- her she had flung away fifty gold dollars?" “Yes, and that her mother must go, and the hired girl must go, and we’d have to make a pound a butter do us for a week, and a hundred other things. I jumped up and down. I swore. I smashed things.” “And then?” “Oh, she just called me a fool and let It go at that, and I guess she’s right.”—Exchange. Coffins Many Centuries Old. Two tiny coffins have recently been found in the monastic burial ground of Peterborough, Northampton, Eng land, and have been placed in Peter borough cathedral. They are said to be the coffins of the twin children of King Canute, who were drowned In Whittlesey Mere as they were cross ing to be educated at Peterborough abbey. ■> ... . .. Suggestion for Draped Gown ^ That Has Won Admiration A gown of black charmeuse trimmed with lace. The skirt reveals a rich panel of the same material, accordeon pleated. GOOD USE FOR OLD GOWN Complete Transformation May Be Made in the Fashioning of the One-Piece Frock. It is rather astounding what a fash ionable air can be given to a one piece frock that has served during the winter as a house gown, by adding to ■ it a belted jacket of figged silk mate lasse or crepon. Also, it turns the ' gown into a serviceable thing for out- ' door wear through the spring and summer and saves one the necessity of getting a suit. A dark blue crepe de chine trimmed with satin cloth which had served its purpose since December as a smart house frock was converted by one j woman into a spring suit for the . street and for afternoon wear by the j addition of a dark blue watered pop- ; lin jacket which had a pronounced wave in it. This was lined with a figured silk in blue and yellow and belted in with a loose girdle of crepe de chine run through a jet buckle in front. The revers were of crepe de chine and the long sleeves had a two inch turnover cuff of the same. The economy of getting this garment was \ furthered by having a separate skirt ; made of plain material, which could be worn at odd hours with a white shirtwaist. Whatever else you forget in plan ning your spring and summer ward- < robe remember that the shprt dressy coat is probably the conspicuous gar ment of the moment. BEAUTIFUL NEW MODEL »tn-nrar: * A new model of blue crepon trim med with whAte m&llne and lace col lar. I OLD POKE BONNETS REVIVED Made Into Things of Beauty by the Clever Hands of the Up-to Date Milliner. Here and there one sees an alluring poke bonnet brought to life by the mil liner who is clever enough to know that the old fashions are being re vived. and if womeh wish to look like old prints they must have hats and mantles to go with the gowns. The revival of the poke bonnet has met with approval because in its mod ern shape it is exceedingly becoming and does not clash with the ideas of present millinery. It is not a scoop: it merely has a rounded brim in front to shade the ej*es, and is turned up with a flap in the back. There is a chin band of black velvet or colored satin ribbon and a bunch of flowers over one ear. The milliners make these old-time flowered mantles to go with the hat, and the same color scheme is sup posed to be carried out in the two. If a woman is going to attempt trim mind such a hat and making such a wrap at home, it is wise for her to A remember this. M Picturesque Note. Even in the matter of tailor-made gowns a certain picturesque note as serts itself this season, the severity of the coats, for example, being very frequently softened by the introduc tion of frilled jabots of net and lace, emphasizing the Directoire style in which the collars and revers arc cut. The coats themselves, too. show a very becoming fullness, both back and front, above the curved lines of stitched strappings with 'which so many of the basques are finished. The fabrics which are employed for some of these tailor-made gowns are in themselves exceedingly picturesque and far more decorative than the smooth cloths and fine serges which have been used hitherto for gowns of this description. New Veil. It Is accordion plaited, and has a number of practical points. It Is easy of adjustment, as it clings to the edge of the hat, and It can be conveniently rolled up and carried about In a hand bag without becoming mussed. The material may be either net or chiffon, but soft chiffon is the most satisfac- —1M tory. You may have the plaits run any direction that you choose. The selvage forms the top and bottom fin-' ish. and hems are necessary only in the back. A plait three-eighths of an inch deep Is a good size. Consult a plaiter as to the amount of material required for a certain shape and size. The finishing of the edges must be done before the plaiting is put in. Change Purse Bracelets. Change purse bracelets are among the new pieces of jewelry. The purse, shaped like a tiny circular powder puff box, has a closely fitted spring operated Hd which files back at a touch and reveals a space for nickels and dimes. It is attached to a self closing extension bracelet so narrow that It scarcely shows upon the wrist, and the purse itself is so flat that it readily slips out of sight under the glove’s wrist. Panel Sash. Worth Is using a sash which may otherwise be described as a panel it is so important. It la shirred with a heading at the high waistline, and hung in straight loose folds from \ there to the bottom of the skirt ea- \ tirely concealing the flat, scant ’line \ of the back caused by the placing of all the draperies and fullness In front.
