Nebraska Newspapers

    15 WHITE
&C GEORGE BARR McCUTCHEON
C nL LUSTRATIONS JcFAY WALTERS
coPYMG/yr. /?/+. \
OY DO00,P?£AD jKpBtL \ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
AffO COP1PAPY _
SYNOPSIS.
—8—
In the New York home of James Brood,
his son. Frederic, receives a wireless
from him. Frederic tells Lydia Des
mond. his fiancee, that the message an
nounces his father’s marriage, and orders
Mrs. Desmond, the housekeeper and
Lydia's mother, to prepare the house for
• in Immediate home-coming Brood and
his bride arrive. She wins Frederic's lik
ing at first meeting. Brood shows dislike
and veiled hostility to his son. Lydia and
Mrs. Brood met in the Jade-room, where
Lydia works as Brood's secretary. Mrs.
Brood is startled by the appearance of
Punjab. Brood's Hindu servant. She
makes changes in the household and gains
her husband’s consent to send Mrs. Des
mond and Lydia away. She fascinates
Frederic. She begins to fear Ranjab in
his uncanny appearances and disappear
ances. and Frederic, remembering his
father's East Indian stories and firm be
lief in magic, fears unknown evil. Ran
jab performs feats of magic for Dawes
and Riggs. Frederic's father. Jealous, un
justly orders his son from the dinner table
as drunk. Brood tells the story of Ran
jab’s life to his guests. "He killed a wom
an" who was unfaithful to him. Yvonne
blays with Frederic’s infatuation for her.
Her husband warns her that the thing
must not go on. She tells him that he
atlil loves his dead wife, whom he drove
from his home, through her. Yvonne.
Yvonne plays with Brood. Frederic and
Lydia as with figures on a chess board.
Brood, madly jealous, tells Lydia tluK
Frederic Is not his son. and that he has
brought him up to kill his happiness at
the proper time with this knowledge.
Frederic takes Lydia home through a
heavy storm and spends the night at her
mother's house.
CHAPTER XII—Continued.
“She was jealous. She admitted it,
dear. If I don't mind, why should you
Incur—”
“Do you really believe she—she
loves the governor enough to be as
jealous at all that?” he exclaimed, a
Curious gleam in his eyes—an expres
sion she did not like.
“Of course I think so.” she cried
emphatically. “What a question! Have
you any reason to suspect that she
does not love your father?”
“No—certainly not,” he said in some
confusion. Then, after a moment:
"Are you quite sure this headache of
yours is real, Lyddy? Isn't it an ex
cuse to stay away from—from Yvonne,
after what happened last night? Be
honest, dear.”
She was silent for a long time,
weighing her answer. Was it best
to be honest with him?
“1 confess that it has something to
do with it,” she admitted. Lydia could
not be anything but truthful.
“I thought so. It’s—it's a rotten
shame, Lyddy. That’s why I want to
talk to her. I want to reason with her.
It’s all so perfectly silly, this misun
derstanding. You’ve just got to go on
as you were before, Lyddy—just as if
It hadn’t happened. It—”
“I shall complete the work for your
father. Freddy,” she said quietly. “Two
or three days more will see the end.
After that, neither my services nor
my presence will be required over
there.”
“You don’t mean to say—” he began,
unbelievingly.
"I can think of them just as well
here as anywhere else. No; I sha’n’t
annoy Mrs. Brood, Freddy.” It was
on the tip of her tongue to say more,
but she thought better of it.
“They’re going abroad soon,” he
ventured. “At least, that's father’s
plan. Yvonne isn’t so keen about it.
She calls this being abroad, you know.
Besides,” he hurried on in his eager
ness to excuse Yvonne, "she's tremen
dously fond of you. No end of times
she’s said you were the finest—” Her
smile—an odd one, such as he had
never seen on her lips before—checked
his eager speech. He bridled. “Of
course, if you don’t choose to believe
me, there’s nothing more to be said.
Bhe meant it, however.”
i am sure sne said 11, i<ready, she
hastened to declare. “Will she be
pleased with our—our marriage?” It
required a great deal of courage on
her part to utter these words, but she
was determined to bring the true situ
ation home to hitn.
He did not even hesitate, and there
was conviction in his voice as he re
plied. "It doesn’t matter whether she’s
pleased or displeased. We're pleasing
ourselves, are we not? There’s no
one else to consider, dear.”
Her eyes were full upon his, and
there was wonder in them. "Thank
you—thank you, Freddy.” she cried.
“I—I knew you’d—” -The sentence
remained unfinished.
"Has there ever been a doubt in
your mind?” he asked, uneasily, after
a moment. He knew there had been
misgivings and he was ready, in his
self-abasement, to resent them if
given the slightest opening. Guilt
made him arrogant.
“No,” she answered simply.
The answer was not what he ex
pected. He flushed painfully.
“I—I thought perhaps you'd—you’d
got a notion in your head that—” He,
too, stopped for want of the right
words to express himself without com
mitting the egregious error of letting
her see that it had been in his
thoughts to accuse her of jealousy.
She waited for a moment. "That 1
\ might have got the notion in my head
you did not love me any longer? Is
that what you started to say?"
“Yes,” he confessed, averting his
eyes.
‘T've been unhappy at times, Freddy,
but that is all,” she said, steadily,
"You see, I know how honest you
really are. I know it far better than
you know it yourself.”
He stared. "I wonder just how hon
est I am,” he muttered. ”1 wonder
what would happen if— But nothing
can happen. Nothing ever will hap
pen. Thank you, old girl, for saying
what you said just now. It’s—it’s
bully of you.”
He got up and began pacing the
floor. She leaned back in her chair,
deliberately giving him time to
straighten out his thoughts for him
self. Wiser than she knew herself to
be, she held back the warm, loving
words of encouragement, of gratitude,
of belief.
But she was not prepared for the im
petuous appeal that followed. He
threw himself down beside her and
grasped her hands in his. His face
seemed suddenly old and haggard, his
eyes burned like coals of Are. Then, for
the first time, she had an inkling of
the great struggle that had been going
on inside of him for weeks and weeks.
“Listen, Lyddy,” he began, nervous
ly, "will you marry me tomorrow? Are
you willing to take the chance that
I’ll be able to support you, to earn
enough—”
"Why, Freddy!” she cried, half start
ing up from the couch. She was dum
founded.
win you: win you: l mean u,
he went on, almost arrogantly.
He was very much in earnest, but
alas, the fire, the passion of the im
portunate lover was missing. She
shrank back into the corner of the
couch, staring at him with puzzled
eyes. Comprehension was slow in ar
riving. As he hurried on with his
plea she began to see clearly; her
sound, level brain grasped the insig
nificance of this sudden decision on
his part.
"There's no use waiting, dear. I’ll
i never be more capable of earning a
living than I am right now. I can go
into the office with Brooks any day
j and I—I think I can make good. God
i knows I can try hard enough. Brooks
, says he’s got a place there for me in
the bond department. It won’t be
I much at first, but I can work into a
pretty good—what’s the matter? Don’t
you think I can do it? Have you no
| faith in me? Are you afraid to take
j a chance?”
She had smiled sadly—it seemed to
j him reprovingly. His cheek flushed.
“What has put all this into your
! head, Freddy, dear?” she asked
j shrewdly.
?lis eyes wavered. “I can't go on
living as I have been for the past few
j months. I’ve just got to end it, Lyddy.
; You don't understand—you can’t, and
“Will You Marry Me Tomorrow?”
there isn't any use in trying to explain
the—”
“I think I do understand, dear,” she
said, quietly, laying her hand on his.
"I understand so completely that there
isn't any use in your trying to explain.
But don’t you think you are a bit cow
ardly?”
“Cowardly?” he gasped, and then
the blood rushed to his face.
Is it quite fair to me—or to your
self?” He was silent. She waited for
a moment and then went on reso
lutely. "I know just what it is that
you are afraid of, Freddy. I shall
marry you, of course. I love you more
than anything else in all the world.
But are you quite fair in asking me
to marry you while you are still afraid,
dear?”
Before God, I love no one else but
you,” he cried, earnestly. “I know
what it is you are thinking and I—l
don t blame you. But I want you now—
good God, you don’t know how much
I need you now. 1 want to begin a
new life with you. I want to feel
that you are with me—just you—
strong and brave and enduring. I am
adrift. I need you.”
"If you insist, I will marry you to
morrow, but you cannot—you will not
ask it of me, will you?"
“But you know I love you," he cried.
“There isn’t any doubt in your mind,
Lyddy. There is no one else, I tell
you.”
“1 think I am just beginning to un
derstand men,” she remarked enig
matically.
He looked up sharply. "And to won
der why they call women the weaker
sex, eh?” %
“Yes,” she said so seriously that the
wry smile died on his lips. “I don’t
believe there are many women who
would ask a man to be sorry for them.
That’s really what all this amounts
to, isn’t it, Freddy?”
“By jove!” he exclaimed, wonder
ingly.
“You are a strong, self-willed, chiv
alrous man, and yet you think nothing
of asking a woman to protect you
against yourself. You are afraid to
stand alone. Wait. Five minutes—
yes. one minute before you asked it
of me, Freddy dear, you were floun
dering in the darkness, uncertain
which way to turn. You were afraid
of the things you could not see. You
looked for some place in which to hide.
The flash of light revealed a haven of
refuge. So you asked me to—to marry
you tomorrow.” All through this in
dictment she had held his hand
clasped tightly in both of hers. He
was looking at her with a frank ac
knowledgement growing in his eyes.
“Are you ashamed of me, Lyddy?”
he asked. It was confession.
“No,” she said, meeting his gaze
steadily. “I am a little disappointed,
that's all. It is you who are ashamed."
“I am.” said he, simply. “It wasn’t
fair.”
ivove win enaure. i am content to
wait,” she said, with a wistful smile.
"You will be my wife no matter
what happens? You won’t let this
make any difference?”
“You are not angry with me?”
"Angry? Why should I be angry
with you, Lyddy? For shaking some
sense into me? For seeing through
me with that wonderful, far-sighted
brain of yours? Why, I could go down
on my knees to you. I could—”
He clasped her In his arms and held
her close. "You dear, dear Lyddy!”
Neither spoke for many minutes. It
was she who broke the silence.
I “You must promise one thing. Fred
eric. For my sake, avoid a quarrel
with your father. I could not bear
that. You will promise, dear? You
must.”
His jaw was set. “I don't intend to
quarrel wijh him, but if I am to re
main in his house there has got to
be—”
“Promise me you will wait. He is
going away in a couple of weeks.
When he returns—later on—next
fall—”
“Oh, if it really distresses you,
Lyddy, I’ll—-’
"It does distress me. I want your
promise.”
“I'll do my part,” he said, resigned
ly. “And next fall will see us mar
ried. so—”
The telephone bell in the hall was
ringing. Frederic released Lydia’s
hand and sat up rather stiffly, as one
who suddenly suspects that he is be
ing spied upon. The significance of
1 the movement did not escape Lydia.
She laughed mirthlessly.
“I will see who it is,” she said, and
arose. Two red spots appeared in his
cheeks. Then it was that she realized
he had been waiting all along for the
bell to ring; he had been Expecting a
summons.
“If it’s for me, please say—er—say
I'll—” he began, somewhat disjoint
edly, but she interrupted him.
“Will you stay here for luncheon,
Frederic? And this afternoon we will
go to— Oh, is there a concert or a
recital—”
“Yes, I'll stay if you’ll let me.”
he said, wistfully. “We’ll find some
thing to do.”
She went to the telephone. He
heard the polite greetings, the polite
assurances that she had not taken
cold, two or three laughing rejoinders
to what must have been aihuslng com
ments on the storm and its efTect on
timid creatures, and then:
“Yes, Mrs. Brood, I will call him to
the ’phone.”
CHAPTER XIII.
Two Women.
Frederic had the feeling that he
slunk to the telephone. The girl
handed the receiver to him and he
met her confident, untroubled gaze for
a second. Instead of returning to the
sitting-room where she could have
heard everything that he said, she
went into her own room down the hall
and closed the door. He was not con
scious of any intention to temporize,
but it was significant that he did not
speak until the door closed behind
her. Afterwards he realized and was
ashamed.
Almost the first words that Yvonne
uttered were of a nature to puzzle
and irritate him, although they bore
directly upon his own previously
formed resolution. Her voice, husky
and low, seemed strangely plaintive
and lifeless tb him.
"Have you and Lydia made any
plans for the afternoon?” she inquired.
He made haste to declare their inten
tion to attend a concert. “I am glad
you are going to do that," she went on.
“You will stay for luncheon with
Lydia?”
“Yes. She’s trying to pick up that
thing of Feverelli’s—the one we heard
last night.” There was silence at the
other end of the wire. “Are you
there?”
"Yes.”
“I will be home for dinner, of course.
Y"ou—you don’t need me for anything,
do you?”
“No," she said. Then, with a low
laugh: "You may be excused for the
day, my son. Your father and I have
been discussing the trip abroad.”
"I thought you—you were opposed
to going.”
“I’ve changed my mind. As a mat
ter of fact, I’ve changed my heart.”
"You speak in riddles.”
She was silent for a long time.
‘ Frederic, I want you to do something
for me. Will you try to convince
Lydia that I meant no offense last
night when I—”
“She understands all that perfectly,
Yvonne.”
“No, she doesn't. A woman wouldn’t
understand.”
“In what way?”*
There was a pause. “No woman
likes to be regarded as a fool,” she
said at last, apparently after careful
reflection. “Oh, yes; there is some
l
MW '
"You and I?” He Asked, After a Mo
ment.
thing else. We are dining out this
evening.”
"You and I?” he asked after a mo
ment.
"Certainly not. Your father and I.
I was about to suggest that you dine
with Lydia—or better still, ask her
over here to share your dinner with
you.”
He was scowling. “W'here are you
going?"
"Going? Oh, dining. I see. Well,”
slowly, deliberately, "we thought it
would be great fun to dine alone at
Delmonico’s 'and see a play after
ward.”
“What play are you going to see?”
he cut in. She mentioned a Belasco
production. "Well, I hope you enjoy
it, Yvonne. By the way, how is the
governor today? In a good humor?”
There was no response. He waited
for a moment and then called out:
"Are you there?”
"Good-by,” came back over the wire.
He started as if she had given him a
slap in the face. Her voice was cold
and forbidding.
When Lydia rejoined him in the sit
ting-room he was standing at the win
dow, staring across the courtyard far
below.
Are you going?” she asked, steadily.
He turned toward her, conscious of
the telltale scowl that was passing
from his brow. It did not occur to
him to resent her abrupt, uncompro
mising question. As a matter of fact,
it seemed quite natural that she should
put the question in just that way,
flatly, incisively. He considered him
self, in a way, to be on trial.
"No, I’m not,” he replied. "You did
not expect me to forget, did you?” He
was uncomfortable under her honest,
inquiring gaze. A sullen anger against
himself took possession of him. He
despised himself for the feeling of
loneliness and homesickness that sud
denly came over him.
“I thought—” she began, and then
her brow cleared. “I have been look
ing up the recitals in the morning
paper. The same orchestra you heard
last night is to appear again today
at—”
we win go there, Lydia, he inter
rupted, and at once began to hum the
gay little air that had so completely
charmed him. "Try it again, Lyddy.
You’ll get it in no time."
After luncheon, like two happy chil
dren they rushed off to the concert,
and it was not until they were on their
way home at five o’clock that his en
thusiasm began to wane. She was
quick to detect the change. He be
came moody, preoccupied; his part of
the conversation was kept up with an
efTort that lacked all the spontaneity
of his earlier and more engaging
flights.
Lydia went far back in her calcula
tions and attributed his mood to the
promise she had exacted in regard to
his attitude toward his father. It oc
curred to her that he was smarting
under the restraint that his promise
involved. She realized now, rqore
than ever before, that there could be
no delay, no’ faltering on her part.
She would have to see James Brood
at once. She would have to go down
on her knees to him.
"I feel rather guilty, Freddy." she
said, as they approached the house.
“Mr. Brood will think it strange that
I should plead a headache and yet run
oft to a concert and enjoy myself when
he is so eager to finish the journal—
especially as he is to sail so soon.
I ought to see him, don’t you think
so? Perhaps there is something I
can do tonight that will make up for
the lost time.” She was plainly nerv
ous.
"He’d work you to death if he
thought it would serve his purpose.”
said Frederic, gloomily, and back of
that .sentence lay the thought that I
made it. absolutely imperative for her
to act without delay.
"I will go in for a few minutes,”
she said, at the foot of the steps. "Are
you not coming, too?”
He had stopped. “Not just now,
Lyddy. I think I’ll run up to Tom’s
flat and smoke a pipe with him.
Thanks, old girl, for the happy day
we’ve had. You don’t mind if I leave
you here?”
Her heart gave a great throb of
relief. It was best to have him out of
the way for the time being.
“Well—so long,” he said, diffidently.
"So long, Lyddy.”
"So long,” she repeated, dropping
Into his manner of speech without
thinking. There was a smothering
sensation in his breast.
He looked back as he strode off in
the direction from which they had
come. She was at the top of the steps,
her fingers on the electric button. He
wondered why her face was so white.
He had always thought of it as being
full of color, rich, soft and warm.
Inside the door, Lydia experienced
a strange sinking of the heart. “Is
Mr. Brood at—” she began, nervously.
A voice at the top of the stairway in
terrupted the question she was putting
to the footman.
"Is it you, Lydia? Come up to my
room.”
The girl looked up and saw Mrs.
Brood leaning over the banister rail.
She was holding her pink dressing
gown closely about her throat, as if
it had been hastily thrown about her
shoulders. One bare arm was visible—
completely so.
“I came to see Mr. Brood. Is he—”
“He is busy. Come up to my room,”
repeated Yvonne, somewhat imperi
ously
As Lydia mounted the stairs she
had a fair glimpse of the other’s face.
Always pallid—but of a healthy pal
lor—It was now almost ghastly. Per
haps Is was the light from the window
that caused it, Lydia was not sure,
but a queer, greenish hue overspread
the lovely, smiling face. The lips were
red, very red—redder than she had
ever seen them. The girl suddenly re
called the face she had once seen of
a woman who was addicted to the
drug habit.
Mrs. Brood met her at the top of
the stairs. She was but half-dressed.
Her lovely neck and shoulders were
now almost bare. Her hands were
extended toward the visitor; the
filmy lace gown hung loose and disre
garded about her slim figure.
“Come in, dear. Shall we have tea?
I have been so lonely. One cannot
read the books they print nowadays.
Such stupid things, ai—e?”
She threw an arm about the tall
girl and Lydia was surprised to find
that It was warm and full of a gentle
strength. She felt her flesh tingle
with the thrill of contact. Yes, it
must have been the light from the
window, for Yvonne's face was now
aglow with the iridescence that was
so peculiarly her own.
A door closed softly on the floor
above them. Mrs. Brood glanced over
her shoulder and upward. Her arm
tightened perceptibly about Lydia's
waist.
“It was Ran jab,” said the girl, and
instantly was filled with amazement.
She had not seen the Hindu, had not
even been thinking of him, and yet
she was impelled by some mysterious
intelligence to give utterance to a
statement in which there was convic
tion, not conjecture.
“Did you see him?" asked the other,
looking at her sharply.
“No,” admitted Lydia, still amazed.
“I don’t know why I said that.”
Mrs. Brood closed her boudoir door
behind them. For an instant she stood
staring at the knob as if expecting to
see it turn—
I know’, she said, “I know why
you said it. Because it was Ranjab.”
She shivered slightly. “I am afraid
of that man, Lydia. He seems to be
watching me all of the time. Day and
night his eyes seem to be upon me.”
“Why should he be watching you?”
asked Lydia, bluntly.
Yvonne did not notice the question.
“Even when I am asleep in my bed,
in the dead hour of night, he is look
ing at me. I can feel it, though asleep.
Oh, it is not a dream, for my dreams
are of something or someone else—
never of him. And yet he is there,
looking at me. It—it is uncanny.”
“An obsession,” remarked Lydia,
quietly. “He never struck me as es
pecially omnipresent.”
"Didn’t you feel him a moment
ago?” demanded Yvonne, irritably.
The other hesitated, reflecting. “I
suppose it must have been something
like that.” They were still facing the
door, standing close together. “Why
do you feel that he is watching you?”
“I don’t know. I just feel it, that’s
all. Day and night. He can read my
thoughts, Lydia, as he would read a
book. Isn’t—isn’t it disgusting?” Her
laugh was spiritless, obviously arti
ficial.
“I shouldn't object td his reading
my thoughts,” said Lydia.
"Ah, but you are Lydia. It’s differ
ent. I have thoughts sometimes, my
dear, that would not—but there! Let
U3 speak of more agreeable things.
Sit down here beside me. No tea?
A cigarette, then. No? Do you for
give me for what I said to you last
night?” she asked, sitting down beside
the girl on the chaise longue.
“It was so absurd, Mrs. Brood, that
I have scarcely given it a moment’s
thought. Of course I was hurt at the
time. It was so unjust to Mr. Brood.
It was—”
“It is like you to say that,” cried
Yvonne. “You are splendid, Lydia.
Will you believe me when I tell you
that I love you? That I love you very
dearly, very tenderly?”
Lydia looked at her in some doubt
and not without misgivings, "1 shoulo
like to believe it,” she said, noncoin
mittally.
"Ah, but you doubt it. I see. Well,
I do not blame you. I have given you
much pain, much distress. When 1
am far away you will be glad—you
will be happy. Is not that so?”
"But you are coming back," said
Lydia, with a frank smile, not meant
to be unfriendly.
Yvonne's face clouded. “Oh, yes, 1
shall come back. Why not? Is this
not my home?”
“You may call it your home, Mrs
Brood,” said Lydia, "but are you quite
sure your thoughts always abide here'
I mean in the United States, o)
course.”
Yvonne had looked up at her quick
ly. "Oh, I see. No, I shall never be
an American.” . Then she abruptly
changed the subject. "You have had a
nice day with Frederic? You have
been happy, both of you?”
“Yes—very happy, Mrs. Brood," said
the girl, simply.
“I am glad. You must always be
happy, you two. It is my greatest
wish.”
Lydia hesitated for a moment
"Frederic asked me to be his wife—
tomorrow,” she said, and her heart be
gan to thump queerly. She felt that
she was approaching a crisis of some
sort.
“Tomorrow?” fell from Yvonne’s
lips. The word was drawn out as il
in one long breath. Then, to Lydia’s
astonishment, an extraordinary change
came over the speaker. "Yes, yes, it
should be—it must be tomorrow. Pool
boy—poor, poor boy! You will marry
yes, and go away at once, ai—e?” Het
voice was almost shrill in its intensity
her eyes were wide and eager and—
anxious.
“I— Oh, Mrs. Brood, is it for the
best?” cried Lydia. “Is it the best
thing for Frederic to do? I—I feared
you might object. I am sure his fathei
will refuse permission—”
“But you love each other—that if
enough. Why ask the consent of any i
one? Yes, yes, it is for the best. I
know—oh, you cannot realize how well
I know. You must not hesitate.” The
woman was trembling in her eager
ness. Lydia’s astonishment gave way
to perplexity.
"What do you mean? Why are you
so serious—so intent on this—”
“Frederic has no money,” pursued
Yvonne, as if she had not heard
Lydia’s words. "But that must not
deter you. It must not stand in the
way. I shall find a way, yes, I shall
find a way. I—”
“Do you mean that you would pro
vide for him—for us?" exclaimed j
Lydia.
•'There is a way, there is a way,’
said the other, fixing her eyes appeal
ingly on the girl’s face, to which the
flush of anger was slowly mounting
"His father will not help him—il
that is what you are counting upon
Mrs. Brood," said the girl coldly.
“I know. He will not help him
no.”
Lydia started. “What do you know
about—what has Mr. Brood said to
you?” Her heart was cold with ap
: | >r i
“No. I Shall Never Be an American."
prehension. “Why are you going awaj
next week? What has happened?”
Brood’s wife was regarding hei
with narrowing eyes. ’’Oh, I see now
You think that my husband suspect!
that Frederic is too deeply interested
in his beautiful stepmother, is that
not so? Poof! It has nothing to dc
with it." Her eyes were sullen, ful
of resentment now. She was collect
ing herself.
The girl’s eyes expressed the disdain
that suddenly took the place of appre
hension in her thoughts. A sharp re
tort leaped to her lips, but she sup
pressed it.
“Mr. Brood does not like Frederic.’
she said instead, and could have cui
tfut her tongue the instant the word!
were uttered. Yvonnes eyes were glit
tering with a light that she had nevet
seen in them before. Afterwards she
described it to herself as baleful.
“So! He has spoken ill—evil—ol
his son to you?” she said, almost in a
monotone. "He has hated him foi
years—is not that so? I am not the
original cause, ai—e? It began long
ago—long, long ago?”
"Oh, I beg of you, Mrs. Brood—’
began Lydia, shrinking back in dis
may.
"You are free to speak your thoughts
to me. I shall not be offended. What
has he said to you about Frederic—
and me?”
(TO EE CONTINUED.)
EARLY RIVAL OF NEW YORK
Eastern Metropolis of the United
States Might Have Been in
Staten Island.
We are reminded that New York
came mighty near being on Staten Is
land by the announcement that the
famous Cubberly cottage, with all its
furnishings, has been donated to the
public by its owner. Dr. Nathaniel
Britton. The structure is one of the
flcest examples of the so-called
'‘colonial" architecture extant, and it
is in an excellent state of preserva
tion. It has been satisfactorily de
termined that it was built not later
than 1680, and most of its furnishings
antedate that year. It was in all
probability a finer rural residence at
the time of its completion than any
on Manhattan island. Now it stands
at the intersection of New Dorp lane
and Cedar Grove avenue. At the
time when the builders put on the lust
coat of paint and told the Cubber
lys to move in it was surrounded by
tributary acres constituting .a splen
did estate, and the Dutch arlstrocats
of New Amsterdam, across the upper
bay, followed ;he example of the orig
inal Cubberly promptly in establish
ing themselves upon the salubrious
and picturesque hills of Staten Island.
The Cubberly cottage was but the
pioneer among many. In fact, as his
torical records show, the new settle
ment on Staten island grew so rap
idly at that time that some people
thought It might outgrow New Am
sterdam. The Cubberly cottage came
into the possession of the Brittons in
the year 1695, when it was deeded to
Nathaniel Britton, an ancestor of the
owner who has given it to the public
as a historical relic. The cottage,
with all its contents, will be kept open
to the public under the charge of the
Staten Island association of Arts .and
Science.
%
Run Away From "Nerves."
No one can help feeling nervous at
times in this age of rush and racket,
but it is quite possible to put on the
1 brake, as it were, and not let the
nerves run away with us.
If people fret you, it is not neces
sary to be rude to them. Try. instead,
to avoid them.
Don't read books that irritate you
Books are plentiful, therefore put
away the offending volume and choose
another.
If a noise at night worries you. don’t
et it continue to do so. Get uj> and
see to the matter and put it right.
Don’t let yourself get into the habit
of being bored. It is not worth while.
When you feel it coming on plunge at
once into some task that will take all
your time and energy. It is better to
run away from certain things than to
let theip irritate you. Such martyr
dom is usually unnecessary and bad
for you all round.
Handed Him One.
Bill—Did you say the father of the
girl he wanted to marry handed him
one?
Jill—He certainly did. He gave the
daughter away at the altar, you know.
BELOW THIS STATE
APPROPRIATIONS FOR COLORADO
LESS THAN NEBRASKA.
GOVERNOR GATHERS FIGURES
i
Money Set Apart By Four Adjoining
States Shows Nebraska
Fared Well.
Lincoln--Governor Morehead, who
has been gathering a few figures on
the appropriations of the five states
adjoining Nebraska, deems the com
parison not wholly unfavorable.
So far as he has heard from four
out of the five states, and in but one
state, Colorado, has the total of ap
propriations been less than that of
Nebraska. The total Nebraska appro
priations, including those for schools,
was a little less than $8,000,000.
Appropriations in Missouri amount
ed to $11,112,000, exclusive of schools,
for which that state is to spend the
additional sum of $5,556,000. Iowa ap
propriated $12,750,000, Kansas $0,
530,044. The Colorado legislature ap
propriated $.'’,374,000, and the govern
or of that state cut this figure down
to $3,150,000. A per capita rating
might change the comparative stand
ing somewhat, however.
As yet South Dakota has not been
heard from by the governor.
Governor Must Select Men.
Creation of new offices by the last
legislature has set candidates for
them afire over the state, and as a
result Governor Morehead has tele
phone calls, letters and personal vis
its, which he must sandwich in be
tween attention to other business.
A new district judge must be nan
ed in the Ninth district, a public de
fender in Douglas county and a list
of candidates for supreme court com
missioner must be prepared from
which the high bench may make its
selections.
One provision of the bill sets out
that 100 cases now pending in the
state court shall be given to the com
mission for hearing. Another pro
vision allows the court to list cases
with it from time to time as it dis
poses of litigation.
There are to be three commission
ers. with a salary of $3,000 apiece.
The list of possible candidates is to
be prepared by Governor Morehead.
It is understood that one already fa
vored by the latter is former Attor
ney General G. G. Martin.
Nebraska Lassie Wins Honor.
According to an official announce
ment just made. Myrtle Mann, age
12, of Dawes county, won fourth place
last season in the national competi
tion of the Boys’ and Girls’ Gardening
club, conducted co-operatively by the
United States Department of AgrieuI
ture and the extension departments
of the different state colleges of ag
riculture. Myrtle’s reports, filed with
the state leader of boys’ and girls'
clubs, at the University Farm, show
ed that she made a net profit of $71.40
on a patch slightly larger than half
the size of the average city lot.
School Act Faulty.
The bill passed by the last legis
lature for state aid for consolidated
rural schools teaching home eco
nomics, agriculture, vocational and
industrial training is rendered defec
tive by a bit of legislative careless
ness, it has been discovered. The
measure. introduced • by Repre
sentative Elmerlund, fails to provide
for the appropriation in the title, al
though the body of the bill provides
for the appropriation out of the gen
eral fund. The appropriation must be
In the title.
" • j
Will Remember Billie Burke.
Blessed ever hereafter will be the
name and memory of Billie Burke the
actress, among the little crippled
children at the state orthopedic hos
pital at Lincoln. In addition to all
the attentions showered upon the
children during her stay in the city,
came, recently, to the institution
a beautiful, shiny-new phonograph,
of an expensive make, with a big as
Bortment of records. Moreover. Miss
Burke left a standing order with a
local music house for three new rec
ords each month.
Lincoln School Debaters Win.
Lincoln won In the Lincoln-Omaha
High school debate last week, and
also gained permanent possession of
the Amherst alumni cup, which had
been won by each school twice. The
subject of the debate was. “Govern
ment Ownership and Operation of
Railroads.” the Lincoln team taking
the affirmative. The debate was held
in the high school auditorium and a
targe crowd was in attendance.
Will Readvertise for Bridge.
At a conference between a North
Platte delegation and the State Board
of Irrigation, it was decided to read
vertise for bids for the state aid
bridge to be built across the Platte
river near North Platte. The contract
was originally awarded several weeks
ago to the Canton Bridge Co. of Can
ton, O., for a concrete bridge. The
company refused to sign unless the
attorney general should guarantee
protection on the concrete patents
This he refused to do.
New Motorcycle Numbers.
Secretary of State Pool has receiv
ed new numbers for motorcycles and
expects soon to receive number of au
tomobiles. The motorcycle numbers
run from 1 to 700. The owners of mo
torcycle numbers may retain their old
numbers, but if they do they will be
obliged to use a plate as large as
those used on automobiles and tt is
thought no one will care to do this.
The motorcycle numbers are half the
size of the plates, used on automo
biles. The holders of automobile num- f
bers have the right to their old ones