(Continu'd from Tettmlu.) „ , SYNOPSIS. Neale Crittenden, typlenl American young man, has grown up In I nUmtown. a village near New York city, has hern KnMluated from Colunililn university and as taken a position with a lumber firm. At college he fell In lore with Martha Wentw'orth. who declined his nropnsnl to . wed. Martha Is spending a year in - purnw: opinion to have his neces-, sary share of esteem and self-respect. And there aro so many kinds of folks Say “Bayer” ar.d Insist! 1 I' ^ Unless you see the name "Bayer” on package or on tablets you are not" getting the genuine Bayer product prescribed by physicians over twenty two years and proved safe by millions for Cold* Toothache Earache Neuralgia Headache Lumbago Rheumatism Pain, Pain rf Accept “Bayer Tablets of Aspirin" oniv each unbroken pMkJMT# con tain* proper directions. Handy boxes of twelve tablets cost few cents. Drug gists also sell bottles of 24 and 100. Aspirin Is the trade mark of Bayer Manufacture / of MoMoaceticacide*tes v ter of Salicylicacid besides fighters and saints! Century after century they died without hav ing lived, and we re walking around over their dust this minute. And yet even the fighters and the saints need ed bridges! And here we are in the twentieth century. Jumping the life out of anybody who isn’t Interested in building bridges, and hooting at him if he feels the impulse to try to be a saint. It's enough to make you tear your hnir out by handfuls, isn't it?" Another day Marise launched him off on the samfe theme by asking him skeptically: “Well, suppose you could have your own way abouL things, what would you do to help people find their own right group and work and climate and surroundings? I don’t see how there is the faintest possibil ity of helping them,” “I’d start in," said Neale, “by sug gesting to them, all through their youth, in every way possible, the idea that folks could and should move free ly from the life they're born to to another one that suits their natures. They have to do it while they’re young and footfree, don't they? I wouldn't start in by hammering them over the head with the idea that there are only one or two classes that any body wants to belong to. I'd jump with all my weight on that idiotic notion that one class is better than another, as if any class was any good at all for you, if it's not the one you belong to naturally! I'd grease the ways to get from one to another, in stead of building fences, especially if the change would mean making less money. Just think of all the natural born carpenters and mechanics that fall by chance into professors’ fam ilies or milloinaires' homes. They never get any chance in life. Just look at the hullaballo that was made about poor old Tolstoi's wanting the simplicity of a workingman's life. Just look >at the fiendishly Ingenious obstacles that are put in the way of any workingman's son who wants the culture and fineness and harmonious living that got so on Tolstoi's nerves. And look, even Tolstoi was Just as bad as the rest. Because he happen ed to want simplicity and a hardy open life, didn't he start on the war path to drive everybody else to it. Good Lord, why try to hold up one ideal os the only one for millions of men, who have a million various ca pacities and Ideals and tastes? They'd enrich the world like a garden, with their lives, if public opinion only al lowed them to be lived.” "Do you know Rabelais,” asked Marise, "and his motto, 'Fay ce que vouldras?’ Everybody in his day thought it fearfully immoral.” "Oh, I suppose that every wise man since the beginning of the world has found it out in his way before now. But they're not allowed to tell the rest of us plain folks so we under stand. Or maybe you don't under stand anything till you find It out for yourself. I don't believe I do. Do you?” "I’m sure,” said Marise with a quiet bitterness in her tone that burned like a drop of acid in Neale’s mind, "I’m sure that I personally haven’t found out anything, nor do I understand anything whatever. Nor, till this minute did anybody ever sug gest to me that there was really something worth while to And out. Nobody — nobody but you—ever dreamed of asking me to go on a quest to understand. That's why I —go on, go on with it. Why do you stop?” But that da,y Neale had been too much startled by the glimpse of a somber discontent under her keen bright intelligence, and too much moved by her speaking of his bring ing something different into her life to "go on.” He tried desperately to think of some way to ask her about it, to offer to help her, to implore her to open her heart as he was opening his. But he was striken with shyness, with a fear lest* he had misunderstood, lest he say the wrong thing. He could only look at her hopelessly. What a clumsy, heavy-handed china-smasher he was, anyhow! #But such glimpses of what lay be neath the surface did not come often, though he thought about them a great deal. He wondered If there was any connection J between them and her evident habit of not talking seriously, of bantering keenly about superficial things, rather than giving any idea of what she was really thinking. Perhaps she did not trust people enough to give them any idea of what she was really thinking. Perhaps she fell into that grim mood when she thought seriously. Why should she? And yet she was always making him talk seriously, about ideas he really cared about. Once he said to her clumsily, “I must bore you to death, with all these half-baked ideas of mine, when you’re used to such brilliant talkers.” She startled him with the energy and vivacity of her answer, "Oh, I hate what you call brilliant talkers. I'm so sick of them! You can't imagine what it is to me, like a long drink of clear water, to hear some body trying to say what he really thinks.” He asked, sincerely and naively at a loss, "Why, why does anybody talk at all, if not to say what he thinks?" She answered, with a 'certain smile of hers -which always made him un easy, a dry, ugly smile, “Don't you realize that the real purpose of talk is to pull the wool over the eyes of the person you are talking to, to mnke him think you are more clever than you are, and to get something out of him for yourself that he would not let you have tf he knew you were taking it?” Then with one of her lightning changes to that melting look and smile before which he always suc cumbed wholly, she went on, "The truth is that I hope all the time that in your thinking over and over there may be a hint for me, wrho was never taught to do the least Hit of thinking for myself. So go on, let me Hee it all, jhst as it comes. I,et me pick out for myself what will be of use to me.” Well, if she wanted that, she should have it—or anything else lie could give her. It was part of the reeling, glamorous Intoxication into which she cast him, to hear himself going on like a stump speaker. And she was adroit at hitting on sub jects that made him talk. One day as they were afnusing each other by describing their school life, his as different from hers as if they had been brought up on different planets, football was mentioned. In no time she had him helplessly loquacious, explaining football to her. Think of having to explain football to any body! He explained how you played it, and some of the rules, and how terribly you cared about It. And suddenly found that he had explained it to himself, that he really under stood it for the first time. "It's a kind of education that America has worked out for herself unconsciously, I believe, the Amer ican college idea of sports. No Amer ican undergraduate dreams of play ing to amuse himself. He’d scorn to. He plays to win. That's the American idea. And it's a splendid one. To give every ounce in you to do what you set out to do—no lackadaisical dilettantism — your whole heart in it—and go to it! That's the way for men to live.” Often, after she had left him, he pelted off Into the Campagna, walk ing for miles ‘‘like a madman,” said the leisurely Italian countrymen, slowly stepping about their work. Neale felt himself rather ihad, as though the steady foundations of his life had been rent and shattered, as -by a blast of dynamite. Dynamite? What was it some body had said to him once, about dynamite? He tried to think, but could not remember. Perhaps it was something he had read In a book. Once, after such a headlong tramp, he came in and wrote a long letter to his mother, telling her all about Marine; a strange thing for him to do, he thought, as he dropped the letter in the box. Hut everything he did now seemed strange to him. Strange and yet irresistibly natural. {Continued In The Morning lire.) A bed will never stay neat If the sheets are too short. Adele Garrison “My Husband’s Love” What Is It That Katherine Fears for Madge? Mother Graham turned herself In my arms and answered Katherine with a docility and meekness so sur prising that I cast a furtive glance at her to see if the fright over Jun ior’s attack of croup had not tem porarily affected her brain. “Thank you, Mrs. Beckett,” she said. "That is very good of you to say that, and it comforts me. And I' will do what you wish. I think we all need a cup of coffee.” She walked heavily to the bed and lay down upon It, her face, however, turned watchfully toward Junior's crib. Katherine and I hurried out side. and when we were securely out of earshot in the dining room, looked in amazement at each other. “She didn't even insist upon mak ing the coffee,” I said at last. “She's pretty nearly all In,” Kath erine commented. “And although I thought it wise to relieve her mind by telling her the truth, that the croup attack might have come any way, I wouldn't emphasize her com plete freedom from blame any far ther. Her obstinacy might easily have sent that child into pneumonia if he were less vigorous than he is.” “Isn’t there danger now?” I asked. “I think all danger is over,” she returned reassuringly. “This isn’t pneumonia weather, thank goodness! And with the lesson she has had she will be the best nurse for him after this. Those women of the older gen eration understand croup thoroughly because they had so much of it to deal with. While Junior is convales cing from this she'll keep him from drafts and playing on the floor, with an assiduity that neither one of us could hope to equal. If he's all right tomorrow, you'll be perfectly safe In going back. But—as goon as you can arrange matters you ought to have Junior with you.” “Surely That’s Coffee.” “I know it,” I answered, and then, with a sudden decision, "and I’m go ing to manage it! Just how, I don't know, for I don’t want him In the city, but somehow—” “Above all things, don’t take him to the city,” she warned, and then we both sniffed as might war horses smelling battle. “My prophetic nose!" Katherine ex claimed. “Surely that’s coffee." “Katie understands this family,” I answered as we made our way to the kitchen, and found my little maid busily preparing a large tray. “We were just coming down to ask you to make coffee, Katie,1’ I said. She gave an airy little shrug and chuckled. “Ven dees fam-i lee "ho vant coffee any hour day or night, den I know dey all in dere graves mit two tons of tombstones on top,” he replied, and Katherine and I, with our first relaxation from the grip of anxiety of Junior, laughed heartily. “We’ll take ours down here, Katie,” I said, “but I wish you’d prepare a dainty tray for Mother Graham and take it up to her. Be very careful you don't wake Junior.” Katie Helps Out. "I guess I know better dan vake dot babee,’’ she retorted bridling. “Didn't I stand right dere mit you efery meenlt I not doing sometings, and ven he go sleep, I bet you no know ven I coom down here, I go so soft.” She was right. We had not heard her. and I hastened to smooth her ruffled plumage. “I know you’re most careful, Katie,” I said, apologetically, “but I'm so nervous about Junior.” 1 "I know dot,” Katie granted largely. "Und I be shoost no still* as lettle mouse. Und I feex nice tray. You see.” She was as good as her word. The tray, covered with a snowy napki», which she bore upstairs a few min utes later, was calculated to tempt the appetite of a pampered cinema queen, and when she had gone, Kath erine and I, with ravenous appetites, attacked the coffee and sandwiches which Katie had prepared in abun dance. “We won't hurry," Katherine de cided when we had finished. "Your room isn't nearly warm enough for your mother-in-law, and the rest all by herself will be good for her. Be sides, we need a bit of relaxing. We’ll have to watch Junior the rest of the night, turn about, you know,” “Why can’t you sleep and let me watch him?" I protested. "You have weeks, perhaps, ahead of you nursing Mrs. Durkee." "But not for several nights to come," Katherine countered. "Be sides, you have been under double strain. You happen to he Junior’s mother, you know." There was something tn her eyes as she spoke which haunted me even after we had gone upstairs again; something that puzzled me, although I felt that the meaning must lie be neath my hand if I could only find it. Oscar Bigail is the champion stow away of Germany. He has tried 14 times \*o enter the United States, and on each occasion he has been turned back by the authorities. 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