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Newspaper Page Text
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By Grace Paul
, (Copyright by W. G. Chapman.)
The Lonely Man had decided to
take a day's holiday-in the country.
He had gone so far northward that
he had reached the city limits; then
he had taken a ferry hoat across the
river and come to a suburban street
car. He got in, and presently, for the
first time in many years, he saw the
country real country, with trees
and flowers and singing birds.
There remained only one other
passenger when the car passed
Greenfield. She was a girl about 27.
Her hair was brown, her eyes gray,
her figure slight Her dress was neat
but worn, and the purse from which
she extracted the coin had seen bet
ter days. The Lonely Man watched
her when he thought she wag not ob
The Lonely Man was between thirty-five
and forty. Once, years be
fore, he would have thrilled with the
sense of adventure. For the girl, like
himself, was obviously holiday-making.
"AH out!" announced the conduc
The car stopped at the end of a
country road and the conductor be
gan to reverse the seats. There was
not a house in sight, but trees every
where, and birds and tall flowers that
nodded by the wayside.
The man and the girl stood side by
side in the roadway and the car ran
back until it disappeared in the dis
tance. "I beg your pardon," said the girl,
"but how far is it to Northwood?"
The man raised his hat. "I don't
know," he answered. "I have never
been here before."
"Neither have I," answered the girl
laughing. And it was impossible not
to laugh when spring had come and
Nature riotously proclaimed her
mirth in every breeze and every
bjreath of the flowers.
"I think it must lie in this direc
tion," said the man, pointing along
The girl turned and began to walk
in the direction that the man indicat
ed. At first he tried to lag behind
her, but presently, realizing the ab
surdity of their position, he took the
courage to address her.
The girl looked at him with swift
scrutiny. In spite of her apparent
indecision the longing for compan
ionship leaped out of her eyes un
mistakably. The man took courage.
They walked side by side, crossed a
path through a field and emerged on
They Lingered in the Sunny Lane
a little lane. Their conversation, at
first restrained, grew animated.
She was a stenographer, and she
had been in the city for five years.
She worked in a building one block
distant from that in which he spent
his days as secretary for Haas, pres
ident of the Cement company, and
they must have passed each other a
score of times and never known it.
All at once they came upon a lit
tle, old-fashioned inn. A table with
a couple of chairs stood on the porch.