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Ü Plans far Peace By JANB OSBORN (Copyright, 1*18, by UcClurt Newspaper Syndicat*.) Some of the more leisurely or Indo lent of the boarders nt Miss King's always lingered In the wicker chaire of the sun parlor after breakfast, but this morning there were more loiter ers than usual, and they were talking In accents that showed keen Interest. And thnt Interest had been aroused by headlines in the morning papers thnt Indicated that the end of the world war, If not In sight, was at least some thing that one dared drenm about. "I suppose Miss King will have to come down on her board," a little weazen-faced old Indy, noted for her miserliness, was saying. "Well, there's no use my saving nny more pits. I suppose," sighed another; nnd a third. "At least, they won't have any excuse for sweetening the cran berry sauce with molasses. I didn't like to object before. It didn't seem loyal, but now I certainly-" Doris May, .who had lingered on her wny to her volunteer work at lied Cross, but who nevertheless was turn ing her time to account with sock knitting, had at this point emitted a little stifled scream thnt cut short the laut remark and focused the eyes of the lingerers on her. Doris, twenty-four, and sweet of face nnd Iho youngest member by far of (he King establishment, blushed with embarrassment. She had not expected to attract attention and she did not really want to explain. "I wns Just thinking," she explained, however, ''it suddenly occurred to me thnt when thn war was over there would lie no more socks lo knit and no more canteens to work for nor con servation kitchens to help with nor liberty bread to bake—nnd, well, I was beginning to feel sorry nnd that made me scream, I guess. It seemed so wicked to have anything but the hap piest feelings thnt It Is all over. I truly shall miss the knitting-" "Well, I am sure I shan't," snapped one of the sour-vlanged members of the establishment who had, during the course of the war, managed to knit two whole pairs of socks nnd a sweat er. "I'm quite exhausted, J assure you, and nothing hut a winter In Flor bin will undo the dumnge all this knit ting has done my nerves." "Anyway, you needn't stop knitting," another one of the emnpnny wss say ing. "Soldiers aren't the only people who wear socks, I hud a cook once— an awful creature she was, too—and her husband was n teamster and he wore knit socks. I know, because she used to knit the socks In the kitchen during time that I was puylng her to work for me." "But I don't know nny teamsters," laughed Doris. "Itenlly I didn't mean to say I was sorry, because I am not. I ntn so happy to think thnt It really Is going to end some time, only It will seem stupid going back to the bridge parties nnd tens and things that wa used to spend so much time on be fore the war." Doris went about her work at Bed Cross thnt day nnd nt canteen that afternoon with less than usual of her untunil cheerfulness. She was vexed with herself to think that she could hnve any »elfish regrets — when she I new that In her heart she felt only the deepest of Joy at the news of pos sible peace. That evening Capt. Robert Blckuell the boarding house from the encampment five miles awny where since his return from France he had been acting as Instructor, lie was seized by the coterie of those who lin gered In tlu> drawing room after din ner. came In Ptninehow It seemed ns If hls opinion coin ■•ruing the outcome of peace talk wen'd he of more weight since he had come fresh from a military encamp tinnt. As a matter of fact the fact thin he had come front the encamp ment made him especially reticent about discussing It— that Is. before the group of Miss King's hoarders In the drawing room. It was to escape this assemblage that he begged ihirls to take a stroll down the small town street with him. "But people notice so," protested Do ris. "You know how those women babble, and It was only two nights ago thnt you were here before." "Yes," agreed the cnptr.ln," hut per haps there won't he many more nights. Pm not going to annoy you nsklng you the old question. I guess you made yourself about as clear to me as nny girl could. I know you're not the kind of girl that will accept a man Just be cause he keep» at her. and I'm not the kind of man that would want n woman to marry him Just because he did nag her. Rut I may he leaving camp soon, and I Just hnve to tnlk things over with you. Tou told me you would ho Interested tn me always, and I value your advice. I may he tak ing a leap In the dark, but I have been thinking things over and I know now that I can't go on the way things were before the war. "Then I was content to he cashier here In the bank. Honestly, do you know. Doris, when 1 first saw the pa per this morning and realized thnt peace was coming perhaps before 1 get back to France, of course my first thought was one of the greatest Joy— and then I had the selfish feeling of regret "I seemed to see myaelf tn the hank again, spending ray dnya In the dull •touotony here to this town. I didn't .V: >. Vc., g®*-: is? r find It dull then, bat since I've beea | leading the Ilf* at a soldier I see j things differently. "Of course I'd be glad to stick around years—ten years, the rest of my life—If I thought In that way I could win you eventually. But I know you have made up your mind. Well, l was making plans; ahd I was think ing thnt as soon ns war Is over I'll sell out what Interest l have In property here and make for the West. I spent a little time on a sheep ranch in Wyo ming once, and I know a fellow ont there thnt could help me buy In to ad vantage. So I'm going to make for the wild* as soon as ever pence comes, whether It Is next week or next year. I wanted to tell you—and ask If you thought I wasn't right. "I hope you don't think I brute for feeling that spirit of regret," he asked penitently. "I can't under stand It exactly, but until I thought of this western scheme I was ns blue ns Indigo. After all, In spite of the hell we have to go through, It nppeuln to some of us more than we realize. I want to go on fighting—and there Is more chance to tight In the life out thpre than there Is here." Doris lmd listened Intently, and her breathing, fast nnd Irregular, betrayed the Intense Interest she was taking In her companion's disjointed explana tions. "Would you need—need to wear woolen socks?" she asked. "Woolen socks? Why, of course. Dntch me ever going hack to those silk th'ngs with thin shoes after I've known what It Is to dress like n regular mnn." "And out there—I suppose you'd live In n little cabin at first nnd you'd have to have your baking done right there nnd a lot of ennnlng and everything nnd there would he lots of work to do for soino one." "Well, there's that, of course," and the captain's face registered a slight look of unhappiness. "Perhaps I could get some old couple to do the work for me—It wouldn't he like having a home, but perhaps I could get used to It." "There would he all aorta of work for the—the woman yon married, wouldn't there?" faltered Doris. "Don't worry,' and the captain did not conceal the faet of his annoyance at this question. "I hnve no Idea of nsklng any woman to shnre that life with mo—you are kind to show con cern for my possible wife, I assure you, but It Isn't nt all necessary." "But Kotiert —well, you seo I was thinking tills very morning thnt, al though I was so happy that the war Is going to ho over, yet I'd he so miser able when I didn't hnve to make socks and work hard nnd can fruit nnd things. I hnve really been happy do ing what I hnve done—and, If you'd forgive me for changing my mind— nnd If you really haven't made any other arrangement«, well—I know now that I've always really loved you." IH n FULL OF FANCIFUL FICTION Father and Filial Florence Furnish Flourishes In What Might Hava Been Ordinary Talk. "Feasible fours from flaming, furi ous fires foil Fourth's fmllesomo fun," fretted Florence feelingly. "Faugh !" fumed father ferociously. "Frail, foolish female, forget former, folly-filled Fourths. Future Fourths free front fuse-formed fiâmes, flock ing fires. Fact; fond Florence." "Father I" faltered Allai Florence. "Fourth free from Are? Fudgot Fore fathers fought for freedom 1 Forever freemen float fugacious Hags, tire fuses, flail flippant flfes, flourish fre quent firecracker«." ' "Fossil fancies, Florence, flea-bitten fragments from forty fahles. Fore fathers forbade futile fuss." "Fourth frei» from fracas!" Flor ence's fingers fondled flannel frock's front flounce. "Furnish further for mula, father." "Frugal, friendly farmers furnish fattening food for famished lighting French. Freedom's fame forbids fool ish firecracker Fourth." "FineI" Florence frisked, fraternal feelings fast forming. "Father, fur nish funds for fainting, fatigued, fee ble French fugitives." "Freedom llrst, freedom forever!" flaunted father. Finis.—Youth's Com panion. 1 No Social Barrier* In Turkey. To those unfamiliar with Turkish customs It tnuy seem strange that Tiilnak Pasha, who has Just resigned the highest dignity tn the Ottoman em pire, should have been earning hls liv ing only a few years ago as an obscure telegraph clerk. Yet such Mg Jumps are perhaps easier In Turkey than In any other country. For although the Ottoman Turks often show the utmost contempt for the numerous subject races that help to make up the Turk ish empire, they recognise no social harriers among themselves, eye* of the sultan all are equal. Thus It tony easily happen that, given the necessary ability, even an emancipated Ottoman slave may become grand vi zier. nnd perhaps marry Into ths sul tan's own family. In the Ancient Grievance. "The German soldier who cursed Co lumbus for discovering America has a counterpart In a soldier tram Alabama." "How Is thnt?" ''1 overheard one of our boys giv ing Julius Caesar 'Hall Columbia' for not finishing the Germans when he had the chance."—Birmingham Age Herald. Hlt Class. "What would you call * man who swindled people by predicting all kinds of favorable futures for them?" "I'd call hi in a prophet-eer." THE LIGHT IN THE CLEARING A TALE OF THE NORTH COUNTRY IN THE TIME OF SILAS WIGHT By IRVING DACHELLERw Author or EBEN HOLDEN. D'RI AND I. DARREL OP THE BLESSED ISLES, KEEPING UP VITH LI1IIE. ETC, ETC COrrUOKT NINrrtfH /tYINTBH, I »VINO JAÖttiU» BARTON GETS NEW INSPIRATION FROM THE THE WORDS OF THE GREAT SILAS WRIGHT. Synopsls.—Barton Baynes, an orphan, goes to live with hls uncle, Peaboy Baynes, und hla Aunt Deel on a furtn on Rattleroad, In a neighborhood called Llckityspllt, about the year 1826. He meets Sally Dunkelherg, about hls own age, hut socially of u class above the IlHyncses, and Is fascinated by her pretty fuce and fine clothes. Barton also meets Ilovlng Kute, known In the neighborhood as the "Silent Woman." Amos Gflmshaw, a young son of the richest man In the town ship, Is n visitor nt the Baynes home and Roving Kate tellB the boys' fortunes, predicting a bright future for Burton und death on the gailowa for Amos. Reproved for un act of boyish mischief, Burton runs away, Intending to make hls home with the Dunkelbergs. He reuches Canton nnd falls asleep on a porch. There Is he is found by Silas Wright, Jr., a man prominent In public affairs, who, knowing Peabody Baynes, takes Barton home after buying him new clothes. Silas Wright evinces much Interest In Barton nnd sends a box of books and magazines to the Baynes home. A short time Inter the election of Mr. Wright to (he United Stuten senate Is announced. Burton learns of u wonderful power known ns "Money," and how through Its possession Orlmshuw is tbe most powerful man In the community. Orlmshnw threatens to take the Iluynes farm If a note which he holds Is not paid. CHAPTER V—Continued. To Aunt Deel wugon greuse was the worst enemy of u happy and re spectable home. We hitched our team to the gruss hopper spring wugon and Bet out on our Journey. Indlan-summer day In November, we passed "the mill" we saw the Si lent Woman looking out of the little window of her room above the black smith shop—a low, weather-stained, frame building, hard by the main road, with a nurrow hanging stair on the side of it. "She keeps watch by the winder when she uin't trnvelln'," said Uncle Peabody. on—thnt woman—knows who goes to the village an' how long they stay. When Grimshaw goes by they say she hustles off down the road In her rags. She looka like u Hick dog herself, hut I've heard that she keeps that room o' hers Just na neat us a ^pln." Near the village we pasHed a siöort looklug buggy, drawn by a spry-foot ed torse In shiny harness. Then I noticed with u pung that bur wugon was covered with dry mud nnd thnt our horses were rather bony and our harness n kind of lead color, wus In an humble state of mind when we entered the village. There was n crowd of men nnd women In front of Mr. Wright's office and through Its open door I saw many of Ills fellow townsmen. We waited at the door for a few minutes. I crowded In while Uncle Peabody stood talk ing to a villager. The Senator caught sight of me and came to my side and pul his hand on my head and said; "Hello, Bartl How you've grown I and how handsome you look I Where's your uncle?" "He's there by the door," I an swered. "Well, le's go and see him." Mr. Wright was stouter and grayer nnd grander than wheu I had seen him Inst. He was dressed In black broadcloth an J wore a big heaver hat and high collar and hls hair was al most white. I remember vividly hls clear, kindly, gray eyes and ruddy cheeks. "Bayneo, I'm glad to see you," he said heartily. "DU1 ye bring me any Jerked moat?" "Didn't think of It," sutd Uncle Peabody. "But I've got a nice young doe all jerked an' If you're fond o' Jerk I'll bring ye down some to-raor* rer." "I'd like to take some to Washing ton, hut I wouldn't have you brlug It so far." "I'd like to bring It—I want a chance to tnlk with ye for half an hour or such a matter," said my un cle. "I've got a little trouble on my hands " The Senator took us Into hls office and Introduced us to the lending men of the county. "Here," said the Senator as he put hls hand on my head, "Is a coming man In the Democratic party." The great men laughed at my Mushes *nd we came away with n deep sense of pride In us. At lust I felt equal to the ordeal of meeting the Dunkelbergs. My uncle must have shared my feeling, for, to my delight, he went straight to the basement store above which was the modest sign ; "H. Dunkelherg. Produce." "Well I «wan!" said the merchant In the treble voice which I remem bered so well. "This Is Bart and Pea body! How are yoû?"* "Pretty well," I answered, my un cle being too alow of speech to suit my sense of propriety. "How Is Sal ly?" It wa« a warm, hazy As "Knows ull that's goln' So 1 I The two men hiughed heartily, much to my embarrassment. "He's getting right down to busi cess," said my uncle. "Thut's right," said Mr. Dunkelberg. "Why, Bart, she's spry as a cricket and pretty us a picture. Come up to dinner with me and see for yourself." Uncle Peabody hesitated, whereupon I gave him a fuitlve nod and lie said "AH right," and then I hnd u deli cious feeling of excitement. I had hard work to control my Impatience when they talked. By and by I asked, "Are you 'most ready to go?" "Yes—come on—It's after twelve o'clock," said Mr. Dunkefberg. "Sally will be back from school now." So we walked to the Mg house of the Dunkelbergs and I could hear my henrt beutlng when we turned In at the gate—the golden gate of my youth It must have been, ' for after I had passed It I thought no more as a child. That rude push which Mr. Grlmshnw gave me hud hurried the passing. I was a little surprised at my own dignity when Sally opened the door to welcome us. My uncle told Aunt Deel that I acted und spoke like Sllus Wright, "so nice and proper." Sally wus different, too—less playful and more beautiful with long yellow curls covering her shoulders. "How nice you look !" gdie said as she took my arm and led me Into her playroom. "These are my new clothes," I honst ed. "They are very expensive and I hnve to be careful of them." I behaved myself with great care at the table—I remember thnt—and. i-c (S C % | after dinner, we played In the door yard and the stable, I with a great fear of tearing my new clothes, stopped nnd cautioned her more than Be careful ! t For gracious oncel: sake ! be careful o' my new suit I" As we were leaving late In the af ternoon she said : "I wish you would come here to school." "I suppose ho will some time," said Uncle Peabody. A new hope entered my breast, that moment, nnd began to grow there. "Aren't you going to kiss her?" said Mr. Dunkelherg with n smile. I saw the color In her cheeks deep en ns she turned with a smile nnd SîSf » I J V? m § Ky/< \ Î, 'K\ rr 'V* • 1/ •fer :3 t A m ~ A? "I'm Not Afraid of Him." walked away two or three steps while the grown people laughed, and stood with her back turned looking In at the window. "You're looking the wrong way for the scenery," said Mr. Dunkelherg. She tufned and walked toward me with a look of resolution in her pret ty face and said: 'Tm not afraid, of him." We kissed each other and, again, that well-remembered touch of her hair upon my face! But the feel of her warm lips upon my own—that was different and so sweet to remem ber in the lonely days that followed! Fast flows the river to the sea when youth is sulling on It. shoved me out of the quiet cove into the swift current—those dear, kindly, thoughtless people. Sally ran away Into the house as their laughter con tinued and my uncle and I walked down the street. How happy I was! I observed with satisfaction that the village boys did not make fun of me when I passed them as they did when l woie the petticoat trouaers. Mr. and Mrs. Wright came along with the crowd, by and by, and Colonel Medad Moody. We had supper with the Senator on the seat with us. He and my uncle began to talk about the tightness of money and the banking laws and I remember a remark of my uncle, for there was that in his tone which I could never forget : "We poor people are trusting you to look out for us—we poor people are trusting you to see that we get We're havin' a hard They had treated fair. time." . My uncle told him about the note and the vlalt of Mr. Grimshaw and of hls threats and upbraldlngs. "Did he say that In Bart's hearing? asked the Senator. "Ayes !—r 1 ' ht out plain." "Too bau, I'm going to tell you frankly, Baynes, that the best thing I know about you Is your conduct to I like It. The next ward this boy. best thing Is the fact that you signed the note. It was bad business but It was good Christian conduct to help your friend. Don't regret it. were poor and of an age wheu the boy's pranks were troublesome to both of you, but you took him In. lend you the Interest and try to get another holder for the mortgage on You I'll one condition. You must let me at tend to Bart's schooling. I want to be bass about that. We have a great schoolmaster in Canton and when Bart Is a little older I want him to go there to school. I'll try to find him a place where he can work for his hoard." "We'll miss Bart but we'll be tickled to death—tAere's no two ways about that," said Uncle Peabody. The Senator tested my arithmetic and grammar and geography as we rode along In the darkness and said by nnd by : "You'll have to work hard, Bart. You'll have to take your book Into the field as I did. After every row of corn I learned a rule of syntax or arithmetic or a fact in geography while I rested, and my thought and memory took hold of It as I plied the hoe. I don't want you to stop the reading, but from now on you must spend half of every evening on your lessons." As I was going to bed the Senator called me to him and said: "I shall be gone when you are up In the morning. It may be a long time before I see you ; I shall leave something for yotl In a sealed envel ope with your name on it. You are not to open the envelope until you go gwny to school. I know how you will feci that first day. When night fulls yen will think of your aunt and uncle and be very lonely. When you go to your room for the night I want you to sit down all by yourself and open the envelope and read what I shall write. They will be, I think, the most Impressive words you ever read. You will think them over hut you will not understand them for a long Ask every wise man you meet time. to explain them to you, for all your happiness will depend upon your un derstanding of those few words In the envelope." In the morning Aunt Deel put it in my hands. "I wonder what In the world he wrote there—ayes!" snld she. must keep It careful—ayes!—I'll put It In my trunk an' give It to ye when ye go to Canton to school." "Has Mr. Wright gone?" I asked rnther sadly. "Ayes! Land o' mercy! He went away long before daylight with a lot o' Jerked meat In a pack basket— ayes ! Yer uncle is goin' down to the village to see 'bout the mortgage this afternoon, uyes!" It was a Saturday and I spent Its hours cording wood in the shed, paus ing now and then for a look Into "We my grammar. What a day It was!—the first of many like It. I never think of those days without saying to myself : "What a God's Messing a man like Silas Wright can be In the community in which his heart and soul are as an open book !" As the evening came on I took a long look nt my cords. The shed was nearly half full of them. Four rules of syntax, also, had been carefully stored away in my brain. I snld •them over as I hurried down Into the pasture with old Shep and brought iu the cows. I got through milking just ns Uncle Peabody came. I saw with joy that hls face was cheerful. "Yip !" he shouted as he stopped hls team at the barn door, where Aunt Deel and I were standing. "We afti't got much to worry about now. I've got the Interest money right here In my pocket" We unhitched and went In to sup I was hoping that Aunt Deel per. would speak of my work but she seemed not to think of It. I went out on the porch and stood looking torn with a sad countenance. Aunt DeeW "W'y, Bart!" she exclaimed, "you're too tired to eat—ayes! Be ye sick?" I shook my head. »Rowed me. "Peabody," she called, "this boy has worked like a beaver every minute since you left—ayes he has! I never see anything to beat It never ! I want you to come right out into the wood-shed an' see what he's done— this minute—ayes!" I followed them Into the shed. "W'y of all things!" my uncle ex "He's worked like a nailer. claimed, ain't he?" There were tears In his eyes when he took my hand In his rough palm and squeezed It and said : "Sometimes I wish ye was little again so I could take ye up in my arms an' kiss ye just as I used to. Horace Dunkelberg says that you're the best-lookin' boy he ever see." I repeated the rules I had learned went to the table. as we "I'm goin' to be like Silas Wright If I can," I added. "That's the idee!" said Uncle Pea body. "You keep on as you've start ed an' everybody'll milk into your MIL I kept on—not with the vigor of that first day with its new inspiration —but with growing strength and effec ft . ^ 1 f >1 ft 8 />^ n ïtv u X Wi \ \ y\l \ \ I»! l\ I II t. A K1 Sc One Day Mr. Grimshaw Came Out in the Field to See My Uncle. Nights and mornings and tiveness. Saturdays I worked with a will and my book In my pocket or at the side of the field and was, I know, a help of some value on the farm. My schol arship Improved rapidly and that year I went about as far as I could hope to go In the little school at Leonard's Corners. "I wouldn't wonder If ol' Kate was right about our boy," said Aunt Deel one day when she suw me with my book In the field. I began to know than that ol' Kate had somehow been at work in my soul—subconsciously as I would now put It. I was trying to put truth Into the prophecy. As I look at the whole matter these days I can see that Mr. Grimshaw himself was a help mo less important to me, for It wus a sharp spur with which he con tinued to prod us. CHAPTER VI. My Second Peril. One day Mr. Grimshaw came out In the field to see my uncle. They walked awny to the shade of a tree while the hired man and I went on with the hoeing. I could hear the harsh voice of the money-lender speaking In loud and angry tones and presently lie went away. "What's the rip?" I asked as my uncle returned looking very sober. "We won't talk about It now," he answered. In the candle-light of the evening Uncle Peabody said: "Grimshaw has demanded hls mort gage money an' he wants it in gold coin. We'll have to git it some way, I dunno how." "W'y of all things ! my aunt ex claimed. "How are we goin' to git all that money—these hard times?— ayes! I'd like to know?" Well, I can't tell ye," said Uncle Peabody. "I guess he can't forgive us for savin' Rodney Barnes." "What did he say?" I asked. "Why, he says we hadn't no busi ness to hire a man to help us. He says you an' me ought to do all the work here. He thinks I ought to took you out o' school long ago." "I can stay out o' school and keep on with my lessons," I said. "Not an' please him. when he see ye with a book In hand out there In the corn-field." What were we to do now? I spent the first sad night of my life undoing the plnns which hud been so dear to me but not so dear as my aunt and uncle. I decided to give all my life and strength to the saving of the farm. I would still try to be great, but not as great as the Senator. He was mad VIT V Barton passes through what are looked upon as the second and third of the four perils pre dicted for him by "Rovin' Kate." Don't fail to read of hit experi ences in the next installment (TO BE CONTINUED.) It's Ended Then. Youngham—"How can I tell when the honeymoon is over?" Oldham— "When your wife stops telUng things and begins asking questions."