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THURSDAY, JUNE 15, 1939 THE DIM LANTERN By Temple BAILEY O PENN PUBLISHING CO. WNU SERVICE THE STORY I—Young, pretty Jane Barnes, who lived with her brother, Baldwin, in bherwood Park, near Washington, was not particularly impressed when she read that rich- attractive Edith Towne had been left the altar by Delafield Simms, wealthy New Yorker. However, she still mused over it when she met Evana Follette, a a neighbor, whom the war had left etely discouraged and despondent. Evans had always loved Jane. CHAPTER n—That morning Baldwin Barnes, on his way to work in Washing ton, offered assistance to a tall, lovely ftol in distress. Later he found a bag she had left in the car, containing a diamond on which was inscribed “Del to Edith—Forever.” He knew then that his passenger had been Edith Towne. Al ready he was half way in love with her. That night he discussed the matter with Jane, and they called her uncle, worldly, sophisticated Frederick Towne. He visited them at their home, delighted with Jane's simplicity. He told them Ediths story, and they filled in the missing lines. CHAPTER III—Because her uncle de sired it, Edith Towne had accepted Dela field Simms, whom she liked but did not love. That did not prevent her from be coming furious when he failed to show up for the wedding. She disappeared im mediately after the wedding was to have taken place. Hearing the story. Baldy and Jane sympathized with Edith, not with her uncle. The next day Jane received a basket of fruit from Towne, asking if he might call again. (Now go on with the story.) CHAPTER IV Mrs. Follette had been born in Maryland with a tradition of aris tocratic blood. It was this tradi tion which had upheld her through years of poverty after the Civil war. A close scanning of the family tree might have disclosed ancestors who had worked with their hands. But these, Mrs. Follette’s family had chosen to ignore in favor of one grandfather who had held Colonial office, and who had since been mag nified into a personage. Mr, Follette, during his lifetime, had walked a mile each morning to take the train at Sherwood Park, and had walked back a mile each night, until at last he had tired of two peripatetic miles a day, and of eight hours at his desk, and of eternally putting on his dinner coat when there was no one to see, and like old Baldwin Barnes, he had laid him dowrn with a will. At his death all income stopped, and Mrs. Follette had found herself ‘on a somewhat lonely peak of ex clusiveness. She could not afford to go with her richer neighbors, and she refused to consider Sherwood seriously. Now and then, hou’ever, she accepted invitations from old friends, and in return offered such simple hospitality as she could af ford without self-consciousness. She had, too, a sort of admirable courage. Her ambitions had been wrapped up in her son. What her father might have been, Evans was to be. They had scrimped and saved that he might go to college and study law. Then, at that first dread ful cry from across the seas, he had gone. There had been long months of fighting. He had left her in the flower of his youth, a wonder-lad, with none to match him among his friends. He had come back crushed and broken. He, whose career lay so close to his heart—could do now no sustained work. Mentally and physically he must rest. He might be years in getting back. He would never get back to gay and gallant boyhood. That was gone forever. Yet if Mrs. Follette’s heart had failed her at times, she had never shown it. She was making the farm pay for itself. She supplied the peo ple of Sherwood Park and surround ing estates with milk. But she never was in any sense—a milk woman. It was, rather, as if in selling her milk she distributed fa vors. It was on this income that she subsisted, she and her son. Later he and Jane walked togeth er in the clear cold. She was in a gay mood. She was wrapped in her old orange cape, and the sun, breaking the bank of sullen clouds in the west, seemed to turn her lithe young body into flame. “Don’t you love a day like this, Evans?’’ She pressed forward up the hill with all her strength. Ev ans followed, panting. At the top they sat down for a moment on an old log—which faced the long aisles of snow between thin black trees. The vista was clear-cut and almost artificial in its restraint of color and its wide bare spaces. Evans’ little dog, Rusty, ran back and forth—following this trail and that. Finally in pursuit of a rab bit, he was led far afield. They heard him barking madly in the distance. It was the only sound in the stillness. “Jane,’’ Evans said, “do you re member the last time we were here?’’ “Yes.” The light went out of her eyes. “As I look back it was heaven, Jane. I’d give anything on God’s earth if I was where I was then.” All the blood was drained from her face. “Evans, you wouldn’t,” passionately, “you wouldn’t give up those three years in France—” He sat very still. Then he said tensely, “No, I wouldn’t, even though it has made me lose you— Jane—” “You mustn’t say such things—” “I must. Don’t I know? You were such an unawakened little thing, my dear. But I could have—waked you. And I can’t wake you now. That’s my tragedy. You’ll never wake up —for me—” “Don’t—” "Well, it’s true. Why not say it? I’ve come back a—scarecrow, the shadow of a man. And you’re just where I left you—only lovelier— more of a woman—more to be wor shiped—Jane—” As he caught her hand up in his, she had a sudden flashing vision of him as he had been when he last sat with her in the grove—the swing of his strong figure, his bare head borrowing gold from the sun—the touch of assurance which had been so compelling. “I never knew that you cared—” “I knew it, but not as I did after your wonderful letters to me over there. I felt, if I ever came back, I’d move heaven and earth.” He stopped. “But I came back—differ ent. And I haven’t any right to say these things to you. I’m not going to say them—Jane. It might spoil our—friendship.’’ “Nothing can spoil our friendship, Evans—” He laid his hand on hers. "Then you are mine until somebody comes along and claims you?” “There isn’t anybody else,” she turned her fingers up to meet his, “so don’t worry, old dear,” she smiled at him but her lashes were wet. Her hand was warm in his and she let it stay there, and aft er a while she said, “I have some times thought that if it would make you happy, I might—” “Might—love me?” “Yes.” He shook his head. "I didn’t say it for that. I just had to have the truth between us. And I don’t want —pity. If—if I ever get back—I’ll make you love me, Jane.” There was a hint of his old masterful ness—and she was thrilled by it. She withdrew her hand and stood up. “Then I’ll—pray—that you— get back—” “Do you mean it, Janey?” “I mean it, Evans.” “Then pray good and hard, my dear, for I’m going to do it.” They smiled at each other, but it was a sacred moment. The things they did after that were rendered unimportant by the haze of enchantment which hung over Evans’ revelation. No man can tell a woman that he loves her, no woman can listen, without a throbbing sense of the magnitude of the thing which has happened. From such beginnings is written the his tory of humanity. Deep in a hollow where the wind had swept up the snow, and left the ground bare they found crowfoot in an emerald carpet—there were hol ly branches dripping red berries like blood on the white drifts. They filled their arms, and at last they were ready to go. Evans whistled for Rusty but the little dog did not come. “He’ll find us he knows every inch of the way.” But Rusty did not find them, and they were on the ridge when that first awful cry came to them. Jane clutched Evans. “What is it —ch, what is it?” He swallowed twice before he could speak. “It’s—Rusty—one of those steel traps”—he was panting now—his forehead wet—“the Ne groes put them around for rab bits—” Again that frenzied cry broke the stillness. “They’re hellish things—” Jane began to run in the direction of the sound. “Come on, Evans— oh, come quick—” He stumbled after her. At last he caught at her dress and held her. “If he’s hurt I can’t stand it.” It was dreadful to see him. Jane felt as if clutched by a nightmare. “Stay here, and don’t worry. I’ll get him out—” It was a cruel thing to face. There was blood and that little trembling body. The cry reduced now to an agonized whimpering. How she opened the trap she never knew, but she did open it, and made a bandage from her blouse which she tore from her shoulders regardless of the cold. And after what seemed to be ages, she staggered back to Evans with her dreadful burden wrapped in her cape. “We’ve got to get him to a veterinary. Run down to the road and see if there’s a car in sight.” There was a car, and when Evans stopped it, two men came charging She was in a gay mood. up the bank. Jane gave the dog into the arms of one of them. “You’ll have to go with them, Evans,” she said and wrapped herself more closely in her cape. “There are sev eral doctors at Rockville. You’d bet ter ask the stationmaster about the veterinary." It was late when Evans came to Castle Manor w’ith his dog in his arms. Rusty was comfortable and he nad wagged a grateful tail. The pain had gone out of his eyes and the veterinary had said that in a few days the wound would heal. There were no vital parts affected— THE and he would give some medicine which would prevent further suffer ing. Mrs. Follette was out, and old Mary was in the kitchen, singing. She stopped her song as Evans came through. He asked her to help him and she brought a square, deep basket and made Rusty a bed. “You-all jes’ put him heah by the fiah, and I’ll look atter him.” Evans shook his head. “I want him in my room. I’ll take care of him in the night.” He carried the dog upstairs with him, knelt beside him, drew hard deep breaths as the little fellow licked his hand. “What kind of a man am I?” Ev ans said sharply in the silence. “God, what kind of a man?” Through the still house came old Mary’s thin and piping song: “Stay in the fiel’, Stay in the fiel’, oh, wah-yah— Stay in the fiel’ Till the wah is ended.” Evans got up and shut the door. Jane was waked usually by the hoarse crow of an audacious little rooster, who sent his challenge to the rising sun. But on Thanksgiving morning, she found herself sitting up in bed in the deep darkness—slim and white and shivering—oppressed by some phantom of the night. She came to it gradually. The strange events of yesterday. Evans. Her own share in his future. Her own share in Evans’ future? Had she really linked her life with his? She had promised to pray that he might get back—she had pledged youth, hope and constancy to his cause. And she had prom ised before she had seen that stum bling figure in the snow! In the matters of romance, Jane’s thoughts had always ventured. She had dreamed of a gallant lover, a composite hero, one who should combine the reckless courage of a Robin Hood with the high moralities of a Galahad. With such a lover one might gallop through life to a piping tune. Or if the Galahad pre dominated in her hero, to an inspir ing processional! And here was Evans, gray and gaunt, shaken by tremors, fitting himself into the background of her future. And she didn’t want him there. Oh, not as he had been out there in the snow! Yet she was sorry for him with a sympathy that wrung her heart. She couldn’t hurt him. She wouldn’t. Was there no way out of it? Her hands went up to her face. She had a simple and childlike faith. “Oh, God,” she prayed, “make us all—happy—” Her cheeks were wet as she lay back on her pillows. And a cer tain serenity followed her little pray er. Things would work together in some way for good. She would let it rest at that. When at last the rooster crowed, Jane cast off the covers and went to the window?, drawing back the curtains. There was a faint white ness in the eastern sky—amethyst and pearl, aquamarine, the day had dawned! Well, after all, wasn’t every day a new world? And this day of all days. One must think about the thankful things! Baldy wanted to hear from Edith Towne so much that he did not go to church lest he miss her call. But Jane went, and sat in the Barnes’ pew, and was thankful, as she had said, for love and warmth and light. Evans, with his mother in the pew, looked straight ahead of him. He seemed worn and weary—a dark shadow set against the brightness of those comrades on the glowing glass. After church, he W’aited in the aisle for Jane. “I’ll walk down with you. Mother is going to ride with Dr. Hallam.” They walked a little way in si lence, then he said, “Rusty is com fortable this morning.” “Your mother told me over the telephone.” He limped along at her side. “Jane, I didn’t sleep last night— thinking about it. It is a thing I can’t understand. A dreadful thing.” “I understand. You love Rusty. It was because you love him so much—” “But to let a woman do it. Jane, do you remember—years ago? The mad dog?” She did remember. Evans had killed it in the road to save a child. It had been a horrible experience, but not for a moment had he hesi tated. “I wasn’t afraid then, Janey.” “This was different. You couldn’t see the thing you loved hurt. It wasn’t fear. It was affection.” “Oh, don’t gloss it over. I know what you felt. I saw it in your eyes.” “Saw what?” “Contempt.” She turned on him. “You didn’t. Perhaps, just at first. I didn’t un derstand .” She fought for self control, but in spite of it, the tears rolled down her cheeks. “Don’t, Janey, Don’t.” He was in an agony of remorse. “I’ve made you cry.” She blinked away the tears. “It wasn’t contempt, Evans.” “Well, it should have been. Why not? No man who calls himself a man would have let you do it.” They had come to the path un der the pines, and were alone in that still world. Jane tucked her hand in the crook of Evans’ arm. “Dear boy, stop thinking about it.” “I shall never stop.” “I want you to promise me that you’ll try. Evans, you know we are going to fight it out together ...” His eyes did not meet hers. "Do you think I’d let you? Well, you think wrong.” He began to walk rapidly, so that it was hard to keep pace with him. “I’m not worth it.” And now quite as suddenly as she had cried, she laughed, and the laugh had a break in it. “You’re worth everything that America has to give you.” She told him of the things she had thought of in church. “You are as much of a hero as any of them.” BLUFFTON .NEWS, BLUFFTON, OHIO He shook his head. “All that hero stuff is dead and gone, my dear. We idealize the dead, but not the liv ing.” It was true and she knew it. But she did not want to admit it. “Ev ans,” she said, and laid her cheek for a moment against the rough sleeve of his coat, “don’t make me unhappy. Let me help.” “You don’t know what you are asking. You’d grow tired of it. Any woman would.” “Why look ahead? Can’t we live for each day?” She had lighted a flame of hope in him. “If I might—’’ eagerly. “Why not? Begin right now. What are you thankful for, Evans?” “Not much,” uneasily. “Well, I’ll tell you three things. Books and your mother and me. Say that over—out loud.” He tried to enter into her mood. “Books and my mother and Jane.” She caught at another thought. “It almost rhymes with Stevenson’s ‘books and food and summer rain,’ doesn’t it?” “Yes. What a man he was—cheer ful in the face of d^ath. Jane, I believe I could face death more cheerfully than life—” "Don’t say such things”—they had come to the little house on the ter race, “don’t say such things. Don’t think them.” “As a man thinks—Do you believe it?” “I believe some of it.” “We’ll talk about it tonight. No, I can’t come in. Dinner is at seven.” He lingered a moment longer. “Do you know what a darling you are, Jane?” She stood watching him as he limped away. Once he turned and waved. She waved back and her eyes were blurred with tears. In Jane’s next letter to Judy she told about the dinner. “We had a delicious dinner. It seems to me, Judy, that my mind dwells a great deal on things to eat. But, after all, why shouldn’t I? Housekeeping is my job. “Mrs. Follette doesn’t attempt to do anything that she can’t do well, and it was all so simple and satisfy ing. In the center of the table was some of the fruit that Mr. Towne sent in a silver epergne, and there were four Sheffield candlesticks with white candles. “Mrs. Follette carved the turkey. Evans can’t do things like that— she wore her perennial black lace and pearls, and in spite of every thing, Judy, I can’t help liking her, though she is such a beggar on horseback. They haven’t a cent, ex cept what she makes from the milk, but she looks absolutely the lady of the manor. “The cousins are very fashiona ble. One of them, Muriel Follette, knows Edith Towne intimately. She told us all about the wedding, and how people are blaming Edith for running away and are feeling terri bly sorry for Mr. Towne. Of course they didn’t know that Baldy and I had ever laid eyes on either of them. But you should have seen Baldy’s eyes, when Muriel said things about Edith. I was scared stiff for fear he’d. say something. You know how nis temper flares. “Well, Muriel said some catty things. That everybody is sure that Delafield Simms is in love with someone else, and that they are say ing Edith might have known it if she hadn’t always looked upon herself as the center of the universe. And they feel that if her heart is broken, the decent thing would be to mourn in the bosom of her family. Of course I’m not quoting her exact words, but you’ll get the idea. “And Baldy thinks his queen can do no wrong, and was almost burst ing. Judy, he walks in a dream. I don’t know what good it is going to do him to feel like that. He will have to always worship at a dis tance like Dante. Or was it Abe lard? I always get those grande pas sions mixed. “Anyhow, there you have it. Edith Towne rode in Baldy’s flivver, and he has hitched that little wagon to a star! “Well, after dinner, we set the victrola going and Baldy had to dance with Muriel. She dances ex tremely well, and I know he en joyed it, though he wouldn’t admit it. And Muriel enjoyed it. There’s no denying that Baldy has a way with him. “After they had danced a while everybody played bridge, except Ev ans and me. You know how I hate it, and it makes Evans nervous. So we went in the library and talked. Evans is dreadfully discouraged about himself. I wish that you were here and that we could talk it over. But it is hard to do it at long dis tance. There ought to be some way to help him. Sometimes it seems that I can’t stand it when I remem ber what he used to be.” Evans had carried Jane off to the library high-handedly. “I want you,” was all the reason he vouch safed as they came into the shabby room with its leaping flames in the fireplace, its book-lined walls, its im posing portrait above the mantel. The portrait showed Evans’ grandfather, and beneath it was a photograph of Evans himself. The likeness between the two men was striking—there was the same square set of the shoulders, the same bright, waved hair, the same air of youth and high spirits. The grand father in the portrait wore a blue uniform, the grandson was in khaki, but they were, without a question, two of a kind. “You belong here, Jane,” said Ev ans, “on one side of the fireplace, with me on the other. That’s the way I always see you when I shut my eyes.” “You see me now with your eyes wide open—” “Yes. Jane, I told Mother this afternoon that I wouldn’t go to New York. So that’s settled, without your saying anything.” “How does she feel about it?” “Oh, she still thinks that I should go. But I’ll stay here,” he moved his head restlessly. “I want to be where you are, Jane. And now, my dear. we’re come to talk things ont. You know that yesterday you"made a sort of—promise. That you’d pray for me to get back—and that if I got back—well, you’d give me a chance. Jane, I want your prayers, but not your promise.” “Why not?” “I am not fit to think of any wom an. When I am—well—if I ever am —you can do as you think best. But you mustn’t be bound.” She sat silent, looking into the fire. “You know that I’m right, don’t you, dear?” “Yes, I do, Evans. I thought of it, too, last night. And it seems like this to me. If we can just be friends —without bothering with—anything else—it will be easier, won’t it?” “I can’t tell you how’ gladly I’d bother, as you call it. But it wouldn’t be fair. You are young, and you have a right to happiness. I’d be a shadow on your—future—” “Please don’t—” He dropped on the rug at her feet. “Well, we’ll leave it at that. We’re friends, forever,” he reached up and took her hands in his, “forever?” “Alw’ays, Evans—” “For better, for worse—for rich er, for poorer?” “Of course—” They stared into the fire, and then he said softly, “Well, that’s enough for me, my dear, that’s enough for me—” and after a while he began to speak in broken sen tences. ‘Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest After so many hours of toil and quest A famished pilgrim .’ That’s Keats, my dear. Jane, do you know that you are food and drink?” “Am I?” unsteadily. “Yes, dear little thing, if I had you always by my fire I could fight the world.” When Jane and Baldy reached home that night, Baldy stamped up and down the house, saying things about Muriel Follette. “A girl like that to criticise.” She yawned. “I’m going to bed.” The telephone rang, and Baldy was off like a shot. Jane uncurled herself from her chair and lent a listening ear. It was a moment of exciting interest. Edith Towne was at the ether end of the wire! Jane knew it by Baldy’s singing voice. He didn’t talk like that to commonplace folk who called him up. She was devoured with curi osity. He came in, at last, literally walking on air. And just as Jane had felt that his voice sang, so she felt now that his fett danced. “Janey, it was Edith Towne.” “What did she say?” “Just saw my advertisement. Pa per delayed—” “Where is she?” “Beyond Alexandria. But wre’re not to give it away.” “Not even to Mr. Towne?” “No. She’s asked me to bring her bag, and some other things.” He threw himself into a chair op posite Jane, one leg over the arm of it. He was a careless and pictur esque figure. Even Jane was aware of his youth and good looks. Edith had, as it seemed, asked him to have Towne send the ring back to Delafield—to have her wed ding presents sent back, to have a bag packed with her belongings. She started up the stairs but be fore she had reached the landing he called after her. “Jane, what have you on hand for tomorrow?” She leaned over the rail and looked down at him. “Friday? Feed the chickens. Fefld the cats. Help American Boy 8 Mo. American Girl 8 Mo. Christian Herald 6 Mo. Home Arts-Needlecraft 2Yr. Household Magazine 2 Yr. McCall's Magazine 1 Yr. Modern Romances 1 Yr. Modern Screen ................. 1 Yr. Open Road (Boys) 1 Yr. Pathfinder (Weekly) 1 Yr. Parents' Magazine 6 Me. Screen Book 1 Yr. Silver Screen 1 Yr. Sports Afield 1 Yr. True Confessions 1 Yr. Woman’s World 2 Yr. Sophy clean the silver. Drink tea at four with Mrs. Allison, and three other young things of eighty.” “Well, look here. I don’t want to face Towne. He’ll say things about Edith—and insist on her com ing back—she says he will, and that’s why she won’t call him up. And you’ve got more diplomacy than I have. You might make it all seem—reasonable. Will you do it. Jane?” “Do you mean that you want me to call on him at his office?” “Yes. Go in with me in the morning.” “Baldy, are you shirking? Or do you really think me as wonderful as your words seem to imply?” “Oh, if you’re going to put it like that.” She smiled down at him. “Let’s leave it then that I am—wonderful. But suppose Mr. Towne doesn’t fall for your plan? Perhaps he won’t let her have the bag or a check book or money or—anything—” Jane saw then a sudden and pas sionate change in her brother. “If he doesn’t let her have it, I will. I may be poor but I’ll beg or borrow rather than have her brought back to face those—cats—until she wants to come.” (To be Continued) Richland Center Mr. and Mrs. Earl Matter and dau ghter were Sunday dinner guests of her parents, Mr. and Mrs. L. E. Cook and daughters. Mr. and Mrs. Nelson Steiner spent Saturday evening with Mr. and Mrs. Robert Gerber and family. Mr. and Mrs. Dwight Dailey and sons spent Sunday in amnion sburg. Mr. and Mrs. Francis Gratz and children of Sidney Mr. and .Mrs. Kenneth Gratz and Mr. and Mrs. Richard Core and daughter of Lima Mr. and Mrs. J. L. Gratz and son. Mr. and Mrs. Ernest Gratz and granddau ghter Mary Kathryn were Sunday dinner guests of Mr. and Mrs. Reno Gratz. Afternoon callers were Mr. and Mrs. Fred Basinger of Columbus Grove and Mr. and Mrs. W. F. Gratz. Mr. and Mrs. Donald Cuppies were Wednesday evening supper guests of Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Miller and fam ily. Mr. and Mrs. Ed Marquart and son Melvin spent Thursday evening with Mr. and Mrs. Geo. Schick. Mr. and Mrs. John Burkholder re turned home Sunday evening after spending the week in Valparaiso. Ind. Mr. and Mrs. Otis Fett and daught ers spent Thursday evening with Mr. Buffalo ... Chicago .. Detroit .. Gettysburg, TOWN AND Whether you live in town or in the country here's a combination offer to please your reading tastes our paper and your favorite magazines at really huge savings. Make your selection and send us the coupon now! THIS NEWSPAPER, 1 YEAR, AND THREE FINE MAGAZINES PICK 2 FROM THIS CROUP PICK 1 FROM THIS GROUP NEWSPAPER AND 3 MAGAZINES THIS OFFER IS POSITIVELY GUARANTEED Please allow four to six weeks for first copies of magazines to arrive. Name PAGE SEVEN and Mrs. Wayne Zimmerman and daughter. Mr. and Mrs. Harold Badertscher, Mrs. Wayne Zimmerman, Mr. and Mrs. Sam Badertscher and Mr. and Mrs. Robert Ewing spent Sunday excning with Mr. and Mrs. Wikier Badertscher. Mr. and rs. Woodrow Luginbuhl of Waverly, Ohio, and Mr. and Mrs. Clyde Grant and son were Sunday dinner guests at the J. I. Luginbuhl home. Mr. and Mrs. John Ramseyer and family of Columbus and Myrtle Man ges were week end guests of Mr. and Mrs. John Hirschfeld and son. Sun day dinner guests were Mrs. A. C. Spangler and daughter, Ora. Mr. and Mrs. Clem Suter spent Sun day evening at the Amos Gerber home. Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Miller and family spent Sunday afternoon with Mr. and Mrs. Clarence Steiner and family. Mr. and Mrs. Raymond Matter and children, Mr. and Mrs. Ed Marquart and son Melvin spent Sunday even ing with Mr. and Mrs. Russell Leiber and family. Mr. and Mrs. Hiram Niswander and daughter Betty and son Alliason, Mrs. Amos Luginbuhl and granddaughter Glenna Swick and Mr. and Mrs. Don ald Dillman, Mrs. Ella Dillman and Mrs. Weldon Luginbuhl attended the wedding of Cassie Luginbuhl and Ar thur Yerkes of Lima in the Congre gational church last Tuesday even ing. Mr. and Mrs. Francis Gratz and children of Sidney Mr. and Mrs. Kenneth Gratz and Mr. and Mrs. Richard Core and daughter of Lima Mr. and Mrs. Ear! Matter and daught er, Mr. and Mrs. W. C. Schaublin and Mr. and Mrs. W. F. Gratz spent Sun day evening with Mr. and Mrs. Ern est Gratz and grandaughter, Mary. 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