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The Caldwell watchman. (Columbia, La.) 1885-1946, June 11, 1915, Image 3

Image and text provided by Louisiana State University; Baton Rouge, LA

Persistent link: https://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/lccn/sn88064181/1915-06-11/ed-1/seq-3/

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' GEORGE I BiR M~CUTCIIWNO
LLUSTRmAONS ~RAY WALTERS
,,' DO AD M* * *,
SYNOPSIS.
-9
n the New York home of James Brood,
i son, Frederic, receives a wireless
,m him. Frederic tells Lydia Des
mnd, his fiancee, that the message an
unces his father's marriage, and orders
rs. Desmond, the housekeeper and
(dlae mother, to prepare the house for
i immediate home-coming. Brood and
s bride arrive. She wins Frederic's ilk
g at first meeting. Brood shows dislike
id veiled hostility to his son. Lydia and
rs. Brood met in the jade-room, where
ydia works as Brood's secretary. Mrs.
rood is startled by the appearance &t
anjab, Brood's Hindu servant. She
lakes changes In the household and gains
er husband's consent to send Mrs. Des
iond and Lydia away. She fascinates
'rederic. She begins to fear Itanjab in
is uncanny appearances and disappear
nees, and Frederic, remembering his
ather's East Indian stories and firm be
lef in magic, fears unknown evil. Ran
ab performs feats of magic for Dlawes
end Riggs. Frederic's father, jealous, un
ustly orders his son from the dinner table
is drunk. Brood tells the story of Ran
lab's life to his guests. "lie killed a wom
in" who was unfaithful to him. Yvonne
plays with Frederic's infatuation for her.
Her husband warns her that the thing
must not go on. Sihe tells him that he
still 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 that
Frederic is not his son, and that he has
brought him up to kill his happiness at
the prope r time with this knowledge.
Frederic takes Lydia home through a
heavy storm and spends the night at her
mother's house. His wavering allegiance
to her is strengthened by a day spent
with her. Yvonne, over the phone rouses
Frederic's infatuation for her again. Lydia
goes to beg Brood not to tell Frederic of
is unhappy parentage, but is turned from
her purpose.
CHAPTER XIlI-Continued.
Lydia resolved to take the plunge.
Now was the time to speak plainly to
this woman of the thing that was hurt
ing her almost beyond the limits of
endurance. Her voice was rather high
pitched. She had the fear that she
would not be able to control it.
"I should be blind not to have ob
served the cruel position in which you
are placing Frederic. Is it surprising
that your husband has eyes as well as
IT What must be his thoughts, Mrs.
Brood?"
She expected an outburst, a torrent
of indignation, an angry storm of
words, and was therefore unprepared
for the piteous, hunted expression that
came swiftly into the lovely eyes, bent
so appealingly upon her own, which
were cold and accusing. Here was a
new phase to this extraordinary crea
after all, and Lydia despised a coward.
The look of scorn deepened in her
eyes, and out from her heart rushed
all that was soft and tender in her
nature, leaving it barren of all com
passion.
"I do not want to hurt Frederic,"
murmured Yvonne. "I-I am sorry
If-"
"You are hurting him dreadfully,"
said Lydia, suddenly choking up with
emotion.
"He is not-not in love with me,"
declared Yvonne.
"No," said the girl, regaining con
trol of herself, "he is not in love with
you. That is the whole trouble. He
is in love with me. But-can't you
see ?"
"You are a wise young woman to
know men so well," said the other
enigmatically. "I have never believed
in St. Anthony."
"Nor I," said Lydia, and was sur
prised at herself.
"Do you consider me to be a bad
roman, Lydia?" Her lips trembled.
There was a suspicious quiver to her
chin.
"No, I do not," pronounced the girl
flatly. "If I could only think that of
iou t would explain everything and
I should know just how to treat you.
But I do not think it of you."
With a long, deep sigh, Yvonne crept
closer and laid her head against Lyd
ta's shoulder. The girl's body stif
fened, her brow grew dark with an
noyance.
"I am afraid you do not understand,
Mrs. Brood. The fact still remains
that you have not considered Fred
eric's peace of mind."
"Nor yours," murmured the other,
abjectly.
"Nor mine," confessed Lydia, after
a moment.
"I did ait know that you and Fred
erio were in love with each other until
I had been here for some time," Mrs.
Brood explained, suddenly fretful.
"What kind of a woman are your'?"
burst from Lydia's indignant soul,
"Have you no conception of the finer,
nobler-"
Yvonne deliberately put' her hand
over the girl's lips, checking the fierce
outburst She smiled rather plain
tively as Lydia tried to jerk her head
to one side in order to continue her
reckless indictment.
"You shall not say it, Lydia. I am
not all that yaou think I am. No, no,
a thousad times no. God pity me, 1
am more accursed than yeou may think
with the finer and nobler instinct It
it were not so, do you think I should
be where I amr now?--crlaging here
like a beaten child? No, you cannot
undbrstand-you. never will under
_stand I shall say no more. It is
'ende I swear on my soul that'I
did not know you were Frederic's
sweetheart. I did not know-"
"But yeou knew almost immediately
after you came here," exclaimed
.Lrdla, harshly. "It l not myself 1
am thinking of, Mrs. Brood, but of
Frederic. Why have you done this
abominable thing to him? Why?"
"I-I did not realize what it would
mean to him," said the other, desper
ately. "I-I did not count all the cost.
But, -dearest Lydia, it will come out
all right again, I promise you. I have
made a horrible, horrible mistake. I
can say no more. Now, let me lie here
with my head upon your breast. I
want to feel the beating of your pure,
honest heart-the heart that I have
hurt. I can tell by its throbs whether
it will ever soften toward me. Do not
say anything now-let us be still."
It would be difficult to describe the
feelings of Lydia Desmond as she sat
there with the despised though to be
adored head pillowed upon her breast,
where it now rested in a sort of confi
dent repose, as if there was safety in
the very strength of the young girl's
disapproval. Yvonne had twisted her
lithe' body on the chaise longue so that
she half-faced Lydia. Her free arm,
from which the loose sleeve had
fallen, leaving it bare to the shoulder,
was about the girl's neck.
For a long time Lydia stared
straight before her, seeing nothing,
positively dumb with wonder and ac
knowledging a sense of dismay over
her own disposition to submit to this
extraordinary situation. She was ask
ing herself why she did not cast the
woman away, why she .lacked the
power to resent by deed as well as by
thought. Life-marvelous, adorable
life rested there on her breast. This
woman had hurt her-had hur` her
wantonly-and yet there came steal
ing over her, subtly, the conviction
that she could never hurt her in re
turn. She could never bring herself
to the point of hurting this wondrous,
living, breathing, throbbing creature
9 who pleaded, not only with her lips
B and eyes, but with the gentle heart
I" beats that rose and fell in her throat.
After a long time, in which there
was conflict, she suddenly pressed her
warm lips to Yvonne's. Then in an
a abrupt revulsion of feeling her arms
t fell away from the warm, sweet body
t and almost roughly she pushed Yvonne
away from her.
"I-I didn't mean to do that!" she
gasped.
'the other smiled, but it was a sad.
plaintive effort on her part. "I knew
d that you would," she repeated.
Lydia sprang to her feet, her face
r suddenly flaming with embarrassment.
"I must see Mr. Brood. I stopped in
to tell him that-" she began, trying
to cover her confusion, but Yvonne in
terrupted.
"I know that you could not help it,
I my dear," she said. Then, after a
pause: "You will let me know what
my husband has to say about it?"
"T6-say about it?"
"About your decision to marry Fred
eric in spite of his ohiections."
Lydia felt a little shiver race over
her as she looked toward the door.
"You will help us?" she said, trem
ulously, turning to Yvonne. Again she
saw the drawn, pained look about the
dark eyes and was startled.
"You can do more with him than
I," was the response.
CHAPTER XIV.
8ensations.
Lydia stopped for a moment in the
hall, after closing the door behind her,
to pull herself together for the ordeal
that was still to come. She was
trembling; a weakness had assailed
her. She had left Yvonne's presence
In a dazed, unsettled condition of
mind. There was a lapse of some kind
that she could neither account for nor
describe even to herself. The black
velvet coat that formed a part of her
trig suit, hung limply in her hand,
dragging along the floor as she moved
with hesitating steps in the direction
of James Brood's study. A sickening
estimate of her own strength of pur
pose confronted her. She was sud-I
denly afraid of the man who had
always been her friend. Somehow
she felt that he would turn upon her 1
and rend her, tbhise man who had al-'
ways been so gentle and considerate- I
and who had killed things!
Ranjab appeared at the head of the
stairs. She waited for his dignal to
ascend, somehow feeling that Brood a
had sent him forth to summon her.
Her hand sought the stair rail and
gripped it tightly. Her lips parted in
a stiff smile. Now she knew that she
was turning coward, that she longed
to put of the meeting until tomow' '
row--tomorrow!
The Hindu came down the stairs. ,
quickly, noiselessly.
"The master say to come tomorrow,
tomorrow as usual," he said, as he
paused above her on the steps.
"It-it must be today," she said, dog.
gedly, even as the thrill of rollef shot
through her.
"Tomorrow," said the man. His eyes i
were kindly inquiring. "Sahib say you *
are to rest" There was a pause. "To a
morrow will not be too late." '
She started. Had he read the thought E
that was in her mind?
"Thank you, Ranjah," she said, after i
a moment of indecision. "I will come
tomorrow."
Then she slunk downstairs and out
of the house, convinced that she had
failed Frederic in his hour of great
est need, that tomorrow would be too
late.
Frederic did not come in for dinner
until after his father and Yvonne had
gone from the house. He did not in
quire for them, but instructed Jones
to say to the old gentlemen that he
would be pleased to dine with them
if they could allow him the time to
"change." He also told Jones to open
a single bottle of champagne and to
place three glasses.
Later on Frederic made his an
nouncement to the old men. In the
fever of an excitement that caused
him to forget that Lydia might be en
titled to some voice in the matter, he
deliberately committed her to the proj
ect that had become a fixed thing in
his mind the instant he set foot in
the house and found it empty-oh, so
empty!
Jones' practiced hand shook slightly
as he poured the wine. The old men
drank rather noisily. They, too, were
excited. Mr. Riggs smacked his lips
and squinted at the chandelier as if
trying to decide upon the vintage, but
in reality doing his best to keep from
coughing up the wine that had gone
the wrong way in a moment of pro
found paralysis.
"The best news I've heard since Ju
das died," said Mr. Dawes, manfully.
"Fill 'em up again, Jones. I want to
r propose the health of Mrs. Brood."
"t The future Mrs. Brood," hissed Mr.
Riggs, wheezily, glaring at his com
rade. "Ass!"
"I'm not married yet, Mr. Dawes,"
exclaimed Frederic, grinning.
"Makes no difference," said Mr.
Dawes, stoutly. "Far as I'm concerned,
you are. We'll be the first to drink
r to Lydia Brood! The first to call her
3 by that name, gentlemen. God bless
her!"
"God bless her!" shouted Mr. Riggs.
"God bless her!" echoed Frederic.
and they drained their glasses to
a Lydia Brood.
"Jones, open another bottle," com
r manded Mr. Dawes, loftily.
Frederic shook his head and two
1 faces fell. Right bravely, however, the
old men maintained a joyous interest
f in the occasion. The young man
turned moody, thoughtful; the unwont
ed exhilaration died as suddenly as it
had come into existence. A shadow
crossed his vision and he followed it
with his thoughts. A sense of utter
loneliness came over him with a swift
r ness that sickened, nauseated him. The
food was flat to his taste; he could
not eat. Self-commiseration stifled
him. He suddenly realized that he
had never been so lonely, so unhap
in all his life as lhe w
maent. ,
His thoughts were of his father.
vast, inexplicable longing possedsed
his soul-a longing for the affection of
this man who was never tender, who
stood afar off and was lonely, too. He
could not understand this astounding
I change of feeling. He had never felt
just this way before. There had been
- times-and many-when his heart was
sore with longing, but they were of
other days, childhood days. Tonight
She could not crush out the thought of
Lydia Stopped for a Moment in the
Hall.
how ineffably happy, how peaceful life
would be if his father were to lay his
hands upon his shoulders and say, "My
son, I love you-I love you dearly."
There would be no more lonely days;
all that was bitter in his life would be
swept away in the twinkling of an
eye; the world would be full of Joy for
himn and for Lydia.
When he entered the house that
evening he was full of resentment
toward hl-frther, and sullen with the
remains of an ugly rage. And now to
be actually cravingt the affection of the
man who humbled him, even in the
presence of servantal It was aunbe
lievable. He gorld not understand
himself. A wondertful, compelli ten
derness filled his heart. He longed to
throw himself at his father's feet and
soave his pardon for the bharsh, venge
ful thoughts he had spent upon him
in those black hours. He haungered
for a word of kindness or of under.
standing on which he could feed his
starving spouL He wanted his father's
love. He wanted, more than anything
else in the world,'to love his father.
Lydia slipped out of his mind.
Yvronne was set aside in this imetorali
moment. He had not thought of them a
except in their relation to a completed I1
state of happiness for his father. In t,
distinctly he recognized them as essen
tial1
Ay, he was lowly. The house was o
as bleak as the stippts of Siberia lice C
longed for companionship, friendship, ti
kindness--and suddenly in the midst s
of it all he leaped to his feet. s
"I'm going out, gentlemen," he ex
claimed, breaking in upon an unappre- .
elated tale that Mr. Itiggs was relat- o
ing at sonme length and with consider- c
able fierceness in view of the fact that 1
Mr. Dawes had pulled him up rather s
sharply once or twice in a matter of t
inaccuracies, "Excuse me, please."
He left them gaping with astonish
meat and daslhed out into fithe hall for
his coat and hat. Even then he had
no definite notion as to what his next
move would be, save that he was going
out-some\where, anywhere, he did not
care.
Somehow, as he rushed down the
front steps with the cool night air
blowing in his face, there surged un
within him a strong, overpowering
sense of filial duty. It was his duty to
make the first advances. It was for
him to pave the way to peace and hap
piness. Something vague but disturb
ing tormented him with the fear that
his father faced a grave peril and that
his own place was beside him and not
against him, as he had been in all
these illy directed years. He could
not put it away from him, this thought
that his father was in danger-in dan
ger of something that was not phys
ical, something from which, with all
his valor, he had no adequate form of
defense.
At the corner he paused, checked by
an irresistible impulse to look back
ward at the house he had just left. To
his surprise there was a light in the
drawing-room windows facing the
street. The shades in one of 'them i
had been thrown wide open and a
stream of light flared out across the I
sidewalk,
Framed in this oblong square of
light stood the figure of a man. Slowly, I
as if drawn by a force he could not i
resist, the young man retraced his
steps until he stood directly in front
of the window. A questioning smile
was on his lips. He was looking up
into Ranjab's shadowy, unsmiling face,
dimly visible in the glow froip the I
distant street lamp. For a long time
they stared at each other, no sign of
recognition passing between them. The
Hindu's face was as rigid, as emotion
less as itf carved out of stone; his
eyes were unwavering. Frederic could
see them, even in the shadows. He
hid the queer feeling that, though the
ln gave no sign, he had something
wanted to say to him, that he was
ually calling to him to come back
i the house.
1th.elt man. outside took
lting steps toward the door.
, his gaze still fixed on the face in
the;window. Then he broke the spell.
It *as a notion on his part, he argued.
If he had been wanted his father's
servant would have beckoned to him.
He would not have stood there like
a graven image, starihig out into the
night. Having convinced himself of
this, Frederic wheeled and swung off
up the street once more, walking rap
idly, as one who is pursued. Turning,
he waved his hand it the man in the
window. He received no response.
Farther off he looked back once more.
The Hindu still was there. Long after
he was out of sight, of the house he
cast frequent glances over his shoul
der as if still expecting to see the
lighted window and its occupant.
As he made his way to Droadway,
somewhat hazily bent on following that
thoroughfare to the district where the
night glittered and the stars were
shamed, he began turning over in his
mind a queer notion that had just sug
gested itself to him, filtering through
the maze of uncertainty in which he
had been floundering. It occurred to
him that he had been mawkishly sen
timental in respect to his father. His
attitude had not changed-he was serl
ously impressed by the feelings that
had mastered him-but he found him
self ridiculing the idea that his father
stood in peril of any description. And
suddenly, out of no particular trend of
thought, groped the sly, persistent sus
picion that he had not been altogether
responsible for the sensations of an
hour ago. Some outside influence had
molded his emotions for him, some
cunning brain had been doing his
thinking for him.
Then came the sharp recollection
of that motionless, commanding figure
in the lighted window, and his own
puzzling behavior on the sidewalk out
side. He recalled his impression that
someone had called out to him just
before he turned to look up at the
window. It was all quite preposterous,
he kept on saying over and over again
to himself, and yet he could not shake
off the uncanny feeling.
Earlier in the evening, without warn
ing, without the slightest encourage
ment on his part, there had suddenly
leaped into existence a warm, tender
and wholly inexplicable feeling toward
his father. At firat he had been
amased by this unwonted, almost un
natural teeling, which later on devel
oped into something quite tangible in
the way of an emotion, but he was be
gininga to realize that the real mys
terr lay outside of any self-analysis
he could make. iUke a shot there
flashed into his brain the startling
question: Was RmaJb the solution?
Wuas it Ranjab's mind and not his own
that had moved him to such tender
resolvest Could such a condition be
possiblet Was there such a thing as
mind control?
An haour later Frederic approached
the box omeb. of the theater mentioned
by YVonne over the telephone that
i morning. The play was half over and
Ith. hoase was sold out, He bourhtJ
a ticket of admission, however, and i4
I lined up with others who were content n
to stand at the back to witness the si
play. inside the theater he leaned g
weakly against the railing at the back h
of the auditorium and wiped his brow. c
What was it that had dragged him fi
there against his will, in direct oppo- h
sition to his dogged determination to s
shun the place? r
The curtain was up, the house was c
still, save for the occasional coughing
of those who succumb to a habit that r
can neither be helped nor explained tl
There were people moving on the w
stage, but Frederic had no eyes for tl
them. He was seeking in the dark- fi
I I
er somewhere in the big, tens
ti
t
t I
e 11
a were somewhere in the big, tense
The lights went up and the house
f was bright. Men began scurrying up
r, the aisles. He moved up to the railing
it again and resumed his eager scrutiny I
a of the throng. He could not find them.
t At first he was conscious of disap
e pointment, then he gave way to an I
p absurd rage. Yvonne had misled him,
s, she had deceived him-ay, she had I
e lied to him. They were not in the I
e audience, they had not even contem- 1
if plated coming to this theater. He had
e been tricked, deliberately tricked. No
1- doubt they were seated in some other
5 place of amusement, serenely enjoying
d themselves. The thought of it mad
e dened him. And then, just as he was
e on the point of tearing out of the
g house, he saw them, and the blood
is rushed to his head so violently that
k he was almost blinded.
He caught sight of his father far
Ik down in front, and then the dark, half
r- obscured head of Yvonne. He could
Ln not see their faces, but there was no
ll. mistaking them for anyone else. He
d. only marvelled that he had not seen
's them before, even In the semidarkness.
n. They now appeared to be the only
ce people in the theater; he could see no
ie one else.
James Brood's fine, aristocratic head
was turned slightly toward his wife,
P who, as Frederic observed after chang
Sing his position to one of better ad
ie vantage, app-ently was relating some
e. thing amusing to him. They undoubt
. edly were enjoying themselves. Once
r more the great, almost suffocating
wave of tenderness for his father
Sswept over him, mysteriously as be
e fore and as convincing. He experi
enced a sudden, inexplicable feeling
Y of pity for the strong, virile man who
t had never revealed the slightest symp
ie tom of pity for him. The same curi
re ous desire to put his hands on his
is father's shoulders and tell him that
g. all was well with them came over him
b again.
Ie involuntarily he glanced over his
to shoulder, and the fear was in his heart
Sthat somewhere in the shifting throng
is his gaze would light upon the face
of Ranjab!
Long and intently his searching
nr gaze went through the crowd, seeking
r the remote corners and shadows of the
f oyer, and a deep breath of relief
escaped him when it became evident
that the Hindu was not there. He had,
Sin a measure, proved his own cause;
in his emotions were genuinely his own
and not the outgrowth of an influence
for good exercised over him by the
Brahmin.
He began what he was pleased to
Sterm a systematic analyis -of his emec
re tions covering the entire evening, all
tn the while regarding the couple in the
orchestra chairs with a gaze unswerv
st ing in its fidelity to the sensation that
now controlled him-a sensation of
impending peril.
All at once he alunk farther back
in to the shadow, a guilty flush mount
ing to his cheek Yvonne had turned
and was staring rather fixedly in his
Sdirection. Despite the knowledge that
he was quite completely concealed by
Sthe intervening group of loungers, he
Ssustained a distinct shock. He had
Sthe uncanny feeling that she was look
I ln directly into his eyes. Bhe had
turned abruptly, as if some one had
Scalled out to attract her attention and
in she had obeyed the sudden impulse.
SA moment later her calmly impersonal
aPze swept on, taking in the sections
to her right and the balcony, and then
went back to her husband's face.
ag Frederic was many minutes in re
Scovering from the effects of the queer
shock he had received. He could not
get it out of his head that she knew
She was there, that she actually turned
in answer to the call of his mind. She
d had not searched for him; on the con
d trary, she directed her gaze instantly
t to the spot where he stood concealed.
d Actuated by a certain sense of guilt,
a he decided to leave the theater as
soon as the curtain went up on the
next act, which was to be the last. In
stead of doing so, however, he lin
gered to the end of the play, secure in
his conscienceless espionage. It had
come to him that if he miet them Ia
front of the theater as they came out
he could invite them to join him at
supper in one of the nearby restau
rants. The idea pleased him. He
coddled it until it became a sensatlou.
When James Brood and his wife
reached the sidewalk they found him
there, directly in their path, as they
wedged their way to the curb to await
the automobile. lie was smiling
frankly, wistfully. There was an hon
est gladness in his fine, boyish face
and an eager light in his eyes. lie no
longer had the sense of guilt in his
soul, It had been a passing qualm,
and he felt regenerated for having ex
perienced it, eve'i so briefly. Some
how it had purged his soul of the one
lingering doubt as to the sincerity of
his impulses.
"Hello!" he said, planting himself
squarely in front of them.
There was a miionientary tableau. ile
was vi.idly aware of the fact that
Yvonne had shrunk back in alarm, and
that a swift look of fear leaped into
her surprised eyes. She drew c,:ser
to Brood's side--or was it the jostling
of the crowd that made it seem to be
so? lie realized then that she had not
seen him in the theater. 1ier surprise
was genuine. It was not much short
of consternation, a fact that he re
alized with a sudden sinking of the
heart.
Then his eyes went quickly to his
father's face. .James )Brood was re
garding him i'ith a cold, significant
smile, as one who understands and
despises.
"They told me you were here," fal
tered Frederic, the words rushing hur
riedly through his lips, "and I thought
we might run ii somewhere and have
a bite to eat. I-I want to tell you
about Lydia and myself and what-"
The carriage man bawled a number
in his ear and Jerked open the door
of a limousine that had just pulled up
the the curb.
Without a wt.rd, James Brood hand
ed his wife into the car and then
turned to the thauffeur.
"Home," he said, and, without so
1 much as a glai ce at Frederic, stepped
e inside. The door was slammed and
the car slid out Into the maelstrom.
I Yvonne had sunk back into a corner,
o huddled down as if suddenly deprived
r of all her strength. Frederic saw her
g face as the car moved away. She was
I- staring at him with wide-open, re
s proachful eyes, a1 if to say: "Oh, what
e have you done? What a fool you arel"
d For a second or two he stood as it
it petrified. Then overything went red
gFor a Second or Two He Stood as V
Petrified.
before him, a wicked red that blinded
him. He staggered as it from a blow
in the face.
"My God!" slipped from his stlu
lips, and tears leaped to his eyes-
tears of supreme mortification. Like
a beaten dog he slunk away, feeling.
himself pierced by the pitying gase
of every mortal in the street.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
S Vogue of White Paint.
A clever decorator who remodeled
Sthe dining room in a New England
t farm house has even gone so far In
her use of white paint as to finish the
floors with it. The woodwork and
furniture were also white, but pleant?
of color was introdaced by bright
Schintz-patterned paper and plain
Is bright green rugs. The white dnlnlg
room table was always bare, whichtob
y allowed the mistress to use many at.
etractvely colored dolly sets. HRe
id china showed up to splendid advae
t tage on this white ground, and tli
d flowers from the garden seemed S,
usually bright and pretty in the midst
dof all this white. A country boam
. near Cleveland has all its dfloors paint'
Sed white, with bright green, blue sad
Spurple rugs used to oarry out certain
in color schemes. Of course, using white
on floors is practital only when yen
Sare far from the city's sr9ke or ame
rtor's dust.-The Countryside Map,
t ine.
Happy Time.
e "The cotton growers seem to be
Shard hit."
S"Yes. And many of them are lolp
Slng for the good old days when all the
t, had to worry about was the bol wa
a vi"

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