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I SHINING PALACE
I itv Christine whiting i'armeivter * <:o i yhm.ii r in <; 11 itis r i vi; whiting imiuii;nti:h _ w\t si:hvm:i: 4f CHAPTER Xl—Continued — ls — laughed, and Jim Perkins, finding his voice at last, exploded: “Well, I’ll tell the world you can play, Mis’ Mason! I never heard nothin’ like it except over the radio; and if you ask me, you’ve got that feller named Hoffmann beat to a frazzle!” Leonora arose from the packing box to acknowledge his honest trib ute with a curtsey; while Don sug gested: “Give them some more, Nora, before they leave,” and for twenty minutes Nora played to as appreciative an audience as any artist could desire. Indeed, the Portland men would accept only the minutest payment for their serv ices. “It wa’n’t nothin’,” declared the older man as they arose to go. “Nothin’ at all; and the music was pay enough anyhow. Wasn’t it, Joe?” “Joe,” still dazed, assented with a mute nod. They departed munch ing Nora’s molasses cookies, and, Don told her (when Tom Littlefield had returned to the box stall which he was converting into the north end of a “banquet hall”), with “their souls refreshed.” And next morning, as if Fate were really trying to make up for past unkindnesses, Don received a note from the editor of an American weekly, to whom he had sent one of his “Letters from Cape Town.” The article, it seemed, had filled a long-felt want. Check for American magazine rights was “herewith en closed,” and they would be glad to run the entire series during the coming year. The check, compared with those received from England for the same material, was almost dazzling; and they both appeared to go a little mad. Nora rushed to the piano, while Don, to the exceeding joy of his small sons, proceeded to dance the Highland Fling. When the music ceased and he dropped breathless into the red lac quer chair, Tom Littlefield, who had arrived during the commotion, in quired if he should call the doctor, “or are you cornin’ out o’ that con niption fit all right alone?” In answer Don tossed him the in credible check. “That’s yours, Mr. Littlefield. You can blame that innocent strip of paper for this vaudeville act of mine which was put on merely to cele brate the fact that, for the time be ing, anyhow, the dark cloud of finan cial worry has vanished from the horizon. We’re sane again now, and I’ll get back to the shingling if that’s what you want.” Not until the last possible mo ment did they leave the place. Nev er had they left any place with such regret. The weather had been almost miraculously perfect for that time of year, a fall long remem bered by the natives. Tom Little field, possessed of minute directions from Leonora, planned to go on with the work when other jobs were scarce. “It’ll be a real life-saver to me, Mis’ Mason,” he assured her. “There ain’t much doin’ here come wintertime, and I get restless. I’ll be more’n glad to keep an eye on the place and do a day’s work now and then; and when you come back next spring things’ll be ship-shape. I declare, I—l’m downright sorry to see you go.” “And I’d give almost anything to stay, Mr. Littlefield,” Nora con fessed. “After all, there’s no place like home, is there?—and I’ve nev er had one of my own before. Not for worlds would I have Mr. Mason suspect it, but I don’t mind owning up to you that I dread to leave.” She did; yet a happy winter with Constance Venable (who had sold Hie ill-fated island where Carl met his death, and for financial reasons was staying abroad indefinitely) lay just ahead. Things were going ex tremely well when they returned to Maine for another summer; and as a complete surprise Nora discov ered not only running water in her box stall kitchen, but a small and shining bathroom, the result of an intrigue between her husband and the old Maine builder. Not until that summer did she hint to her father of this permanent abiding place. Going to the beauti ful antique desk which they had purchased of “our egg lady,” as the boys called her (“Because,” the woman explained when Don told her honestly that it was worth much more than he could give, “them antique dealers is makin’ my life miserable anyhow, and Mis’ Mason never forgets to ask after my sick boy”)—going to that desk Nora con structed the postal card that was to play an important part in her life some three years later. Glanc ing over her shoulder as she fin ished it, Don smiled a bit sadly at what he feared was merely an other disappointment. It was, he observed, a fantastic postal. First came the verse from which the old notary had quoted the dgy they signed the deeds. Be low this Nora had written her ad dress, followed by: “If taxi is un available, take trolley car to end of line and proceed as follows,” after which was a tiny map drawn in red ink. She said, turning to look up at Don: “That verse about the shin ing palace is an invitation, and if it arrives when Dad’s in a relenting mood, he may accept it.” Don said nothing. It sometimes troubled him that in all these years Nora had never lost hold of the con viction that her father would reach a moment of surrender. Person ally, Don didn’t believe it, not after the old man’s silence when in formed of the arrival of his name sake, James Lambert Mason. It was hard for Don to forgive that silence when he recalled how, spent with the hours of fear and anguish, Nora had looked up at him from her narrow berth on that storm tossed ship, to say: “If—if it’s only a boy, dear, so we can name him for Father, I sha’n’t mind—any thing. It—it will bring us togeth er.” Well, mused Don, turning away from his wife’s eyes, it was a boy, and it had not brought them one inch nearer. Jimsy was more than three years old, and his grandfather had not expressed the? slightest in terest in his existence. It wasn’t “There’s our theater ahead now.” in Don to comprehend how anyone could be so stubbornly resentful— so unkind. Impatient at the situa tion he once said as much, and Nora answered: “It’s not just that, Don. You see, he loved my mother above anything on earth, yet she hurt him unspeak ably. And, though it wasn’t my fault, perhaps, I hurt him, too. I think he doesn’t dare let me get near him any more. Don’t you un derstand? He’s afraid of being hurt again.” So she mailed her postal, hoped for a time, and then decided that the hour of relenting had not come. But despite this disappointment Nora was very happy that summer. Don was always glad to remem ber how happy she had been. As the months passed, her new home became almost as perfect as she dreamed it could be; and even Tom Littlefield admitted that the “ball room” was not too big. “And it’s cozy, isn’t it?” prod ded Leonora, determined to make the old carpenter give in. “O, it’s cozy enough,” he as sented, albeit grudgingly; “but I still think, if you was to ask me, Mis’ Mason, that it’s all out o’ pro portion to the size o’ the kitchen.” “But we don’t live in the kitch en,” Nora retorted. “And I ain’t ever heard o’ any body livin’ in a ball room, either,” snapped the old man. He was a frequent caller, as was the notary at the Port. The latter had a standing invitation to Sunday dinner, which was quite as likely to be served on the beach as in the banquet hall. Afterwards he would find his way into the big liv-. ing room and browse among the books, sometimes reading aloud from his beloved poets to Nora, sometimes reading from “Peter Rabbit” to the boys. “He’s as good as a grandfather,” said Don one Sunday afternoon when he found the old man with both children in his lap; and then wished he hadn’t spoken because Nora’s face clouded at the words. The summer drifted by. Septem ber came, and with it the chance Don was hoping for, something he had kept secret from his wife fear ing to cause her disappointment should it not work out. For Nora had hinted to the little boys that Santa Claus might possibly bring them a “baby sister,” and Don was determined that their mother should not be dragged to Europe if such a step could be avoided. He knew that the "Letters from Cape Town” had proved even more popular than tha American editor expected. MIDLAND JOURNAL, RISING SUN, MD. There was no reason to think he would not be amenable to the sug gestion that there was a vast amount of interesting material on their own West. Don planned a se ries of articles called “Seeing America First,” submitted the idea, and waited impatiently for the ver dict. Not knowing that the great man was away on a vacation, the letter seemed long in coming; but it brought good news. The editor con sidered this plan “most interest ing,” and requested that x Don stop off in Chicago on the way West to consult a personal friend of his who had been over the ground recently and might give him some valuable data . . . And would he plan so that the first article could be run in February? Nora wept with relief when she heard the news—Nora, who so sel dom gave way to tears. “I’ve been dreading so awfully to start out again,” she told him, “but this is different. If, as you say, we can stay at San Diego until after New Year’s, everything will be easy. I can settl| you somewhere, and then go to a hospital for the event. And next spring we can come home for a long summer. Don’t mind my crying, Don. It— it’s only the heavenly relief.” “You poor dear nomad!” said Don tenderly. And then added: “If all goes well, darling, we’ll install a furnace here next summer so we can stay as late as you want to in the fall.” “I believe,” smiled Nora, wink ing away the last of her foolish tears, “I believe you’ve discov ered the advantages of a home yourself, Don!” CHAPTER XII They reached Chicago on a bleak November morning. Wind was blow ing across Lake Michigan in wintry gusts, and the weather man pre dicted snow. It came, a blizzard out of the north. For two days they were storm-bound in a boarding house run by an old nurse of Con stance Venable’s—one of the many whom Carl’s unfailing generosity had helped. On the third afternoon when the city was digging out of snow drifts and the sun was making a half hearted effort to show its face, their hostess said: “Why don’t you two go for a little walk? I’ll look after the children. I’d really like to; and a breath of outdoor air will do you good.” “Come on,” said Don, brighten ing at the prospect of some activ ity. “If you get tired, Nora, we’ll drop in at a movie for an hour.” “That’s right,” urged the woman, glad to be of service to these friends of her beloved Venables. “You’ll find a theater three blocks down. It’s a cheap place, opened only a week ago; but it’ll do to get warm in.” “Sure!” agreed Don, “and a lurid picture won’t hurt old folks like us!” The wind sprang up again as they started out; and the sun, discour aged, retired behind a cloud. “I guess three blocks’ll be about enough!” Don laughed as they ducked their heads against the weather. “Those Italian winters have spoiled us, Nora; but I hear we’re liable to fry in Arizona. That’s one place I haven’t been, my dear, and I’m crazy to see it. There’s our theater ahead now. Looks cheap all right. I - bet the snow’s packed solid behind that false front roof. There’s weight to this snow, Nora. I hope—” What Don hoped was lost in a gust of wind that fairly blew them into fhe lobby of the theater. Smart Crow Often Has to Fight Other Birds, but He Always Calls for Help The natural enemy of the crow is the hawk. Blackbirds, bluebirds, swallows, and at times robins, will fight them viciously. However, the crow is smart—smarter than most of the feathered world—in that he will fight only when backed by a company of his kind. Virtually all other birds and animals hupt alone. The crow will feed alone, but when trouble arises he begins caw ing for help and a whole platoon of his companions is soon on the scene to help. Because of these gang methods, however, the crow furnishes excellent sport for the shooter because he is easily de coyed. Anyone armed with a crow call can have excellent sport calling and shooting the black robbers. There are several ways in which to hunt them, advises at writer in the Chi cago Daily News. A stuffed or live hawk or owl is an excellent decoy. The decoy should be placed in the open and the gunner should hide in near-by woods. Then he should blow his crow call lustily. He soon is re warded by the approach of crows. Another method is to locate a roost, where the crows coma in by the thousands for the night. This "Perhaps we’d better go right back,” gasped Nora. "The wind is certainly getting worse. It wouldn’t surprise me if it stormed again.” “Me, either; but you’re complete ly out of breath, dear. Let’s get inside and rest for a few minutes. It’ll be easier going home with the wind at our backs, you know. We can sit in the last row, Nora, and slip out any time we’re bored. You need to rest after that fight with the elements.” This was sane logic, so they went inside. "Looks as if all the kiddies of the neighborhood had come in out of the storm,” Don whispered as their eyes grew accustomed to the dim ness. “Why didn’t we think to bring the boys?” Nora smiled. Don always regret ted his sons’ absence when other children were in evidence. She said, softly: "They’re better off where they are. There’s such a crowd, and the air is terrible. Why!—Why what—” Her voice rose a little. Her head lifted. Later Nora was to remem ber that she had thought herself ill because the whole building seemed to tremble and the roof looked as if it were crumbling up, slowly. The most curious sensation, a sort of chill, ran over her—all in a sec ond, of course, for Don was already on his feet, holding her wrist in a grip that tortured. Just as they reached the lobby the crash came. And then a cry went up behind them —a cry that was to ring in Nora’s ears for months. It sound ed, she thought, like an awful and terrifying wave of protest from a single throat . . . They were in the street ... Al ready a throng of morbid onlookers had gathered . . People (Oh, fortunate people!) were pouring out of the doomed theater . . . Po licemen, dozens of them, it seemed to Nora, sprang up like magic . . . Firemen were there, trying to rope off space . . pushing them back. It was then that Don, who had been stunned into a horrified si lence, roused himself with a convul sive shudder. He turned to Nora— looked down into her upturned face —stared into it so curiously that she grasped his arm, crying: “Oh, thank God we are safe, Don!” And still he looked at her . . . An ambulance gong sounded . . . Somewhere beyond the rope a wom an screamed ... A man pushed by them, wild-eyed, dishevelled . . . Above the tumult a child’s terrified voice cried out: “Mother! Where’s my mother?” . . . Don said, still staring down with that extraordinary gravity: “But I must go back, Nora. Those children . . . They might be ours . . . I’ve got to help . . . You must go home now, darling. Go home to the little boys. They need you . . Don’t you see that—that I have got to help?” Before she could say one word, he stooped—kissed her—was gone, eluding the quick grasp of a fire man-unheeding the shout of protest from another. Those feet, those buoyant feet which had borne Don so joyously on his adventures, were bearing him now on still another, bearing him swiftly, swiftly, lest they falter ... v Nora was standing there three hours later when they brought him out. Three hours of horror—three hours of numbing cold—three hours of torment. He was the last to come, his broken body carried ten derly by two firemen. Nora, close to the ropes, cried out at sight of him: “Don! Dearest! I’m waiting for you. I—l am here, Don!” (TO BE CONTINUED) takes some time and quite elaborate preparations. Once the roost is lo cated the shooter should watch the line of flight of the crows and build himself a blind in a woods or field in line with this flight. Then around the blind he should stake out decoy crows, silhouettes or stuffed imi tations of the black birds. When the flight to the roost starts in the afternoon the shooter occupies the blind, calls lustily at the ap proach of the crows, and decoys and kills them much as a hunter kills waterfowl. Crows, conservation departments declare, are excellent eating. Grant Not Interested in War Ulysses S. Grant, one of the strangest characters in all history, made a mess of everything he un dertook till near middle-age,' to be come commander in chief of the Union armies and President. And perhaps the oddest thing in the odd story of an odd nature was his life long distaste for the military life in which his reputation was made. He always disclaimed the calling of warrior, and when visiting _ after the war he told the astonished Bismarck that he took no interest in military affairs. r-TODAY’S STORY Lord Macbeth Found Similar To Gangster By ELIZABETH C. JAMES ¥ F YOU were to take the man Mac . beth out of William Shakespeare’s play, he would make a modem gangster. He strongly resembles A1 Capone and John Dillinger. Macbeth was unfit for organized society, he did not adapt himself to the scheme of things, but rather he tried to fit the world around himself. Selfishness ruled his thinking, he wanted that which belonged to oth ers. His ego desired to be the head of the JeaK outfit. After he had gained his position of power, his life .. continued to parallel that of a gangster. He suspected all men of being mur derous. To protect his life he employed the most extensive ' jpMH| system of spies. Yet JX'tWiKi his days were lived Elizabeth in constant fear. As Janies do many criminals, he thought he could beat the laws of right and wrong, but a fearful life and violent death showed him that he was subject to the same world as other men. Most everyone recalls the plot of “Macbeth” either from the book studied in school or from some stage production. A sketch will re establish it. Wife Leads Plotters. Macbeth, a general in the king’s army, won a great victory, as the play opens. The king honored his favorite subject by planning to spend that night at his castle. Im mediately Macbeth and his wife re veal that this is the opportunity for which they have been planning. They will murder the king in their own castle, and no one will dare to suspect Macbeth, the hero. When her husband faltered in his scheme, Lady Macbeth forced him to the deed by calling him coward ly, for she knew how much he HE DIED RICH The life span of William Shake speare, from 1564 to 1616, was almost identical with that of Queen Elizabeth, great ruler of the English Renaissance. Of his life not enough is known to satisfy the world’s interest. There are legendary tales, be sides written evidences left by his friends. To his boyhood be longs the incident of his poaching, to his youth the relationship with Ann Hathaway, and to his man hood, his rise from lackey at the play houses to owner and produc er of plays. He accumulated over quarter of a million dollars. Of his contemporaries, some envied him, some loved him. wished to be king. She prepared all the details of the deed, even drug ging the bodyguards. She said that she would have stabbed the king herself, but he resembled her father as he slept. Macbeth killed the sleeping king, and was the loudest in his surprise and sorrow when the deed was dis covered the next morning. Banquo, close friend and fellow officer, dared to show Macbeth that he suspected the truth. Macbeth later had him'taken for a ride and murdered because he knew too much. Life as king did not bring joy to Macbeth. Fear mounted in his own heart, and he increased the number of spies in the homes of his noble men. Murder followed murder. As soon as he felt that any man dis liked him, he notified his killers. Hatred of Macbeth grew on all sides of Scotland. Finally the time seemed ripe, and Macduff went to England for help. From personal spite, Macbeth had the helpless wife and children of Macduff murdered. Lady Macbeth Dies. Life for Lady Macbeth was one long punishment. She had to watch her husband’s degeneration, know ing all the while that she might have prevented it. Finally, her sub conscious mind got the upper hand. Sleep was not restful, but was dom inated by thoughts of the murder of King- Duncan, whose blood she kept seeing on her hands. She became totally insane. In the last act of the play she died, and when Macbeth heard the news he said, “She should have died hereafter. There would have been a time for such a word.” She would have died anyway! (But it might have been at a more conve nient time!) Justice and revenge work togeth er, when in hand-to-hand fight, Mac duff kills Macbeth. If Shakespeare lived today, he would be skillful with the horror movie. In “Macbeth” there are witches who prophesy direful hap penings. A storm is background for murder. In a cave filled with bats, a fire smoulders beneath a cauldron. The elements of tragedy are many. Macbeth violated every du ty: to his king, to his subjects, to his wife, to God. As hatred and murder increased in his soul, love and sympathy decreased, until his wife became to him as a stranger, who should have died when it would not have disturbed his activity. • BeU Syndicate.—WNU Service. Dresses for Street and Home Wear! 'T'WO dresses, as practical as -*■ they are pretty—one for shop ping and general street wear, the other ideal for round the house, and made on slenderizing lines. Notice that they both use the smart front closing. Both these patterns are quick and easy to make up, and each is accom panied by a complete and detailed sew chart. Frock With Girdled Waistline. Fashion says everything must have a certain amount of soft de tailing this season, and this charming tailored dress obeys with draping at the neckline, the girdled waist, and bust fullness beneath smooth shoulders. Easy sleeves, cut in one with the shoul ders, make it a cool style for sum mer. House Dress for Large Women. It’s a diagram dress, so that it may be made in just a few hours. The long, unbroken, unbelted line, the utter simplicity, the v-neck, make this dress extremely becom ing to women in the 36 to 52 size range. Short, pleated sleeves give plenty of ease for reaching and stretching. Make this up in pret ty cottons that will stand plenty of wear and washing—percale, gingham, seersucker, broadcloth. The Patterns. 1489 is designed for sizes 14, 16, 18, 20, 40 and 42. Size 16 requires 4% yards of 39-inch material, plus % yard of contrasting for girdle. 1476 is designed for sizes 36, 38, 40, 42, 44, 46, 48, 50 and 52. Size 38 requires 5 yards of 35-inch ma terial. 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