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The Cody enterprise and the Park County enterprise. (Cody, Wyo.) 1921-1923, June 28, 1922, Image 6

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Copyright by Kathleen NorrU
“NO, NO, NO!”
Synopsis.—Harriet Field, twenty
eight years old, and beautiful, is
the social secretary of the flirta
tious Mrs. Isabel Carter, at
"Crownlands.” Richard Carter's
home, and governess of seventeen
year-old Nina Carter. Ward, twen
ty-four years old and impression
able, fancies himself In love with
his mother’s attractive secretary.
Mrs. Carter’s latest ’’affair’’ Is with
young Anthony Pope; alhd the
youth Is taking it very seriously..
Presiding over the teacups this
summer afternoon, Harriet is pro
foundly disturbed by the arrival of
a visitor. Royal Blondin. Next
day. at a tea party In the city,
Blondin makes himself agreeable
to Nina, and leaves a deep impres
sion on the unsophisticated girl.
Harriet’s agitation over the appear
ance of Blondin at ’’Crownlands”
is explained by the fact that he
had been a disturbing element In
her life ten years before and she
fears him. The man is an avowed
adventurer, living on the gullibility
of the Idle rich. He frankly an
nounces 'o Harriet his Intention of
marrying Nina, and urges her to
aid him. She Is in a sense in his
power, and after pleading with him
to abandon his scheme agrees to
follow a policy of neutrality.
Knowing the tender feeling she has
inspired in Ward Carter. Harriet
is tempted to marry him for the
position and wealth he ean give
her, though realizing she does not
love him. Blondin has Ingratiated
himself with Madame Carter. Rich
ard’s mother, and she is whole
heartedlj’ in favor of his marriage
with Nina. Ward urges Harriet to
mrry him. She procrastinates.
Mrs. Carter elopes with Pope. Blon
din threatens Harriet. She prays
to do what Is right. Blondin and
Harriet agree to keep silent about
their past relations. Richard Car
ter proposes a marriage, entirely
businesslike, to take place as soon
as he Is divorced. Harriet says
’’No,'* and goes to visit her sister.
There was trouble at Linda’s house;
trouble so terrible that Harriet’s unex
pe_*tejl arrival caused no comment,
caused no more than a weary flicker
of Linda’s heavy eyes. Pip. the adored
first-born son, lay dangerously ill, and
the whole household moved on tiptoe,
heartsick with dread. It was diph
theria, very bad, Fred stated lifelessly.
Linda hardly left the room ; they were
afraid for her, too, “If anything hap
pened.” “If anything happened!”
Harriet thought she had heard the
phrase a hundred times before the
dreadful night came.
She had taken Linda’s place for an
hour, but before it was up the mother
came back, and they kept their vigil
together. Fred answered the strange,
untimely ringing of the doorbell,
brought In packages, conferred in the
halls with the doctors. Midnight
came, two o’clock, four o’clock.
Suddenly there was panic. Har
riet, by chance in the hall, saw Linda
and Fred and the doctors together,
heard Linda’s quick, anguished “Yes I”
and Fred’s “Anything I” Her heart
pounded; the nurse ran upstairs. Har
riet fell upon her knees with a sob
bing whisper, “No—no—no!” and Lin
da clung to her husband with a cry
torn from the dgeps of her heart, “Oh,
Pip—my own boy !’*
• ••••••
Dawn came slowly and reluctantly
at seven; the village lay bleak and
closed under a sky of unbroken gray.
Here and there smoke streamed up
ward from a chimney, or a window
pane showed an oblong of pale light.
Harriet put out the light that was
becoming unnecessary. But her heart
was singing for joy, and the house
was brimful of an Inner light and
cheer that no winter bleakness could
touch. The girl had been crying until
she was almost blind, but It was a cry
ing mixed with laughter and prayers
of utter thankfulness.
She met Linda at the door, a weary
Linda, ghastly as to face, grayer as
to straggling hair, but with such radi
ance in her eyes that Harriet, clasped
in her arms, began to cry again.
“Oh. Harriet —if I can ever thank
God enough!” Pip’s mother said, be
ginning on her breakfast with one long
sigh. “Oh. my dear —! He’s sleeping
like a baby, God bless him, and dear
old Fred is sleeping, too. Oh, Harriet,
to go about the house, as I just have,
covering Nammy and the girls, and
feeling that we're all going to be
happy together again, in a few days—
my dear. 1 don’t know what I've done
to be so blessed! My boy. who has
never given anyone a moment’s care
or trouble since he was born—my dar
ling who looked up at me yesterday
with his beautiful eyes—”
The floodgates were loosed, and
Linda laughed and cried, while she
enjoyed her breakfast with the appe
tite of a normal woman released from
cruel strain, whose whole brood lies
safely sleeping under her roof. Nam
my’s light Illness. Pip’s wet feet. Lin
da’s unwillingness to believe that it
was anything but a cold, every hour
of the four awful days of danger, she
reviewed them all. And oh, the good
ness of people, the solicitude of nurse
and doctor, the generosity of God!
It was the afternoon of the next day
when Harriet could first speak of her
own affairs, Linda listened, over her
mending, nodded, pursed her Ups, or
raised her eyebrows.
If Linda might ever have been
worldly minded, she had had her les
son now, and the viewpoint she gave
Harriet was the lofty one of a wom
an who has faced a supreme sacrifice
without shrinking and with unwaver
ing faith.
“You did right, dear,” she assured
her sister. “You could not stay there,
under the circumstances. Whatever
their code Is, yours is different, yours
has not been vitiated by luxury and
idleness. As for Mr. Carter’s talk of
marriage, that, of course, is simply an
“No, I don’t think it was that,” Har
riet said, feeling herself revolt inward
ly at this plain speaking.
“I don't see what else It could be,”
Linda pursued, serenely. “A married
man—you would be no better than his
—well, it’s not a nice word —but his
“Not at all,” Harriet said, trying
hard to hide the irritation that rose
rebellious within her, “he is legally
free, or will be soon, and so am I!”
1 am speaking of God’s law, not
man’s,” Linda said, gently but awfully,
and Harriet was silent. “Fred says
that such men regard these matters
far too lightly,” Linda finished. Fred’s
name, thus Introduced, always had the
effect of angering Harriet. She had
shared the family exaltation over Pip’s
recovery, and had thought more than
once in that fearful night of his illness
that even poverty, gray hairs and the
agony of parenthood, shared with the
man she loved, would have been ec
stasy to her. But in the slow days
and weeks that followed, her spirit
became exhausted with the struggle
that never ended within her. Her
bridges were burned behind her; It
was all over. Whatever her emotions
had been in leaving Crownlands, the
Carters’ feelings had been quite obvi
ous and simple. Old Madame Carter
had wished her well; Ward had writ
ten from college that he thought it
was “rotten," and that she had been
a corker to get Dad to raise his al
lowance for him; Nina had felt her
own w’ings the stronger for the
change; and Richard had Interrupted
his little speech of regret to answer
the telephone, and had given her a
check that placed, it seemed to Har
riet, the obligation permanently with
her. The utter desolation of spirit
with which she had left them was evi
dently unshared; the only word she
had had from that old life had been
from Mary Putnam, and even this cor
dial note jarred Harriet with Its frank
revelation of the change in her posi
“I can’t keep this upshe told her
self, playing games with little conva
lescent Pip, walking over frozen roads
with the girls, reading under the eve
ning lamp. “I can’t keep this up!
Twenty-seven, and a governess, and
in love with a married man who does
not know I am alive!'” summarized
**Z«*-» j
“Harriet, His Arm Was About Her
Now, His Voice Close to Her Ear,
“Don’t Let Those Years With Rich
People Spoil You for the Real
Thing, Dear.”
Harriet, bitterly. “I will simply have
to forget It, and begin again, that’s
And she meditated upon David, the
excellent, steady, devoted David, who
was Fred’s brother and a dentist In
Brooklyn, and who gave the children
wonderful holidays at Asbury Park.
It would make Linda and Fred very
nappy to have tier change toward
him: they were a little hurt and si
lent about David. He always went
with them to the crowded beach where
they spent July and August, had had
a cur this year, Linda told her sister,
and had been “so popular.”
David was there, Christmas day, and
there was a fire and a tree, happy chil
dren everywhere, rosy little neighbors
coming in to see the toys, snowy wet
garments spread on the porch after
church. David took Harriet walking
in the fresh cold air. a Harriet so
beautiful in her furry hat and long
coat, with her brilliant cheeks and her
blue eyes shining under a blown film
of golden hair, that Linda, »■
basted the turkey in the hot kitchen,
couldn’t help a little prayer that that
would all come out “right.”
"But, Davy dear!" Harriet and
David had stopped short in the exqui
site, silent woods. “There is a feel
ing—a something that makes marriage
right! And I haven’t it, that’s all!”
“How do you, know you haven’t?”
he said, smiling. “Harriet, if once
you said you would, it would come.
Harriet,” his arm was about her now.
hls voice close to her ear,, “don’t let
those years with rich people spoil you
for the real thing, dear!”
She looked up at him, with some
thing wistful In her blue eyes, in
stantly she saw leap to hls face the
look he had hidden so many years;
she heard a new ring in hls voice.
“Ah —you darling! You will? You’ll
let me tell them—?”
“No, no, no!” Half-angry, half
sorry, she put away his embrace. “I’ll
—Davy, I hate to spoil your Christ
mas day—l don’t know what to say!
I’ll think about It 1”
She turned to go home. Her heart
was lead within her.
“I suppose there’s no help for It,”
she thought. In a panic. “Linda’ll
see—it’ll all be out in five seconds!”
But Linda met them at the door, full
of an announcement.
“Harriet, Mr. Carte? is here!”
Back came the tide with a great
rush, nothing else mattered. For a
moment Harriet was turned to stone.
Then in a dream of radiance and de
light she went into the little parlor,
and Richard Carter stood up to greet
her, and there was nobody else in the
world. Linda had Introduced herself;
David was introduced. Harriet glanced
about helplessly; he had not come
here to say “Merry Christmas," surely.
“I suggested that Hansen take the
little people for a five-mlnutes’ drive,”
he explained, “and then I shall have
to hurry back. I wanted to speak to
you on a matter of business. Miss
Field. I wonder —since you’re well
wrapped—if we might walk to the cor
ner and meet them; I’ll only steal you
from your family for five minutes.”
“Certainly!” Harriet’s heart was
singing. She was hardly conscious of
what he said; it was enough that he
had sought her out, that she was to
have one more word with him.
“I came here to discuss my own
plans. Miss Field,” he said at the gate,
“but a hint from your sister has made
me fear that perhaps I am too late.
She tells me that you may be making
plans of your own.”
“David?" Harriet said, resentfully.
“I have no plans with David!” she
said, simply.
“I didn’t know,” Richard answered.
“I came to ask you to come back.
Things are 10 an absolute mess with
us. We have not had a serene moment
since you left us—three weeks ago.”
To go back —back to Crownlands!
Harriet’s spirit soared. She knew she
must go back! She had only despaired
of their ever needing her again. Every
fiber of her being strained toward the
old life.
“Linda, my sister, thinks it would
be unwise,” she began. The man in
terrupted her.
“There has been a new turn of
events, Miss Field. I had some Infor
mation last night which may make a
difference,” he said, gravely. “I re
ceived a wire from Pope, in France.
My wife —Isabelle—died on an operat
ing table yesterday afternoon, in
Harriet, stupefied, could only look
at him fixedly for a long minute. Her
lips parted, but she did not speak.
“Died?" she whispered sharply. The
man nodded without speaking. "But —
but what was it?" Harriet said.
For answer tie gave her the crum
pled cable, with the bare statement of.
fact. She read it dazedly, looked at
his somber face, and read It again.
“I can’t believe it!” she said.
“Weil, now,” Richard began present
ly in a different tone, “we are, ns I
said, Miss Field, in u mess. I haven’t
told the children this; they have a lot
of young people there over Christmas.
My mother and Nina are planning
some entertainment for New Year’*
night, and I suppose this will end Ml
that; I should suppose that Nina and
her brother must have a period of
mourning. I am deeply Involved In a
big project in Brazil, committee meet
ings all through January—l can’t
swing it, that’s all.
“Now, when we last talked of the
subject together,” Richard pursued in
a businesslike way, “you objected to
the suggestion of a marriage, because
my wife was then still alive. Am I
correct ?"
“Yes. that’s correct!” Harriet said,
voicelessly. She felt herself beginning
to tremble.
“My purpose In coming today was
to suggest that, if that was your sole
objection," the man continued, pains
takingly, “you might feel the situation
changed now. I need you. We all do.
If it is my mother who makes' it im
possible, or some other thing that I
cannot change—why. I must get along
as best I can. But my proposition is
that you and 1 are quietly married
tomorrow; you come back tomorrow
night and announce It whenever you
see fit. I may seem a little matter-of
fact about this. Miss Field, but I am
hoping you understand. I am making
you an unsentimental business offer.
I need you in my life and I offer you
certain advantages which It would be
silly and school boyish for me to deny
I possess. I have a certain standing
in the community which even Mrs.
Carter’s madness has not seemed to
Impair seriously. The boy and the
girl both love you. and you have my
warmest friendship. Your position In
my household will be as free and in
dependent as was Isabelle’s. I du not
know whether you will consider this
a fair return for what I ask, for after
all you are giving your services for
life to the Carter household—
“ Now, this Is of course entirely sub
ject to what pleases you in the mat
ter,” he brol;e to say, emphatically.
“I merely throw it out as a sugges
tion. It would please me very much.
I would draw a long breath of relief
to have It settled. Mrs. Tabor is
there —stays there.; takes the head of
my table. I spent last night at the
club; I had cabled Pope—and expected
an answer, but my mother telephoned
me at three o’clock this morning to
say that Ward and some of his friends
had gone out ice-skating. Ward’s
been dropped from his university. I
can’t have that sort of thing, you
know 1”
“When—did you want me?” Harriet
brought her beautiful eyes back fronh
some far vista,
“I thought that If you could meet
me at my office tomorrow I would
have all the arrangements made.
Nina Is to be at the Hawkes’; I send
the car for her at three. I thought
that you and she could go home to
gether to Crownlands. I’ll have to be
in town that night”
“Home —to Crownlands!” Suddenly
Harriet’s lip quivered and her eyes
JEM /i.,
“I Know—But If You Would Be So
Very Kind—7”
brimmed with tears. “I’ll be very
glad to go back,” she said in a low
“Good!” he said. “I needn’t tell
you how I feel about it; It helps me
out tremendously. Now, about tomor
row, how would you like that to be?”
“Well,” she laughed desperately
through her tears. “We’re Church of
England!” She laughed again when
he took out his notebook and wrote
the words down.
“Once It’s done,” he said, reassur
ingly, “you’ll see my mother and all
the rest of them come Into line! It
puts you In a definite position, and
although I may seem to be rushing and
confusing you now, there is a more
peaceful time to come—we’ll hope!”
he added grimly. “Here’s Hansen
now. Lovely children,” he added, of
the young Davenports and some inti
mates who were tumbling out of the
car. “lovely mother.”
“You’ll not speak of this yet?’V Har
riet said, suddenly thinking of David
and Linda. “My sister might think
It lacked deliberation—so close upon
Mrs. Carter’s death. I’d rather have
a little time, get things straightened
“Oh, certainly—certainly!” She
could see he was relieved, was In
deed in cheerful spirits, as he gave
his furred hand to the children’s inlt
tened ones. They thanked him shrilly
and Hansen smiled warmly upon Har
riet as he touched his cap. Then they
were gone. Linda, watching from the
window, thought that the chauffeur’s
obvious respect for Harriet was rather
Impressive. She came to the porch,
and Richard waved his farewell to
them en masse.
j “He’s very nice,” said Linda. “Poor
» fellow, he probably would have had
i an entirely different moral code. If
his life had been different!” Harriet
i Inwardly writhed, but she did not stir
lin the sisterly embrace of Linda’s
• arm.
1•••• • • • •
At three o’clock the next afternoon
Nina Carter, leaving the Hawkes’ man
sion in New York city, with a great
many laughing farewells, descended to
her father’s waiting car and discov
ered, sitting therein, an extremely
handsome young woman, furred and
grimly veiled, and deep in pleasant
conversation with Hansen.
“Miss Harriet!” Nina ejaculated In
a tone that betrayed a vague resent
ment as well as a definite surprise.
“Nina, dear!*’ Harriet accepted
Nina’s kiss warmly. “Are you glad
to see me?” And as Nina stumbled
in and established herself. Harriet
continued easily: “Your father and
I had a talk, my dear, and he sug
gested that I come back for a while.
So Hansen picked me up at the office
and here I am! He tried to telephone
you, I know, but you were out. And
now,” said Harriet, glancing at her
wrist watch, “I think we will go right
home, please, Hansen!”
Nina had been her own mistress
for several delicious weeks, and to
have any sort of restriction again was
very unpalatable to her. She sulked
all the way home and Madame Carter,
meeting them at Crownlands, gazed
rather stonily at the newcomer, grant
ing her only the briefest greeting. But,
oh. how homelike and welcoming the
beautiful place, mantled in snow,
looked to Harriet’s eyes. The snap
ping fires, the warmth and fragrance
of the big rooms and the very obvious
welcome of the maids, all were en
chanting to her. Her first duty was
to make a brief tnur below stairs, af
ter which she went up to her own
When they returned from Hunting
ton in the fall, she and Nina, at Rich
ard’s suggestion, had taken Isabelle’s
handsome rooms, turning both into
bedrooms and sharing the dressing
rooms and bath that joined them. It
was here that Harriet fount! Nina
awaiting her, still with her hat on
and loitering with obvious discomfi
“Miss Harriet!” Nina said with a
rush. “You are so sweet about things
like this. I wonder If you with mind
taking the yellow guest room—it’s
really much larger—and leaving this
room? You see. when I have friends—”
Harriet, at the dressing table, had
raised her hands to remove her hat.
Like any general, she realized the
crisis of the apparently unimportant
moment and met It by instinct.
“But you have an extra bed, besides
the couch, in your room, Nina!”
Nina cleared her throat, threw back
her head, regarded Harriet between
half-closed eyelids in a manner Harriet
realized was new*, and drawled:
“I know. But if you would be so
very kind—?”
“Do you know. I’m afraid I shan’t be
so very kind!” Harriet said, briskly.
“You’re one of my duties here, you
know, little girl, and I think Daddy
would prerer to have me near you!
Now, If you like to ask him, perhaps
he’ll not agree with me; in which case
I shall move immediately! But mean
while —”
Nina’s face wasshe.Jeft. tJie
room abruptly. A moment or two later
Harriet sauntered into the adjoining
room, and found her again. The young
er girl was assuming a ruffled and bo
ribboned negligee, and tossing her
wraps and street dress about careless
ly. Harriet noted this with disapprov
ing eyes, but said nothing. There was
an immense picture of Mrs. Tabor on
the dressing table, and she found in
that a sudden solution of the strange
change in Nina.
“ ‘With Ladybird’s unending devo
tion, to Ninette,’ ” read Harriet, from
the inky scrawl across the picture.
“Do you call her Ladybird. Nina? You
and she have formed a pretty strong
friendship, haven’t you?”
“Oh> something more than that!”
Nina drawled in her new manner.
the best sort!”
“Does she have my room when she
Is here?” Harriet presently suggested,
sympathetically. “Now’, my dear,” she
added, as Nina’s quick self-conscious
and hostile look gave consent, “Mrs.
Tabor is too thoroughly acquainted
with convention to blame you If your
father keeps you under a governess*
eye for a little while longer. You’re
the most precious thing your father
has, Nina, and as I used to remind you
years ago. you don’t begin to have the
restrictions that the European prin
cesses have to bear!”
This view of the case was always
pleasing to Nina’s vanity; she was
quite clever enough to see that a friend
protected and confined, watched and
valued, would lose no prestige with
the charming “Ladybird.” She pouted;
and Harriet saw- that for the moment
the battle was hers.
“Darling gown!” said Harriet.of the
“Oh. she has the most wonderful
clothes!” It was the old Nina’s voice.
“Has she been here very much?”
Harriet said, after a moment.
“Oh, lots! She loves to be here, and
I can’t think why.” Nina said, “be
cause people are all crazy to get her.
and she could go to the most wonderful
dinners and things. But she really Is
Just like a girl, herself; sometimes we
burst right out laughing, because we
think exactly the same about things!
And she just loves picnics, and to let
her hair down—and she’s so funny!
You’ll just love her when you know
her —”
Nina. Harriet reflected, had had a
thorough dose of poison. It would take,
like many diseases, more poison to cure
her. a counter dose. Going to her room
to change to one of the new gowns.
Harriet had a moment of contempt for
thp new-found intimate, who could so
unscrupulously play upon the girl’s
hungry soul. But with this situation
it was possible to cope; there was defi
nite comfort in the fact that Nina had
not mentioned Royal Blondin.
Brave In the new gown, whnv lus
terless black velvet made even more
brilliant her matchless akin, Harriet
went to find Ward. She met. Instead,
'•ne of his house-guests, Corey Eaton,
a man some years older than Ward, a
big, rawboned, unscrupulous youth,
with a wild and indiscriminate laugh.
“It isn’t exactly what I ex
pected marriage to be I”
? «

• !

Copyrixht. 1922, Western New»p. p(ir /
It was a baby, nestling under laee
covers, that gave Barbara the Idea—
though it was more than an Idea to the
lonely young woman, for it became
her constant longing. Barbara Waincot
had so long known only the care of
others that sacrifice*was a part of her
life, so when the last invalid, an aunt,
passed on to her rest leaving Barbara
quite alone with a simple legacy to
barely coyer her needs—well, the kind
ly young woman began to look about
for another needy charge. The baby
In Its lacy nest typified a heretofore
unknown need of her own.
“Why not,” she asked herself, her
uoft cheeks glowing, “why not adopt a
baby and have something to love and
something to love me?” The thought
grew to fill Barbara’s dreams. With v
the assistance of a friend Barbara
was able to find the little one of her
desire. The baby’s mother had died
at Its birth —the father just before.
Barbara made arrangements for adop
tion, which bad been the sad mother’s
wish. She named it Sylvia.
“Sylvia sounds so prettily romantic.”
she told the friend.
“I hope that my little girl will know
in life all those beautiful things which
I have been obliged to forego."
But all too promptly had Barbara
pul girlish dreams aside. Just as Syl
via was learning to lisp the name
‘Bab,’ which was the nearest baby lips
could get to Barbara, along came Bar
bara’s delayed lover. Paul Stroqg pos
sessed qualities which made him
worthy to be Barbara’s mate, but in
the friendship which followed his fail
ing became unpleasantly evident—Paul
was unreasonably, persistently jealous
and as the -only occasion for jealousy
must come through baby Sylvia, Paul
w’as jealous of Sylvia.
An imperious small ruler was Paul
Strong’s rival. And Barbara’s teuoer
heart was torn, her will hovering, for
she had learned to love Paul, and he
would accept only undivided homage.
“Surely,” she begged her lover, "you
would not ask me to give Sylvia up?
Why, dear, she loves me as she would
have loved a mother of her own. ’
"You are not that mother,” Paul an
swered sharply, “and In a very short
time another could take your place ip
the child’s affections.”
A pang crossed Barbara’s heart. Yet*
she knew that this little clinging thing *
needed her guiding care, no other must
substitute. This, her charge, so griev
ing deeply, she sent Pau! away.
The years went on. Io her carefree
girlhood Sylvia flaunted more and
more her happy rule.
"Baba will do anything In the world
for me,” she lovingly boasted. Sylvia
had grown very lovely—Barbara had
grown paler, thinner. Then Paul
Strong came back. Sylvia was the
first to see him as he came down the
village street.
“Sweetie," she addressed her foster
mother. “I saw a most distinguished
man turning in to the old Strong place
today. Why here he comes now."
Barbara looked to see her old lover.
Then, trembling a little, Barbara went
to open the door to him. She fancied
a flash of disappointment In his eyes
as he looked at her. Her own heart
Was singing, “He has come back— \
come back.”
During the following weeks Paul
was a constant visitor at Barbara’s lit
tle house.
“You still love Sylvia better than
life?” Paul asked Barbara, but now
his tone was merely humorous.
“Eighteen years has not made me
love her less," Barbara answered quiet
ly. Paul and Sy Ma, walking one eve
ning in the moonlight, stopped to rest
on the porch steps. Barbara, seated
just inside the open window, knew
what was coming, and.she told herself
that she could not blame Paul. Sylvia
had grown Into such a lovely creature,
Sylvia, sweet and desirable, who
counted admirers by the score.
“How could one help but love you.
Paul dear?" said Sylvia, on the moon
lit porch. The man's response came
“I am old, child, old In years, with
an unruly heart still young to love."
Slowly Barbara went up to her
child’s room. She would wait to give
Sylvia her good-night kiss —and Sylvia
must never know.
Coming gayly, Sylvia switched Bar
bara around to face the light.
"I thought so,” she triumphed, “you y
do care for the delightful Paul after
all. And I had to deliberately make
you jealous In order to be sure. G«»
down and tell him so, sacrificing per
son. and make him happy after all
these years. Oh, Paul has told me
of his undying love for you—l refuse
to be a cruel barrier any longer. And
any way,” added Sylvia. Smilingly. “I
may be married myself one of these
Intelligent Mistletoe.
One of the most curious illustra
tions of the working of Intelligence
In plants is offered by the mistletoe,
whose sticky berry, finding lodgment
on a tree branch, throws out a tiny
rootlet, which tides to pierce the bark
and thus obtain a foothold. If the
bark is too tough, the rootlet swings
the berry over to a fresh spot. urn.'
makes another trial. In this way such
a berry has been known to make five
jumps in two nights and three days
On one occasion a number of them
were discovered by a botanist In the
act of vainly journeying along a tele
graph wire, trying to find places to

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