THE THE BRANDING IRON By - Joan Land!, eighteen years Id, wife of Pierre, la the daughter of John Carver, who murdered her mother for adultery. Her lonely life, with her father. In a Wyoming cabin, unbearable, Joan leaves him to work In a hotel In a nearby town. Joan meeta Pierre, and the two, mutually attracted, are married. CHAPTER The that has JV r. In the fall, when the whole country bad turned to a great cup of gold, purple-rimmeunder the sky, Pierre went out Into the hills after his winter meat. Joan wag left alone. She pent her time cleaning and arranging the cabin and tidying up outdoors, and In "grubbing sagebrush," a gigantic task, for the one hundred nd flftv acres of Pierre's homestead were covered for the most part by the turdy, spicy growth, and every bush had to be dug out and burnt to clear the way for plowing and planting. Joan worked with the dellberateness end intentness of a man. She enjoyed the wholesome drudgery. She was proud every sundown of the little clearing she had made, and stood, tired and content, to watch the piled brush burn, sending up aromatic moke and curious, dull flames very high into the still air. She was so standing, hands folded on her rake, when, on the other side of her conflagration, she perceived a man. He was steadily regarding her, end when her eyes fell upon him, he miled and stepped forward a tall, broad, very fair young man in a shoots and ing coat, khaki puttees. He had a wide brow, clear blue eyes and an eager, sensitive, n mouth and chin.. He held out a big white hand. "Mrs. Landls," he said, in a crisp voice of an accent and finish strange to the girl, "I wonder if you and your husband can put me up for the night. I'm Prank Holllwell. I'm on a round of parish visits, and, as my parish Is bout sixty miles square my poor old pony has gone lame. I know you are not my parishioners, though, no doubt, you should be, but I'm going to lay claim to your hospitality, for all that, if I may?" Joan had moved her rake into the grasp of her left hand and had taken the proffered palm into her other, all warm and fragrantly stained. "You're the new ain't you?" she asked gravely The young man opened his blue and friendly eyes. "Oh, that's what I am, eh? That's a new one to me. Yes. I suppose I em. It's rather a One name to go and he laughed very by low and very amusedly. Joan looked him over and slowly mlled. "You look like you could bust anything you'd a mind to," she said, and led the way toward the house, her rake across her shoulder, "Pierre," she told him when they were In the shining, clean log house, "is off in the hills after his elk, but I can make you up a bed in the sittln' room an serve you a supper an wel come." "Oh, thanks," he rather doubtfully accepted. Evidently he did not know the ways nd proprieties of this new "parish" of his. But Joan seemed to take the situation with an enormous, calm Im personality. He modeled his mnnner tipon hers. They sat at the table together, Joan silent, save when he forced her to speak, and entirely un troubled by her Bllencp, Frank Holllwell, eating heartily, helping her serve and talking a great deal. By the end g f he had her history nd mora of her opinions, probably. than any other creature she had met "What do you do when Landls Is d two-roo- riding-breeche- clean-shave- awayr She told him, In the evenings, I mean, after Work. Have you hooks?" '4 "But rXo." a4o reirVfin'. Joan; "It's right hard Ta learned me my letI iOi spell out bits from papers an' advertisements an' what not. hot I ain't never read a book straight I dunno," she added presently, out. "but" I'd like to. Pierre can read!" lalxjr, ter lilm proudly, "ftn sure you'd like to." He her through the smoke of his was sitting by the hearth pip. A He d she, Just through with clearnow, ing 'ip. stood by the corner of the mangel shelf, arranging the log. The flreUSlit danced over her fare, so -Vfeputlful, so unllghted from within. TiTow old ar Ml Joan Landls?" he sked her name with out title fmWyilrst time. she-tnl- d con-slte- rt siivntng Copyright by Katharine N. Burt got to be llk they are" Joan was talking a greut deal and having trouble with her few simple words but I like folks in stories to look like I want 'em to look." Not the way the writer describes them?" 'Yes, sir. But you can make up a whole lot on what the writer describes. If he says her eyes Is blue,' you can see 'em durk blue or light blue or Jest blue. An' you can see 'em shaped round or what not, the way you think about folks that you've heard of an' have never met." It was extraordinary how this effort excited Joan. She at was rarely but she was usually passive or stolid ; now there was a brilliant flush in her face and her large eyes deepened and glowed. 1 heerd tell of you, Mr. Holllwell. Fellers come up here to see Pierre onct in a while an' one or two of 'em spoke your name. An' I kinder figured ont you was a weedy feller, awful solemn-likan' of course you ain't, but it's real hard for me to notion that there ain't two Mr. Holllwells, I've ben you an' the weedy picturing Like as not I'll get to thinkin' of you like two fellers." Joan sighed. "Seems like when I onct get a notion in my head It Jest sticks there some way." "Then the more wise notions you get the better. I'll ride up here In a couple of weeks time with some books. You may keep them as long as you will. All winter, if you like. When I can get up here, we can talk them over, you and Landls and I. I'll try to choose some without pictures. There will be stories and some poetry, too." "I ain't never read but one pome," said Joan. "And that was?" She sat down on the floor by the hearth, her head thrown back to lean against the cobbles of the chimney-piecher knees locked In her hands. That magnificent long throat of hers ran up to the black colls of hair which had slipped heavily down over her ears. The light edged her round chin artel her strongly modeled, regular features ; the full, firm mouth so savagely pure and sensuous and The eyes were mysterious under their e, sin-bust- e, .,- - l' John Carver had used a phrase, "When you see her eyes lookin' aa' and this lookln' at another man phrase had stuck in Pierre's sensitive and jealous memory. What Joan felt for Holllwell was a sort of Ignorant and respectful tenderness, the excitement of an Intelligent child first moved to a knowledge of Its own intelligence; the gratitude of savage loneliness toward the beautiful feet of exploration. A consciousness of her clean mind, a consciousness of her yoiins, untamed spirit, had come slowly to life In her since her1 talk with Holllwell. Joan was peculiarly a woman that is, the passive and receptive being. Pierre had laid his hand on her heart and she had followed him ; now this young parson had put a curious finger on her brain. It followed him. Her husband saw the admiration, the gratitude, the tender excitement In her frank eyes, and the poison seed sown by John Carver's hand shot out roots and tiny, deadly branches. But Joan and Holllwell were Pierre smoked rapidly, rolling cigarette after cigarette; he listened with a courteous air, he told stories In his soft, slow voice; once he went out to bring in a fresh log and, coming back on noiseless feet, saw Joan and her instructor bent over one of the books and Joan's face was almost that of a stranger, so eager, so flushed, with sparkles in the usually still gray j , 3 Yesteryear's Feast Days j It was not till a week or two after this second visit from the clergyman that Pierre's smoldering Jealousy After clearing broke into flame. away the supper things with an absent air of eager expectation, Jonn would dry her hands on her apron, and, taking down one of her books from their place in a shelf corner, she would draw her chair close to the lamp and begin to read, forgetful of Pierre. These had been the happiest hours for him ; he would tell Joan about his day'a work, about his plans, about his past life; wonderful it was to him, after his loneliness, that she should be sitting there drinking in every word and loving him with her dumb, wild eyes. Now, there was no talk and no listening. Joan's absorbed face was turned from him and bent over her book, her Hps moved, she would stop and stare before her. After a long while he would get up and got to bed, but she would stay with her books till a restless movement from him would make her aware of the lamplight shining wakefulness upon him through the chinks In the partition wall. Then she would get up reluctantly, sighing, and come to bed. For ten evenings this went on. Pierre's heart slowly heating itself, until, all at once, the flame leaped. Joan had untied her apron and reached up for her book. Pierre had been waiting, hoping that of her free will she might prefer his company to the "parson feller's" for In his Igno rance those books were Jealousy per sonified but, without a glnnce In his direction, she had turned as usual to the shelf. "You goln' to read?" asked Pierre hoarsely. It was a painful effort to turned with a childish look of astonishment. "Yes, Pierre." He stood up with one of his Hi he, swift movements, all In one rlpplina piece. "By G (1, you're not, though !" said he, strode over to her, snatched the volume from her, threw it back Into Its place and pointed her to her chnlr. "You thick lashes and dark, long brows. This throat and face and these strong hands were picked out In their full vnlue of line and texture from the dark cotton dress ahe was wearing. "It's a pome on a card whnt father bad, stuck ag'ln' the wall." She began to recite, her eyes fixed upon him with childlike gravity. " 'He maketh me to He down In green pastures: He leadeth me beside the still waters. . . . Yea, though I walk through the valley of shadows. Thon art with we, Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me.'" Holllwell had taken the pipe from between his teeth, had straightened up. Her deep voice, the slight swinging of her body to the rhythm she had unconsciously given to her lines, 'the strange glow In her eye . . . Holllwell wondered why these things, this recitation, had given brief, a light thrill to the surface of his skin, bnd sent a tingling to his finger-tips- . He was the first person to wonder at that effect of Joan's cadenced music. The valley of the shadow " she had missed familiar phrase and added value to a too often repeated line. "Joant Joan!" said the n exclamation drawn from him on a deep breath, "what an extraordinary marvelous girt yon are I What woman yon are going to be I" silence of Joan looked at him In pore astonishment and that was the end of their real talk. sing-son- set down an' give heed to me fer a change, Jonn Carver." he said, his smoke-colore- d eyes smoldering. "I didn't fetch you up here to rend parsons' books an waste oil. I fetched He stopped, you up here choked with a sudden, enormous hurt tenderness and sat down and fell to Into smoking and staring, the fire. And Joan sat sllett In her place, puitzled, wistful, wounded, her Idle hands folded, looking At hlna for a while, then absently before her, and he knew that her mind was busy again with the preacher feller'a books. If he had known better how to explain his heart. If she had known how to show him the Impersonal eagerness of her awakening mind I But. savage and silent, they sat there, loving each other, hurt, but locked each Into his own impenetrable life. to" hot-eye- After that Joan changed the hours of her study and neglected housework nd sagebrush-grubbing- , but nonetlie less were Pierre's evenings spoiled. When he talked he could not escape the consciousness of having constrained his audience; she could not escape her knowledge of his Jealousy, the remembrance of his mysterious outbreak, the Irrepressible tug of the story she was reading. So It went on till snow came and they were shut In, man and wife, with only each other to watch, a tremendous test of good fellowship. This searching tntlmac 's cams at bad time, Just after third visit, when h had brought fresh supply of books. "Eighteen. "Is that all? Ton must read book, yen know. iThers's so much empty spaee there 'back of your brows.' Sho looki up smiling a little, her wide gray Yt puzsled. You must read. Will "Tea, Jos yon If t If id yon some hooks." con 'dered. "Tea," she said, h Td read tt Ito If you'd be lendln' me (TO BK CONTlJtftJED.I some. In t evenings when Pierre's I never tgnt lonesome. way, I'm Cngllsh Law teems Unfair. was lonenoi e before, not to know it Tnder th English law the wife ol ItH take m V long time to read one criminal Is legally Justified In doing she added with an en CHAPTER V book, thovg all she can, short of committing angating monr iiftilne. "What do yon like stories, poetry, Plarrs Becomes Alarmed About His other crime, to shield her husband from Justice; although any other per ProBsrty. nsgsnlne V The Bert time HoHlwell cam he son doing so would bs liable to hs "I'd like r I books In stiff covers. after the fact. said Jonn. " n I don't like brought the books, nd. finding Pierre charged as an accessory the clergyman. "Why Thle tirpr t home, hs sat with his host fter But husband Isa forbidden to shield tint?" as lt supper sad talked men's talk of the his wife who U criminal. His duty Is to hand her rrsr to th dears l 1 ttt to M'on how ofthe folks loots country; of gsm. of ranhlnc llttl JJfosUcs; kurerew real stories f travel, tikJ I gossip, pltrM, pictures oytf " " -- iw-- Q eyes. speak. She "I Didn't Fetch You Up Here to Read Parsons' Books an' Waste Oil." NEPIII. UTAH S. Somebody's Thanksgiving Dinner perlonees, and Jonn sat In her place, The books in her lap, looking and Katharine Newlin Burt SYNOPSIS TIMES-NEW- Holll-well- -- By- LAURETTA JOY im ClntUmJ flm DetUr ES, father, it went off all right, but it wasn't like our Thanksgiving when the children were home," and mother and grandmother Bell winked back a sentimental tear. There were only two of them at the supper table with its dabs of cold chicken and pork, cranberry sauce, celery, nuts, cold squash, and all the orthodox remnants of the great American feust. The four children and twelve grandchildren had been feastea and feted in the old home and had gone on their way rejoicing after "the girls" had helped mother "do up the work." The bouse where Tom and Bob and Ruth and Alice had been born, where they had been fed and kissed and spanked, where they had scrapped and made up, and manifested the first sparks of the genius within them, was very still. "Yes, mother, it wasn't like the old Thanksgivings," said the man with of youth gone, most of the and they were silent together. The mother was remembering those long-agyears when a home full of childish Joy in Thanksgiving or any holiday gave It a freshness and vigor that had dulled In later years. She lemembered the warm house wrapped in winter snows bubbling over with the zestful enthusiasm of childhood. First of all, there was their keen joy in the distant vague preparations for the holiday. She could see Tom's grin when she sent him to the store for rnlslns and citron and almonds and the smiles of all B q of them wnen the big rich cake was put in the old brown crock. There was the day when Huth came and Bob home with their "pieces" to speak In school the day before Thanksgiving and Joyfully o U i mm revealed that "teacher" had told them what they had known all along that school would clout- - ,n Wednesday night and they didn't have to come back until Monday. And then their watchful, fearful waiting for the first snowflakes, and Toin getting out his coaster and painting the runners, and Alice and Huth going to the woods for bittersweet and partridge berries and sprays of evergreen and decorating the mantel anj windows and archways, and then tlit day before, when father killed and dressed the chickens or turkey if duck. And what a hurry and husfie there was of cleaning, baking, iuat-In- g and boiling, and how golden Um big kitchen was with the winter sun glancing through the maples outald and how warm It was with the bit oven sending out wave of warmtl and th odor of baking pie, cake and cookies. And then the great day itself no need to call her brood that day, for snow hsd come In the night and the boys had risen with the fiery red winter sun to try out th sled before breakfast and had come in all cold and rosy to gulp down pancakes and sirup and eggs and bacon. And then, no matter how great the feast nor how much remained to be done, the six of them were dressed In Sunday best and the family trailed down the white street to church, meeting neighbors on the way, smiling, chsttlng, asking whether It wss a turkey or a chicken bill of fare this time, growing soberer ss they trailed Into th llttl white church nd, down to th pew that held the six of them each And then the triumphant Sabbath. Thankasirtng hymns sod pans from the choir, the sermon of plenty from the pastor, and the yellow winter sun streaming through the stained windows. The benediction, the moment of chat and good will from neighbor to neighbor, a little herd guided down the steps where they burst from church sobrlel into the puppy sivlrlts demanded by a cold, snappy day. Home again and the lust scramble for the feast the girls . setting the table with the best linen, silver and china, with a bowl of tiny yellow chrysanthemums from the backyard bush, the trips down cellar for a can of relish: tiny, firm pickles; some chill sauce; strawberries, and the squash and carrots and turnips and potatoes and onions, each with Its part to play in the feust. The turkey or duck stuffed with spicy dressing was crackling away In the oven, father was out in the garden exhuming some celery put to bleach for the occasion a month or so ago, the boys were cracking nuts and polishing apples how sweet it was to do her work in her own place for those who needed and enjoyed this work how serene and sure and peaceful It all seemed looking back over those years all the doubts and torments of later years seemed impossible. How had it come about? What had life done to her, to them? Her friends, her neighbors thought that life had used her kindly. Death had never knocked at the door of her fold. Sickness had been almost unknown. In the eyes of the world, her children had "turned out well." Tom was councilman in a big city and a prominent business attorney. -- He had married "a nice girl" and no one could ask for prettier, better mannered grandchildren than this family had given her. Alice had married a physician and was prominent socially and In club work. Mother and Father Bell rartAy picked up a Sunday paper without seeing a picture of "Mrs. John Graham" or one or other of the little Grahams, who were included "among those prominent in the Juvenile set." Bob was a successful merchant and active in furthering employee welfare work. Ruth had never married, but was more than successful as a home decorator. She traveled all she wanted to, dressed beautifully, maintained a charming apartment, was Invited to the homes of those whom the world calla "great" no, there was not one of her children who had not "done well" or was anything but a credit to the parents. And yet, why did a mother hunger so even if her children were all that she had ever hoped for them? Why must heartaches and loneliness be the price to pay for this very success! Why did such a sense of baffled puzzlement fill her at the Thanksgiving table? Why did their coming not satisfy? Why did this longing for the other days persist In seizing her? She knew the answer. Knew that their very success, their very homes, their very children, meant that her work was done. It was but a visit of a day, and as such had no faintest connection with the yesteryear feast days which meant one home, one interest, one working and playing niche for all. She and their father and their home made uy their life's groove then. Today they are making those grooves for others and finding their own therein. There are thou sands of fathers and mothers ths country over who find only poignant loneliness and even bitterness In repetition of the feast days which were o Joyful In days gone by. The winter sun still streams through ths bsckyard maples Into the big kitchen. The same old range bakes the turkey snd squash and mine and pumpkin pies for the ssme old brood. The same china and silver and best tablecloth may be upon the dining-rootable, bat Thanksgiving Is not what It was. iftCven if the same faces, with Bo bVUk in the ranks, are grouped about t) table. It Is all different Dow. They arl guests In the place where they wile common workers. They are trVngers In the home that gavs them blrh. Does life hold no other Job for who gave them forth to th tho wortd? This Is tb sjaostJoa that fills ill Tm BEAUTY CF GRATITUDE By FRANK HERBERT SWEET THANKSGIVING DAY should of the yeiir. No one Is really thankful who Is not really happy. Prnlse spoken by the Hps Is very faint and hollow unless the heart It. Thanksgiving Is a home day. The young person who accepts the Invitation of friends for some form of merrymaking which takes one from the family circle makes a mistake. There are enough days In the year for the Suve ordinary good times. Thanksgiving for the home foiks. The girl or boy who looks on thankfulness as a hard duty Is not likely to make much of a success of It, The beauty of gratitude Is that It should be spontaneous, bubbling up In the heart like a spring, not pumped up to the surface with an effort that leaves one out of brenth. (Cg 1923, Western Newspaper Uniun.) the lonely hearts of many a mother and father Bell. Is there any balm for these he:irt-sor- e parents who feel that life's twilight must be spent with folded bands thinking of the active life that Is over? Or Is It the old story of paying the price for everything which one attnlns in life? I think not. I think it's a matter of perverted viewpoint. In the first place, parents who conclude that tholr life's work Is over Just because their children are grown and sway from home, are only writing their own doom. Life is not static It Is ever flow-In- s. The water goes on over the mill wheel and he who seeks to hold It back will be able to scoop up only pall or so and keep it until It grows scummy. Many parents are like this. of their own lives flow n The waters ' deeply and smoothly and when a stretch of clear, sparkling, limpid water, which means a phase of living especially dear to them, comes along, the parents scoop it up and seek to hold It, forgetting that the mill is going on Just the sume. r Parenthood Is an essentially phase of living to most people. Nntiire has a vital reason for this, hut he does her job too well. One Is to think that If she had created a tunn or woman so that would be the one Job they craved dur.ni rue days of their youth, but would so make them that they would crave nn .tner Job when the children were grow,. nnl going about their own Job of parenthood, the pld dame would have dune a better Job. Then, too. It's a human trait tn remember the fair and shining side of things that are gone, and hence jo repine for them. To go back to the Bell family: P.nth, the single damsel, glimpsed her iwr-ent-s' mood to the full and it with her sister like this: "You'd think to hear mother rnve that she was supremely happy when wo were sll home, and sometimes it makes me furious when I distinnly recall how ahe fussed and worried nn-stewed around about one thin nnd another where In the world the money for our winter underclothes wss rowing from, how much school !w,k r whst In the world she would do v Bob's bad temper snd Tom's lying and my vanity snd your craftiness after the boys. And msny a time she mnde her moan about how overworked and thankless her life was, and would the time never com when she lad a chance to rest and get a little And that's that I If Mother snd l ather Bell llvs to be eighty fhey will look back upon tholr peaceful, seren- -, quiet life together now as the best of their days, and at one hundred they would regard tho days of eighty as altogether desirable. If Thsnksgtvlng does nothing elso for os, may It quicken our vision of ths glories of ths present! chlld-rcarin- a d l pe-e- LOVINQ AND OIVINQ Thsnksgtvlng Is fitting for ths besotlful festival preparation dty which follows so soon Christmas. It la when a child truly feels sod expresses gratitude that h In torn la ready to glv and do for othors. "Loving aad giving" will make sunshine In on world. "God so loved that Hs gsva,"