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Show A Vagabond Dreamer . By DOROTHY DOUGLAS Copyright, 1911, by Associated Literary Press.) "You are trespassing on my property!" prop-erty!" came a voice from the moonlight moon-light Blair scrutinized the clump of bushes. He had supposed the white thing flitting about there to be a slim beam from the moon. "But the gardeners never come down here and uncle is away, so It Is all right." The voice was nearer to Blair than before. j He shaded his eyes and looked more closely. A low ripple of laughter accompanied ac-companied his search. "Here I am." She had parted the bushes and still Blair felt that a Wedge of moonbeam had squeezed down through the trees. He stared at her with his hand shading his eyes. "I can't see whether or not 1 like your eyes," she said half petulantly. Blair obediently dropped his hand and turned toward the light that came from the small door of his caravan. cara-van. The dreamer's look was In his yes and the dreamer's whimsical smile on his lips. Molly looked at him with grave eyes for a moment. "What are you doing here?" she asked, edging nearer to him. "Looking for fairies like you," he said in the tone of one speaking to a child. "I am eighteen." She resented his tone. "And then what do you do?" "I weave them into fairy tales." "I suppose that you mean you are a writer and that your name is in all the big magazines?" "About that," he smiled. "Couldn't I just have one peep into your caravan?" she asked. "It looks so cozy." "It is cozy." He was amused at her quaint curiosity. "I will have to lift you up on the step." "Isn't it darling!" She turned toward him. "I didn't know gypsies had such exquisite " "But I am not a gypsyy," put In Blair, and in the darkness a strange bitterness crept into his eyes. "If I were I would shut that door with you inside and lash up my ponies!" "Oh, wouldn't that be lovely!" She clapped her hands joyously. "But poor uncle would never get over it." "He has managed to survive other losses." Again that pained bitterness bitter-ness swept into the vagabond's eyes "You know he Is not really my uncle." She had not noticed his re- Blair Watched Her Go. mark. "1 have lived here only five years. I'm adopted and Uncle Gray Is going to give me all his money," she confided naively. "So I understand," Blair said. "You have heard of me!" Molly's eyes opened wide. "I have beard of the protege of John Gray yes. But 1 had not known she was so grown up," he finished lamely. "Well beautiful then." He looked deep into his eyes. She returned the look wonderingly. "Oh, oh I feel such a funny little thrill inside here!" She clasped both hands over her breast; and stood gazing gaz-ing at him. Blair turned swiftly away from the Innocent awakening in her eyes. "Perhaps you had better come down from my caravan." His own voice waa a trifle husky. "Or I will be tempted to become a gypsy and run off with you." "But I don't want to come down. 1 feel happy I want to sing and dance and " She broke off abruptly ab-ruptly and that wondering look swept Blair's own. 8 lair was silent for a moment while he struggled against the tumult tu-mult In his heart This witch had breathed on hidden chords; he felt strangely unaccountable for his actions, ac-tions, his words. "You are tired," he said finally, "and little girls should be in bed at this time of night. Come!" But Molly Ashwell stood still and looked down af the arms extended to lift her from the step, then her eyes traveled up to the face on which the light shone full. "Do you know," she stated, "that you look very much like Uncle Gray?" Blair turned swiftly from the glare of the lamp. "Come!" he said, and his voice held a note of command. With a little hurt look in her eyes Molly put out her hands. For a breathing spell the universe seemed hung in midair. Molly tore herself free then and fled in the darkness. Blair watched her go, a' moonbeam darting from path to path and finally into the old rose garden and up the great stone steps between the guarding guard-ing lions and out of his sight through the French windows. For a long moment he sat staring at the windows through which she had gone. Finally he arose, unteth-ered unteth-ered his horses, hitched them to the caravan and drove off into the night. "She is too wonderful," his lips repeated. re-peated. "1 could not withstand her long." Three years came and went before Molly Ashwell and the Vagabond Dreamer met, three years in which her eyes had worn a pecular, brooding brood-ing look a look which John Gray had tried in vain to fathom or to lighten. "You are not so happy looking yourself," she had chided him on one occasion. He had grown a shade paler. "1 have cause a terrible cause for being miserable but I deserve It," was all he had said. She glanced quickly at him now as they sat in the theater. The curtain went up on a new play. The scene was an interior. "It is almost exactly like our drawing draw-ing room!" exclaimed Molly breathlessly breath-lessly and waited for confirmation ol her words. John Gray neither answered nor seemed conscious of ber presence. As the play progressed Molly felt the peculiar tension that held John Gray. After a spasmodic clutch of the hands on the chair arms he re mained as one turned to stone. The play was the old, old story of the son who had frequented the stage doors and had been turned away from home by an Irate parent. In this case the son had lived In the theatrical atmosphere merely as a stepping stone. He had run away from home to go on the stage that he might gain intimate knowledge of stagecraft. The strong plot woven In this fabric was neither here nor there excspt that at the close of the last act the author was called forth. He came from the wings. "My son!" John Gray sprang to his feet and held out a pair of shaking arms toward to-ward the man on the stage. "My Vagabond Dreamer!" came a girl's voice through the hush that followed the meeting of father and son. Regardless of the excited audience, the two men met and the older man clasped the other in his arms as if he was still a very small boy. Finally the quiet tones of the vagabond vaga-bond went out to answer that un asked question. "My father and I have been long estranged I am too happy to say more, except that I thank you for receiving re-ceiving my play so kindly." During the thunder of applause that followed a slim little figure slipped quickly out of the theater and into the great limousine that crept up to the curb at her call. Her heart was beating painfully !n dull, miserable beats. "Nobody loves me," she wept softly Into the kindly cushions. She sat huddled and broken, neither seeing nor hearing the excited crowd that came forth from the theater. It seemed ages before the two men, arm in arm appeared. Molly dried her eyes hastily and peered out as they approached. The younger man glanced at the car. Then Molly saw his hand go up to shade his eyes. He made a quick movement. She was very near him and the limousine had turned Into a darkened street when next she heard his voice. "Mine! All mine," he whispered against her lips. "Can we go In the caravan?" Molly asked by way of answer to his question ques-tion of a moment later. |