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Show VjN. HEAVEM- BY CLIVE ARDEN V. V J eOPVRIHT r TH SOSU-MCBIUU. COMPAQ Poor Mr. Home was rendered speechless. Barbara seized the opportunity of forwarding her original purpose. "I wanted to see you, tonight, about Jenny Grant." "Jenny Grant?" he echoed. Htlll dazed. In a few sentences she acquainted him with the facts. He looked at ner. by the light of his bicycle lamp. In yet more astonishment ; then, with an air of profound melancholy, shook his head and sighed again. "They are chapel people. Miss Stock-ley. Stock-ley. It Is not my business to Interfere." Inter-fere." "But surely ! Whatever difference does that make? It's only a loan of s few pounds I will pay you hack " "You don't understand these matters. mat-ters. If we begin lending money to those who are but suffering the rewards re-wards of their sins if we encourage them to expect " Barbara turned away. "If only Mrs. Field were here!" she muttered involuntarily. "Mrs. Field? I saw her at the station" sta-tion" "Saw her? Then she has come back? . . . Good night, Mr. Home!" Before he could open his lips, he found himself alone, the sound of flying fly-ing footsteps In his ears. Still feeling distinctly dazed, he took off his pince-nez pince-nez and wiped the glass, before mounting mount-ing his bicycle. . . . Yes, very wrong! Whatever the trouble, It was w bosom friend to another throughout Dnrbury that, during her sojourn upon the island, Barbara became the victim of an unrequited passion. This added spice to the mystery, while whetMng curiosity. Did her companion never guess? Could any man, in such circumstances, cir-cumstances, be so blind or so pla-tonic? pla-tonic? Curious glances followed her ; voices were lowered when she appeared ; a constraint became obvious In her presence. pres-ence. . . . Well aware of it all, she threw It off with a shrug, scorn adding to the misery of her heart as she dragged through the days. Occasionally Occasional-ly her mother forced the subject open again. . "If Hugh ever wishes to renew 'he engagement," she said once, "I Insist upon your doing so." "I couldn't possibly, mother !" "Why not? The other man Is dead. . . . You can't ruin your life over an Infatuation of that sort. . .' ." The Kochdales are such old friends," she moaned, another time. "You don't consider how I miss them how this all affects me !" "But you can continue your friendship. friend-ship. Why not?" asked the girl, having hav-ing grown unaccustomed to Darbury habits. This, however, was contrary to all custom ; and a certain estrangement estrange-ment between the two families began, as a matter of course. . . . Barbara tramped the common in all weathers, consumed with a restlessness that would not let her sleep, unable to lind peace of hiind in any occupation. occupa-tion. Coming back from one of these tramps two days before Christinas, she noticed, in the gathering dusk of the short afternoon, a woman's figure standing near the lake, a small child in her arms. With a casual glance, the girl was entering the cottage gate, when she heard her name uttered lew, like a faint exclamation. She turned quickly, peering with puzzled brow through the gloom; then recognition dawned in her face. "Jenny? Jenny Grant!" She remembered re-membered she had not seen the girl since her return. "What are you doing, do-ing, Jenny? Home for Christmas?" she asked kindly, presuming her to be now in service somewhere. There was no reply ; and, aware of the shyness of such village maidens, she continued: "Where are you working now?" "I 1 ain't got no work, Miss Barbara." Bar-bara." The voice trembled on a sob. Barbara Bar-bara glanced at her quickly again, and realized the child's presence. A dim memory of one among the many choice morsels recently recounted for her own benefit returned to her mind . . "Oh. Jenny!" she cried involuntarily; involuntar-ily; then stopped, as the girl, hiding her face on the sleeping child, burst Into a passion of tears. Taking her young an' an' partin', an'," with sinking voice, "I luved 'lrn 1 Oh, miss! I did, Indeed I . . ." The hand on her arm tightened its grasp. "Yes, Jenny. ... I know . . " Then for a few moments she fell silent, si-lent, reflecting upon the varied pnd extraordinary results the high resolves re-solves and sacrifices, the Impetuous, hot-headed folly, the loss of all principles prin-ciples achieved by that "terrific force." . . . "What has happened since ?" She glanced at the child. "My aunt sent you to a home,' I think?" "Yes, miss. Afterward I got work; but the baby was delicate an' 1 couldn't 'ave 'lm with me. An' It's bin the same all along. I've bin out of work now wi' 'im fur weeks, an' all me money well-nigh gone. So I cum 'ome to mother, an' she she's turned me away." . . . The sobs broke out afresh. "I dunno w'ere to go nor w'at to do ... I wish I was dead! I was wonderin', there by the lake, If" "No, no, no! Don't say it, Jenny! We we'll think of something." Perhaps Per-haps It was more than natural aversion aver-sion which forced such horror Into her own face and voice. "Have you any friends, anywhere?" "Only in Edinburgh," Jenny replied hopelessly. "I 'ave an aunt there wot would' 'elp me over Chrlstmns If I could afford to " She broke off. swaying forward and nearly dropp'ng the child. Barbara took him from her. "Jenny," she asked, "have you had any food lately?" "I ain't 'ad none today miss," came the whisper. With all Alan's suddenness of purpose, pur-pose, Barbara rose, supporting the girl with one arm and the baby boy with the other. "Come with me," she said. Mrs. Stbckley, making out a list of necessities for a systematically organized organ-ized parish tea, presently listened aghast to her daughter's impetuous explanation ex-planation and extraordinary request. "That girl ! Jenny Grant ! To stay in my house? My dear Barbara, I won't hear of such a thing! Whatever would people say? A wicked little where Is she now?" "Martha is giving her food. She was starving." Her mother gasped. She rose uncertainly, uncer-tainly, as If on the point of frustrating this disposal of her goods; then something some-thing In the girl's expression caused her to resume her seat. "Oh. well ! She can have some food. But then she is to go. Barbara " "Where?" Mrs. Stockley fidgeted with her writing writ-ing paper. "That's no concern of mine. Her mother must look after her. Your aunt will be back tonight. She aill do something " Barbara waved this idea to a place unmentionable. 'Will you lend her money to reach Edinburgh? I haven't got enough loose cash " "Certainly not! I might never see it again." The girl abruptly left the room at this point, with another impulsive resolution. res-olution. Half an hour later, after extricating her charges from Martha's distinctly grim ministrations, she rang the bell at the "House of the Moor," and deposited de-posited (hem in the friendly arms of the housekeeper of that harbor where all were welcome. "Mrs. Field won't mind," she said. "I shall he hack soon." She hurried away across the dark paths; then lurned along the road lending to the vicarage. "Surely the vicar will help." she muttered to herself. "If only I had the money handy myself " Down 'he road skirting the wall, a bicycle lamp came flashing. A dark form flew past the girl ; then, with a scraping of brakes and rattle of springs, jumped off and hurried back. "Ah! Miss Stockley! I have wanted to see you. . . ." The vicar's voice sounded unusually subdued. "I was just coining to see you. Mr Home," Barbara replied. "Iteally? Ah ! I am very glad of that. I hoped you would." "Why?" she inquired, in genu'ne surprise. "Because veil, to be candid, I have felt much troubled about you." "Indeed?" she said, as he pnused lie wheeled his bicycle nearer and spoke somewhat hesitatingly. There was that about Barbara, nowadays, which seemed to check his bland platitudes. plati-tudes. "'! have been genuinely pained " he continued in his pedantic manner, "at your continued refusal to take up juir old work in the parish, and your absence ab-sence from church. Both have been a real grief to me. as they have to your mother. I am overjoyed. thercf-ae. if. at last " "No!" she Interrupted. "You Hre mistaken. I can't do either." ' lie cave a deep sigh. "But mj dear .Miss Stockley when one's duty lies plain " "Mr. Home!" she interrupted again, a note of suppressed passion In Her voice, "if you met a blind man. woi.ld you send him as guide to a parly of tourists?" "Er no," he said, bewildered She laid her hand on his hioyHe. and the passion rose In her hurried words. "Suppose your whole life your thoughts, your motives, tastes. Ideils, faith had been taken anil chanc-d: then whirled around and dashed to ihe ground, so that so that yon were broken, crushed, blind groping in tin-oark tin-oark could you teach children 'heir crted? Or train young girls to te 'guides'? Or or kneel In church and worship a Cod whom if He exists a' all u.u hate? yes, hale!" "Miss Stockley I" PART FOUR Continued. 18 V Darbury seethed and bubbled, and consumed endless tea. over the broken engagement of Hugh and Barbara It Is always easier to criticize other people's peo-ple's actions with the aid of this soothing sooth-ing beverage. It seems to enhance one's own sense of respectability In a world of sin. Nobody was surprised, of course ! Nobody ever Is on such occasions. Everybody knew that something would happen which Is always a safe conjecture. con-jecture. But what everybody did not know concerning the latter thrill was 'he real reason. And herein lay the cause of the emptying tea caddies. Unfortunately, Unfor-tunately, Miss Davies was in London attending Christmas meeting over "fallen girls." so the mystery remained unsolved. But the weed of suspicion grew Into a lusty tree. Again, and In louder tones, the questiou arose: What happened on the Island? It was known that the Rochdales and Mrs. Stockley were deeply upset, the latter exceedingly wroth; but the two most affected kept their own counsel. coun-sel. The only ray of comfort to Barbara In her wretchedness lay In her aunt's absence. The relations between her mother and herself were of the coldest. cold-est. Mrs. Stockley never forgot her position as a beacon, nor her Honorable Honor-able Grandmother's gracious act In establishing her own identity with the county. This marriage between her daughter and Darbury's future squire had been her dearest ambition. Now, for no tangible reason, this ambition revived with the girl's return was hurled to the ground. Not easily could Mrs. Stockley view the dashing of her hopes. The scene between them had been stormy. She had wept, cajoled and upbraided, exasperated by the other's oth-er's irrevocable demeanor. "You are throwing away what many would give their eyes to possess !" she cried at last. "What will people say? There has been enough talk already. ; You confess you still care for Hugh " "Oh, yes, yes!" interrupted Barbara Impatiently. "But that's not sufficient. It's not a woman's love for a man; that's quite a different thing. I know." "Don't talk like a novelette!" her mother broke In querulously. Then, suddenly, her eyes narrowed and her thin face sharpened. "How do you know?"1 she asked meaningly. Barbara was momentarily off her guard, not realizing her slip. The other woman pursued the advantage. "Answer me, Barbara ! I have not hitherto pressed for the confidence that was my due in spite of the gossip gos-sip which has come to my knowledge. You owe it to us all, now, to give an account of your life upon that island. Did anything happen there to cause this step?" The girl stood looking down into the fire, uncertain of her reply, for a few moments. Her mother gave r lirtle dick with her Hps. "Ah !" she said decisively, "we thought so !" "Thought what?" cried Barbara turning sharply. 'That there had been some Don-sense Don-sense between you and that man, un-chaperoned un-chaperoned as you were." The girl's eyes smoldered ominously and she set her teeth. Her mother, exasperated by this reticence, continued contin-ued with increasing anger: "I ought never to have given my consent. I always knew he was an unscrupulous type of man I never trusted him! But you at least should have known better, after your very careful upbringing. If his ideas were loose " "Slop, mother!" Her quick anger mounted. "You don't know what you are saying. He was Ihe soul of honor. And because of It I yes. I grew to love him with all my heart. I couldn't help It. I shall love him until 1 die." she cried recklessly, throwing her-elf Into a chair and burying her head. "You mean to say," . asked Mrs Stockley sarcastically, "lhat It Is 'the soul of honor' to take advantage of a girl's lonely position? To lure her from the man " "He did not!" She sprang angrily to her feet : then realized, too late, the wlwlom of Hugh's warning. let' mother laughed incredulously. "Then you gave him your affection unasked? Yon behaved like a sentimental senti-mental schoolgirl threw yourself at Ids head. In fact?" Anything was better than exposing Alan's mime o Ihe fate awaiting It If the truth oozed out. She caught at this straw, anxious to end the ordeal. "If you like to think so. He certainly cer-tainly never asked me to care for him. Bur I couldn't help It." she repeated re-peated Thus H wan whispered from one "Oh! I Love Him So. . . being taken In quite the wrong spirit. But one must be broadminded; one must not give up those In sin and darkness. He would send her that little book. . . . VI An anchor at last, In a merciless sea ! Thus did it seem to the girl stumbling stum-bling hurriedly across the dark common. com-mon. The windows of the house blazed forth a pathway of welcome, long before be-fore its refuge was reached. Then a bright-faced maid opened the door; and that subtle sense of radian? warmth which is only possessed hy a house or person when the spirit of It Is at the helm stole out and enveloped her. . . . With a long-drawn sigh she entered the cheerful hall. One swift searching glance at Ihe sharpened white features of the girl hurrying up the stairs, and the woman In the fur traveling coat caught the extended hands and drew her close into her arms. "Oh, Bab darling!" came the cry from her heart's depth. A convulsive clinging of thin arms; no words were needed. . . . Here was, at last, the blessed peace of Understanding. . . . When the door of her den was closes behind them the elder woman raised the girl's face and looked long into the sunken eyes, with those deep gray ones which bore such resemblance resem-blance to another's that Barbara caught her breath. She rememhe,-ed once thinking his lacked their wonderful won-derful tenderness. But she had seen it grow there Intensified. . 1 "Ah!" she cried, "how I wauled yon !" "I want to keep you here for Christinas." Christ-inas." Mrs. Field said "Will vnu slay? I am leaving afterward Mis Davies traveled back with me. so vi-ur mother does not need you." She s:m the Mash of unutterable relief cross :iie girl's face, and turned to ihe door. Within a few minutes a letter Mad i been dispatched to Mrs. Stockley in- j struct ions given to Ihe lioiwekeeiifr j their outdoor clothes removed i.nd they were hack in the little sitt-ng- J room. j Mrs. Field knelt and poked the tire ! into a bright blaze, then looked un at j the silent figure beside her. Her rin i followed those of the girl toward 'hei writing table mid the photograph upon j it. . . . And she understood. Sne I rose to her feet. Ami nil the pecu-iar , magnetism, which drew people of j every class and creed to this woman. I shone in her face, seemed to vibrate ' in the hand shp held out. As rh j oilier caught at It. the sealed chamber of her tortured heart burst open in I one agonized cry: ' "I love him . . . Oh ! I love him j "Ami--he. Barbara?" j "lie loved me." ' Barbara abruptly helrt out her left band. (TO BE CONTINUE;).) I rjf,vyN$ "How Do You Know" arm, she led her to a seat placed near the lake, saying nothing until the fit of weeping had subsided. There wns no need of words. In Barbara's fuce and heartfelt exclamation Jenny had read the knowledge she had learned to dread awakening, mingled with a sympathy she had never yet encountered. encoun-tered. Of her own accord, at last, she began a stumbling explanation. " 'K was a sailor, miss. . . . 'E "as goln' to marry me. hut was ordered or-dered sudden-loike hack to 'Is ship; an' then 'e 'e got the 'monfa an' died. . . . But 'e would 'a' married me, all right! 'E would!" She spoke with a defiance which the listening girl understood well. "We was wrong, j I know," she went on. "but we was |