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Show The SILVER FLUTE By Lida Larrimore , Macrae-Smith Company WNU Service. CHAPTER XIV Continued 24 "It will be splendid for Kit," she said and Stephen knew' that he had Judged correctly. She didn't want to he entirely alone with him. Had he misunderstood her impulsive "I do love you, Uncle Stephen !" that night beside be-side the lily pond? But she had no interest in boys. She had discouraged discour-aged them all summer, had seemed to be content with the children and him. The children and him. That, of course, was the source of his anxieties and doubts. "Barbara," he said. "Yes? ..." Her arm was around his neck. He felt her hair, silky and soft, brushing against his cheek. Barbara's hair would have felt like that the Barbara Bar-bara he had loved. Why did he think of her when the younger Barbara was there beside him, close and warm and fragrant? Was it her mother he loved? It troubled him to realize that he couldn't be quite sure. "You mustn't do this for me," he said gravely. "Or for the children. , You must think of yourself." But it didn't matter about her. Bruce had gone. The silver flute was silent, lost perhaps. It would never play again, "I love you, pretty gypsy girl with the roses in your hair." Bruce was lost, the lovely things they !had planned . . . "We'll count the stars through our skylight and every morning for breakfast break-fast I'll sing, you a brand-new song." "Bruce ! A new one every day !" "And a special one for Sundays." And heart-shaped gates to keep away The world and all its cares 'From one small table, dear. And two small chairs. . . . The gates hadn't been strong enough. Bruce was gone. It hadn't teen her fault or his. It was something some-thing that had happened. Uncle Stephen Ste-phen loved her. He had done so much for the children. She could never be grateful enough. "I want to," she said with a little catch in her voice. "I do love you, Uncle Stephen!" "Darling !" He drew her down from the arm of the chair, held her close in his arms. Doubts and uncertainties vanished while she lay there against lis heart. He thought of taking her to Europe. They would revisit the Tillage in southern France. There, with this younger Barbara, he would iind the romance he had missed. She loved him, he was sure of that. She seemed content to lie against his heart. "Darling," he said huskily. "You are dearer to me than anything in the world." "I love you, Uncle Stephen," she said with a soft little quivering sigh. Stephen did not hear the sigh. It did not seem odd to him that she called him "Uncle Stephen." His lips were against her hair, soft and silky r and faintly scented. CHAPTER XV The car rolled smoothly along the Cape Cod road. Gay and Jamie, : bouncing with excitement, sat on the front seat with Thomas. Stephen sat on the back seat between Barbara and Kit. They were excited, too. But they , were very quiet. Stephen knew by ' their eyes, by their hands slipped Into J his, what It meant to them to be going go-ing home. ( It had been raining when they left Boston. Half way out the cape the clouds shredded themselves away, ; leaving patches of clear blue sky. When they reached Hyannis, the sun was shining and the sky was blue all over, as blue as a robin's egg. "Doesn't it smell lovely?" Barbara said smiling her April smile. "Mmm!" Kit agreed, a flush in his thin dark cheeks, his hazel eyes very bright. "I had forgotten. It smells jl exactly like home." Home. . . . Barbara watched the j houses skimming by, the low New ;i England houses, the apple trees, the i: fence rails. Ir would no longer be home. The gray-shingled house at the , end of the journey was to be sold. They would never come to Province- town again. It would be easier if J they didn't. Coming back was too sad. i Home, was "Thornhedge" now, al- ways and forever. Perhaps, after a lf while, she wouldn't mind so dread- fully. Perhaps she would he able to I remember Bruce without this queer lonely feeling in her heart. When she s was an old lady, perhaps. She sighed ;i' wearily. There were so many years to be lived before she would be an old : lady who could remember, without pain, the far-away heartaches of youth. Stephen heard the sigh. He glanced fit her, sideways. He could not see her eyes, only the curve of her cheeks and the brown hair blowing in ringlets ring-lets under her smart little hat. But i;; there was something forlorn in her f; position, In the hand which he did not hold lying palm upward in her lap. He shouldn't have let her come. There K were sad things to remember. Better not to go back. It hurt him when she j": w&s unhappy. He pressed her hand i ' In a comforting way and wisely saii nothing. Barbara was grateful to him for not asking questions. He was kind and understanding. She loved him with all her heart as she had loved Father, as she loved the children. Not as she loved Bruce. That was different. That couldn't happen again. She hoped Uncle Stephen would never know. But she couldn't look at him. Her lips were trembling so. Gay and Jamie discovered familiar landmarks. "There's the road to Long Nork !" Jamie shouted. "Kemember how Bruce used to take us swimming? Gay bounced half-way around on the wide front seat. "All of us piled in his awful old car." "It was a nice car," Kit, observed, stoutly loyal to Bruce. A lovely car, Barbara thought. She wished she might ride in it again, swooping up and down the stretch of road that was like a roller-coaster. The road to Long Nook ! 1. was Indian In-dian summer when she saw it last, late Indian summer, sunny and hazy and golden. Her birthday. There had been sandwiches and candy with hickory hick-ory nuts. She remembered it all so clearly, the clouds hiding the sky, the hut that had sheltered them from the storm. . . . "Sing to me, Bruce. I'm frightened." "I'll tell you a story instead." "That will be nice." "Once there was a gypsy boy who loved very dearly a little gypsy girl. . . ." What was she thinking? Stephen wondered, sitting beside him so very quiet and still. Would he ever know all of her thoughts? There were times when he felt close to her and times when he fdlt shut out. He had no part, now, in her thoughts. What was she remembering? Her hand slipped away from his. He macte no attempt to hold it. He had no part in her thoughts. Her hand had, unconsciously, slipped away. Every inch of the road, every tree, every house was associated with Bruce. There were the Corn Hill houses with their gaunt pointed roofs. There, after a while, was the 'Truro church, square and white, its steeple pricking the foliage of the trees. There was the place in the road where they had met the goose. She wondered won-dered If it had been killed and eaten. It was very precious, that goose. There was Provincetown. They would be there very soon. Barbara's hands held each other closely. It was sad to be coming back. "There's Manuel's boat In the harbor har-bor !" Jamie exclaimed: "Look, 'Chips,' old man ! Maybe he'll take us fishing." The Ariel, too, was there, Mr. Lor-ing's Lor-ing's sloop, as beautiful as a dream. They could not look at that. "It's just the same!" Kit marveled. Stephen laughed. "Why shouldn't it be?" he asked. "Places seldom change in a year." It seemed longer than that, Barbara thought. So many things had happened. hap-pened. But there was Miss Abble's low white house with the dahlias ready to bloom. There was Jake Preble on his dray still wearing the same hat. And there, at last, was the gray-shingled gray-shingled house with the willow trees and the rose vine over the door. "We're here,". Kit said In a husky voice. Barbara smiled mistily at him. She couldn't speak because of the lump in her throat. Stephen saw her swallow, saw the tears on her lashes. He thought that, just at first, she might like to be alone. "Get the key from the real estate agent," he said to Thomas. "Kit will show you. Take Gay and Jamie with you." Thomas and the children had gone to the real estate agent. Stephen and Barbara were alone. "It looks forlorn this way," she said, wanting him to love the house as she loved it. "It's nice when there aren't so many weeds." "It's charming," Stephen said, watching watch-ing Barbara. He knew that the house was dear to her. He had not known how dear. Barbara peeped Into the house through the windows. "There's the old piano," she said, as though she was surprised to find it there. "It was always out of tune." There were tears In her voice, tears misting her lashes. She smiled an April smile. Stephen's heart swelled with tenderness. tender-ness. "Darling," he said, finding, pressing her hand. She led him beneath the arbor to the studio. "We sat here so often," she said, pausing on tlfe steps. She lifted the door latch. "It's open !" she said looking look-ing at Stephen in wondering surprise. They entered the studio. "Someone is living here!" Barbara glanced around the room. "Now, who do you suppose " There were signs of an occupant, a cot made up In the corner, books, a pipe, an oil stove, a battered guitar. "How In the world " Stephen did not complete the question. Barbara had slipped down to the floor. She was holding the guitar against her breast, rocking It as though it were a child. "Barbara," he said, wondering, surprised. sur-prised. "It's Bruce," she said through shaking shak-ing sobs. "Uncle Stephen, Bruce Is here !" He understood it, then. Something died in his heart, something that never would live again. "You love Bruce," he said slowly. "I can't help it." She looked up at him, her face streaming with tears. "I didn't want you to know." (TO BE CONTINUED.). |