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Show t, ' ' "" the Silwir Fltatd f By LiJa Larrimore ' " I I , Macrae-Smith Company WNUCervI j y CHAPTER XII Continued 21 "Atlantic City is exciting. We're staying at a gorgeous hotel. But the smell of the ocean makes me homesick. home-sick. I wish we were back in Prov-lncetown. Prov-lncetown. I guess a gypsy girl can't turn Into a Social Butterfly. Uncle Stephen Is lovely to me but, somehow, I'm lonely all the time. I love you very much. "BABBIE." "Thornhedge, "March 10th. "Bruce, Darling, "Don't write me letters like that. They make me so unhappy. I don't love the children more than I love you. But I can't desert Uncle Stephen now. It's my fault we are here. I can't just run away and leave the children on his hands. You see, he depends on me so. Sometimes, when It Isn't all so new and strange to him, I'll tell him about us. But it wouldn't be grateful now. Please try to understand. under-stand. "Hasn't the silver flute learned any new songs? You haven't sent me one for so long. It doesn't really matter. I like the old one best. I hear It every night before I go to sleep ... 'I love you, little gypsy girl with the roses In your hair. . . .' "Oh, I do love you, Bruce! But It's all so confusing. Please try to understand. "Your Babbie." "Thornhedge, "March 12th. "No, Bruce. I can't, I can't." CHAPTER XIII Spring was dancing on toward summer. sum-mer. There were peonies in the garden gar-den and the rose bushes were starred with tight little pink-tipped buds. Bees hummed In the honeysuckle and In the blue wisteria blossoms. The children lived out of doors. Alfred Al-fred leveled and rolled the croquet ground bordered with hedges of box. New willow chairs, for lazy reclining, appeared on the terrace behind the house. The old place took on an atmosphere at-mosphere of gayety and youth. Stephen felt as though he had cast off a number of dreary years. He had no regrets about keeping the children. chil-dren. Life moved to a quickened rhythm. It seemed to him that he must have been only half alive before the children came. He had thought that he dreaded changes. He found them, on the contrary, stimulating and pleasant. There was but one thing to mar his satisfaction. He felt, as May tripped past In a succession of balmy days, that Barbara was unhappy. She was more quiet than she had been in the winter. She looked at him so often with a wistful expression in her eyes. "Aren't you happy, dear?" he asked as they sat on the terrace one evening after dinner. "I've wondered." He moved his chair closer to hers. "You're so quiet, Babbie. Is something troubling trou-bling you?" "No," she said slowly. Then she smiled, the April smile that was close to tears, and slipped her hand Into his. "No, Uncle Stephen," she said. "I want you to be happy." The touch of her hand was disturbing. "Is there anything I can do?" "You've done so much." She looked up at him, her eyes wide and dark. "I'll always be grateful. Always, as long as I live." "I don't want you to be grateful," Stephen said gently. "I want you to be happy." "I am happy," she said. But she wasn't happy. There was always a lump In her throat and she didn't sleep very well. She hadn't heard from Bruce for nearly three weeks, except a note to tell her that he couldn't get away for a week-end at "Thornhedge." Bruce didn't believe be-lieve that she loved him. He thought she preferred to stay with Uncle Stephen. But she couldn't tell Uncle Stephen. It didn't seem grateful or polite. She talked brightly enough after that. They laughed and were very gay. But during the days that followed, fol-lowed, Stephen watdied her closely. Sometimes when she rode with him, her checks flushed under the jaunty three-cornered hat, her eyes sparkling with pleasure, he thought that he was mistaken. Hut there were other times when he knew that she was worried about something. He found her one afternoon by the lily pond weeping over a letter. "It's from Martha," she explained. "Martha says Hint a storm last winter broke one of our willow branches. I love our willow trees." . . . Rnioe had given her the ring with the small gold heart under the willows "Oh, Bruce! It Just exactly tits!" "It should. It was made for you. The heart Is to match your face." And the sound of the wind In the willows wil-lows was a song that was happy and sad. . . . She was homesick, perhaps, Stephen thought. The gray-shingled house she mentioned so often was very dear to her. "Would you lik, to o) hack?" ho asked, wanting to make her happy "All of us?" "We can drive up this summer." She stuiok her head I "Thank you, Uncle Stephen." i lashes that curved against her ch '8 were stuck into points by tears, : T don't think I want to just yet." : He took her to a concert one e ning. She seemed to enjoy It at j. f but suddenly, when the orchestra became a low accompaniment for. clear silver notes of a flute, he he through the liquid music, a 8tt "D heart-broken sob. i Jp "Babbie!" he whispered, start;' "Babbie, what is it?" i "Let's go." She was strug; ! against the sobs that distorted i face. "Please, Uncle Stephen, let's; "What was it, Babbie?" he ast Q when they had left the hall ana driving home in the car. "What u: you so unhappy?" j y "It was the flute, Uncle Stepfe- the she said in a small weary voice. ";; j0, I couldn't bear it." j The sobs decreased in violence. 5. pr0 drew a long quivering breath. j vel "I'm sorry I made a scene," she sa " slipping her hand Into his. "W Bll, dreadful, Uncle Stephen?" j onj "Don't think about that." He b COr her in his arms, felt her hair, soft,: silky and faintly scented, brush; ma across his cheek. He thought that s' tw might explain. She didn't. i Perplexed and troubled, Stepl' confided in Natalie. j (J "Babbie isn't happy," he said, j "I've noticed that." Natalie ca-often ca-often to see the children. She 1 noticed that Barbara seemed unhap;1 "Why?" she asked. : "I wish I knew." j Natalie glanced up, touched by t: troubled tone in his voice. Stept was gazing down across the lawn I where Barbara sat on the grass le; lng against the trunk of a tree. ) book lay open in her lap. But, fc; the terrace, she did not appear to :; reading. There was something wist: in her position. There was a wist: expression in Stephen's eyes. j "I want her to be happy," he sa: "What can I do?". "She needs to be more with yon: people," Natalie ventured to sugje: "Boys and girls her own age. You selfish, Stephen. You can't guard t like a watch dog. After all, eh; eighteen." "Perhaps I have been selflS Stephen agreed. "Well, what do j suggest?" j "Give a party for her. A danct party outdoors." j "Will you manage it for me?" i "Gladly." Natalie smiled at S: phen's worried expression. "Tie: was an old woman " she teased. ! "I pity her," Stephen said, "if all her children were girls !" j There was a moon for Barban party, a round June moon that net;: the lawns with black and silver sh: ows. The terrace was floored ! dancing. There was an orchestra : a refreshment tent. There werevok and laughter and hummed snatches popular songs. There was Barbara- r a dancing frock all filmy floating ' fn, tulle. It was going very well, Stepl ev thought, watching the dancing frt: ju an unobtrusive position. Barbs: jjr seemed to be having a happy tin an How lovely she was in that fit' po white frock. Was it necessary for C na young cub in the uniform to hold t ch so closely? This was a dancing par th and not a football game. th "Will you dance with me?" Steph: pr asked through the applause that els: ored for an encore. She turned from the uniform. S- er slipped into his arms all misty w: to tulle and glowing cheeks and dart m. shining eyes. Eh "I didn't know you could dance," s! th said, her hand against his shoulder. ; "I manage to get around." Stepl guided her smoothly among the clrcK dancers. "But I don't know this mc ern technique," he confessed. "In e day dancing was dancing." , "You're not that old, Uncle S:: i phen," she said with a gay Ut:' laugh. : How old did she think he was? E ; felt ancient compared with these Ut pant youngsters who tried so ds j peratoly hard to net like men of C j world. j "Happy?" he asked. "It's a lovely party." i "Happy?" he nsked again. i She lifted her face and he saw tl j there was pain beneath the shin" j in her eyes. Something troubled t"': something that a party could not to' Ish. Babbie. His arm tightened at j her. Lovely child. ... i "Pardon me, sir." That was ' youth, snatching her away. j "It's called 'cutting In'" BarW explained, smiling over the hoy's sh"-dor. sh"-dor. "You can do It, too." Stephen did not take ndvn11tn.es1' the privilege. The boy's rcsptH't: "Sir" had put him In his place. s belonged with the youngsters tonl.i- i with the youthful men of the w,r j who snatched her from each other ' i snatched her hack again. Step'" ' mingled with other guests and win'"' returned Barbara had disappear'' lie did not see the small graceful ' of ure In llliuy white among the il'i"yr th on the terrace. lie walked rnpU ni down the terrace, under the lantcr1' j across the lawn netted with blaok ' lu silver shadows. tw He found her beside the lily poJ1 cl the far end of the g.inlop (TO II in CONTlNUIClv) |