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Show The SILVER FLUTE By Lida Larrimore . Miu.-rfte-.SmUh Company WNU Sorvlrje. SYNOPSIS On her elijhtftiMith blrthrlay, R:ir-ti.-ira, rnotherli:x.i laUKtiti:r of Christopher Christo-pher Thorno, artlnt, receives a Ijlrtluluy rlnK from liruco Mn.oI,uln, yrjunx urtist friend of the family, hut more than friend to Ilnrhara. Hruce tells her a tory of a nyjny hoy, a little gypsy Klrl whom ho loves, and the song of a Hllver flu to. She knows It Is her own love tale. Her father Is killed In an accident. Relatives arrive and take eharKO of thltiKS. To her dismay Barbara Bar-bara learns that slro and her two brothers and small sister are to be fioparated. Uespera le. tho four children lilot to run away to l;arbnra's godfather, godfa-ther, "Uncle Stephen" Drake. Stephen Drake, bachelor, forty years old, still has vivid recollections of t!arhara's mother, whom he had loved eighteen years before. He had made up his mind to proposo that night to Kmlly Trent, so that hl well-ordered household might havo a permanent head. Hut tho children arrive and the proposal Is Interrupted. Stephen feels his heart warm to the small daughter of his early love, but he tells her he must send them all back. Kit Is taken 111. Stophon finds himself unable to resume his lovor-llke feeling for Emily. The children's relatives appear, highly annoyed an-noyed and vociferously disapproving. Stephen pacifies them. "Does It make a noise?" Jamie asked. "A loud noise like thunder?" "Not actually, I suppose." "l:ut China Isn't right across a bay from Mandalay," Kit said with the air of an experienced traveler who had first hand Information about flyin;; fishes and palm trees and temple hells". "Uut It must he, Kit." Carbarn joined the discussion. "It Isn't." "It must be or Kipling " "Is It, L'ncle Stephen?" Stephen sent Jamie down to the library for an atlas, and the argument argu-ment became a geography lesson conducted con-ducted by Kit. The four Thornes argued about anything; any-thing; modern painting, pirates, what made seeds grow when they were planted, why the kangaroo had two short legs In front. They had been encouraged, Stephen thought, whatever what-ever the limitations of their training, to exercise their minds. "Aunt Josephine calls arguing 'talking 'talk-ing back,'" Barbara said one evening, "lint It Isn't, Is It, Uncle Stephen?" "Of course It Isn't," Stephen said. "Every one has a right to his own opinions." "Even children," Kit said thoughtfully. thought-fully. "Father always liked us to have our own opinions." Stephen liked It, too. He found the Thornes, as they became rested and more accustomed to their surroundings, surround-ings, Increasingly entertaining. He was pleased, and a little flattered as well, because they accepted him on Intimate In-timate terms. They were never reserved re-served and polite with him as they were with Aunt Edith. It gave him the feeling of having shed a number of dreary years. Barbara delighted him especially. She was such a bewildering combination combina-tion of rather precocious wisdom and childish simplicity. She had no airs or poses, It was impossible to judge her by ordinary standards. Sometimes when she romped with the children, cheeks flushed, brown curls tumbling, she seemed the youngest of them all an,d, sometimes, her manner was quaintly grown up and her eyes were too big for her face. But the unhappy un-happy times never lasted long. Barbara's Bar-bara's spirits were elastic. She was odd and exquisite and unaccountable. She had the gift of laughter. It was pleasant to do things for her, to see her eyes brighten with pleasure, to hear the singing notes in her gay young voice. "You'll spoil her, Stephen," Aunt Edith said when he continued to bring her odd little gifts. "She can stand it, I think," Stephen replied. "I want her to be happy while she is here." And then he forgot Aunt Edith. Barbara was coming downstairs to meet him, looking small and demure and very pretty in a bodiced frock the color of a primrose. "Did , you have a hard day at the office?" she asked, smiling up at him with the disturbing dimple at the corner cor-ner of her mouth. "Come up and put on your slippers and let me light your pipe." Of course she was only a child, Aunt Edith told herself. But Stephen was certainly bewitched. She thought kindly of Emily as she watched Stephen and Barbara walk upstairs, her gay young laugh drifting back to Aunt Edith. Stephen shouldn't be allowed al-lowed to make a fool of himself. Not If she could help It. Stephen took the girls on a shopping expedition. It was Natalie who put the Idea Into his head. "They're pretty," she said, having tea with Stephen after a visit to the schoolroom. "It would be fun to dress them properly." "Aren't they properly dressed?" Stephen asked, smiling with pleasure because Natalie thought his guests were attractive. Natalie thought more than that. She thought that the children were good for Stephen, in spite of the fuss Aunt Edith made. He seemed younger and more well, human. She and Bob had agreed that Stephen needed to be jolted out of his comfortable rut. But she did not put her thoughts into words. She stirred her tea with a thin silver spoon and smiled at Stephen through the firelight. "Men don't notice such things, I suppose. But little girls like pretty clothes. Will you let me take them shopping?" Stephen agreed, in an absent-minded fashion, and presently changed th subject. But he did not forget what Natalie had said. "Barbara," he said that evening, finding her alone in the library after the children had gone to bed, "wouldn't you like to go shopping? I thought you or Gay might need something. Dresses, slippers something like that." "I'm afraid we can't. Uncle Stephen." "Why not?" She flushed. "I we haven't any money." Stephen knew he had blundered. "I'd like to buy them for you," he said. Her lashes lifted. She looked at him gravely. "Oh, no," she said quickly. "Thank you very much. But we I I can't let you do that." "Why not?" "How could we ever pay you back?" "Must you?" Stephen asked, liking ner independence, wondering how he could buy her the clothes she needed without hurting her pride. "Of course," she said, as though there could be no question at all about that. "But we are shabby, aien't we?" Her fingers touched the worn frock. "I don't want you to be ashamed of us." "I'm not," Stephen said quickly, watching the pucker, soft as a wrinkl' in silk, between her curving brows. (TO BE CONTINUED.) j CtfAPTER VIII Continued 14 "I miss Father so much. And 1 miss you, too. I'm dreadfully homesick at night. I do get homesick, thinking of you, because 'home' doesn't mean Prov-Incetown Prov-Incetown or any special place, but Just wherever you are. I put myself to sleep every night by telling myself a story. Do you know what the story Is, Bruce? It's the one about the silver flute. If I keep very still Imagine I can hear It. Is that silly and sentimental? senti-mental? I suppose It Is, but I'm that wuy. If ever the flute stopped playing, I should simply want to die. Don't let It stop playing Its one lovely song . . . 'I love you, pretty gypsy girl with the roses In your hair. . . .' "Do you see this blot on the paper? That's a tear. . . . "I couldn't, help It. I want to see you so much. Wouldn't It be wonderful wonder-ful If Uncle Stephen would keep tho children and I could come to New York? I know they'd be safe and happy here. He's so lovely and kind. "But I don't suppose he will. His Aunt Edith doesn't like us. She wishes we hadn't come. But it's Uncle Stephen's house, so she doesn't say anything, but I know she'd like to, just the same. I haven't a nice disposition, dispo-sition, have I, Bruce? But what can you expect of a 'gypsy girl'? I don't suppose they ever have any manners. "There's another blot I I do love you so much. But I haven't told Uncle Un-cle Stephen. He might think it was ridiculous because I am only eighteen. It's a beautiful secret and no one knows it but you and me, and the ring with the little gold heart. Here's all my love, except what belongs to the children, tied up in paper covered with stars with a huge silver bow.- It makes a very large package. Keep It, Bruce, from "Your Babbie, "who loves you very much. "P. S. I asked Uncle Stephen to call me Babbie Instead of Barbara. He does. He's very accommodating. "P. S. No. 2. lie isn't a 'crusty old bachelor.' He's nice looking. But old. I guess he must be forty. "P. S. No. 3. Here's a kiss for goodnight. good-night. Know something? I love yu." CHAPTER IX Kit gradually Improved. The schoolroom school-room became the center of the house. There was always a fire In the open grate and cheerful red curtains shut out the dreariness of the late November Novem-ber days. Jamie's electric trains were set up on the floor. Gay played games with Kit, or Barbara, curled on a shabby red sofa with comfortable curves and hollows, read aloud to the children. Aunt Edith paid an occasional occa-sional visit to the room. But the children, chil-dren, with the exception of Gay, were somewhat constrained with her. They knew Aunt Edith wished that they hadn't come. Stephen went to the schoolroom, first, when he returned home In the evening. He was always greeted with rapturous cries and lusty embraces. He looked forward, each day, to the hour before dinner which he spent with the four Thornes. They told him things which had happened during the day. Kit would have a sketch to show him, perhaps. Jamie would have found a family of kittens In the old sleigh in the stable. Gay would want to dress up for him In a hoop-skirt and flowered bonnet she had discovered In the attic. Barbara would ask his advice ad-vice about Jamie's cut finger or Kit's appetite which wasn't what It should be. And didn't he think that Gay should learn to spell ten new words every day? There were arguments for him to settle. "How can the sun come up like thunder?" Gay asked one evening, and Stephen knew they had been reading Kipling. "I suppose it means suddenly," Stephen said when he had thought a little. The children's questions some times embarrassed him. They expect ed him to know everything, "because he was a lawyer." |