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Show SIMMERS A BY CLIVE ARDEN Poor Mr. Born tu rendered speechless. Barbara seized the opportunity of forwarding her original purpose. "I wanted to see you, tonight, about Jenny Grant." "Jenny Grant?" be echoed, trtlll dazed. In a few sentences Rhe acquainted him with the facts, lie looked at her, by the light of his bicycle lamp, In yet more astonishment ; then, with an air of profound melnncholy, shook bis bend and sighed again. "They are chapel people. Miss Stock-ley. Stock-ley. It la not my business to Interfere." Inter-fere." "Hut surely I Whatever difference does that make? It's only a loan of a few pounds I will pay you back" "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 siiw her at the station" sta-tion" "Saw her? Then she has come back? . . . Good night. Mr. Home!" Before be could open his lips, he found himself alone, the sound of flying fly-ing footsteps In his ears. Still feeling distinctly dazed, be took off his pince-nez pince-nez and wiped the glues, before mounting mount-ing his bicycle. . . . Yes, very wrong I Whatever the trouble, It was Jill' 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 whet'lng 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 lhe dragged through the days. Occasionally Occasional-ly her mother forced the subject open again. "K 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 Ilochdalcs are such old friends," she moaned, another time. "You don't consider how I miss them bow 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 find peace of mind in any occupation. occupa-tion. Coming back from one of these tramps two days before Christmas, 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 fulnt exclamation. She turned quickly, peering with puzzled brow through the gloom; then recognition dawned In her face. "Jenny? Jenny Grant I" 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 I 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' partln', an'," with sinking voice, "I luved 'lml Oh, miss I I did, indeed I . . ." The band on her arm tightened its grasp. "Yes, Jenny. ... I know . . " Then for a few moments she fell silent, si-lent, reflecting upon the varied nd extraordinary results the high resolves re-solves and sacrifices, the Impetuous, hot-headed folly, the loss of all principlesachieved prin-ciplesachieved by that "terrific force." . . . "What has happened since?" Rhe glanced at the child. "My aunt sent you to a 'borne.' I think?" "Yes, miss. Afterward I got work; but the baby was delicate an' I couldn't 'ave 'lm with me. An' It's bin the same all along. I've bin out of work now wl' 'Iiu 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 wonderln', there by the lake. If" "No, no, no! Pon'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 Christmas If I could afford to" She broke off, swaying forward and nearly dropping 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 witb the other. "Come with me," she said. Mrs. Stockley, 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 I 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 gome-thing gome-thing in the girl's expression caused her to resume her seat. "Oh, well 1 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, ner mother must look after her. Your aunt will be back tonight She will 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 them In the friendly arms of the housekeeper of thnt harbor where all were welcome. "Mrs. Field won't mind," she said. "I shall be back soon." She hurried away across the dark paths; then turned along the rond leading to the vicarage. "Surely the vicar will help," she muttered to herself. "If only I had the money handy myself" Down the 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 I Miss Stockley ! I have wanted to see you. . . The vicar's voice sounded unusually subdued. "I was Just coming to see you. Mr. Home," Barbara replied. "Keally? Ah! I am very glad of that. I hoped you would." "Why?" she inquired, in genuine surprise. "Because well, to be candid. I have felt much troubled about you." "Indeed?" she said, as he paused. He wheeled his bicycle nearer and spoke somewhat hesitatingly. There was that about Barbara, nowadays, which seemed to check his bland platitudes. plati-tudes. "I have been genuinely pained," he continued In his pedantic manner, "at your continued refusal to take up ycur 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, therefore, if, at last" "No!" she Interrupted. "You are mistaken. I can't do either." He gave a deep sigh. "But my I 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. would you send him as guide to a party of tourists?" "Er no," he said, bewildered. She laid her bund on bis bicycle, and the passion rose In her hurried words. "Suppose your whole life your thoughts, your motives, tastes, Idenls, faith bad been taken and changed; then whirled around and dashed to the ground, so that so that you were broken, crushed, blind groping In the fiark could you teach children their creed? Or train young girls to be 'guides'? Or or kneel In church and worship a God whom If He exists at til you hate? yes, hatel" "Miss Stockley I" PART FOUR Continued. 1ft V Parbnry 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 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 everyhody did not know concerning the latter thrill was the real reason. And herein lay the cause of the emptying tea caddies. Unfortunately, Unfor-tunately, Miss Davles was In London attending Christmas meeting over "fallen girls." so the mystery remained umtolveo. But the weed of suspicion grew Into a lusty tree. Again, and In louder tones, the question arote: ' Whut happened on the Island? It was known that the Uochtlnles 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 nnd 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 Dnrbury'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." "Dou't talk .like a novelette!" her mother broke In querulously. Then, suddenly, her eyes narrowed and her thin face sharpened. "How do you know?" she asked meaningly. Barbara was momentarily off her guard, not realizing her slip. The other woman pursued the advantage. "Answer me, Barbara 1 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 Info the fire, uncertain of her reply, for a few moments. Her mother gave a little click with her lips. "Ah !" she said decisively, "we thought sol" "Thought what?" cried Barbara, turning sharply. "That there bad been some nonsense non-sense between you nnd that man, on-chaperoned on-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 " "Stop, mother!" Her quick anger mounted. "You don't know what you are saying. He was the soul of honor. And because of It I yes, I grew to love him with nil my heart. I couldn't help it. I shall love him until I die." she cried recklessly, throwing herself ! Into a chair and burying her head. "You mean to say," asked Mrs. Stockley sarcastically, "that 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 ber feet ; then realized, too late, the wisdom of Hugh's warning. Her mother laughed Incredulously. "Then you gave him your affection unasked? You behaved like a sentimental senti-mental schoolgirl threw yourself at bis head. In fact?" Anything was better than exposing Alnn's name .o the 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. But I couldn't help it," she repeated. re-peated. Thus It was whispered from one "Oh! I Love Him So. . . ." being taken In quite the wrong spirit But one must be broadmlnded; one must not give up those In sin and dnrkness. He would send ber that little book. . . . VI An anchor at last. In a merciless sea I 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 radiant warmth which Is only possessed by a house or person when the spirit of It la at the helm stole out and enveloped her. . . . With a long-drawn sigh she entered the cheerful hall. One swift senrchlng glance at the sharpened white features of the girl hurrying up the stairs, and the woman In the fur traveling cont caught the extended hands and drew ber close Into her arms. "Oh, Bub 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 closed 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 remembered once thinkings his lacked their wonderful won-derful tenderness. But she had seen it grow there Intensified. . . . "Ah!" she cried, "how I wanted you !" "1 want to keep you here for Christmas," Christ-mas," Mrs. Field said. "Will you stay? I am leaving afterward. Miss Davles traveled back with me, so your mother does not need you." She saw the flash of unutterable relief cross the girl's face, and turned to the door. Within a few minutes a letter bad been dispatched to Mrs. Stockley, Instructions In-structions given to the housekeeper, their outdoor clothes removed and the.y were back in the little sltting-rot.m. sltting-rot.m. Mrs. Field knelt nnd poked the fire Into a bright blaze, then looked up at the silent figure beside her. Her eyes followed those of the girl tow ard I he writing table and the photograph upon it. , . . And she understood. She rose to her feet. And all the peculiar magnetism, which drew people of every class and creed to this woman, shone In her face, seemed to vibrate in the bund she held out. As tin other caught at It, the sealed chamber of her tortured heart burst open in one agonized cry : "I love him . . . Oh ! I love him so, . . ." "And he, Barbara?" "He loved me." Barbara abruptly held out her left hand. (TO BE CONTINUED.) "How Do You Know" arm, she led her to a seat placed near the lake, saying nothing until the fit of weeping hnd subsided. There was no need of words. In Barbara's face and heartfelt exclamation Jenny bad 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. " 'B was a sailor, miss. . . . 'E was goln' to marry me, but was ordered or-dered sudden-lolke back to 'Is ship; an then 'e 'e got the 'monla an' died. . . . But 'e would 'a' married me, all right 1 E would I" She spoke with a defiance which the listening girl understood well. "We was wrong, I know," she went on, "but we was |
