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Show MORRIS W.N.U.REIEASP fc THE STORY SO FAR: Charlotte (Cherry) Unwllngs, an orphan since she was seven years old, has been at Saint Dorothea's school tor girls. She knows almost nolhlne about her early history, but has gradually come to realize that like the other girls at the school she has no family, and she questions whether she has the right to her father's name. She develops Into a very attractive girl, and has a flair for writing the school's plays and arranging their tableaux. She Is in the costume of an Indian chief's daughter, having appeared In one of her own plays, when Judge Judson Marshbanks, her co-guardian with Emma Haskell, a trained nurse, appears to arrange for her to leave the school. She remembers that Emma nursed her mother before her death, and Judge Marshbanks tells her that Emma has gotten her a secretarial position with the very wealthy Mrs. Porteous Porter of San Francisco, where Emma Is now housekeeper. Now continue with the story. , Sf p , n fe Jteur' 2 She jumped when old Dr. O'Connor touched her arm realizing thai she was hungry and went Willi lum through the swaying train to the dining car.. and cars, its noise and progress. "Old girls" were twenty, found employment under "responsible custody" cus-tody" in the unknown world, and disappeared; new girls came in, . small and frightened and homesick even from the most unfit and wretched of homes, or rebellious and angry and full of muttered threats of escape. So Cherry, formally discharged from the books as "Charlotte Raw-lings," Raw-lings," with due details of her admission ad-mission and her thirteen years' residence resi-dence at the convent entered upon a formidable-looking graph, was not as entirely unprepared for entrance into the world as her custodians might have fancied her to be. At leaving, Cherry wore the convent con-vent uniform of black serge 'and white collar, and a round hat like a small black basket turned upside down. The hat,, dated back some ten years, but it was a hat, and that was all that, girls from Saint Dorothea's expected of headgear. Mother Superior had given her the ten dollars with a parting word of instruction. This money was for any emergency; her tickets and meals on the train would be paid for by the Sisters in whose care she was traveling. "The judge said you'd be with us only a few days. He is going to play bridge somewhere tonight, and he's having his dinner at seven. Mrs. Marshbanks and Miss Amy are going out to dinner before a party, and he's to bring them home dear knows when. It's a coming-out party par-ty for Miss Patsy Randall." "I didn't mind that, my dear," she said. "Here we are," May added, as the car stopped at the foot of an imposing flight of stone steps. "I'm going to slip upstairs, and I'll not see you again unless you need me. Molly'll show you your room. I'm usually with the old lady after dinner, din-ner, but she's away and I'm going to a movie tonight. You ask Molly for anything you want!" Cherry and her patent-leather bag were abandoned for just a few moments mo-ments in the big entrance hall. She had time only for a breath-taking impression of such spaciousness and beauty and color as she had never seen before, of soft rugs beneath her feet and dimly lighted arches leading to great dimly lighted rooms on all sides, of potted palms and bursts of winter flowers, before Judge Marshbanks came forward to take possession of her, and confide her to the care of Molly, a pretty maid with very black eyes and a very white skin. CHAPTER II "Because," the girl offered slowly and doubtfully, "it wasn't that way. I was only seven, but I knew that something was wrong. Nothing was left for me, no pictures of anyone, no letters or names. This school, you know, isn't like an ordinary school. We know we aren't like other oth-er girls. Everyone here has some strange history no letters, no going home for holidays, no presents and surprises." "No; this isn't a regular school," he conceded. "But according to Emma it was the best thing to do. And you seem to have flourished," he added with a smile. "You've gone along here more as if it were a home ..." "With a capital letter!" she put in as he paused. He looked at her in his kindly wa.y and smiled. '.'A place where girls are protected protect-ed and safe, and well fed . . ."He raised questioning eyes. "Well fed?" he asked. "Not so oh, yes, all right," she conceded, not interested. An impatient impa-tient jerk of her head took him back to the point where he had interrupted inter-rupted himself. "And are taught good professions," profes-sions," he finished. "Dressmaking, bookkeeping, stenography, ste-nography, beauty-parlor work," she supplied. "But," she added, "those aren't what they teach girls in other schools. But that won't keep me from trying terribly hard to make good. You said something about a position? What am I to do?" , "You are not to do anything until you find just what you want to do," he said, his graying hair and his fifty years making it possible for him to use a father's kindly tone. "But for the time being it is a secretarial sec-retarial position with the same old lady a very rich old woman named Mrs. Porter Mrs. Porteous Porter, for whom Emma works. Answering the telephone, and correspondence, and reading that sort of thing." "Oh, that?" the girl said with a brightening face. "That I think I could do!" "This wouldn't have been my choice of a school for you, Cherry," the nun had said. "I've been considering con-sidering in my own mind whether I ought to say this much to you," she added, "and I've asked for guidance guid-ance in the matter. But there seems to be no harm in telling you that I felt and dear Mother Bertrand felt, thirteen years ago that you should have been one of the Victor street girls. Our school here is for cases . that are underprivileged for girls who are definitely unfortunate, perhaps per-haps through no fault of their own. However, the servant your mother's moth-er's servant, who brought you here was very definite that it had been her wish to put you with us. Mrs. Haskell Emma you remember her? you will see her now had known a fine woman who became one of Saint Dorothea's Sisters, and through her she knew exactly the character of our work." "I remember Emma," Cherry had stammered, almost faint with this final excitement. There had not been any especial stigma attached to her name then; she might have been one of the Victor street girls! Sister Fabian and Sister Gervase were both indisposed on the train. They did not want any supper; they had the three berths made up immediately, im-mediately, and Cherry left them to the little room, found a window seat in the empty length of the car and sat, fascinated, watching the landscape flying by. She jumped when old Dr. O'Conner touched her arm, realized real-ized that she was hungry, went with him through the swaying train to the dining car. and was so rapt over its light and warmth and the bewildering bewilder-ing obligation of ordering something from a menu for the first time in her life that tea and biscuits and honey were all she could murmur when her companion poised his pencil pen-cil over the order blank. Both little nuns were tucked up in bed when she cautiously entered the drawing room. Cherry had the lounge, and slept the sleep of youth and fatigue within its narrow boundaries. boun-daries. Breakfast was another adventure ad-venture such smoking coffee, such buttered toast! and the long day that dragged for almost everyone else on board was too short for her. But at a quarter past seven o'clock for the train was late when they descended somewhat grimy and jaded jad-ed at the Oakland Mole, sheer nervous ner-vous excitement and expectation had exhausted her. She was pale, too much absorbed in her own emotions to notice the effect of her chauffeur. He was quickly identified by the wearied Sisters, and Cherry in her turn identified the nice middle-aged maid who had accompanied him. May, the housemaid, who had been sent to meet her, was really, Cherry discovered, a Mrs. Mott who had two almost grown boys. But she was "May" to the whole household, house-hold, she said goodhumoredly, and Miss Cherry had better call her so. "I'm not going to live at the Marshbanks'," Cherry told her. "I'm going to take a position." By this time the girl was too much dazed to believe her senses. She followed Molly upstairs to an incredibly in-credibly luxurious big room with an unbelievably complete bathroom next to it; brushed her hair and washed her face in a condition of complete bewilderment, and descended de-scended again, still under Molly's escort, to the dining room where it appeared that she and her host were to be the only persons at dinner. He was halfway through his meal; hers was served to her fresh and hot. But she was unable to eat. The quality of the Italian lace that was spread on the polished wood, the beauty of china and crystal, the soft light of candles were such as Cherry Cher-ry had never seen in her life before, be-fore, nor ever dreamed could exist, and the numbing sense of being only in a dream made it impossible for her to taste or swallow anything. Even the food was beyond what had been her most fantastic imaginings. "Don't you like that?" the judge asked, looking over his paper. "It's wonderful. She made a valiant val-iant attack upon it. "Know what it is?" "No, sir. Chicken, I guess." "That's partridge. If you don't like it Martin will get you an omelette." ome-lette." "Oh, no, please! It's delicious." To her own disgust and surprise, her voice thickened. But he did not seem to notice it, and when he returned re-turned to his paper she made herself her-self finish her dinner, and felt her nerves more steady. A sudden sense that she did not belong in this scene, that it had nothing to do with her, that she never should have entered it, had almost wrecked her self-control for a moment. With the blinding force of a revelation she knew that her rumpled childish dress was absurd, that the dowdy hat -she had left upstairs, up-stairs, the bulging shabby patent-leather patent-leather bag, the ugly school shoes and cotton gloves and stockings had no place in this house, and were like nothing that had ever been here before. She knew, inexperienced as she was she had read it in her host's first look that her shabbi-ness shabbi-ness and homeliness had shocked him. He had seen her only once before, flushed with triumph after the school play, made up into her handsomest self as a brown-skinned Indian girl gay in feathers and fringes. The knowledge that came to her in this flash of shame and pain made the big dining-room chair in which she sat a seat of torture te her. But she did her best to conquer the feeling, and was quite calm when a young man came in, unannounced, un-announced, and drew a chair to Judge Marshbank's side. The judge, after a casual friendly greeting, glanced over at her and said, "Mr. Coates, Cherry," and then, "This is Miss Rawlings, Kelly." (TO BE CONTINUED) "I'm sure you could. And you would be paid seventy-five dollars a month." "Seventy-five dollars a month! Oh, she is kind!" "When when would I go?" she asked. "This is let's see, the third," he said. "Suppose you come down on Monday? Monday's a good day to start. You take a train at half past five in the afternoon, and at seven the next night someone will meet you at the Oakland Mole." "Sunday wouldn't do?" she asked. "Why not?" "I was thinking, when you said Oakland, that two Sisters .are going down to the Oakland house on Sunday; Sun-day; we're having a jubilee for them Sunday afternoon; they would take me." "That would be an excellent arrangement. ar-rangement. You come first to my house, you understand, and we can go over and see Emma when you've some clothes and have had time to look about a little. I must see Mother Moth-er Superior before I go and make the arrangements for you." And then they were walking back toward the convent's main building, through wide, orderly, dimly lighted corridors. "I must tell you about my family, fam-ily, Cherry," the man said. "My mother lives with us Mrs. Clay Judson Marshbanks; she sounds a little formidable and she is a little formidable! Then there's my pretty wife I lost my first wife," he interrupted in-terrupted himself to explain, "and Fran is almost young enough to be my daughter. I've" a son Greg he's twenty-four, off at college in the East, and also with us is my brother's broth-er's daughter, Amy. Amy's mother died when she was a little girl; her father was killed in an accident a few years after that, and my mother moth-er has had her since making her bow in society now and quite grown up. She was going away from the only world she knew; the air was full of farewells and heartaches, and strange excited happiness of anticipation. antici-pation. It had once been a sufficiently stark and comfortless regime. But times were changed now. Mother Superior was noted for the modernity moderni-ty of her views. Her girls, she said, must presently face the world as it was with all its hurry of planes |