The Press. (Stafford Springs, Conn.) 1883-1935, 1898-09-22


girl cried out; there was al daub across
the canvas.
''There now" regretfuEly, ''you'v
made smudge acrosti yourtname. "
The artist did not answer His silence
and abstraction were takenkas dismiss
ais. She hitched upi her bundle, wish
ing him good day.
''No. wait a bit. :" He got up for the
first time and came and stood before
her. won't you shake hands before
you go, my-my dezar?''
Bewildered, but gratified, she gave
him hers at once. It was rough and
sunburned and perhaps not overclean,
yet there was a curious resemblance be-
tween the tramp's hand and his own.
He dropped it hurriedly.
How old are you, my child?"
Eighteen come Chris mas."
His eyes were ON her face. They
studied it intently.
"Ah-hp' he said and dropped few
steps back. ''WelI, goodby Good luck.
God bless you.
Her eyes filed with tears.
"What are yo, crying for?''
The tears brimmed over.
AT you. You spoke so kind. You
made me think of mother. -
"a hint for your future guidance. -
His voice was hard again. Never trust
man because he appears kind. They
are mostly dangerous, and often the
worst sort -
The change in his tone depressed her.
She sighed forlornly. "Pore mother
told me that. Z"
His glance fell to earth. pink tip
ped daisy was peeping above the grass.
He ground it into the sod with the toe
of his heavy boot.
''Goodby again.
She took his proffered hand.
'Stop that. can't bear to see a
woman cry"
Stop it she couldn't, but she crooked
her arm and held it before her face.
"Life's so ard, )" she moaned. "Peo-
pie is such 'ogs, an, oh, I'm SO lonely
since my pore mother died. -
He stood beside her, listening to her
sobs.
"My DEAR" he said at last, "we are
all lonely-you on the high road, in
the cities, pore mother in her grave. 1"
He paused, laying hand on the girls
heaving shoulder. Loneliness is the
common lot; we carry it hidden in our
souls through life. Even in crowds it
cries out ceaselessly above the din. We
can make noise to drown it, we can
bury it deep down, we can call our
friends together and smoke and drink
upon it's tomb-it will creep out in the
nighttime, when the others are all
gone, and, climbing on to our pillows,
sit and jabber to us in the dark. But
life has to be lived through, +" throwing
back his head, ''its prizes fought for,
squabbled over, and errors, suppose,
must be committed by the way. There's
truth so brutal it might almost keep one
good. The man who sees life isn't ask
ed to pay the piper; the wages are ex-
acted, but it's the innocent who pay.
The tramp's tears were dried; she
was lost III admiring wonder.
"Take my advice my DEAR" said
the man, with curiously gentle smile,
''the advice of man who might almost
be your-father: Go on being respecta-
BILE; stay innocent-keep good.
He patted her shoulder, then gave it
a gentle push And SO they parted He
watched her tramping down the long
white road.
''Confound her eyes!' he muttered.
That's why they haunted me'
She trudged on with her bundle. His
eyes followed almost yearningly. She
rounded bend. The tramp looked back.
Lizl" he murmured half uncon-
scious Poor, pretty, foolish Lizp' His
own voice reused him. He smiled
vacancy ''That was the name ]
thought had forgotten.
The road turned She disappeared
from view.
He whistled, frowned and finally
shrugged his shoulders.
eff she'd only been lady," present
ly. He was staring at the canvas. "Bah
What nonsense! A trampi Her mother &
childr'
He fell on one knee and began pack
ing up his traps.
"Life's SO 'ard, an people is such
'ogs''
His laugh rang out. but it wasn't a
merry one. Picking up the picture, he
held it in both hands.
"Goodby, young mournful eyes, he
said. "Good luck go with you. You've
given me heartache, but I wish you
we'll. .
His face twitched. He laid the can
vas gently down.
"I'll burn the thing" he said, "di.
rectly get home Sketch.
brilliant Erand.