The Press. (Stafford Springs, Conn.) 1883-1935, 1907-03-13
ST. ,Ia11tt.sb!'S
Summer
By VIRGINIA L. VENT
Copyright. 1906. by G. H. sutcliffe


all the year perhaps-St. Martins sum-
mer-when the spirit of ripeness which
seems to have fed once more holds the
| land with it's intoxicating breath. The
| fields were studded with tiny Michael
mas daisies, and the hedgerows were
brilliant with early goldenrod, but
somehow you fancied you smelled the
scent of the roses and mignOnette as
well.
There was quite a group of people
out on the small hotel veranda, and
most of them were gossiping. Spin
ming I'D the poplar shaded country road
was smart little trap. Across the
tennis courts the occupants were plain
" visible. They were James Walsh
and Mrs. John Burgess.
81 say, girls" cried one of the group
on the veranda, cts crying shame to
let that elderly person cut us out with
the richest man we have up here
CRYING shame, that's what it is! And
l don't think any of us has an atom of
grit or go or we'd take the wind out
of Mrs. Burgess sails!"
"Why, she must be all of hundredp'
exclaimed another.
'They say that Mr.. Walsh knew her
years ago. Wonder where he picked
her up. In the ark, l guess"
"Oh, my dear, long before that"
drawled another mockingly. "Long
before Noah's time women had ceased
to do their hair in that absurd fash
ion.'
Then the quiet girl with the en-
broidery on her lap spoke softly:
"She has lot of hair, anyhow, and
it's beautiful, and the way she dresses
it suits her features. She reminds me
of Albert Durer's Madonna
'Who's that, Miss TysonT' inter-
rupted a young fellow in tennis fan
nels suddenly appearing in the door
way. "Who's like Durer's MadonnaY
"We were speaking of Mrs. Burgess"
answered Miss Tyson without even
looking up from her embroidery.
"Madonna? Folderolw cried the 9th
er girls in concert. "She's a plain,
quiet poke of woman, and design
ing one at that. She's encouraging
him fearfully"
"You see, Miss Tyson" observed
Billy, the young chap in flannels, I'VE
get only one or two big matrimonial
catches a season up here. It's waste
Of time nowadays to listen to the i'm
pecunous ardors of early youth. Con-
sequently"-
Billy's words were ambiguous
enough, but the comprehensive little
sweep which he made with his glance
and sun Drowned hand, including We
randa, girls and all, was inimitably
droll. Miss Tyson's gray eyes laughed
approximately.
They were such nice understanding
gray eyes, thought Billy. Twas a
shame that embroidery should engross
so much of their attention. Even now
she showed signs of taking it up
again, and to avoid such catastrophe
Billy proposed a game of tennis.
"All right" said Miss Tyson cheer
fully, folding the bit of linen about the
tiny hoop and slowing it away in a
tiny bag.
The fancied likeness between Mrs.
John Burgess and the Madonna of
4 ON~SAS
There was, indeed, a similarity in the
weary features, more interesting than
beautiful, and in the dolorous, some
what constrained grace of the stately
figure.
| Mrs. Burgess was a woman Of forty
Eve. Her manner, her aspect, was that
of one who had long since ceased
wishing to attract. In point of fact,
the wish had never been pronounced.
Since her husbands death, which had
occurred ten years previously, she had
never worn a color. 1t is to be sup
posed that Mr.. Burgess had loved her.
His had been her first and only offer
Of marriage, but in her girlhood her
heart had been given to another.
Most people who knew Mrs. John
Burgess thought of her as the mother
of her children. She had son in the
west who was making great ventures
In cattle and horses, and she had a
married daughter in Paris who was
writing her constantly Of her social tri-
umphs and prosperity. Yes, her chill
dren were full Of their own plans and
projects, and once or twice lately Mrs.
Burgess had been bit surprised to
find herself feeling little lonely and
forgotten-a chill presage of the au-
tumn winds Of life. Her summer, In
deed, had flown.
Then, Just at the correct psychologist
al moment, he came-the man to whom,
as q girl, she had given her heart.
All, where were the chill autumn
winds now? 1t was st. Martins sum-
mer instead!
James Walsh was a middle aged,
portly rich man and widower. He
had married somewhat early in his ca
reer noted beauty. A fortnight of
wedlock had convinced him that he and
his bride had not single taste In COM
mon: but, being businesslike man, on
his return from his tour de noce he'd
sized the matter up in this practical
fashion:
"'Twas the pink chiffon dress at the
Van DIVERS ball which was RESPONSE
BILE Only, why wasn't it, But the
"why wasn't it, in this case hadn't
worn a pink chiffon dress, nor had she
been at the Van buyers ball.
Mr.. Walsh had been widower now
for three years, and he still sighed with
half abashed sense of relief.
mo more matrimonial ventures for
me-" he'd say to himself, with laugh,
although he had reason to believe that
he could lay successful siege to severa
feminine hearts-that he was still quite
capable Of victory.
He had been spending August alone
up in the mountains, and he had en-
joyed month of fishing. tramping anG
dreaming to his hearts content. Or
his way home he'd stop for week Oh
two at certain little hotel reported tt
have good cuisine and rest strained
wrist before going back to business.
CHANGING casually over the hotel reg
lister, he saw the name of Mrs. JohI
Burgess. There arose in the mana