The Topeka state journal. [volume] (Topeka, Kansas) 1892-1980, 1907-08-12
The EVENING STORY
His Magnum Opus.
(By Lulu Johnson.O

| opus.
(By Lulu Johnson.)
Poindexter pulled the sheet of pa
| per from the typewriter carriage and
aoded 1t to the pile in the wire basket
beside him. He caught up the last
Few pages and reread them with a
glow OF pride, for he knew that at last
he had written a story of flesh and
blood. instead of the mildly fnnocu-
GUS romances that had added to his
pank account but not to his fame.
LIVER since that night six months be-
| Iore, when he had come back to his
oarkened home to find the note on the
| dresser of his room notifying him that
agnes mad gone away with the man he
| mad considered his best friend, he had
worked with feverish energy upon the
novel.
He had taken little Elsie and had
crossed the continent with her that she
should be far removed from all who
might allude to her mother.
AS they sat in the car, the child lost
IN wonder at the constantly sh1ftlng
scene, he had planned the story ana
once he had made his new home ne
had set to work.
All the bitterness of his heart he
had written into the book. 1t was the
plain tale of his own experience, told
with the simple directness or one VINO
feels deeply, except that Into the last
chapter he had written an ending such
as he wished that she might suffer.
Almost gloatingly he drew the picture
Of remorse and shame that followed
the desertion, and now reading 1t over
he shuddered at the evil picture his
own fierce desire had conjured up.
For years he had sought a theme
that should lead him to his great ac-
cOmpliShment. Agnes, too, had
sought to help him, but their lines
had fallen in the pleasant places and
he wrote things that were salable. but
not great.
Then she had left him for Tredgar
a man who had done things, and his
inspiration had come. He knew that
he had done well, that this book would
bring him fame and opportunity, and
he smiled as he gathered the sheets
together and prepared them for mail
ing He had kept in touch with his
eastern connections and Blauvelt, the
publisher, had asked for the first read
ing.
the address when there came the pat
ter of bare feet across the uncarpeted
floor and he looked up from his work.
What is it, daughter" he asked.
as he took the little nightgowned fig
ure in his lap.
II was lonesome" explained Elsie.
"You didn't come to kiss me good
night like you said you would, daddy.
I waited and waited and waited. Then
I just had to come. Is you most done,
daddy"
"All done, dear" he said with an af-
fectionate pat on the package at his
elbow. at was so interested that I
even forgot my little Elsie
And it's going to make you great
big man." she demanded. cts going
to make you famous and happy, dad
dy?"
Famous and happy" he repeated.
'sIt's my great work. dear"
I'm so glad she whispered con-
tentedly, patting the pale cheek, vast
ed to thinness by his sorrow and abb
sorption in his work. ''Some day when
I get a big girl. a great big girl, I'll
read 1t and tell all the other girls that
my daddy wrote that great book, and
they'll all be mad because their papas
can't write books like my papa can" /
Poindexter shiyered and drew the
little form closer to him. Not once in
all these months had he thought of
that result. He had worked steadily
with one purpose-of holding this wo-
man who had been his wife up to
shame. He had given no thought to
the child. Not once had he realized
that there would come a day when she
would read with understanding the
story of her mothers disgrace. He
had let her think that Agnes was dead.
Simple statement suff1ced the childish
mind, but the day would come when
perhaps the curtain might be drawn
aside. Some old friend from the East
might seek him out and unwittingly
betray his secret to the girl, and she
would read with horror the story of
her mothers fall painted in words of
bitterness such as only wounded pride
and dead love can conjure. She would
see her mothers soul in all its naked
ness, and his would be the hand that
had thrown aside the garments of time
and charity.
Are you sleepy. daddy?" Poindex-
ter reused himself.
mot a Bit" he declared, what
makes you think that. daughter"
You are 50 STILL she explained.
"and you don't talk
'Daddy's a little tired he ex-
planned. "Shall tell you good night
Slowly he crossed the room to the
story?"
The child nodded her head content
eddy, and Poindexter began fantastic
tale He had fertile fancy, and these
good night stories were glorious mo-
ments in the child's life. There were
times when she stole softly about the
house lest she interrupt his writing,
but when bedtime came and she lay
curled up in his lap while his rich
voice recited weird tales of giants and
fairies and dragons. she had him for
her very own and was content with
the sacrifice.
AS they neared the climax his voice
grew soft, and when at last the end
came he waited for the usual applause
of THAT was lovely, daddy" Instead
soft lips brushed his cheek and the
tired child sank off to sleep.
Tenderly he bore her to her bed and
tucked her in as gently as a woman
might have done. Reverently he
pressed his lips against the rosy mouth
and tip-toed from the room.
The library seemed cold and cheer
less when he returned. The child's
visit had but emphasized his loneli-
ness, and he sat blankly at the table
on which lay the package with It's
address but half completed.
He swung his chair about that he
aierIat II hut though he had