Newark evening star and Newark advertiser., 1910-10-10


Henry Carleton had sat thoughtfully
for a time before he had made answer,
and then, poor woman he said, with
deep feeling, this has been heavy
blow for her. And but such short
time married, too. Really, 1 hardly
know what to say, and yet, for the pres
ent. at least, think l should allow her
to 1emain To me 1t would seem heart
less to do otherwise Too much as II,
just because poor Satterlee were of no
further use to me. l was anxious to cast
off his widow, also. 1 understand your
feeling in the matterS Rose, and l ap-
preciate the kindness you have shown
in speaking of it, but in time of sorrow
and affiiction, the breath of scandal
seems but q secondary consideration.
Duty first, my child. come what may"
and Rose. ashamed of her prudishness,
had risen and kissed him.
you're right, father" she said has
tily, "as you always are. If there's
anything l can do to make things
easier for her. you've only to tell me-
Henry Carleton, with little smile, had
thanked her, and the incident had been
closed.
Across Jack Carleton's path the
shadow of Satterlee's tragic death
seemed to lie dark and unforgetable.
For a day or two, indeed, morose and
grave, he continued to make The
Birches his home; then, suddenly, he
took his departure, going back to mis-
in-town lodgings, and The Birches
knew him no more
But of all the changes caused by the
dcings of the night, the most marked
had taken place in Arthur Vaughan.
With him, indeed, all else apart, things
had been going badly enough to war
rant discouragement First of all.
after week or two Of indulgence IN
ever strengthening hope, coming home
one hot and breathless evening to his
lodging house, he had found an en-
velope with Small & Whites name in
the corner awaiting him on the table
in the hall. With 1t there appeared no
bulky parcel of typewriter sheets, and
on the instant his heart beat rapidly
at twice it's usual speed. Could 1t be
at last the turning point in the long,
straight path of appointments?
Somehow he could not bring himself to
open the letter there, and in spite of
WtdIlntSSt VI llC diiilOot oNNi P'" - -
heat of the day, he ran up the three
flights of stairs. never stopping until
he had reached the shelter of his own
bare and simply furnished room
Even then he still hesitated, scarcely
even bringing himself to glance at the
missive that burned in his hand. Once
more he looked about him, at the fami=
liar, friendly old armchair, at the bat
tered desk in the window, with the
manuscript sheets of his new story
scattered over it's surface. then out at
the restful green of the big elm tree
whose spreading branches almost
touched his window, screening the
whole room with their welcome shade.
All Of these he had come to know and
hail as friends, and natural enough 1t
seemed to him that now in the hour Of
his Joy he should wish to take them
into his confidence. and to bid them
rejoice with him a. last. With final
look from the window down into
the quiet. deserted street be-
low he resolutely tore open the
letter, and ran his eye over
the first line or two of its contents
then. with a sharp intake of breath he
raised his eyes and stood silent and
motionless. his face suddenly white, as
though he had received some mortal
blow. 1t was over. then. The first
three lines were enough. He knew
that stereotyped form so well. 1--WE
are returning to you today"-that was
sufficient--he could have gone on and
completed the letter. with scarcely the
of a single word. Yet pres
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