Evening star., 1912-11-05

bullying with papers and tied with whIts
tape.
Please. Daddy Merle. will you hold it
for me?'
Relieved of their burden, the hands dis
appeared. Merle examined the package
with interest. IL was the back of an old
exercise book converted into "A portfolio
and was full OF papers. lie turned IT over
cufiouslN. On the other side was a white
label. The curate smiled as he read tho
inscription In childish capitals The Mis-
forchins Of ReSinaL by An Petronia Pot
tie.
An Petronia's novel, 1t SO happened
that this was the first time Merle had be-
held the little novelist's autograph.
What funny way To spell Anne!' he
said. half aloud.
That's the way l always spell II.
Daddy Merle" He started at the sound
or An Petronias voice. He had not
heard her az she slipped out OF the tree.
Now she was standing close beside him.
and in her hands was something small.
wrapped in white tissue paper
There was timid challenge IN the
child's voice, the first hint OF the future
conflict between artist and critic.
An is the very first word In my
spelling book she hurried on. "A Nan.
It's the same name, Daddy Merle. only
in the speller it's an apple and I'm an
Pottle."
There was no dsputing such logic
this. accompanied II was by a rainy
from An Petronia S wide blue eyes.
My dear he said. and il the truth
must be told there was a hint of rain In
the curate's own eyes, An Is your very
own name and the way you spell 1t is
the sweetest and dearest way in all the
world, and YOU must never spell IL any
, other way which was the first. last and
! only concession to the Dire Heresy OF
Spelling Reform ever made by the Rev.
Horatio Merle
They We're seated once more on the soft
moss by the side of the four evans selsts.
who greeted them with undiminished
apostate serenity. An Petronia hal un-
done the tape that bound her portfolio
and was turning over the contents pieces
of paper In various sizes from half sheets
of note to torn scraps OF wrapping paper.
covered on both sides with the large, ir-
l regular handwriting of the budding nov
elist. By her side sat the curate. his gray
head bent over the picture which An Pc
tron.a. after unfolding its tissue paper
wrappinGs. had with heroicaly sup
pressed misgivings intrusted into his
hands. 1t was her most precious pos
session, photograph in "a tarnished gilt
| frame from a painting of Christ washing
the feet of the apostles. Below the pie
tire was printed text from the GOSPEL
of st. John, 13:15:
For ! have given you an example.
that ye should do as | have done to YOU"
The curate stared at the familiar words.
/ Once he had preached a sermon from
JIdL very text Tie Sffllleu Sduiy As lie
recalled that sermon.
What do these words mean?' he had
asked. Gould 1t be possible they were
| ever meant to be obeyed literaiiy?" Was
it not rather "A piece of oriental symbol
ism, a parable without words. teaching
the lesson of humility. : If only he
had ended his discourse there. IL some
angel of discretion had barred the way
/ to that fateful peroration. Not the mock
humility of the imperial blasphemer who
dpSrpnlS a.
wash the feet of twelve disinfected beg
gars. :" . How should he, fIoratio Merle
have known that the crotchety old rector
of Deepmold not only had decided views
on the sanctity of kings. but was rela-
tion by marriage OF certain auasi-ec-
c.esiastcal person in high favor in the
Austrian emperor household.
You would have said 1t just the same.
Horatio"' Harriet had declared. In n
burst of indignant tears. as she crumpled
up the rector's letter accepting Horatio's
resignation. PERHAPS he would who
knows?
Merle sighed regretfully as he thought
of that cozy cottage at Deepmold-the
little terrace with the mossy steps-his
rose garden, where he used to smoke his
pipe tsmoking destroyed the pernicious
aphidaJ and think about his sermon.
There was an old sundial on the terrace.
and round it's stone dial Horatio had
chiseled with his own hands verse of
Omar khayyam:
The moving finger writes, and having writ.
Moves on: nor all your pety nor wit
Can lure IL back 10 cancel half a line.
Nor all your tears wash out word yet.
Somewhere deep down in Horatio Merle
was a soul stratum Of fatalism, not the
wine-distilled bravado of Omar: rather.
the inspired fatalism of one who said.
Take no thought of the morrow
tTo be continued tomorrow