Newark evening star and Newark advertiser. [volume] (Newark, N.J.) 1909-1916, 1913-07-26

the tick of the kitchen clock, but she
| did not know that the memory of his
smile had given her the peace she
| could not understand, she did not
know this until he ente 'ed-dusty,
slim, sunburnt, his yellow yauntlets
folded in his belt, his cap and sabre
in his hand. Then she knew It, When
she understood this she st Dol ZIP, paie,
uncertain. He bowed silently and
! STEPPED forward fumbling vita a's
sabre hilt. She motioned toward a
chair.
He said he had message for the
master of the house, and glanced
about vaguely, noting the single
place at table, She said he might give
the message to her.A
1T is only that-if l do not in
CONVENIENCE you too much" he
smiled faintly-''if you would allow
newell, the truth is l am billeted
here for the night
| She did not know what that meant
and he explained.
"The master of the house is abb
sent" she said, thinking of her broth
| er.
Twill he return tonight?" he asked.
She shook her head; she was think
ing that she did not want him to go
away. Suddenly the thought of be-
ing alone laid hold of her with fresh
terror.
"You may stay" she said family.
He bowed again. She asked him If he
cared for supper, with gesture tow
ard the table, and when he thanked
her she took courage and told him
where to hang his cap and sabre.
There came a clatter of hoofs. my
orderly" he explained-"he may sleep
in the stable, may he not?'
my own bedroom is all / have
here" she said.
"Not-not the one you gave mel"
he asked
She nodded. "You may have it.
I often sleep in the parlor-I did
when my brother was home"
IF I had had any idea," he burst
out. She stopped him with ges-
ture; but he insisted and at last he
had his own way. IF I may sleep in
the parlor 1 will stay" he said, and
she nodded and seated herself at the
table.
He ate a great deal; much bread
and butter and many eggs; he spoke
about his orderly and the horses, and
presently asked for a lantern. She
brought him one; he lighted it.
When he had gone away with his
lantern she rested her white face
in her hands and looked at his empty
chair. She thought of her brother,
she thought of the village people who
leered askance when she was Obliged
to go to the store at Willow Corners
The mention of her fathers name, of
her brothers name in the village
aroused sneers of laughter. As long
as she could remember the one great
longing of her life had been to be re-
spected. She had seen her father fall
at night in the village street, drunk
as hog; she had seen her brother
reel across the fields at MONDAY.
She carried her curse and her longing
surprising that she was thing
apart In the orchard at midday a
man, a young boy, a soldier, had
spoken to her and looked at her in a
way she had never known. All at
once she realized, dreaming there in
the lamplight, that she was a woman
to him, like other women; a woman
to be spoken to with Difference,
woman to be approached with cour-
tesy. She had read it in his eyes,
she had heard it in his voice. 1t was
this that brought to her a peace as
gracious, as sweet, as the eyes that
had met her own in the orchard.
He was coming back from the sta
BILE now-she heard his steps click
across the grass by the orchard.
And now he had entered, now he was
there, smiling vaguely across the
table. A rush of tears blinded her
and she looked out into the night
where the yellow moon stared and
stared.
She found herself in the parlor af-
ter a while, silent, listening to his
voice; and all about her was peace,
born of the peace within her breast,
He told her of the war. She had
never before cared, but now she
cared. He spoke of long marches,
of hunger and of thirst, with a boy
ish laugh, and she laughed, too, not
knowing how else to show her pity.
He spoke of the Land and now for
the first time she loved it; she knew
ii was also her Land. He spoke of
the flag and what it meant. In her
home she had no symbol of her
country and she told him so. He