Putnam patriot., 1913-05-23

But when mother died, real trouble began. It was always hard work, while she lived, but hard work Isn't trouble. la, no. troubles just an empty heart! We'll, sir. when read about how. good MT. Hamilton Gregory is. and how much he gives away-to folks he new CT sees-here I came. But I don't seem to belong to anybody, Jakey, I'm outside of everything. But you have a home and a mother, Jakey, and a place in the world, so say 'Hurrah!' because you belong to somebody, and, best of all, you're not a girl, but boy to strike out straight from the shoul- der"
 Jakey was dissolved; tears burst their confines.
 One may shout oneself hoarse at the delivery of speech which, If served upon printed page, would never prompt the reader to cast his hat to the cell ing. No mere print under bold head lines did Abbott read, but rather the changing lights and shadows in great black eyes. It was marvellous how Fran could project past experiences upon the screen of the listeners per ception. At her, When mother died" Abbott saw the girl weeping beside the death-bed. When she sighed, T don't belong to anybody" the school director felt like crying: Then be- long to mel"
 Fran now completed her work She rose from the immovable Jakey and came over to Abbott Ashton, with meekly folded hands.
 He found the magic of the moon- light-hour returning. She had mel lowed = glowed - softened-woman-, ized-Abbott could not find the word for it. She quivered with an exquisite ness not to be defned-a something in hair, or flesh, or glory of eye, or softness of lips, altogether lacking in his physical being, but eagerly desired.
 Professor Ashton" she spoke seri- ously, q have been horrid. I might have known that school is merely a place where young people crawl into books to worm themselves from lid to lid, swallowing all that comes in the way. But I'd never been to school, and I imagined it place where a child was helped to develop itself. thought teachers were trying to show the pu- pills the best way to be what they were going to be. I've been disappointed. but that's not your fault; you are just & system. If boy is to be black smith after he's grown, and if a girl in the same class is to be a music teacher, or milliner, both must learn about abe and def. So I'm going away for good, because, of course, I couldn't afford to waste my time in this house."
 But, Fran" Abbott exclaimed i'm pulsively, don't you see that you are holding up ignorance as virtue? Can you afford to despise knowledge in this civilized age? You should want to know facts just because--well, just be- cause they are facts"
 But I don't seem to. at all." Fran responded mildly. No, I'm not ma king fun of education when I find fault with your school, any more than I show irreverence to my mothers God when l question what some people call religion It's the connection to life that makes facts of any value to me; and it's only in it's connection to life that I'd give pin for all the religion on earth.'
 q don't understand" Abbott faltered.
 She unfolded her hands and held them up in a quaint little gesture of aspiration. No, because it isn't in a book. feel lost-so out in space. I only ask for place in the universe to belong to somebody
 But" said Abbott, you already be- long to somebody, since MT. Gregory has taken you into his home and he is enc of the best men that ever"
 "Oh, let's go home" cried Fran im- patiently Let's all of us skip out of this chalky old basement-smelly place, and breathe the pure air of life."
 She darted toward the door, then looked back. Sadness had vanished from her face, to give place to a sud den glow. The late afternoon sun shone full upon her, and she held her lashes apart, quite unblinded by it's intensity. She seemed suddenly H. Iumined, not only from without, but from within.
 Abbott seized his hat. Robert Clin- ton had already snatched up his. Jakey squeezed his cap in an agitated hand. All four hurried out into the hall as if moved by the same spring.
 Unluckily, as they passed the hall window. Fran looked out. Her eyes were caught by group seated on the veranda of the Clinton boarding house. There were Miss Sapphira Clinton. Miss Grace Noir, and several mothers, slipping afternoon tea. In an instant, Fran had grasped the plot That cloud of witnesses was banked against the green weather-boarding, to behold her ignominy.
 "Mr. Clinton" said Fran, all sweet ness, all allurement. T am going to