The Kansas City sun. (Kansas City, Mo.) 1908-1924, 1914-08-29

knew 1t later when a young fellow
whom l had met at a friends house
on one of the rare calls l made dur
ing my lonely life, and who often came
to see me, told me that he was going
abroad that summer. I spoke out the
thought that arose Immediately to my
mind.
How lovely for you! But how 1
shall miss you'll"
Miss me?" he asked, In some ur-
| prise.
YES" l declared. 81 shall miss you
and all the kind things you have done
for me. 1t has been nice to have
someone to bring me the newest nov
ell, or a box Of candy, or some one of
the many things that women like
and which of late l have had to do
without"
l was tired, and as l spoke one of
the waves Of cruel remembrance, such
as all bereaved persons know, swept
owe me. / suppose there were tears
in my eyes, for l had for the moment
forgotten the lad who stood near me.
l vas recalled to the present by a hand
on my shoulder.
Il am sorry" the young fellow was
saying, for making you feel like this.
| fancied you cared for me ex-
cept as you might care for a brother!"
When 1 had explained and the dis
com1ted youth had gone, l sank down
upon my couch and laughed, then
cried. But the cry lasted longer than
the laugh. Yes, all the nice men
were married, and most of the un-
married men were fools!
To the lonely and sad hearted the
winter is not the dreariest time, If we
except the holiday season. At least
1t Is not the dreariest time II one
lives in town. One can pull down the
shades, turn on the lights, and read
at night. But the summer, with the
windows open and the hucksters MAX
ing hideous sounds all day, with the
children and noisy groups laughing
and talking on the sidewalks far into
the night-all these add horrors to
loneliness. And one cannot walk off
these horrors by a swift tramp through
the open air. The streets are hot and
dusty, and one is unspeakably tired.
/ appreciated all this as l walked
up Broadway one July noon. l had
just secured an order for another ar
ticle that would mean a hundred dol
lars. l had also, several months ago,
taken the editorship of a woman's de-
partment on a magazine, and this
would bring me in a small check each
month, But any enthusiasm in my
work was growing faint, for / had new
er really loved it. What was it all
for? l asked myself. Just to keep
up the same round and grind, month
after month, year after year. There
was nothing else to look forward to-
nothing else!
The thought of marrying again had,
Of course, come to my mind once in a
while, but l had put it from me as
something unutterably abhorrent. To
my way of thinking the widow who
married again had never loved her
first husband. l unused on this fact
for the twentieth time as / strolled
slowly uptown on that hot noon. l
was brought to the present and my
surroundings by a pleasant voice
speaking my name. In front OF me
stood a man whom l had met the year
of my marriage, and who had left New
York while l was still a bride. / had
always liked him, and meeting him
just now, when l was morbid and de-
pressed, gave me the feeling that he
was an old friend. His hair was
grayer than when 1 had last seen him,
he was handsomer for the flesh he had
gained, and he had the well-groomed
look of a prosperous man He fell in
to step beside me, and, after asking
a few questions about myself and my
work, told ME that he was now settled
definitely in New York and was glad
to renew our acquaintance. Might he
call?
Thus began a friendship that was a
help and stimulus to me. For the first
time since l had been alone l was the
happy possessor of a man friend who
was old enough to be my adviser and
yet unattached and under no obliga-
tions to wife, mother, or sister. He
was good company, and we had many
delightful open-air excursions togeth-
er. Days In the Bronx woods, trips
up the Sound, afternoon teas together
all rested and refreshed me. This
man was a great reader and excellent
critic, and would suggest gently and
tactfully this or that improvement in
my style. He read my work as fast
as it was published, and talked of 1t
with an interest that was comforting
to my lonely heart. Perhaps what
appealed to me most was that he was,
like myself, lonely. His mother had
died the year before, he had no near
relatives, and he had been away from
New York SO long that he had gotten
out of touch with many of his friends,
wen had they been in town at this
time of year. l got to depending up
on him for companionship, and l knew
that he turned L me for rest and sym,
pathy.
So it was natural that l should have
a feeling almost like Jealousy when, in
the late autumn, he told me that sew
eral Of his old friends had looked him
up and had invited him to their houses
for two evenings of the following
week. 1 lay awake far into that night
reasoning with myself and Gliding my
self. Why had l let myself lean on
this mans friendship? Did l love him?
No-a thousand times no; If l COM
narad tho failing I had for him with