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

l had been accustomed. My only life
in an apartment had been in that to
which Ernest had taken me when we
were married-a small apartment, to
be sure, but in a handsome house over
looking the river. Now l was a poor
woman. Yet l did not feel that we
had made a mistake in saving nothing
for such a contingency as the one that
had arisen. While l lived, l lived, l
reminded myself. l had had my day.
/ fed my physical being with
enough t~asteless food to keep it alive.
l suppose that self-preservation is one
of the great laws Of nature that work
while we are unconscious of them.
l did not want to meet my friends
Of happier days, and, in my deep de-
lection, l did not make them very well
come when they ran in to call on me.
l felt uncomfortable when the few
women who came reminded me of how
far 1 lived from my old haunts and
from their present homes, so l did not
urge them to repeat their first calls.
Men do not seem to mind ones sur
~roundings, in fact scarcely appear to
notice them. And one does not feel
that one must apologize to a man
when he has to take a long trip to
call on one. So when Charlie Bor-
den, a young reporter to whom my
husband had been kind, got into the
habit of running in to see me every
week, l showed him that he was vel.
come. He took me out to supper &C.
casionally on Sunday evenings, or for
a walk on Sunday afternoons. These
calls and outings made a break in my
round of work, for l was writing now
for my living-or trying to. l know
the boy was sorry for me, and one eve
ming he said so. We had returned
from taking supper in a downtown
restaurant, and found the apartment
dark and cold. He shivered as he
lighted the gas in my tiny reception
room and heard the wind howl at the
windows.
TITS dreary here for you" he said,
with embarrassment. Il don't suppose
you care to hear me say so, but | have
a ,heartache when l think how lonely
you must be sometimes. And l can't
help thinking of what a dandy home
you had and how happy you were
before he went"
DON'T" 1 said sharply. Don't
talk about it,"
1 feared that / had hurt the boy
and told him l was sorry. He muir
INJURED confusedly something about
wishing he could do anything to make
things easier"
You do" l said gratefully, "by CON-
ing to see me-"
After that he came twice a week
instead of once. l did not object. l
liked the lad and remembered that
Ernest had been fond of him. l was
at my desk most of the day except
when l went downtown to try to sell
something l had written. l could not
work all the day and all the evening,
too, and l found Charlie a diversion.
But nj spring evening, coming in
and finding me sitting alone in the
twilight, he told me that he loved me.
At first l was shocked, then angry,
then bored. l tried to be kind and ex-
plain that I was ten years older than
he, a woman of the world, while he
was a mere boy. He thought that he
was horribly hurt. He did not call
again for a month, and then but once,
until the following October when he
came In to tell me about his engage
ment to 'the dearest little girl ever"
l congratulated him, and he looked
more confused than when he had told
me he loved me, as he asked me to
try to forget the foolish mistake he
had made last spring" 1 tried to
make him believe that l had forgotten
1t weeks ago.
l have mentioned this little affair
because Charlie Borden was the first
man who showed me, after my hus-
bands death, that my life was a rather
complex problem. There were, of
course, other men, for there are al
them and are good comrades. l was
not handsome, nor even pretty. But
l like men and they have always
been kind to me. l met many of them
at this stage Of my existence, and to
their encouragement and interest in
my work l owed the fact that l got
enough writing to keep soul and body
together, and to dress the latter in de-
cent clothes. Black Is always a safe
garb and I bought only that which
was in good style and took excellent
care of 1t.
l learned very 500 in my lonely
career that if one would succeed, one
must appear successful. That l had
not known that fact earlier was, per-
haps, the reason one editor looked at
me patronizingly when l offered him
a story.
do you write because you like to
writer" he asked bluntly.
NO" l said TREMENDOUSLY, because
/ need the money"
Il see,' he replied. 81 doubt If you
can do just the kind of stuff we want
for this magazine. But l will look
over your story"
1t came back to me in a few days
with a printed slip.
Later, after l had had more prac-
tice and had acquired a kind of
''knack." my work provided me with
an income that kept my rent paid, my
body fed and CARRIED. But had to be