The Lakeland evening telegram. (Lakeland, Fla.) 1911-1922, 1916-08-11

he turned his back upon it all.
Forget it," that was the admoni-
ton of practical Jerry Gowan. Yes,
he would co that The thing was done
with, but there was an aching void
at heart, not sc much of disappoint-
ment as because the memory of the
incidents he had grouped to form the
screed were still cherished as lovely
bits Of naturalness and suggestion
that he would have loved to exploit.
His rest was broken that night, and
he oversight the next morning. Just
as he arrived at his accustomed res
taurant he found Rourke Vivian. The
latter sat drumming his fingers on
the table before him, as though he
had been there for some time.
Wanted to see you, Moore" with
a casual manner obviously affected.
you stirred me-some." He laughed
mirthlessly. THAT screed of yours
l couldn't get 1t out of my mind all
night"
1T didn't seem to impress you much
when l read it," observed Moore, quite
spicily.
I'm not given to wearing my heart
on my sleeve, as you ought to know"
retorted Vivian gravely. cit hit me
hard. You know l came from the
cider country, and you've caught its
spirit famously. Bring me those
pages, will you? I can do something
with them as a starter. : In fact, you
want to go on with them"
you are in earnest?" challenged
Moore, forgetting breakfast.
Very much So"
"I'll try to see you some time this
afternoon" spoke Moore fiutteringly,
and bolted.
There was but one thought in his
rnind-to recover the abandoned man
uscript. With eagerness and rapid
ity he reached the spot where he had
scattered the leaves in desperation.
He climbed down into the ravine. He
searched in vain. Moore could not
find trace of the sheets. He climbed
up an incline, the top of which was
lined by q hedge, to rest and think.
He had kept no copy of the screed
nor had he preserved the original
notes. Could he reproduce it? Not
In it's original freshness, he discon-
solately decided. He fell into q
dreamy maze.
What was that? Quite DOING,
Moore started up. From the other
side Of tho hedge sweet, mellow
voice was reading. He could scarce
credit the evidence of his senses-the
last sentences of his screed!
Moore peered through the hedge.
An old gentleman and lovely young
girl occupied rustic chairs, and the
girl held in her hands the lost sheets
OF his manuscript.
The old man was wiping his eyes.
His voice was full Of emotion as he
spoke.
Read It all over again, Angela. It
is exquisite!" and the girl did 80.
Moore thrilled to listen to that voice
retraversing his poor composition.
1T is like sweet breath from the
past" murmured the old man. who
could have written it? How came 1t
here?"
1T is like letter from home, isn't
1t, dear?" smiled the girl. Il found
two of the leaves littering the ravine
walk; read them, was interested and
gathered up the rest. Why, grandpa,
whoever wrote 1t must have lived in
and loved the dear old cider country!"
1T has taken me back to the old
home!" sighed the old man. Il wish
l knew the writer"
Adrian Moore disclosed himself. He
could not resist the Impulse. Oh, what
was the vague, casual opinion of his
casual newspaper friends to the heart
felt appreciation Of these new &C
quaintances!
Before he left these latter, the
wealthy old man had his promise that
he would at once go on with the story
of the cherished cider country"
Vivian listened to the exploits OF
Moore with an indulgent smile.
Found a patron and an heiress,
eh?" he observed. well, accept the
gifts OF the gods gratefully"
Which Adrian Moore did-with fame
and the pure, sweet love of Angela
Marston concurrent.