The Lakeland evening telegram. (Lakeland, Fla.) 1911-1922, 1916-12-07
Mothers
Emerald
A Love Story.
By AGNES C. BROGAN
A Love Story.

When father first spoke Of bringing
the student to board was glad. Any
new companionship seemed promising.
But when l considered that the stu
dent, being musical, might also be the
possessor Of an uncertain temperament
my troubles appeared to be increasing.
One like father was bad enough in any
family, flying off on the slightest provo
cation into f1t of temper or, In his
better moods, listening apparently
with an appreciative smile as one re-
lated some personal incident, only to
find at its conclusion that his mind
had been engaged with some beloved
"score." Nora, the cook, was my only
comfort, and Nora had not what one
might call an understanding" mind.
Father told me his plan one evening
with his customary hardness. The stu
dent was to arrive at 8 o'clock and
the south room to be prepared for his
disposal. He was coming free upon
condition of exchanging secretary
work for lessons. This alone was
recommendation to the students mu-
steal ability. Father would receive no
pupil without promise Of skill. Elk
citedly he named the young man as
''his discovery" Eric Knowlson's fu-
ture, he said, was assured. So went
to mothers picture about it. l have
way of going to mothers picture in
all my joys and perplexities to receive
advice from its soft eyes. You see
mother left this world as I entered,
slipping out very silently before even
my baby arms could reach her.
Mother" sighed, III we must have
another man In this house, oh, let US
hope that he may be sane onev My
experience with men ended with IA
ther, and I fancied them all like him.
Nora encouraged me in this belief.
They're all the very old devil" she
said. And with her remark In my ears
ran into the music room and incl
dentally also into the student. The
sudden encounter surprised him as
much as 1t did me. He had been re-
moving his violin from its case, whis-
Ting softly. His whistle stopped
abruptly. Then after we had stared
at each other awhile he bowed.
eric Knowlson," he explained.
"Mercyv 1 exclaimed rudely: 81
should never have guessed it. Not the
yiolinist?"
1.-THE same" he replied, '1ong hair
and soulful eyes missing perhaps" He
smiled. Bound to be failure, then.
None of the essentials"
II am Professor Ludlow's daugh-
ter" 1 stiffly reproved him, "and will
show you to your ROOM"
ut is my turn to say 'Merryv new
er should have guessed It," the young
man remarked pleasantly. ''Your ia
Their has always spoken Of you as my
daughter, the housekeeper.' Naturally
imagined staid, sensible appearing
sort Of person. Again, none of the es-
sentials."
Suddenly my smile answered his.
"You shall see," I challenged. So,
with free and merry chatter, we found
ourselves in the short space before
dinner upon astonishingly friendly
terms. 1t was fathers forbidding pres.
ence which cast formality over the
meal. Afterward, upon the top step of
the stairs, l listened to their music,
father at the piano, the student with
his violin. And the sweet strains of
the instrument at his charmed touch
caused even me, surfeited with music.
to linger. Into the "Spring Song"
came dominant, personal note, that
was suddenly clear, compelling call.
Slowly I moved in answer down the
stairs, then paused perplexedly in the
doorway. The student smiled.
II called you," he said daringly, land
knew that you would come"
So our love began, abruptly, mex.
plicably.
One day Eric told me the story Of
his life. Uneventful 1t had been, vet
one Of sacrifice His father, a violin.
list, had deserted Eric and his mother
Just as the lad was beginning to realize
his inherited musical gift. After that
he had quietly laid his ambition aside
with his violin and turned to care for
his mother. And now she was dead
now only had he dared to indulge his
dreams, and father In a measure had
made this possible. For himself money
had not mattered, he said. There had
been but one thing he coveted-a white
marble stone for his mothers grave
This he must have. "And now there's
you, Nance" he cried. II must have
you!" Then he caught up my hand tc
look at my rings-mother's emerald and
its tiny guard.
"Dear," he said, cat first I feared
this costly ring might be significant"
"Oh, mo-" I told him. at has beer
the betrothal ring of our family. hand
ed down for generations. Father,
mother placed 1t upon my own deal
mothers finger, and now that she 4.
20 L. -