The Huttig news., 1917-10-06

along the edge of the ravine. Then he turned his back upon it all.
 Forget it!" that was the admoni tion of practical Jerry Gowan. Yes, he would do that. The thing was done at heart, not so 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 overslept 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 casual manner obviously affected. You stirred me-some." He laughed mirthlessly. That screed of yours I couldn't get it out of my mind all night"
 ''It didn't seem to impress you much when 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. '1t hit me hard You know I came from the cider country and you've caught it's spirit famously Bring me those pages, will you? I can do something with them as starter. In fact, you want to go on with them
 You are in earnest?" challenged Moore, forgetting breakfast.
 Very much so"
 ''Tll try to see you some time this afternoon" spoke Moore flutteringly, and bolted
 There was but one thought in his mind-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 hedge. to rest and thtnk.
 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 a dreamy maze.
 What was that? Quite dozing, Moore started up. From the other side of the 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 so Moore thrilled to listen to that voice retraversing his poor composition.
 ''It is like sweet breath from the pasti" murmured the old man. Who COulQ ndF0 NilltCA it. IlOW SuuiO ~ here?"
 Tt Is like a letter from home, isn't it, dear?' smiled the girl T found two of the leaves littering the rayine 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!"
 Tt has taken me back to the old home!" sighed the old man. T wish I knew the writer"
 Adrian Moore disclosed himself. He could not resist the impuse. Oh, what was the vague, casual opinion of his casual newspaper friends to the heart felt appreciation of these new ac- quaintancesi
 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.