The Pulaskian., 1917-08-24

Street seemed to stretch out its arms to him. The ailanthus tree waved In the sunlight before the little house. Tree and house were old; September had touched them. Christine sat sew ing on the balcony. A boy with a piece of chalk was writing something on the new cement under the tree. He stood finished, and inspected his work. k. read in chalk on the smooth street:
 Max Wilson.
 Sidney Page.
 The baritone was still singing; but now it was "I'm twenty-one, and she's eighteen" The light was gone from Ks face again. After all, the Street meant for him not so much home us it meant Sidney. And now, before very long, that book of his life, like others, would have to be closed.
 He turned and went heavily into the little house.
 Christine called to him from her lit. tie balcony:
 T thought I heard your step outside. Have you time to come in?"
 K. went through the parlor and stood in the long window. His steady eyes looked down at her.
 T see very little of you now" she complained. And, when he did not reply immediately: Have you made any definite plans, K.?"
 q shall do Max's work until he is able to take hold again. After that--'
 You will go awayg
 q think so. I am getting a good many letters, one way and another. l stay. My old place is closed. I'd go back there-they want me. But 1t seems so futile, Christine, to leave as I did, because I felt that had no right to go on as things were; and now to crawl back on the strength of having had my hand forced, and to take up things again, not knowing that I've a bit more right to do 1t than when l left!"
 sI went to see Max yesterday. You know what he thinks about all that"
 He took an uneasy turn up and down the balcony.
 "But who?" he demanded. "Who would do such a thing? I tell you, Christine, it is impossible"
 She did not pursue the subject. Her thoughts had flown ahead to the little house without K, to days without his sCfanc oY tho cfoit.c nr fbo haoxvxy ornalx of his big chair overhead as he dropped into it.
 But perhaps it would be better if he went. She had her own life to live She had no expectation of happiness, but, somehow or other, she must build on the shaky foundation of her mar riage house of life, with resignation serving for content, perhaps with fear lurking always. That she knew. But with no active misery. Misery implied affection, and her love for Palmer was quite dead.
 Sidney will be here this afternoon"
 Good" His tone was noncommit. tai.
 'Has it occurred to you, K, that Sid- ney is not very happyT
 He stopped in front of her.
 "She's had great anxiety"
 "She has no anxiety now. Max Is doing we'll"
 "Then what is it?"
 I'm not quite sure, but I think know. She's lost faith in Max, and she's not like me. I-I knew about Palmer before I married him. It's all rather hideous-I needn't go into 1t. But Sidney has more character than have. Max isn't what she thought he was, and doubt whether she'll marry him."
 K. glanced toward the street where Sfdney's name and Max's lay open to the sun and to the smiles of the Street. Christine might be right, but that did not alter things for him.
 Christine's thoughts went back in. evitably to herself; to Palmer, who was doing better just now; to K, who was going away-went back with an ache to the night K. had taken her in his arms and then put her away. How wrong things werel What mess life was
 lTo BE CoNTINUED)