Smyrna times., 1918-09-11
HIS WIFE
BY MILDRED WHITE.
xfs>~NSS<<>s%$%>@% N%NNAAANA%%N%
VOopyrlgnt, 1918. Western Newspaper
UniOnO

Richards arms stretched despairing- |
ly across his desk, and presently his |
head dropped, to rest between them. 1t |
was all over as far as he was con-
cerned, and there was nothing to do |
put go away and leave Constance In |
her fathers care, from which he, Rich |
ard, should never have presumed to
take her. But "lOve" at that time had
seemed to be "the greatest thing in the
world" Wealth. and all its protecting
cOmfOf>s paled to nOthingness besides.
He had not realized in youths conf
dence to what length his ambition for
his wife was leading him.
Creditors had forced the fact upon
hinl-he was in debt, hOpelessly in
debt. How had expenses been allowed
to exceed so completely his regular In
come?
Surely the smart little coupe had
been needful; Connie, perched on the
arm Of his chair, had delighted in the
convenience of her purchase.
The beautiful bungalow with its
well-kept lawn had been her apprOpri-
ate setting. The bungalow must go,
this was now inevitable, the servants
engaged by his wife must be dismissed.
War conditions might partially ex-
cuSe his own lack of success in money
matters. He could bear the fathers
cOntempt-it was of Connie he was
thinking. How would she look when
he told her the truth? What would
she do? But there was just one thing,
of course, that she could do. She must
go back to her fathers home.
White-faced, and with lines of suffer-
ing about his mouth, he raised his
head-reached for the telephOne-nO,
he could not tell her-yet. He would
write letter, that would be the easiest
way. He would place the sum of their
Indebtedness against that of his in
come; Connie should draw her own
conclusion and give him answer.
Not once did it occur to him that his
merry little wife might have shared
the blame, yet it was she who had Sc
lccted plans for the bungalow and its
costly location.
When the letter was sent on its
way, Richard left town for a busi-
ness trip. On his return he would
learn his fate. His own street seemed
strange as he drove up to the bungalow
door, and the auto went for the last
time perhapS-back to the stone
| garage.
The rooms were empty as he passed
from one to another, a speaking air of
desertiOn hovered everywhere. In
| Comics own bOudOir, bureau draw
erS and closets stood Open-she had
been packing-and was gone. Rich.
ard sank wearily into a chair and rang
for q maid; his fears were realized
yet he knew that he had been hoping
| against hope, allowing himself tC
fancy the impOssible-that Connie
might still have loved him enough tC
face with him a new beginning Of
things.
''AIrs. Byron started to pack imme
diately upon receiving his letter." thu
maid informed him. "She had left thu
address of her destination if he wished
it,"
Richard caught at tES scrap of pa
per. "WillOwdale," he read in Con
MES writing, and that was all. HI
wrinkled his brow perplexedIy, theI
sighed. No doubt WillOwdale wa!
some new country place of her fathers
They directed him at the railroad
station. 1t was a small suburban tow
he learned, not far from the city. Tn
agent at Willowdale shook his hea'
when Richard inquired for the home o
COnstance's father. That great man
name appeared to be unknown.
'Mrs. Byron then" Richard asked
"can you direct me to her?"
The agents face frightened visibly
"White cottage" he replied, "acros
from the square"
Richard was still perplexed as h
turned into the garden path leading
the white cottage. 1t was a very prett
little house, with rambler roses clint
ing the veranda pillars, but he cOul
not understand what Connie should b
doing there-and at the doorway sh
met him. He paused breathless befOr
her radiant face. There were not n
proaches, surely, in that evident hal
piness.
"COme in," said Connie. She laughe
as he had not heard her laugh sine
those first joyous days long ago. The
at sight of her husbands wan face, sh
put up her arms to draw him down
her.
'Dear," she murmured, "welcom
this is home at last"
Richard held her close. "You mea
-" he asked eagerly.
"That I have never really had
home" said Constance. always thel
were servants about to order things
gardens too well kept to enjoy. Hel
there is but one small servant whom
shall order, Richard, and a garden fu
Of flowers that grow alone. chO'
the place and moved in while you we