Five Mile Beach weekly journal., 1918-01-25

Joan'S cheeks, a bit HuSneu from ner
recent contact with the heat from the
kitchen stove, glowed softly in the
Pickering beams and her eyes sparkled
with excitement.
Maggie looked at Joan with a know
Ing smile as she placed a plate of soup
before her, and Joan salted and pep
pered it well before she tasted 1t. She
did not relish hot milk. 1t was all
right in coffee for breakfast, and 1t
wasn't bad on toast when n was Ill
but plain hot milk in place of soup!
Then Joan lifted her spoon to her
lips. Horrorsl What she tasted was
not milk, but delicious soup. Maggie
had made q mistake. Who had the
hot milk? Joan looked stealthily at
her mother. 1t couldn't be that her
mother had it. A faint line of perplex-
ity, something like a frown, would
surely mark her mothers smooth brow
If she were eating hot milk instead of
soup. And it couldn't be her father.
"Dear Dad" thought Joan, he'd
speak right out in meeting and ask
why I'd taken to serving milk toast
without the toast if he'd got the wrong
plate" Then Joan stole a look at Tom
Shortley opposite her. He must have
the hot milk. He was eating his soup
most attentively, interspersing the
task with answer to her mothers
questions about how many pairs of
wooden socks each nan in camp had
and her fathers questions about his
success in the work he was doing and
with an occasional smile at Joan her
self across the bowl of garden chry-
santhemums.
In panic-stricken regret Joan fin
ished her soup. At first she thought
hurriedly of exchanging plates with
the guest, but she quickly decided
that silence was her only course.
And that would have been all right
If suddenly she had not become that
Dragging, affectionate note in it.
my favorite chicken soup, isn't 1t,
daughter?"
"Yes, dad" Joan blushed, as she
answered his smiling look.
"She's some cook, isn't she, Short
ley? And this soup is n of her spe-
cialties. She knows it's my favorite."
For a minute Joan almost lost con-
troll of herself. She wanted to laugh,
and she was afraid she was going to
cry. To make matters worse, Mr.
Shortley looked straight at her and
praised the soup, and said he thought
cooking was a wonderful accomplish
ment for a girl to possess.
Joan never knew how the rest of the
dinner passed. She knew her father
co%mplimented her cooking two or three
times more, and she knew that each
time Tom Shortley Joined him. Wheth-
er she ate white of an egg and stale
sponge cake or whipped eam and
fresh sponke cake for dessert, she nev-
er could tell.
But when, wrapped in a big cape,
she took Tom Shortley out to see her
chrysanthemums in the frosty garden
before he left her, and he told her in
the chill moonlight that he could not
leave her without telling her that he
had come to realize what she meant
to him, for a moment all thought of
soup left her mind.
"You see," added Tom, almost with
reverence, you're SO wonderful so
much more wonderful here at home
than you were last winter. That soup
Il mean, any girl who could cook like
that and plan to work herself so that
she could save money for wool and
sweaters for a duffer like newell,
you know what / mean, don't you,
Joan?"
ooh, how I hate that SOUP" cried
Joan ~passionately. "But, Tom, = I
love you. And l meant to have it for
myself. Oh, I'll explain some time"
81 don't want any explanations"
said Tom. you've said the only thing
I wanted explained"
And after Tom was gone, Joan came
back to earth and went into the bright
living room, where her father and
mother were sitting by the fire. She
drew a little stool between them and
sat down, her right hand or her faith
er's arm and her left stroking her
mothers fingers.
"That vas delicious soup, dear, to-
night. You've never made it better"
said her mother comfortably, after a
moment.
Joan sat up with a start. "Dad,"
she cried. 'Then, you had my dish
the hot milk. But how did you know?
Oh, dad, Pm sorry"
81 smelled the chicken" said the
father. And the Dragging note came
into his voice. 81 played my part pref
ty well, didn't I? / guessed what the
trouble was"
swell, I'm sure 1 don't know what
you're talking about" said Mrs. Con-
way.
"Oh, nothing, mother" said Joan,
throwing one arm about her mothers
neck and another about her fathers.
"Only-you see, Tom and I-Oh, dad,
I'll make a whole chicken into soup
for you, tomorrow"