The herald., 1918-01-03
A HEART STCnY.
BY WILLARD CHAllONER.

zone hundred dollars" exuberated
Warren Deane In a positive burst Of
ecstasy.
1.-Two hundred, my dear fellow" cor
rected Rupert Thrall, picture broker.
"Why do you minimize really preten-
tious streak of fortuneT
Because / agreed to give you an
even half Of whatever The MasQuera-
ders' sold for"
1--WE will waive that in this in
stance" Thrall asserted. "Tve got faith
in you, in your ability and in your final
fame and fortune, therefore 1 insist
on financing you, to an extent, and
making up for 1t when / am selling
your pictures at thousands instead Of
hundreds. So I decline to take my
commission, provided you follow my
directions explicitly as to the invest
melt Of the money"
"And that Isl" submitted Warren.
Take q vacation"
Warren Deane had been home boy,
living q quiet life with his widowed
mother until she died. Alone in the
world, he followed the bent of his
mind In the direction of art and liter
allure.
The sale Of "The Masqueraders" was
his first streak of luck. He followed
the advice of the only friend he had
found in the great wilderness Of the
city, the picture broker, and two days
later was established in quiet village
boarding house at Virden, and roam
Ing the hills with easel and color box,
seeking subjects and studies.
One morning he was sketching out
In crayon a dell outline upon the can
vas, when a little miss of about five
passed along a woodland path fringing
the deep gully beyond. A great bushy
dog frisked about her. Her charming
face, her graceful bow attracted him
and irresistibly his eyes followed her.
Suddenly, appalled,, he sprang to his
feet from the camp stool. In switching
about her, the dog brushed too close
to the child-she toppled, and went out
Of sight over the edge Of the cliff.
Shocked, half-stunned, shuddering,
Warren ran to the ledge. A great sigh
Of hope rent his lips as, five feet down,
he saw the child wedged against
slanting rock and crying with fright
and clinging to q frail bush. Beneath
yawned an abyss.
"Don't novel Don't let go" cried
Warren. He was trembling all over
as he let himself over the ledge. He
uttered a gasp of Joy as his feet were
anchored. Slowly lifting the child, he
pushed her beyond the ledge. climbed
up himself, and fell upon log, breath
less and exhausted.
Warren soothed her and carried her
to where his easel stood, and placed
her on the camp stool.
snow you must rest, and then 60
right home, and don't ever get so near
the ravine again." he said.
"And I'll tell Maudie how good you
are, and she'll just love you," prattled
the innocent. "And-oh, my! I'll get
some more doughnuts and bring them
here, and it will be my picnic, and you
are invited. Won't that be grand"
Warren resumed his work. Sure
enough, at the end of two hours the
little one reappeared. She carried a
paper bag, which she placed carefully
on the stool.
II told sister Maudie, and she said
I must thank you, and bring you home
with me, for her to thank you"
And then little Winnie questioned
him about the easel, and his being
there, and what was an artist man.
He caught her pose with true artists
eye as, on tip-toe, she held one of the
doughnuts above her head, the dog
standing on his hind feet and reaching
for II.
Don't move-keep that way" or
dered Warren in fever Of enthusiasm,
while he sketches the presentation
rapidly. "Tll make a canvas Of 1t.
That win do"
Warren tried to evade going home
with little Winnie, though invited, but
she was persistent. When he came to
meet Maude Springer, whom he never
afterwards forgot, she was all that
was lovely, dainty and gentle.
One day at the village he learned
that Maude Springer, although she
lived humbly, was heiress to one Of the
largest estates In the district. The
same day he packed up his kit dis
consolately. He would never tell his
Lowell
II will not even tell her good-by-
II is better to go now, before suffer
mcss deeply" he unused. wonder.
though. what she would think IL
told her that loved her. and asked
her to become the wife Of a poor but
devoted spitor, and"
All of This was what Warren Deane
wrote as story in the woodland dell
that sunny. last afternoon in para
disc. 1t was his true heart story. He
left the sheets across the camp stool,
as he proceeded some distance away to
take down and pack up a hammock he
had strung between two trees in a
shady nook.
He came back to get his other traps
together, little knowing that during
his absence Maude Springer had visited
the spot. She read the pathetic heart
story. Then she took up its last page