Little Falls herald. [volume] (Little Falls, Morrison County, Minn.) 1889-1950, 1918-11-29
$3.50 -
The Proving
By JACK LAYTON
Copyright. 1918. Western N.-.D.per unies.,

Lie WOuldu lllleu ueF Hedu 10 look
up from the portfolio of drawings.
into the face Of the man who held it..
"Do you KNOW" she said. and laugh
ed softly, II have been wondering,
how one who can SO beautifully pic
ture home and do1nesticity has so long
escaped it's charm?"
The man looked back straight into
her eyes.
Zone might ask" he replied, 1.-THE
same question of YOU"
sand if I answered truly. you would
not believe. One never believes a
woman. 1t is the man alone who is
supposed to prefer freedom. When I
first came here" the woman smiled.
"you were pointed out to me as a
heartless trifler in affections. Dis
appointed maids. it seemed, had lam
gufshed all along your path. So con-
cluded that you had perhaps, been dis
appointed yourself in fancied loves.
which were but fancies after ALL"
"Speaking from experlence?" the
man suggested.
"Speaking from experience" the
woman calmly agreed.
"And when you came aElong us"
he went on, II marveled at your choice
of this sleepy town as place of abode.
You were successful Illustrator.
they told me, and-pardon me-your
manner and appearance were both
so remarkably attractive one wonder
ed that you could bring yourself to
hide so much"
The woman put forth a protesting
hand.
"Now," she said, 81 am not one of
those who expect flattery. Therefore,
it is not necessary to make the ef-
fort. I decided to build my we'll
earned bungalow here, and settle down
In the quiet and beauty my weary
spirit has long coveted. am doing
good work, the principal advantage
and I'm near enough to run into the
city when occasion demands. On the
same score, I have done some marvel
ing about you. A clever man in any spe.
cial line is interesting. Why does the
architect Of ability prefer also to re-
side in the hidden corner?"
'"The home of my fathers" the man
replied, "correctly speaking, the home
of my father. Though I may travel
far. this spot remains my headquar.
ters."
The woman nodded understand
:ngly.
Suddenly her companion leaned for
ward. !,
do you KNOW" he said, "that from
the first moment I saw you, you have
never been out Of my thoughts?"
"Never have l." he laughed shortly,
deliberately sought without encour-
agement of any sort, an unmarried
woman with the intention of making
her-my friend. You have helped me
in suggestions concerning
my work. In many ways, your frank,
sweet influence" his voice trembled.
II believe that this friendship at
last my longing for the home and do
of which you spoke. I be.
lieve"-his hands reached out to
clasp the wonan's, but hers were busy
with the portfolio-"that love has
found me at last"
"You will not believe it, after little
time," she said. "Nor will I. For you
have also captured my-shall we call it
But love !-Oh!, our
is too pleasant a thing to be
placed with past fancied loves. Let
US put the imaginative aside, and 60
On helpfully as we have been.'
The man arose and walked impa-
tiently the length of the room.
DO not let us be deceived by gla-
mour, John, we have both grown into
our independent ways; I-why,gI am
too selfish now to consider your needs"
Among her flowers, few days later,
a village neighbor found the illustra-
tor. She had always been proud of
her small, white hands, so they were
protected now by heavy gloves.
"Have you heard" the neighbor
questioned, 'tabout John Craithorne-
the bachelor architect? Well, he's
Gown with this terrible influenza and
the doctors say he's pretty bad. His
father; who was took to the hospital
with it yesterday, died this morning.
The hOusekeeper clean cleared out
scared to death of the disease; and
they can't coax soul in to take care
o. hi1n. Most everybody's busy with
their own home folks, an it's too late
to take him to the hospital. if they
was room there, which they amt.
The doctor was there three times
Today and did what he could for Mr..
He asked me to go in, but
land! I got to look out for my fam
lly." =
Constance, the illustrator, tore the
gloves from her hands; her face was
white: her eyes burned with light
of purpose. Before the neighbor had
reached her own door, Constance was
at John Craithorne's bedside. He did
not recognize her, but that did not
matter.
When the doctor came again, the
two labored together through the
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