The Topeka state journal. [volume] (Topeka, Kansas) 1892-1980, 1919-01-29
EVENING STORY
The Sins of the Father.
BY s. B. HACKLEY.

of the richest and proudest church in |
the city isn't SO bad-and he's so
proud and exclusive
"Egotistical, tool" Brewster's pleas |
ant middle-aged face clouded. I'm
afraid for Sandy. Cleo-afraid she'll |
poor little Sissy-had married Jim |
Harlan instead of Alexander Ashford, |
she might" He broke off and |
looked out of the window with misty |
eyes.
Eighteen years before Brewster had !
buried his young sister-Sandys |
mother-three months after her hus- |
band-brilliant, magnetic and unprin- !
cipled-had been given a life sentence !
in the states prison. Brewster, her
| only relative, and his wife had brought
the two-year-old baby home with
them, and little Alexandra had grown /
up in their home, greatly beloved by
both.
I'm glad we've never told Sandy
about her father!" Mrs. Brewster ex-
| claimed.
Brewster sighed. Lima never
meant us to keep it from her, Cleo.
She loved Alec-poor. lovable fellow
| in spite of everything, to her very last
breath. 1 think ths child ought to
know soon-before she's married,
anyway"
There's Moreland's car now cried
his wife His chauffeur'S looking bet
| ter, Ted. He was chalky white when
he first began to drive for Doctor
Moreland.''
| Gladson Keenon was chalky white
now as he gave pretty, winSome Sandy
his hand to help her in the car. Sandy
| was trembling a bit, too. She had not
wanted to go on this picnic; she had
| not wanted to go anywhere with More
| land since that day last week when
she'd discovered that this handsome
and brilliant man whom all the girls
envied her-the man whose ring she
| worn for four months-waS not the
man she wanted to marry at all!
Keenon had been three months with
| Moreland. While that exquisite and
particular gentleman had never had
| chauffeur that pleased him so well,
| the pale young fellow with the clear
eyes and sensitive mouth drew no
more thought from him than if he had
| been part of the machine.
| But the first day that he took his
| betrothed out after his acquisition OF
Keenon, Keenon's lonely, bereft heart
had gone out to her. And Sandy
Sandy had felt a sudden dislike to the
man sitting beside her.
Every time after that day when she
went out with Moreland when he call.
| ed on his rich parishioners CHS car
never stopped before a home or pow
erty) she caught herself contrasting |,
the two-Moreland, dark, self-satis- !
fled, egotistical, impatiently conse-
quential; the young, fair, gentle, quiet, |
unobtrusive.
For all he's so wretchedly thin"
| she thought. Hes beautiful when he |
smiles, but his smile is so wistful!"
She generally sat in the car while |
Moreland made his calls, and gradual |
ly they got a little acquainted. Sandy |
loved to see his face light up and his !
| eyes deepen as she talked. She wished |
he would talk more. (And only heav-
en- knew how much he wanted to pour
Lon n &c cHrt1 70 hi ltSfa Arr
The day she discovered she didn't |
want to.marry Moreland, he had gone |
in to see crochety old Mrs. Cornelius. |
and she had promised to come in for
a few minutes, later. Keenon held |
open the door for her to step out. but |
one of those ridiculous high heels |
threw her. He caught her as she fell |
and for an instant her brown head |
| lay on his breast.
By a mighty effort the young man
kept his arms from tightening, and |
his lips from her glowing cheek, but |
| in that fleeing second Sandy's world |
was changed forever. They both |
knew
| After lunch at the picnic, Sandy |
| escaped from her friends, and follow !
ed a tempting little path across a
| grassy field. Suddenly she came upon |
Keenon lying on his elbow, his eyes
YEARLY watching the little meadow
brook before him.
He did not know she was near until |
| she picked up the book by him and
| read aloud from its fly-leaf: 81. Glad |
| son Keenon, 'Gladson' is a nice
name"
lie leapt up. ''I am glad you like |
| it. Mother calls-I mean his smile
| faded, Mother used to call me
| Glad"
Then your mother?''
MY mother" his voice was not
| steady-"my mother died five months
ago. My father died when the pro-
perty went-he couldn't stand the ruin !
| Of things-and mother the week after.
| She couldn't live without him.
Then L was i'll, and when 1 got better
| they said for me to stay out of doors,
| and l came out here.
"O"' she cried softly, and two big
| drops splashed on Moreland's ring,
| them, and 1 didn't knowi L didn't
| knowi Forgive me. I've talked to you
| about such trivial things when your
! heart was aching
That evening Brewster told Sandy,
| reluctantly enough. about her father
She grew white, but she controlled
her emotions CALAMITY.
/ Thank you, Uncle Ted" she said
/ simply, for telling me now.
! 1T was for your sake he began
Yes" she interrupted him, you
withheld the truth for my sake, but
for his sake, 1 should have been told
| years ago. L might have been able to
make his life happier all these years
| all these years."
She wiped away the tear that ran
/ across her cheek.
Il am going to see my father. Uncle
/ Ted. l am going to start tonight"
! On Wednesday morning. few days
! later. Sandy stopped her uncle's auto
mobile outside the study of the church
/ The pastors car stood by the side
] walk.
Where have you been all these five
days, Alexandra ?'' Moorland fretted
| You never even told me you were
| going away"
i She lifted her head. II have been
| visiting my father"
! Your father,'' The words came to
| Keenon, who was looking for a book