Okolona messenger. (Okolona, Miss.) 1900-current, 1919-12-18

ter Of this visloned beard, he con
cluded his missive in a tone modified
to tenderness, and proceeded to read I
letter from his mother which hat
reached him simultaneously will
Lucy's. Isabel wrote from Asheville
where she had just arrived with he
husband:
81 think your father looks better al
ready, darling, though we've been here
only a few hours. 1t may be we've
found just the place to build him up
The doctors said they hoped 1t would
prove to be, and If it is, 1t would be
worth the long struggle we had with
him to get him to give up and come
I'm afraid that in my anxiety to get
him to do what the doctors wanted
him to, wasn't able to back up Broth.
er George as should in his difficulty
with Sydney and Amelia. I'm so sorry
George is more upset than I've ever
seen him-they've got what they want
ed, and they're sailing before long,
hear, to live In Florence. Father said
he couldn't stand the constant per-
suading-Tm afraid the word he used
was 'nagging.' can't understand peO-
Pile behaving like that. George says
they may be Amberscns, but they're
vulgar I'm afraid almost agree with
him. At least, / think they were in
considerate.
"We plan to stay six weeks II the
place agrees with him. 1t does really
seem to already! He's just called in
the door to say he's waiting. Don't
smoke too much, darling boy.
"Devotedly, your mother,
ISABEL"
But she did not keep her husband
there for the elk weeks she ANTICIPATED.
She did not keep him anywhere that
long. Three weeks after writing this
letter, she telegraphed suddenly to
George that they were leaving for
home at once; and four days later
when he and a friend came whiStling
into his study, from lunch at the club,
he found another telegram upon his
desk.
He read it twice before he compre-
hended its import.
Papa left us at ten this morning,
dearest.
MOTHER"
The friend saw the change in his
face. "Not bad news"
George lifted utterly dumfounded
eyes from the yellow paper.
''My father" he said weakly. "She
says-she says he's dead. I've got to
go home"
His Uncle George and the
Major met him at the station when he
arrived-the first time the Major had
ever come to meet his grandson. The
old gentleman sat in his closed car
riage (Which still needed paint at the
entrance to the station, but he got out
and advanced to grasp Georges hand
TREMENDOUSLY, when the latter appeared
poor fellow |" he said, and patted him
repeatedly upon the shoulder "Poor
fellow! Poor Georgie"
George noticed that the Majors
tremulousness did not disappear, as
they drove up the street, and that he
seemed much feebler than during the
summer. Principally, however, George
was concerned with his own emotion,
or rather, with his lack Of emotion; ;
and the anxious sympathy Of his grand
father and his uncle made him feel
hypocritical. He was not grlef-stricK-
en-; but he felt that he ought to be,
and, with secret shame, concealed
his callousness beneath an affectaticn
of solemnity.
But when he was taken into the
room where lay what was left Of Will
bur Minafer, George had no longer to
pretend; his grief was sufficient. 1t
needed only the sight of that forever
inert semblance Of the quiet man who
had been always so quiet part of his
sons life-so quiet part that George
had seldom been consciously aware
that his father was indeed a part of
his life. AS the figure lay there, its
very quietness was what was most life
like; and suddenly it struck George
hard. And in that unexpected, racking
grief Of his son, Wilbur Minafer be-
came more wildly Georges father
than he had ever been in life.
When George left the room, his arm
was about his black-robed mother, his