The Washington times. [volume] (Washington [D.C.]) 1902-1939, 1920-11-11
|fVZI The Washington Times Magazine Page

% tue money ne won AT the
races was gone. ! remember Martha
told me that, too" said Father An
drew. "One more question. dear,
You didn't look on that poor, mar
red face. You didn't see-your
father Then can 20 ube sure that
the man they buried--was your
father? Can you be sure?"
i turned and faced two blazing,
compelling eyes looking at me out
Of an asheh mask.
The telegram. Your trip to Can
ada. Ny fatherw ] mumbled with
cold lips. What do you meany
Can you be sure that the man
they buried was your father. Anne"
he repeated ineXorably.
can ! be sure that the man they
buried was my father? l. repeated
after Father Andrew. "Why. 1t was
-surely--wasnt it?"
That's what we can't prove un-
less you saw him, unless you're
sure" said Father Andrew. your
mother thought II was. But there
Is "a man alive today who claims to
be your father. He says the man
who was killed In the railroad
wreck wasn't Lucky Lee at all"
But the Clothes" / interrupted.
II saw them. 1 knew them, The
coat the reporter made meStouch
was one I'd seen my father wear"
I'm afraid that proves nothing"
replied the man / had thought of
as my father through all the young
years. HE had other suits. He
might have given the one you saw
TO pal who was in hard luck.
You rememreber that the money he
had won wasn't in his possession
when they brought the body home
to you"
'Yes, remember that I MUIR
INJURED, wondering where all this
was leading US. But we thought
he had been robbed"
II know, dear, My Martha told
me that. But you don't know that
he was robbed. You can't prove It,"
You mean that / can't prove it
in a court of law that the body we
buried was my fathers? You
mean that can't disprove the
claim OF anyone who chooses to say
he's my father?"
Father Andrew shook his head
sadly.
"You speak bitterly, dear" he
said.
II feel bitter!" cried. 81 don't
want the ghost of a disreputable
past rising now. I have nothing
for which to love or to revere my
father. ! had a starved childhood.
Red plush and shameful affluence
one week. The hall bed rooms of
cheap boarding houses the next.
And my poor little mothers shame
and sadness through it all. Then
death released us. And soon you
came. l grew to think OF you as
my father. I'm proud to think OF
you as my father"
REINSURANCE.
Barbara Anne, you'll always be
my little girl, no matter what hap
pens. No other mans claim can
make you stop being my daughter.
But have you thought what may be
the condition of the man who
brought you into the world?'
as he poor?" l gasped.
eyes, dear. Poor and old. And
he says in his need he heard of you,
the daughter out OF whose life he
went because he felt he was de-
grading it. If this man actually
did that much for you once, can
you deny his claim on you now"
IF this is my father, then when
he pretended to die he deliberately
left us to starve," replied bitterly.
He had the money he won at the
races. He didn't even share that
with U.s.
Then the most terrible shame
surged up from my heart and
cried: "Oh, what am ! saying? 1t
doesn't matter what he did. You
say he's poor and old. And I have
so much. If this is my father, Jim,
I will help him. He must be taken
care of. Well do everything-per-
haps l ought to go to Canada with
you. I'll do that. For you think
the man in Canada is--rny father,
don't your
I'm afraid so.- agreed Father
Andrew.
"The telegram said So" I gasped.
'"Will you read 1t, dear?" asked
Father Andrew, handing me the
crumpled bit of yellow paper.
/ smoothed it with one hand and
held it against the steering wheef
of my car, which I'd drawn up In a
little green cove in the roadside.
Then, with blurring eyes, I read:
mo money to travel. Will meet