The Topeka state journal. [volume] (Topeka, Kansas) 1892-1980, 1921-03-19
Eoening Story
The Haunted Orchard.
By LUELLA STEWART.

Inc Haunted Orchard.
BY LUELLA STEWART.
Clayton dropped his heavy bags
on the dusty, implanted floor of the
Valley House lobby. He had been
the only passenger on the rickety old
bus. which he could already hear
rafting away into the darkness. This
was the first time in five years that
he had made Green Valley-and he
would not have chosen to return.
Hi, .Jeffi' called the ancient pro-
prietor, uncoiling himself from his
tilted back chair by the stove. Take
them valisesi'' He hobbled rheu-
matically to the. desk, peering over
his iron trimmed spectacles at the lone
guest, while Jeff, a gawky country
boy of seventeen with arms and legs
too long for the garments that sought
to clothe them. shambled forward and
gathered the baggage.
Hm-stranger in these parts be
yer" queried the keeper of the Valley
House, shifting his chew of tobacco
expertly. and studying thee bold sig
nature on the register: 81. M. Clayton,
Chicago"
Not exactly" said Clayton, lean
ing idly against the desk He was
depressed, very tired-almost too
tired to follow the tow-headed Jeff
up the stairs. 9! used to cover this
territory-until about five years ago.
Always put up at the Valley House
then. Last few years. I've been routed
thru the south. I don't seem to re-
member you-?"
mo. guess not" said the other.
gnarled brown hand. "Bagsby's my
name. Bill Townsend. him that used
to run this place-he left nothin' but
passed. o. debts when he died, couple
o. years ago. Bein' principal creditor.
bought in the place on easy terms.
yI,- a ~ 1fr,n
Hardware admitted Clayton.
Everything from plow to thumb
tacks"
Him." said Bagby pessimistically.
hobbling back to his chair by the
stove. Guess you won't sell much of
either herei Green Valleys gone
down terrible. All the young folks
nowadays seem to be just bound and
determined to get to the city; an the
old folks can't make ends meet here,
nohow, what with hired hands askin'
such wages. They amt a farm around
here that you couldn't pick up now for
a song.
A moment later, with his foot act
ually on the ramshackle stairway,
Clayton paused. After all, he must
ask the question that had been fore
most in his mind ever since the dusty,
rafting old day-coach had creaked to
standstill at Green Valley station.
do you happen to know" He
thought his voice sounded husky and
strange, and flushing, he began again:
Can you tell me-anything about
era family named Deming-that
used to live a couple of miles down
the state road?"
"Deming? Deming?" Bagsby laid
down his weekly farm paper. Why,
that's the Deming place, up where the
big sign is-th-the one they call
th-the haunted house"
xaI
"Yeh," said old Bagsby, 1--WE heard
tell that the fanily-Deming, if that
was their name-moved out west
count O. their girl havin' lung trou-
BILE; then they say she an the mother
both died, an the old man didn't want
to come back. Places been for sale
ever since I come to Green Valley
an that's four years ago."
Jack Clayton gripped the banisters
until his knuckles whitened. Media
was dead, then He would never
see her again
With his clean-cut young face grim
and set, he followed Jeff up to the
room assigned him-and then, when
the door was shut, fell face downward
upon the -springless old bed-and lay
very still.
Perhaps an>hour later Jack Clayton
tiptoed down the creaking stairs, with
out waking his ancient host, who had
fallen into noisy slumber beside the
diving fire, with his farm journal fall
ing from one lax hand. The Novem-
Der air cooled his hot cheeks and
smarting eyes, as he hurried down the
state road. Almost before he knew it,
he was at the -Deming farm. Yes,
there it was-the white house with its
spreading barns and outbuildings-
the spacious home where he had SO
often been entertained! How dreary
it looked now; dark, deserted and
No q
called 1.-The haunted house" he
thought; it looked ghostly enough!
The front gate was swinging idly in
the wind He remembered how he
had first met Media, at that very gate,
when, driving from farm to farm in
his hired trap, taking orders for rakes,
hoes, harrows and what not, he had
stopped one day to beg a drink of
water from the pretty, brown-eyed girl
in the blue Bingham dress who was
playing with a white kitten on the
doorstp.
the old farm couple spoiled child,
perhaps.
He had often felt thirsty after that.
he remembered, and somehow no other
water tasted as good as that from the
Deming we'll
And Media was to have been his
wife some day. Then they had quar-
relied. What about he could hardly
remember now, five years afterward.
He was walking slowly up the path
now-past the clump of mournful ce-
dars-down the slope to the orchard.
What a stubborn fool he had been
going away without patching up their
little quarrel-and then waiting so
long; trying to make her. write first!
And when he did write--well, it must
have been too late. The letter, in his
business envelope, had come back to
the offices marked "Removed-no ad-
dress"
He walked slowly down the orchard
path. This was where they used to
meet-down at the gnarled old tree by
the spring. He wondered if she had
Kept the little turquoise ring he gave
her-wishing it on, here by the spring.
tYes-this is a haunted orchard" he
said bitterly-and started back, for at
the sound of his voice a slight figure
rose from the shadows beside the
SDring