The Washington times., 1921-12-29
THE WINE OF LIFE
STORY OF AN AMBITIOUS YOUNG SCULPTOR
Ru ARTHIIR STRINGER

misery waiting for the morning.
that even as the ache would in
time go out of the body which had
been so ill-used, so the subtle
ache would In time pass away from
the spirit which no longer seemed
his to control.
A Longing to Hide.
Yet before he could know that
restoration, he felt, he would have
to know quietness for thought and
elbow-room for reverie. He must
have breathing-space for both body
and soul. He must get away; that
was something which his inaliena-
BILE passion for the open had i'm
posed upon him. There was no
longer any doubt about the matter.
To stay between those walls, in
the old rut, played on by the old
influences and surrounding. was
out OF the question. He must go.
He thought of Angelo Dellazio
and his cellar studio very much as
a man dying of thirst might think
of a spring bubbling out Of hill
side. There, he told himself, was
a cave into which he might crawl
with his wounds. There, he re-
membered, he could know the con-
ISOLATION Of temporary nonentity,
of submerging himself unremembered
among the unknown. And the more
he thought the matter over the more
fixed he became in purpose. His
spirit grew Quieter. He no longer
dreaded the thought of the morn.
ing.
When Torrie, waking early, hur-
riedly slipped out of bed and be-
gan dressing, he lay with his eyes
closed, preferring that she accept
him as still sleeping. Yet he found
IL hard to control his breathing
when she came to the bedside and
stood over him.
The knowledge that she was
staring down at him brought
pang to his heart; he did not know
why. He was determined, how
ever, to betray no sign of feeling.
1t was not until she stopped closer,
and with a little movement or two
that was both solicitous and ten
der drew the covers up about his
shoulders, that feeling too strong
for his control welled up in his
body. His eyes We're still closed,
but a sort of sob burst from him.
a ghost of a sob which he found
himself Utterly unable to repress.
What is 1t, Honey?" asked Tor
rie, still STOPPING over him. with
a debilitatlng little flutter of anxi-
ETY. in her voice.
IT guess / was dreaming" he
said, almost gruffly, as he made an
effort to turn on his side, deter
mined that she should not see the
tears which were wet on his face.
He was ashamed of his weakness.
He was determined, too, that there
should be no more perilous pas
sage of words between them.
though the STOPPING woman stood
for several moments gazing down
at her husbands averted head.
He distinctly caught the sound
of her sigh as she turned away, at
last, and busted herself at the
homely little duties of the kitchen
cite. Those tasks, for some rea-
son, took on tragic aspect, even
in their trivlality. They seemed
permeated with coloring OF
pathos which he could not fathom.
Even the thought that she was
eating that hurried breakfast alone
weighed ponderously on his heart
And 1t was with a definite sense of
relief that he awakened to the fact
that she was making herself ready
for the street.
CTo BE Continued Tomorrow
Copyright 1920, by Arthur Stringer)
Publish by arrangement with InternA-
tional Feature Service. Inc.