Evening star., 1921-11-13

Turnbull put the big front bedroom
in order-a sort Of order. You take
little snoo3e, Fred, and I'll have
something hot for yeu in jiffy.""
Something hot" He smacked his
dry lips. You didn't chance to bring
Don't be silly" she was brave
enough to command, and he followed
her meekly enough into the shadows
Of the second floor.
Helen found the storm porch which
Miss Octavia had mentioned and
there. true to specifications. she dis
covered two boxes laden with paper
parcels. These she dragged into the
kitchen and was searching for bag
Of rice when something small, gray
and disgustingly alive began a fren-
3ied scampering under the papers
and leaped up. almost in her face
A mouse! She gave a little scream
ly. She would search in the morning
she resolved, for on Of those traps
which Miss Octavias deceased sister
had hidden in the basement.
COOKING is the most reflective OF
~ the arts The simmering Of a tea
kettle, the dropping OF quartered
vegetables into a hollow pan. the
comfortable chuckle OF beating eggs
induce philosophical train OF
thought. No wonder Maecenas, lover
of food and genius. went to his
cook. when poets bored hin, for
Olympian views upon the destiny OF
man.
Helen Leniey loved to cook: and
as for philosophy. her way of life
had made that q necessity. She
worked buHily between stove and
table, planning little menu which
, would be a relief from Mrs. Bas.
combs greasy and soggy school Of
again behind its listening poat<she
frightened it with a spoon. And hel
thoughts raced on and on.
She had introduced herself to Miss
Turnbull as an Australian. In that
she had spoken q partial truth. She
had been born of American parents
who had died in Sydney, and as a
young girl she had met and married
Lef1ey, picturesque wanderer OF
the planet He had been a mercurial
charming neurasthenic with a little
money of his own. Their child had
died in a Chinese port. and after tina,
man whose eocentricities, al the years
went by, gathered into storms tha,
devastated his mind
The story Of her nine years
martyrdom had been nobody's bust.
Mess but her own. How could she
tell 1t? No true martyr goes to the
stake crying out his sacrifice. Only
she had talked 4 little to Bob Spur.
ling, and he had guessed 50 much
without telling. That was the
wonder Of the man, heavy, blunt and
unimaginative, to all outward seem.
Ing: yet how much he could observe
with those eyes Of his, small and
wise aS an elephants -
The winds Of chance had blown
the Leaneys to New York At the Gloss
Of . great war in which poor Fred
useless for any practical work. had
had no share. Tho hope Of q small
position in q British mercantile con.
oern had gone a-glimmering with
internment In . hospttal-the doctors
had baen 20 kind aS to call it "a
nervous breakdown" Whatever II
was, q mild indulgence in whisky
and soda had brought 1t on again
The veriest sip Of liquor seemed to
destroy the fragile balance Of Fred'i
Hob Squirting did not como into
her life. by any stretching Of that
haokneyed phrase. she had gone
into his
One morning. about . week after
Freds illness had come on. Helen
had gone 70 the hospital q little early
to be told BY the nurse that he wa.
still asleep She had got him . good
room on the second door, having sold