Evening public ledger. [volume] (Philadelphia [Pa.]) 1914-1942, 1922-02-28

covering himself.
] laughed, too.
1T docs not matter" I said. Then,
looking up at him, ! saw that he was
gazing at me. The blood rushed to my
face as / saw u puzzled expression FIJI |
his eyes, then:
"Do you - haven't We met before
somewhere!" no asked hesitatinsly.
! could not answer. Memories strong
and vivid were rushing through my |
mind, and I answered shakily at last
"Yes, think we have. Don't you
remember You were angry because I |
threw stones into the water. and scared |
away the fish you were trying to
It was Richard Tempest!
It Is twenty years ago since that |
summer morning when Richard Tenn
pest climbed on to the top Ut that old |
yellow bus and sat down beside me-
24O weary months! And vet, somehow,
1t seems but yesterday as I cit here and |
remember and write II down.
] can even remember the hat I was
suit. l Gun recall tho round, humorous
face Of the old bus driver. who turned
and looked at us with twinKi,ng eyes
across his shoulder.
Twenty years I was eighteen then
] am nearly forty now. And yet II
Richard Tempest were to open the dooI
behind me and say "Hullo, kidd" as he
used to when we we're boy and girl to-
gether down in the country, believe
my heart would respond in the old glad
way, and l should jump up and follow
him wherever he wished.
It's inexplicable, this thing we cali
love! How can woman explain why
It is that a man may walk into a room
or climb on top Of an omnibus and just
look at her, and perhaps only paas the
time of day or shake hands, and vet
she knows instinctively that, were be
to ask her, she would leave everything
else and follow him?
Those lines in "Hiawatha" tell It
more truly than can any poor words of
mine:
Comes a piper through the village,
With his flute of reeds--a stranger!
Chooses out tho fairest maiden,
And he beckons. and she follows,
Leaving all things for the stranger"
But how If the piper does not beckon?
CHAPTER x
But there was only gladness In my
heart as sat there on the Jogging old
bus with Richard Tempest, listening to
all he had done since We parted.
He told me that he was twenty-five
that he had just left the varsity and
was trying to make living.
Old Mr.. Tempest, with the pebble
glasses, was dead. and he had not left
enough money for Richard to have his
hearts desire and 80 on the Stock Ex.
change.
II could make money at that; I know
could" he told me eagerly. but
we'll, it's not to be : 90 I'm just look.
ing out for a job, and. IL nothing turns
up-well. I'm of to America or some.
where"
lie looked round at me with the smile
l remembered go well, but now without
its condescension.
And 80 you've grown up, too?" he
said. MY word, how the time has
flown Do you remember the way you
cried when I told you was going
home?"
There was a half shamed mirth in
his eyes.
I flushed hotly. That was still a sore
memory with me.
And the rude way you turned your
back and walked OFF," I retorted. "I've
never forgiven you for that"
We'll. felt pretty sick about it my
self afterward," he admitted. "I'vs
often thought about you since: you
looked such a forlorn little scrap sit
ting there in the grass by yourselfl"
II was forlorn!" agreed. II wept
all night, and in the morning got
up about 6 and went out to make quito
sure that you d really gone"
Did you:" He colored. meeting my
eyes. Il was an awful young ass in
II ate ali the chocolates" I reminded
him. And I've still got the letter you
wrote me-"
lie laughed, too.
"Well, I'll behave better this time,'
he said. "You don't know how glad
am to see you. Where are you living,
and can come and see you?"
"l'm living in Bloomsbury with my
father" told him. A little shivel
crept through me as thought Of thu
house which was now my "home."
What more was there to tell? How
could ! admit that I was just kept as Q
decoy for boys such as he?
"Oh, we'll. I'm not far off-in lodg
ings." he said chcerfully. $50 shal
expect to see a great deal Of you
What's the address,"
did not answer, and he looked at nj
in surprise.
"I'm-I'm afraid you can't come ant
see u.s." ! stammered. The fact Is
my father has been ill-very ill-and h
does not want visitors. But I'll COM
out and meet you some afternoon, IL
maX?" added.
His brow cleared.
"Oh, we'll, so long as see youp
We were nearing the corner where
had to get down.
"This is my turning" I said ner
vously, II must say good-by."
Il suppose I must not come wit
you?' he asked.
] shook my head.
, 'I'm afraid not. Fathers rather 90
we're; 1t isn't all roses living with him,
I added. trying to smile
! I'm sorry" He took my offere
hand. "When shall I see you again
J Can you have tea with me somewher
t I'm afraid not tomorrow"
4 "The next day, them?
"Pll try. I'll write to you, II you
s let me have your address,"
d He tore a leaf from a pocketbook an
b scribbled something on 1t.
''It's not really fair, as you won
0 give ME yours" he said. "But II you
O promise to write to me-
h II promise" I said.
t The bus had carried me long past tn
t turning, and I had to walk back. A