The midland journal. (Rising Sun, Md.) 1885-1947, 1925-02-20

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tie as she stood up now. There surged
over her great wave of longing for
her father--for the theater. treats, for
his humorous philosophical drawl,
for the Chicago streets, and the ugly
Chicago houses; for Julie; for Miss
listers school; for anything and any
one that was accustomed. known, and
therefore dear. She had a horrible
premoniti0n that she was going to
cry, began to blink very fast, turned
a little blindly in the dim light and
caught sight of the rooms third ar
resting object. A blue-black cylinder
of tin sheeting, like stove and yet
unlike. It was polished like the,
length Of pipe in the sitting-room be-
low. Indeed, it was evidently giant
flower Of this stem.
Whats that?" demanded Selma,
pointing.
Maartje Pool, depositing the lamp
on the little wash-stand preparatory
to leaving. smiled pridefully. Drum"
Drum"
"For heat your ROOM Selma
touched it. 1t was Icy. when there
is fire." Mrs. Pool added, hastily.
Selma was to learn that its heating
powers were mythical. Even when
the stove in the sitting room was
blazing away with a cheerful roar none
of the glow communicated itself to
the drum. 1t remained as coolly In
different to the blasts breathed upon
it as girl notly besieged by an I'M
welcome lover.
vMaartje!" roared a voice from
belowstairs. The voice of the hungry
male. There was waited ups too. a
faint smell of scorching. Then came
sounds Of a humping and humping
along the narrow stairway.
"Og hedenv" cried Maartje, in
1anic, her hands high in air. She
was off.
Left alone in her room Selma un-
locked her trunk and took from it two
photographs--one of mild-loOking
man with his hat little on one side,
the other Of woman who might have
been twenty-five-year-old Selma,
minus the courageous jaw-line. Look
ing about for fitting place on which
to stand these leather-framed treas
ures she considered the top of the chill
drum, humorously, then actually placed
them there, for lack of a better refuge,
from which vantage point they regard
ed her with politely interested eyes.
Perhaps they would put up shelf for
her. That would serve for her little
stock Of books and for the pictures as
well. She was enjoying that little
flush of exhilaration that comes to
woman, unpacking. She took out her
neat pile of warm wooden underwear,
her stout shoes. She shook out the
crushed folds Of the wine-colored cash
mere. Now, If ever. she should have
regretted its purchase. But she didn't.
No one, she reflected, as she spread 1t
rosily on the bed, possessing wine-col-
ored cashmere could be altogether
downcast.
From below stairs came the hiss of
frying. Selma washed IN the chill wa
ter Of the basin, took down her hair
and coiled 1t again before the swimmy
little mirror over the wash-stand. She
adjusted the stitched white bands of
the severe collar and patted the cuffs
of the brown lady's-cloth. The tight
basque was fastened with buttons from
throat to waist. Her fine long head
rose above this trying base with such
grace and dignity as to render the stiff
garment beautiful. It was a day of
appalling bunchiness and equally ap-
palllng tightness in dress; of panniers,
galloOns, plastrOns, revers, bustles,
all manner of lumpy bedevilment. That
Selma could appear in this disfguring
garment creature still graceful, slim.
and plant was a sheer triumph of
spirit over matter.
She blew out the light now and de-
,scended the steep wooden stairway to
the unlighted parlor. The door be-
tween parlor and kitchen was closed.
Selma shifted sensitively. There was
pork for supper. She was to learn that
there was always pork for supper :
She hesitated moment there in the
darkness. Then she opened the kitch-
en- door. There swan out at her haze
of smoke, from which emerged round
blue eyes, cultural talk, the smell of
frying grease of stable. of loan, and
of wooden wash freshly brought in from
the line With an thrush of cold air
that sent the blue haze into swirls the
outer kitchen door opened. A boy.
his arm piled high with stove-wood,
entered; dark, handsome sullen boy
who stared at Selma over the armload
of wood. Selma stared back at him.
There sprang to life between the boy
of twelve and the woman of nineteen
an electric current of feeling.
"Roelf," thought Selma; and even
took step toward him, inexplicably
drawn.
Hurry then with that wood there"
fretted Maartje at the stove. The boy
flung the armful into the box, brushed