The midland journal. (Rising Sun, Md.) 1885-1947, 1931-02-06

four long years they had lived in that
Chicago hotel. She didn't know that
she regretted them now. That made
pretty hard sort Of problem to work
out. Most people, certainly, would
say it was a horrible way for child
to be brought up.
The hotel itself was all right, one Of
the less pretentious ones Of the new
residential type. Their two rooms up
on the tenth floor, furnished in imita-
ton black walnut and taupe uphol-
stery, especially perhaps the floor
lamp with its heavy silk shade, had
carried out the idea that they'd come
to live in a palace. The kitchenette,
with its electric stove, had seemed a
marvellous toy to her; and their white
tile bathroom, with it's modern plumb
ing and it's never failing abundance Of
hot water, had been luxury.
She'd taken 1t for granted, during
those first few days while breathless
she explored the wonders of the hotel,
that the wealth her father had limited
wasn't until he expressed concern over
her loneliness-it was beginning to
strike in a little-that she asked him
why, now that he was rich, he had to
work so hard and couldn't take little
time off to play with her.
He'd smiled and told her he was not
rich yet, not rich at all, but that he
thought 1t wasn't going to be long, not
more than few months at most, be-
fore he was. AS soon as that hap
pened he'd stop work and they'd go
roaming the world together. Meanwhile
she was to be patient and get along
as best she could.
How many times during the next
four years had they had that same
talk, without essential variation?
Dozens-scores Toward the end, the
note Of it had got sharper, more like
a cry of desperation, until her one
care, with him, had come to be to
avoid everything that could remind
him Of the life she led during the long
days from the time he left her at
the breakfast table until he came back
sometimes long after dinner at night.
She didn't wonder now, looking back
upon it, that as the months stretched
into years the thought Of the little
girl left unoccupied and uncared for
should have driven him frantic. And
yet, somehow, it hadn't been horrible
at all.
If she'd been timid child, Of course
1t would have been dreadful. Or II
people hadn't naturally liked her and
father had been the sort who asked
nagging questions and told her she
must never do that again. Shed be-
gun doing things from the first day
he'd left her there in the hotel that
he probably wouldn't have approved
If he'd known about. Most of the
things she'd done had been sensible
enough, she thought-and where she
hadn't been sensible she must have
been lucky, for she'd never got into
any serious trouble.
One thing that went long way
toward making her situation tolerable
during those four years was the fact
that she'd always had as much money
as she needed. From somewhere her
father had had perfectly adequate
and regular supply. From her four
teenth birthday on, she'd known ex
actly how much 1t was: a hundred
dollars week. At that time he'd
begun handing it all over to her except
what his small personal wants re-
quired. and had given her the job Of
keeping their accounts and paying
their hotel bills. It had always been
in cash-five yellow-backed twenties.
There'd never been any sign Of a
change for better or for worse in their
circumstances.
She never knew where the money
came from. Once she asked him out
right, and he had so pointedly ig-
nored the question that she never
asked it again. She was afraid she'd
guessed.
She was afraid 1t was her Uncle
Willamette ogre. Her whole ca
pacity for fear was concentrated,
focused upon, that one point She be-
lieved that it was he from whom she
and her father had fled, thereby frus-
trating his intention to take her away.
(To BE CoNTINUED)