The Washington times. [volume] (Washington [D.C.]) 1902-1939, 1936-01-16

TO Gne alTeduy uEeIlCueu PA14O
He spoke to her, but she turned
her head away.
It came to her finally that he
was talking about her father. He
had had Adolphus in those wasted
days when she was away from
him. He had taken care Of him
all that last illness. He might be
going to tell her something that
she didn't know-some last word,
some last message
1T wouldn't be fair to want
him back" he was saying. HE
was an old. old man. II he had
lived he would have been an in
valid, and you wouldn't want that
for him. He would have hated it
so. It's a blessing when man
who has been active and as vital
as your father can go that way,
without a long illness, without
having to suffer helplessness {.
Come, now, you mustn't cry any
more. He wouldn't want it. Here
take my handkerchief"
She pushed it away. Buried
her poor, distorted face in the
sodden pillow. Dad, so lately
dead, and she so forgetful of him.
Not even able to keep her mind
on what Doctor Latham was say
ing. So wrapped up in her own
selfish grief. And now taking
sympathy she didn't deserve
Il know how much you meant
to each other, but really, it isn't
right for you to"
Her voice rose in muffled vail
from the pillow.
I'm not crying for him. I'm
crying for myself-Because-be-
cause of a boy!"
The late afternoon sunlight fiji
tered through the heavy white
silk curtains, illumined the girls
gold hair. the dull luster of the
silken coverlet.
Her eyes we're closed. The
thick light lashes were neavy on
her pink, family freckled cheek.
She was almost asleep. Tired.
But strangely at peace.
She had told Donald La5nam
the whole story.
She hadn't meant to tell it. She
hadn't meant to tell anyone as
long as she lived. But when he
was so sweet and sympathetic
thinking that she wept for her
father, she couldn't bear it. She
had to say something. She said
she was crying for boy. One
word led to another. She told It
all, and now that she had told it,
it had become curiously unreal.
She had cried a little in the
telling. She was so sorry for the
girl. But the girl hardly seemed
to be herself. She wept as if for
another.
And now she slept, and merci-
fully forgot.
But Donald Latham couldn't
forget. He sat on the stiff little
white velvet chair by the side of
the bed. and looked at her, pink
and defenseless in sleep.
In the soft light that penetrated
the drawn shades all the marks
of suffering and tears were
erased. She was Just tired.
sleeping child. with flushed
cheeks, parted lips, touseled
golden head.
She was Mrs. Adolphus Cooper's
niece. She was the exotic, fas-
titious Adele's stepsister. She
had Just come from an exclusive
school in the East, and this large,
luxurious, carefully decorated
room in the Cooper house was
hers.
He looked at the white lamp,
with it's delicate pleated silk
shade At the lacquered modern
furniture. At the thick pile of
the lemon colored Chinese rug.
He put his hands over his eyes,
and decided it couldn't be true.
X X
CHAPTEIS XIV
Things like that didn't happen.
Why, it was like something out Of
a book. Nobody let a girl grow up
like that-wild, and undisciplined
and innocent as a fawn in the
woods.
Nobody except old Adolphus
Cooper.
Donald saw the huge, leathery-
faced old man, passive. curiously
detached from his eager. busting
wife and the fashionably gowned