The Hardin tribune-herald. [volume] (Hardin, Mont.) 1925-1973, 1937-07-23

say to her when he was dy1ng? was
that why she couldn't 60 into Germany
of that awful night when she'd es-
capped prison in Russia?
Never once in the hours that fol:
lowed, while her own old friends n
Craigie's younger ones crowded d
house, could she come down to earth
Of her own honesty. She didn't Y
to lie fatty, for the questions came too
fast to force her into corners, but b
felt like the ball of q pelota game,
Sometimes, catching Craigie's implor.
ing glanceS as she faltered, b 1elt
sorry for the girl, but her anger grew
that her daughter should have thought
it necessary to lie about her: More than
once she fluan lung, at IT. the u giTl q 10 LOO don oe
enough for Craigie by providing her
with this security? Wasn't it infinitely
better that she was marrying q LAD ike
Rodney than chasing around Europe,
digging up third-clasS tales? Perhaps,
though, she conceded with her old hu-
NOR, Craigie might have done better
After all, the child had Bart's mag
nation, and, lacking other use Tor 1t,
had draped her fancy around an absent
parent. But what q tangling web she'd
woven! For. the rest of her life, Nan
supposed, she'd be trying to avoid the
snares of these fantastic stories.
For the rest of her life
Not until she came within the shelter
of her W old room that night did
she realize how she had been repeat
ing to herself that phrase. In the haven
of its faded chintz she faced under
standing of her own deep desire. More
than she had wanted anything else
in the world since Bartis death, she
longed to stay here. The chanceries
market on Saturday mornings. Pleas
ures and palaces? Shed rather have
the strawberry festival at Bethany
church. Thrills and excitements? Shed
take a yawl on the bay. Even If she
might have all that Craigie had painted
as her background, the parties at the
palaces whose names she hardly knew,
whole world knew quite as well as did
she, she'd still choose this old town,
this old house, this old way OF life.
Even while her long repressed home
sickness swept over her consciousness
she realized that she'd have to stem
its tide. With the clarity of practical
knowledge, she saw the situation into
money which she earned with the hard
ships Craigie ignored, was certainly
the only income for her father OF
daughter. Craigie was leaving h need
of it, but her father was too old, too
set in his ways to be transplanted. He'd
have to stay on in this house where
he'd been born. It would be cruel to
Rod and Craigie; but how could he
stay in it without the money she earned
for him? And how could she a r the
money without holding the one job
she'd ever had? "Heigh-ho!" she sighed,
and made up her mind to have it out
with Craigie. Not for ANOTHER day would
she endure this humiliation OF pre-.
tense. What of some should put
it in a Baltimore paper? How'd she
ever again face the men Of the Paris
office? If there was n thing she'd
learned, 1t was respect for honest work.
If she couldn't give Craigie any other
heritage, she'd give her that for q we'd
ding gift.
rose to her. The bridesmaids and Rod
ney were going. She heard their gay
shouts as they went out into the Mary
land night. The door closed, and she
thought Craigie would be coming; but
Craigie did not come, and, after a
while, wondering if she'd gone out with
the others, Nan went back down the
stairs.
There was no light in the parlor ex-
cept the glow from the dying fire. For
a moment she stood, looking into it,
then, at a sound behind her, whirled
to see Craigie, curled upon the couch,
crying. What Is it?" she pleaded, her
grievance forgotten in swift solicitude.
Darling, what's happened?"
Nothing" With Mans arms around
her she shook in sobbing misery.
Tell me-"
II can't. Oh, mother, I'm so sorry!"'
For what?" She kissed the back Of
Craigie's neck as she had done when