Evening Republican, Volume 14, Number 278, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 22 November 1910 — Her Heart’s Wish. [ARTICLE]

Her Heart’s Wish.

Keith Webster bent his wandering attention to hla typewriter His head throbbed. Important letters had kept him dictating all the afternoon. The swinging | door of his office opened to admit the letter carrier, who threw two letters on his desk, nodded and departed. Webster hastily opened the smaller of the letters. The handwrlUng was feminine. When he had eagerly read the dainty missive he pushed the remainder of the letters and papers toward the typewriter, saying: “Miss Johnaon, just finish that last one and then you may go home.” Glancing at his watch, he added: “I shall not return to-night." In another moment the swinging door banged after him. The office boy impatiently waited for the Typewriter, Miss Johnson, to arrange her’wavy pompadour to the best advantage and to give a defiant pull to tae bow of ribbon surmounting the wonderful structure, as she smiled at her charms reflected flatteringly in the office glass The boy said: “Guess I’ll git home some time before morning at this rate. Can’t you get a move on?” And he skillfully threw a handful of sawdust as near to her as he dared. • • • • • . • w ~ Keith Webster loved a girl whom he knew was the embodiment of all he had been taught to love and reverence in woman. Sometimes it seemed to him that her heart’s best devotion was given to the worship of art. Her studio was but a few blocks from his office. She was busily gathering up her brushes and removing her apron when he entered the room. A pleased look lighted her face as she caught sight of him, and she cried quickly: “Keith, I’m so impatient to tell you of my legacy I can’t wait till morning; that 1b why I summoned you.”

Then, anxiously looking into his face agaln r she added: “I could have waited, I suppose. I hope it was not an Interruption, Keith? I meant to have written that also.” “Interruption!” he exclaimed, impatinetly. “Dora, I want you to understant that my time is always at your disposal. Now, tell me all about your eccentric aunt. So she has left you some money and is not dead. Come, sit here and tell me all about it.” He led her to the table, where a curious bronze lamp shed a soft light upon an official looking envelope, the seal of which he recognized to be that/of Janette Pentland, Dora’s eccentric old aunt, who was living In Paris at that time. “Listen, Keith, while I read my aunt’s queer letter. “Sept 13, 1903. “Dear Niece Dora: "Here, right under the shadow of statues and monuments in the house of a sculptor, with art in the very atmosphere, and with chipped antiques in all corners of the house, lives your old aunt Janette. “And I have a lonely time of it But for the climate, I would never stay here. The French verbs are bad enough, but the battle I’ve had with cabmen have weakened my constitution. “It has occurred to mo that I can Inaugurate a new fashion In the matter of bequeathing my money, so that I can see for myself the actual benefit ensuing therefrom. Accordingly I depart from hitherto established custom, by making my bequests before my death. “I propose to place at your disposal the sum of $2,000 to be used absolutely for one of two purposes. Mark w 11 the conditions of my bequest. They must bet observed, or the money will not be obtainable. “First The money may go to-de-fray your tuition in Paris, under the best teachers. In which case, the bequest will be doubled when you have given reasonable proof that you have talent. “Second. In the event of a contemplated marriage, within a year from this date, the sum of $2,000 is to be appropriately spent in preparing for said marriage. Should you refuse both my conditions, I shall trouble you no further. Please advise me by cable, care of H. Couteaux, No. 17 Rue Ponce de Leon. "Janette Pentland.” The odd document slipped from Dora Evans' limp fingers. The girl felt the ardor burning in the eyes of the man who had loved her ever since they had been playmates. At the thought of life without his love her eyes filled, and there seemed to sound In his ears an appealing note of tenderness as she said, "My dreams have been of art, you know, Keith; all my life I have longed to be an artist.” “Yes,7 said the man, taking her hand and clasping it close. “Yes, and my dreams have been of a home, with you for its queen, my wife, ever since we were childish comrades. You surely know that, Dora. Which shall it be, dear? Is it art you love best or is it me? Which. Dora?” The girl lifted a shy, happy face, radiant with love, and whispered: "It is you, Keith.”