Evening Republican, Volume 17, Number 189, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 9 August 1913 — HIS UNCLE BILLY [ARTICLE]

HIS UNCLE BILLY

How He Smoothed Things Out for Little Dan Cupid. By NELLIE C. GILLMORE. The old man paused, out of*breath, at the end of his laborious climb up the steep flight of concrete steps that marked the Intersection of Ninth avenue. He fumbled in his pocket and drew forth a battered little red notebook, turning the worn pages with tremulous Angers. Here it was: 1735 E. ra Ninth, between Oak and Elm streets. The house on the corner bore the number 1736 in large gilt letters and the one next dbor, the big graystone building overrun with thick, velvety ivy—that must be the place he was looking for. His heart, misgave him as he timidly took inventory of the handsome edifice, the imposing grounds and general air of grandeur that undoubtedly bespoke wealth and culture and importance. He almost wished he hadn't come and was of half a mind to turn round and go straight back to the station. After all, it was foolish—even a ridiculous—thing to do; this coming to New York to see and talk to the girl !Dick wanted to marry. In all probability he would only be turned from the door —such a door—and what was worse, if the boy ever heard of it, succeed in incurring his everlasting displeasure.

What if Dick found out that he had purloined one of his letters and read the address of "Miss Barbara Shepard,” delicately penned in the upper right-hand corner?” He hadn’t been mean enough to go further —he wouldn’t have done a thing like that—but he had gleaned enough from the intimate conversation he and his nephew had held together to form his own conclusions. And they amounted to just one thing: Barbara Shepard was rich, Dick poor; they loved each other devotedly, but the boy’s pride stood like a brick wall between them, and until he could batter down that wall, he would not ask her to share his life. And, mused Uncle Billy, forlornly, perhaps he was the real handicap. Alone, Dick might have faced the world, wrestled with it, thrown it — and come forth victor. But with an old man to block his path! The swish of skirts cut in abruptly on Uncle Billy’s reflections. He glanced eagerly into the fresh young face of the owner. The girl paused and smiled pleasantly; she was very young and very pretty and exceedingly winsome, and the old man found hts tongue without any trouble under the melting sunshine of her smile. “Excuse me, miss, but could you tell me if a family by the name of Shepard lives in that big house yonder?” “Why yes, certainly. Were you looking for some one?” Maneuvering was strange to Uncle Billy and he replied directly: “I wanted to see Miss Barbara Shepard, and talk to her. You see, it —it’s about a very important fitter and I’ve come all the way from Brooklawn—about It” Brooklawn! The girl drew a little Quick breath and answered quickly “I know Barbara quite well, but—but she’s not at home this morning, though I expect her in within an hour.” A disappointed look swept over the old man’s face. The train back to Brooklawn would leave that city at two and despite the fact that only a little while ago he had made up his mind to return without seeing the girl, the thought that he couldn’t see her troubled him. But the other had begun to speak again, and he noticed that her was soft and clear and very gentle.

“Won’t you come with me and sit there on one of the lawn-benches and wait for Barbara?" she asked. “If you’re a friend of hers, I’m sure she’d never forgive me for letting you go away.” Uncle Billy gave a little appreciative cackle. “Well,” he drawled, “I don’t know as that’s exactly the word to usp, since I’ve never seen Miss Shepard in my life.” “Ah!” The girl has commenced to walk on toward the lawn with the old man keeping pace beside her. They came to a twisted-oak seat under a great, spreading tree and sat down. “I’m rather curious,” she admitted laughingly, “to see, Bobby-vher best friends call her that sometimes —and I are close chums and there isn’t much —she —hasn’t told me. Perhaps if you told me your name?” she paused with a little tentative uplifting of her brows. “William Barker. I live, as Psaid, at Broodlawn —with my nephew, Ricbard Fielding. Perhaps you know Dick too?” The girl nodded thoughtfully. “I guess you mean Barbara’s sweetheart, don’t you?” "Precisely. I’m feeling a bit worried about the boy—and' that’s why I’m here. I want to talk-with her; I want to find out what’s at the bottom of Dick’s—well, his pale face and silent ways. I was young myself once—-and I can come pretty near to guessing at the bottom of some things." The young girl had turned and was gazing intently into ttye rugged old face beside her; she saw that the faded blue eyes were dim with holdback tears. "Oh, but I’m sure that Bobby loves him,” she said quickly. ‘I know it You—couldn’t be mistaken?” Uncle Billy shook his head back and forth. “Maybe you’ll think I’m a foolish old man to be telling yoh, a perfect stranger, all about. my troubles on first acquaintance, eh?” “Not at all, Mr. Barker. I’ve heard sf you so often—through Dick and Ber-

b&ra —that it aoesd't seem as if we're strangers at all. And —” she hesitated, threw him' a swift scrutiny, then proceeded, “it may be that 1 can help you out a little.” The old man was silent, thinking intently. “Maybe you can; ” he exclaimed suddenly, “and then —I wouldn’t have to bother her at all.” The girl bent forward abruptly and broke a spray of clematis from a nearby trellis. She buried her norSe in the blossoms for a moment, keeping her eyes steadily down. Presently she said: “1 don’t mind telling you Mr. Barker, that Barbara, too, has seemed to me a good deal troubled about something of late. And—why, ,1 might just as well tell you the truth at once; they’re crazy about each other, her parents admire young Fielding immensely and are perfectly willing for her to marry him. But Dick is obstinate; he refused to allow her to do it until, in his own words, he ’makes good.’ ” The anxious expression on Uncle Billy’s face all at once gave place to one of satisfaction. “If that is all, then I knew it already. But I was afraid there might be something deeper. I was thinking perhaps she’d said something—done something—maybe hurt the boy’s feeling in some way. I—l even went so far as to wonder if—if it might be —me.” A tender little smile played about the girl’s lips. “You should hear your nephew talk about you, Mr. Barker—and you should know too, how Barbara has already taken ‘Uncle Billy’ into her heart.” The old man mopped his eyeß. "I’m mighty glad to hear you say so, miss. Now I’m going to tell you something queer. You’ve been so good as to take me into your confidence. I’m not Dick’s real uncle at alk Once when be was a very little boy, oh, ten or eleven, I guess, I was knocked down in the street by a big express wagon and injured about the head. Dick and his father were close by and Mr. Fielding, giving in to the boy’s persuasions, had me carried to his own home instead of to the village jail. That was the only place in Brooklawn; they didn't have any hospital then. After a few weeks I got on my feet but it was months before I could work. Dick and I had grown to be great friends and Mr. Fielding kept me on at the place as his overseer. A few years later he died, then, his wife—and there was just Dick and me left. We’ve been together ever since. It would break my heart to go out of that boy’s life, but if I thought I was hindering him in the world—”

"Indeed, you mustn’t say such things. I—l’m convinced it isn’t that, but just a silly, false pride that’s got possession of your nephew.” "I guess it’s silly all right. But — but I just can’t help admiring Dick for sort of feeling that way. And, if the truth was known, I bet Miss Barbara thinks a lot more of him for it!” The girl flushed softly at some sudden recollection, “I’m certain of it, too, Mr. Barker; it only goes to show what —what Dick Fielding is made of. But she’s only human, you know, and she isn’t willing for him to go to breaking her heart forever!” The old man rose suddenly to his feet. The girl glanced up, bewildered at the swift change of expression that had come over his mild little face with the faded eyes and withered cheeks. The former were suddenly aflash with purpose and the latter streaked with dark red. “And he shan’t either!" he cried. “I’m going home and tell him something tonight that will make a whole lot of difference. I’ll tell it to you now, though you must promise to let him be first to his sweetheart with the news. A week ago, a distant cousin of mine died out in Colorado and left me a fortune of a half a million dollars. It’s all going to Dick —the little boy with the great big heart. I only wanted to find out the truth about the girl, that’s all. I wanted to know if she’d been fair. I —l love him too much to give him up to —to somebody that’ll —care less—can’t you see?” The trembling old voice trailed almost to a whisper. The young girl had risen too and was standing beside him. She laid an affectionate row of soft fingertips on his rusty coat sleeve; the eyes she lifted to his were brimming with the tenderness of unshed tears. “You—won’t have to give him up. Uncle Billy,” she revealed herself in a little joyous undertone, "sor —it wouldn’t be a home at all —without — you.” f (Copyright, 1913, by the McClure Newspaper Syndicate.) .