Evening Republican, Volume 19, Number 82, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 7 April 1915 — CHAPTER II. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

CHAPTER II.

The Path of Youth. Had Richard Courtney thought to look back to his own adolescence, he might have understood his failure. Mark, whose life, the preacher sup* posed, was to be made over by, many books and sermons on purpose, unselfishness and clean living, was in ’fact seeing a miracle of quite another sort unfold within him. Companionship, once sought, had suddenly become distasteful. He was happy only when wandering alone in the woods, idle gun on shoulder, or drifting lazily in his'canoe. After a period, during which his body shot up to its full height, wholesome toil and study busied his thoughts and Richard Courtney began to nurture vain hopes, occurred an event of no small importance to many young gentlemen of Bethel. Unity Martin, proud possessor of a diploma declaring to those who cared to peruse that she had mastered certain arts, came home to exhibit in all its perfection the product of education. He was returning late from an afternoon’s hunt in the woods behind the Martin farm, when he unexpectedly came upon her one autumn day. She was standing on a little knob, gazing absently into the fading sky. His ever-ready imagination was touched. In the dusk, the pale glow of the dying day upon her, her pensiveness and apparent frailty gave her a seeming of soulfulness that abashed him, moved him strangely. He thought he beheld one far finer and purer than any of the clayey creatures his life had touched. She saw him and smiled faintly. That smile put him in an agony of confusion and awkwardness. Because he did not know how to depart, he. found himself walking home with her,, and when she praised the pheasants slung over his shoulder, on a sudden glad impulse he gave to her and she quite naturally accepted the trophy of his hunt. This was a prophecy, but he was no seer. It was long before he lost that Impression of her, the frail spirit-like girl of the dusk, even though riper acquaintance might have taught him that she was indeed a dweller upon the earth. He whispered her name to himself, thinking it finest poetry. His desire to “do something” became a burning impatience to do large and splendid deeds that would prove his mettle. He was, in a word, a boy who thought himself in love. L , , Came a night, a still winter’s night when moonlight gleamed on the snow and the chimes of sleighbells added to the enchantment, when he kissed her, with a sense of sacrilege—and she did not resist. No wonder, then, Richard Courtney preached purpose in vain! His pupil’s horizon was filled with a purpose not his own. Even the preacher’s incomprehensible outburst was forgotten, as the boy went to his tryst that Sabbath afternoon. * For a mile he drove carefully and then, letting out the mare, with a flourish of speed drew up before the house of Squire Martin. It was the most pretentious in the valley. Soon Unity appeared, fresh and dainty in her white dress and pink hat, followed by her sister Susan bearing a heavy pasteboard box. While Mark awkwardly helped his lady into the buggy, Susan slipped the box under the seat Mark got In and the brown mare, needing no command, started away. "I put up some lunch," Susan called after them. “Don’t forget to eat it!" “And so," breathed Unity, "you’re really going away—at last! How did you happen to decide to go just now?" "I don’t know. It just came to me the other day that I couldn’t stay here any longer. Somehow, ever since we began to talk of the city, this place has seemed so small and shut in—until this morning." "Until this morning?" in some ■la rm “Then it deemed kind o’ cosy and—and protected. I hate to leave it I hate to leave you, Unity." "And I’ll hate to have you go. But of course, you must And then, before very long, you’ll come back—and take me away with yon." For a while in silence they gave this prospect the consideration ft deserved. Then:

"Oh, Unity, how am yse tors see •or She was able to answer him on this ‘ point in a way to satisfy him and yst ; leave him humbly grateful tor Ms vast good fortune. The shadows were quite long when they espied a great flat rock hi. a clearing a little way from the road. And there, in a delicious intimacy that > they solemnly asserted was but a foretaste, they remembered to eat the lunch put up by the thoughtful Susan. Afterward they spent a rapturous hour watching the sun glide down to meet the hills. < She broke a, long silence to say, dreamily, "You’re going to be very rich, aren’t you?" He laughed. "Maybq. It isn’t al- j ways so easy to get rich, you know." "But everybody says you will.” "Everybody—in Bethel— may not know." Then he added firmly, "But I will—for yom And then—” He got down from the rock and lifted his arms to her. She stood uncertain, looking down at him. The glow of the sunset was still upon her; in her eyes was another glow, from within, for him. She measured the distance to the ground—it was almost her own height —then, with a gasp for her daring, she sprang into his arms. He caught her and held her, kissing her again and again, thirstily. She began to respond;' her arms tightened around his neck; she clung very close. She cried tremulously, "Oh, Mark, you won’t forget me—out there. I— l couldn’t bear —that" "I will not forget." A last bright shaft reflected from the crimson west flooded their little clearing, fell upon her. And that was the picture of her he carried “out there”—Unity in the sunset glow, eyes and cheeks aflame with love, desiring him only and not that he would? win. • •••••• “Little late, ain’t yer Simon greeted Mark. But there was no reproof in the words, and no question; he as* sumed no right to pry into his son’s affairs. "I’ve been taking a drive," Mark answered. Simon rose and went into the pentry. He returned, carrying a pitcher of milk and a plate piled high with buttered bread. "I kept this ready fur ye. Thought ye might be hungry." Mark was not hungry, but he ate with a show of great relish. Some Instinct told him not to decline this little service. “Guess ye’re purty glad to git away from here?” In the morning Mark would have answered with an unqualified "Yes.” Now he said, "I am—and I’m not" He drew a long'breath that was al* most a sigh. “It’s like going in swimming in April.” “Ye’re right to go," Simon said. Tt wouldn’t want ye to stay. There ain’t any prospect fur a young man round here." He rose, and going to the cupboard, fumbled among the dishes. Wheif ha returned, he laid before Mark a worn

pocketbook of leather. Mark opened it and glanced at its contents. He looked up questionlngly. "Why, there must be ’most a thousand dollars!” ' ■ ’“■j "Jest that. I’ve been savin' it fuf ye." Impulsively Mark pushed it back toward Simon. "But I can’t take it. It won’t leave you anything, and I don’t need it I’ve got more’n five hundred of my own." *Td rather ye’d take it.” Simon insisted heavily. "It’ll come in handy. If ye don’t need it, ye can find a safe place fur it An’ ye can pay it back,' if ye ever git rich. I," he repeated,. “I’ve be*n savin’ it fur ye. I knowed ye’d go away some day an’ I wanted ye to take somethin* —frum me.” Mark’s hand went slowly to the pocketbook. "All right, father." The words fell awkwardly. "I’ll JW i* back some day. And—thank you." • "Ye’re quite welcome," answers* Simon with quaiqt formality. (TO be coNOTrtnnx)

"If You Ever Got Rich—Come Back Here and Build a Steel Plant."