Evening Republican, Volume 19, Number 178, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 29 July 1915 — THE INWARD VOICE [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

THE INWARD VOICE

By DOROTHY ALLEN.

Rev. Aloysiuu Brown was very busy as he stooped over his asters. They hail come up splendidly from seed, and he was wondering whether it was time to transplant them when he heard girls’ voices upon the porch of his house. “What a pity the new curate Isn’t in!” said one of them. Miss Margery Bowen, the daughter of the wealthiest of his parishioners. “I did so want to get him on the new committee this morning.’’ “And I wanted to see him too,” said the other Vpice. Reverend Aloyhius was so struck by the Quality of the tone that he peeped round the edge of the house, which was uncurately, but perhaps pardonable in a young man of five and twenty. And when he had looked the curate did not repent in the least, for he saw the prettiest girl who had ever come within the range of his vision. “Why, I thought you just came with me, Maud!” exclaimed Miss Bowen. “Listen, dear,” said the second girl, in whom the curate now recognized Miss Maud Anderson, the beauty of the village. “Mr. Friend, the rector, was telling mamma the other day that Mr. Brown is a very impressionable young man. And so lam determined to impress him. I haven’t had a proposal this year, Margery.” “O, Maud!” exclaimed the other in awe. “You are never going to practice on the new curate? Leave the poor man alone!” “It will do him good, Margery,” answered Miss Anderson. “And I am working on a pair of slippers for him now, so you can see that my mind is fully made up.” Reverend Aloysius, overcome with shame, retreated hastily to the safe shelter of the tool house, from which he watched the girls depart down the street. To be forewarned is to be forearmed, and the curate resolved to anticipate Miss Anderson’s intentions. Accordingly he set to work to countermine the enemy’s approaches. The popularity of the new curate was soon assured. All the girls of Freeport vied with each other for his company, hut it was soon obvious that Miss Anderson and the curate were devoted to one another. In fact, had the curate not been so obviously sim-

pie-minded, the situation would have become scandalous. They were seen walking together, and once the curate -drove Miss Anderson to the church committee meeting. Reverend Aloysius, always on his guard, felt, nevertheless, that if he had not been warned so providentially he would have fallen a victim. Miss Andersbn was a girl of character and mind, as well as of beauty. Finally, he ‘began to realize that he had almost fallen into the trap which had been laid for him. It was a warm July afternoon when the two sat,side by side outside Mrs. Anderson’s house. A humming bird was flitting among the flowers, there was a sense of mellow peacefulness in the air; everything Beemed to indicate that the crucial moment had arrived. Miss Anderson's little hand lay invitingly upon her lap. The curate took it. “Don’t you wear rings, Miss Anderson?” he inquired, smiling. “Not on that finger, Mr. Browfl,” answered the girl, blushing with confusion as she realized that he was holding the engagement ring finger. Reverend Aloysius slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out a diamond solitaire. The girl looked at it and her eyes sparkled. “I bought this,” said the curate, “for the girl I hope to marry. I haven’t told her yet. Do you consider that a rash speculation, Miss Anderson?” “Indeed, you know the proverb, ‘None but the brave deserves the fair,’" replied the girl. “I am going to risk telling her the next time I have a chance,” said the curate. ‘1 value your confidence, Mbs Anderson, more than I can Bay. I don't believe I should have' mustered up courage to speak to her if you hadn’t encouraged me. I hope you two will be the best of friends." And, raising his hat, he went away, leaving Mias Anderson gasping with

humiliation and mortification upon th* stoop. The girl could not conceal her agltar tion. Sfye ran into the house, and, flinging herself on her bed, gave way to angry tears. She would never speak to the curate again! She would leave the village! She had been deliberately mocked, her love scorned. The girl had quite forgotten her light raillery with her friend upon that occasion.’ She* had come to feel a deep regard for the young curate. In the room which he occupied in the rector’s house Rev. Aloysius Brown flung himself down heavily into his chair. Somehow revenge did not taste as sweet as he had imagined it would, And then, he was conscious that he had acted in an unchristian manner. “Go to her and ask her pardon,” said the curate’s conscience. “But I shall make myself a laughingstock,” urged the curate. “All the better. It is your duty to make atonement. She knew it was done deliberately and that you weren’t so simple as you pretended to be,” said conscience. “Go to the Bahamas,” answered the curate. “Thanks, but I prefer to remain with you," rejoined the curate’s conscience. Quietly the curate rose up and went back to Mrs. Anderson’s house. It had grown dark, and he had had no supper, but that imperative voice within him would not be restrained. Reverend Aloysius’ mind worked quickly, and by the time he had reached the house he had already reviewed what he was going to say and found it satisfactory. He was going to tell Miss Anderson the whole miserable story from the da,y when he overheard her remarks to Miss Bowen. He would tell her how he had planned the whole thing, and he did not mean to spare himself. Then he would ask her whether she preferred to let forgiveness enshroud the matter in silence or whether she wished him to leave the village. Somebody was seated alone upon the stoop'. The curate stopped in indecision, and raised his hat. “Well?” came a muffled voice, and the curate sat down beside Miss Anderson. “Miss Anderson,” he began, “I have come back to tell you something, to make a confession. I—er —I bought the ring for you and I want to ask you to marry me.” The curate stopped in consternation. Was that his voice? He had not intended to say that at all. But suddenly he found that Miss Anderson was in his arms, and their lips were pressed together. And, still more amazed, the curate listened to a malicious, chuckling voice deep in his breast. It was the voice of his conscience. (Copyright, 1915, by W. G. Chapman.)

Watched the Girls Depart Down the Street.