Evening Republican, Volume 19, Number 179, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 30 July 1915 — HISLOVE STORY [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

HISLOVE STORY

by MARIE VAN VORST

ILLU STRATIQFO AY^WALTERS COPYKfC/iT or 7W 00085 MSfifilUJ. QOtf/WY

SYNOPSIS. Le Comte de Sabron, captain of French cavalry, takes to his quarters to raise hr hand a motherless Irish terrier pup, and names It Pitchoune. He dines with the Marquise d’Esclignac and meets Miss Julia Redmond, American heiress, who sings for him an English ballad that Ungers in his memory. Trying to save Pitchoune’s life, he declines a second invitation to dinner because of'a "very sick friend.” No more Invitations come from the Chateau d’Escllgnac. Pitchoune, though lame from his accident, thrives and Is devoted to his master. Sabron and Pltohoune meet the Marquise and Miss Redmond and after the story of Pitchoune 1s told Sabron is forgiven and Invited to dinner again. Sabron is ordered to Algiers.

CHAPTER Vl—Continued. Pitch crane, whose eyes had followed the cat out of Bight, sprang upon his master and seemed quite ready for the new departure. ‘1 shall at least have you,” Sabron said. "It will be your first campaign. We whn.il have some famous runs and I shall introduce you to a camel and make you acquainted with several donkeys, not to speak of the historic Arab steeds. You will see, my friend, that there are other animals besides yourself in creation.” “ A telegram for mon capitaine.” Brunet came in with the blue envelope which Sabron tore open. You will take with you neither horses nor dogs. It was an order from the minister of war, just such a one as was sent to some half-dozen other young officers, all of whom, no doubt, felt more or less discomfited. Sabron twisted the telegram, put it In the fireplace and lighted his cigarette with it, watching Pitchoune who, finding himself a comfortable corner in the armchair, had settled down for a nap. “So,” nodded the young man aloud, “I shall not even have Pitchoune.” He smoked, musing. In the rigid discipline of his soldier’s life he was used to obedience. His softened eyes, however, and his nervous fingers as they pulled at his mustache, showed that the command had touched him. “What shall I do with you, old fellow?” Although Sabron’s voice was low, the dog, whose head was down upon his paws, turned his bright brown eyes on his master with so much confidence and affection that it completed the work. Sabron walked across the floor, smoking, the spurs on his heels clanking, the light shining on his brilliant boots and on his uniform. He was a splendid-looking man with race and breeding, and he combined with his masculine force the gentleness of a woman. “They want me to be lonely,” he thought. "All that the chiefs consider is the soldier —not the man — even the companionship of my dog is denied me. What do they think I am going to do out there in the long eastern evenings?” He reflected. “What does the world expect an uncompanioned wanderer to do?” There are many things and the less thought about them, the better. “A letter for Monsieur le Capitaine.” Brunet returned with a note which he presented stiffly, and Pitchoune, who chose in hiß little brain to imagine Brunet an intruder, sprang from the chair like lightning, rushed at the servant, Beized the leg of his pantaloons and began to worry them, growling, Brunet regarding him with adoration. Sabron had not thought aloud the last words of the telegram, which he had used to light his cigarette. . . . Nor will It be necessary to take a personal servant. The indigenes a*e capable ordonnances. As he took the letter from Bruaet’B salver he said curtly: “I am ordered to Algiers and S shall not take iu ses nor Pitchoune.'’ The dog, at mention of his name, set Brunet's leg free and stood quiet, his head lifted. “Nor you either, mon brave Brunet.” Sabron put his hand on his servant’s shoulder, the first familiarity he had ever shown a man who served him with devotion, and who would have given his life to save his master’s. “Those,” said the officer curtly, “are the orders from headquarters, and the least said about them the better.” The ruddy cheek of the servant turned pale. He mechanically touched his forehead. “Bien, mon Capitaine,” he murmured, with a little catch In his voice. He stood at attention, then wheeled and without being dismissed, stalked out of the room. Pitchoune did not follow. He remained Immovable like a little dog cut from bronze; he understood —who ■hail say—how much of the converse*tion? Sabron threw away his cigar rette, then read his letter by the mantiepiece, leaning his arm upon it. He read slowly. He had broken the sdal •lowly. It was. the ,first letter he had ever seen in this handwriting. It was written in French and ran thus: Monsieur— My aunt wishes ms to ask you if you win come to us for s little musicale tomorrow afternoon. We hope you Will bs free, and I hope, she added, that you will bring Pitchoune Not that I ...... ■

I think he will care for the music, but afterward perhaps he will run with us as we walk to the gate. My aunt wishes me to say that she has learned from the colonel that you have been ordered to Algiers. In this way she says that we shall have an opportunity of wishing you bon voyage, and I say I hope Pitchoune will be a comfort to you. The letter ended 1b the usual formal French fashion. Sabron, turning the letter and rereading it, found that it completed the work that had been going on in his lonely heart. He stood long, musing. Pitchoune laid himself down on the rug, his bright little head between his paws, his affectionate eyes on his master. The firelight shone on them both, the musing young officer and the almost human-hearted little beast. So Brunet found them when he came In with the lamp shortly, and as he set It down on the table and its light shone on him, Sabron, glancing at the ordonnance, saw that his eyes were red, and liked him none the less for it. CHAPTER VII. * A Soldier’s Dog. “It Is Just as I thought,” he told Pitchoune. "I took you into my life, you little rascal, against my will, and now, although it's not your fault, you are making me regret it I shall end, Pitchoune, by being a cynic and misogynist, and learn to make idols of my career and my troops alone. Aftqr all, they may be tiresome, but they don’t hurt as you do, and some other things as well.” Pitchoune, being invited to the musicale at the Chateau d’Esclignac, went along with his master, running behind the captain’s horse. It was a heavenly January day, soft and mild, full of sunlight and delicious odors, and over the towers of King Rene’s castle the sky banners were made of celestial blue. The officer found the house full of people. He thought It hard that he might not have had one more intimate picture to add to his collection. When he entered the room a young man was playing a violoncello. There was a group at the piano, and among the people the only ones he clearly saw were the hostess, Madame d’Esclignac in a gorgeous velvet frock, then Miss Redmond, who stood by the window, listening to the music. She saw him come in and smiled to him, and from that moment his eyes hardly left her. What the music was that aftefnoon the Count de Sabron could not have

told very Intelligently. Much of it was sweet, all of It was touching, but when Miss Redmond stood to sing and chose the little song of which he had made a lullaby, and sang It divinely, Sabron, his hands clasped behind his back and his head a little bent, still looking at her, thought that his heart would break. It was horrible to go away and not tell her. It was cowardly to feel so much and not be able to speak it. And he felt that he might be equal to some wild deed, such as crossing the room violently, putting his hand over her slender one and saying: “I am a soldier; I have nothing but a soldier’s life. I am going to Africa tomorrow. Come with me; I want you. come!” All of which, slightly impossible and quite ont of the question, nevertheless charmed and soothed him. The words of her English song, almost barbaric to him because incomprehensible, fell on his ears. Its melody was already part of him. “Monsieur de Sabron,” said Madame d’Esclignac, “you are going away tomorrow?” “Yes, Madame.” '1 expect you will be engaged in some awful native skirmishes. Perhaps you will even be able to send back a tigef skin.” “There arc no tigers in that part of Africa, Madame." The young soldier’s dark eras rest-

mi almost hostllely mm the gorgtous marquise in her red gown. He felt that she was glad to have him go. He wanted to say: “I shall come hack, however; I shall come back and when I return” . . . but he knew that such a boast, or even such a hope was fruitless. His colonel bad told him only the day before that Miss Redmond was one of the richest American heiresses, and there waa a question of a duke or a prince and heaven only knew what in the way of titles. As the marquise moved away her progress was something like the rolling of an elegant velvet chair, and while his feelings were still disturbed Miss Redmond crossed the room to him. Before Sabron quite knew how they had been able to escape the others or leave the room, he was standing with her in the winter garden where the sunlight came in through trellises and the perfume of the warmed plants was heavy and sweet. Before them flowed the Rhone, golden in the winter’s light. The blue river swept its waves around old Tarascon and the battlements of King Rene’s towers. “You are going to Algiers tomorrow. Monsieur de Sabron?” Miss Redmond smiled, and.how was Sabron to realize that she could not very well have wept there and then, had she wished to do so? “Yes,” he said. “I adore my regiment. I love my work. I have always wanted to see colonial service.” “Have you? It is delightful to find one’s ambitions and desires satisfied,” said Miss Redmond. “I have always longed to see the desert. It must be beautiful. Of course you are going to take Pitchoune?” “Ah!” exclaimed Sabron, “that Is Just what I am not to do.” “What!” she cried. You are hever going to leave that darling dog behind you?” “I must, unfortunately. My superior officers do not allow me to take horses or dogs, or even my servant.” “Heavens!” she exclaimed. “What brutes they are! Why, Pitchoune will die of a broken heart.” Then she said:, “You are leaving him with your man servant?” Sabron shook his head. “Brunet would not be able to keep him.” “Ah!” she breathed. “He is looking for a home? Is he? If so, would you . . . might I take care of Pitchoune?” The Frenchman impulsively put out his hand, and she laid her own in it. “You are too good,” he murmured. “Thank you. 'Pitchoune will thank you.” He kissed her hand. That was all. From within the salon came the noise of voices, and the bow of the violoncellist was beginning a new concerto. They stood looking at each other. No condition could have prevented it although the Marquise d’Esclignac was rolling toward them across the polished floor of the musicroom. As though Sabron realized that he might never see this lovely young woman again, probably never would see her, and wanted before he left to have something made clear, he asked quickly: “Could you, Mademoiselle, In a word or two tell me the meaning of the English song you sang?” She flushed and laughed slightly. “Well, it Is not very easy to put It In prose," she hesitated. “Things sound so differently in music and poetry; but it means,” she said in French, bravely, “why. It is a sort of prayer that someone you 4 love very much should be kept safe night and day. That’s about all. There is a little sadness In it, as though,” and her cheeks glowed, “as if there was a sort of separation. It means . . .” “Ah!” breathed the officer deeply, “I understand. Thank you.” And Just then Madame d’Esclignae rolled up between them and with an unmistakable satisfaction presented to her niece the gentleman she had secured. (TO BE CONTINUED.)

Your Own Home.

William L. Price in “The House of the Democrat,” gave us a description of hl3 ideal dwelling in words so genial and simple, and full of such picturesque feeling, that they seem a fitting preface to an article on the planning of a home. “The rooms,” he said, “shall be ample and low; widewindowed, deep-seated, spacious, cool by reason of shadows in summer, warmed by the ruddy glow of firesides in winter; open to wistful summer airs, tight closed agaiußt the wintry blasts; a house, a home, a shrine.” One cannot but wish that every homebuilder and architect would learn these words by heart, and hold them as a constant reminder —for In that one prophetic sentence seems to be condensed the very spirit of home. The atmosphere of comfort and restfulness cannot be attained, however, without much wise and thoughtful planning. Its roots are In the practical, the seemingly commonplace—which, rightly treated, results in lasting homelike charm. —The Craftsman.

He Stood Long Musing.