Evening Republican, Volume 19, Number 190, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 12 August 1915 — THE BALLOON PATCH [ARTICLE]

THE BALLOON PATCH

Became Means of Reuniting Two Lovers Who Had Quarreled and Parted.

By CLARISSA MACKIE.

(Copyright. IMS, by the McClure Newspaper Syndicate.) Donald Warren carefully blotted the sheet of paper and reread the letter written in his splashing black characters. It was a manly letter of regret over a mistake he had made —a misunderstanding between Donald and the girl he loved, and It had parted them. He was in the wrong, and he frankly acknowledged it. Then he had poured out his love and his longing for a reconciliation. He slipped the letter In an envelope and addressed it to Marjorie Human at her father’s country home over on the other side of the Island. His young nephews were calling him with lusty lungs: “Uncle Don! Come and open the box of fireworks!” Smiling, be went out on the lawn where the expressman had dumped the packing case. The three boys were pecking at the boards with hammers and chisel. “I expect, if we were to set off the whole box it would shake the island,” boasted little Frank. “I’ll bet Aunt Marjorie could hear it,” remarked Bob. Donald reddened hotly. He paused with one sunbrowned arm in midair. "Aunt Marjorie?" he repeated grimly. “Where did you learn that?” Bob shrugged carelessly. “Cousin Patty said when you and Miss Marjorie were married, why, she’d be our aunt. So I asked her if she minded our calling her Aunt Marjorie right off—just to get used to it, you know,” he explained. “What did she say?” asked Donald. “She got awful red and said I was a dear and she guessed she didn’t mind. Just like a girl not to know whether she did mind or not!” he added contemptuously. “When did this happen T’ “Last week. I say. Uncle Don, hurry up and open it, won’t you, please?” Amid the splintering of pine covers and the chatter of the boys Donald’s thoughts ran swiftly. She had said it last week. Ah! Last week all had been well with them; their happiness seemed assured. But now, because of his unreasoning jealousy, their bliss had turned to sorrow and bitterness. There was one comfort, he thought —when she received his repentant letter she might relent. He would take It down and mail it that evening. She would receive it the next morning, the Fourth, and perhaps she would call him by telephone to tell him that he was forgiven and that he must come across the island at once. Perhaps she would meet him half way! His meditations were drowned In a chorus of excited cries as his nephews fell upon the fireworks and sorted them into shape. “Look, Uncle Don,” cried Ned. "One of these fire balloons is torn.” "I’ll put a patch on it,” said Donald. "We’ll send that fellow up now, eh? There’s a good stiff breeze. Bob, go and bring me the paste pot and a sheet of paper." “Here comes Cousin Patty,” said Frank, running to meet the little gossipy, bright-eyed relative whose cottage was almost at the end of the cliff.

“Well, Patty?” smiled Donald, as he shook hands. “I am well, Don," said Cousin Patty. “I’ve been fishing all morning off the Topstone light” “What luck?” "Not much —except that I caught Peter Gray’s scarlet sweater and nearly pulled him overboard!” giggled Patty. “Peter Gray—here?" scowled Donald, for he was jealous of young Gray, who had a singularly winning way with him. “Stopping at the Hinmans, I suppose, as usual. He was out there fishing with Marjorie and her Sister. Our boats were quite close together, and my line flew over my head and the hook caught in his collar. It was all very funny. Peter said it would have been a fair capture only he had been hooked already.” Donald’s face darkened. He wondered if it was one of Gray’s ill-timed jests or had Marjorie really accepted him on the rebound? Jealousy possessed him again and he lost his temper. He was glad he had not sent the letter. *

When Patty had gone on to the house Bobby came running back with the pot of paste. “I couldn’t find any paper, Uncle Don,” he said. "I have some here,” said Don, and, tearing open his letter to Marjorie, he deliberately pasted it- over the torn place in the paper balloon. He smiled grimly as his eyes fell upon the opening words: "My darling.” ' ~ _ Judged by all appearances, she was Peter Gray's darling, he argued, as he helped his nephew light the wick and inflate the balloon. “Which way is the wind, Uncle Don?" asked Ned. “Northwest, and blowing strong,” replied Don. “Your balloon will blow out to sea, kiddies!” “And we’ll play that what’s written on the patch is a merxge to some shipwrecked sailor on a desert

island,” suggested imaginative Bob. "Anything yon like," agreed Donald. It was midafternoon of the day before the Fourth when Donald and his nephews stepped back and allowed the balloon to rise up, rocking to and fro until it found balance in a higher current of air. They watched it until it disappeared beyond the trees of the hill back of the house. Then the boys returned to gloat over the fireworks and to store them away for the morrow’s celebration, while Donald threw himself into a hammock and flung an arm across his aching eyes. Peter Gray sat on the beach with his arm around a very pretty girl— Gertrude Hinman. Marjorie, with her shoulder discreetly turned to the lovers, gazed sadly out to sea. "See who’s here!” chirruped Peter blithely. Marjorie looked around and her glance followed Peter’s pointing finger. Behind them, lazily drifting down to the beach, was a limp paper balloon. Its fire was extinguished, and in the shelter of the cliff, where there was no wind, it was coming to earth. "Observe the patch,” said Peter as the balloon neared them. Marjorie got up and walked toward the fluttering thing, holding up her slim tanned arms to catch it. "Doesn’t.it look odd?” she laughed over her shoulder, and then the balloon was in her grasp—a smoky, smelling crush of paper with a stiff white patch covered with splashing black characters in a handwriting she knew so well. She tore the letter from the balloon and crushed it into her pocket. Then, flinging the mass of red paper on the ground, she sped to the shelter, of the pine grove, where she spread open the letter and read it with shining eyes. Her heart beat madly aS she read Donald’s confession and apology. “The dear, dear boy!” she murmured softly. "But what a -funny way to send a letter? Shall I telephone—or—yes, I will!” In a few moments she was talking to Mrs. Warren. "Donald is down on the beach, Marjorie,” said Donald’s sister-in-law. "He’s sitting there, staring at the sea as if he contemplated jumping in. I’ll send Bobby after him. Walt a moment.” Donald received the message and went to the telephone with scowling face. "Yes?" he inquired politely. "Donald,” wavered Marjorie’s voice, ‘1 —I received your letter.” "My letter? ‘What—tell me what you mean,” he gasped. “Why, didn’t you send me a letter by balloon ?” she asked tearfully. “Yes, I did,” declared Donald, bravely. "I —I’m coming over —may I?" “I’m expecting you,” said Marjorie, ringing off. When they met he clung to her hands while he repeated the contents of his letter and begged forgiveness. “I was a beast to be so jealous,” he admitted; “but you know Gray has been hanging around here a lot!" “He had to," said Marjorie with dancing eyes. “Gertrude is wretchedly lonesome when he’s away.” “Gertrude?" “They’re engaged, you know," explained Marjorie sweetly. Then Donald made a clean breast of how his letter came to be patched upon the balloon. “I thought it would go out to sea,” he said. “It was kindly fate that bore it into my hands,” she whispered.