Evening Republican, Volume 19, Number 281, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 27 November 1915 — Was This Miss Moore? [ARTICLE]

Was This Miss Moore?

Ignorant as she was, half educated, -with the little slangy manners of speech of her class, Lawlor had realised that his love for her could tolerate all these things. And she had looked up to him so naively as a great painter.

“Do you know, Mr. Lawlor, it is a wonderful experience in my life to have met you!** she confided one day. “I never knew anybody like you before. I’ve always wanted a fellow who could think beautiful things, like you can. instead of just being interested in making money.’* Lawlor smiled rather grimly at that, but his infatuation had reached the point where he . did not wince at the words she used. Instead, acting on the impulse, he bent down and took Miss Moore in his arms and kissed her.

The girl lay there silent for just a moment. Then she drew herself away and looked at him with an expression that Lawlor had never seen on her face before. There was in it something of wounded dignity—and something of helplessness. “I suppose you’re just flirting with me to pass away the time,” she said. And Lawlor was stricken into silence. Because, in his heart, he knew that the girl s words were true. “I suppose I won’t see nothing of you after you get back to the city,” pursued Miss Moore rather unmercifully.

"Yes,” stammered Jimmy. “I mean what I say, Lizzie.” “We’ll see,” answered the girl moodily. and that was all. And Jimmy never kissed her again, even when he said good-by. Yes, Jimmy felt that he had made a fool of himself. He had the girl’s address. But he did not mean to call on her. He realized the difference in their station; he knew that such an alliance could work nothing but harm to both of them. And he tried to put

the girl’s picture out of his mind. That fall was not a favorable one for him. He seemed to have struck one of those slack periods that even the most accomplished artist occasionally meets. Assignments were few and far between. And, worst of all. Miss Dewey held off the arrangement. “I think she wants to make the agreement, Jimmy,** said the editor of the Wayfarer. “But she's a peculiar young woman. Impulsive—erratic—one moment she win and the next she won’t I’ll give yon a tip, Jimmy. Don’t press the matter, and she’ll probably come around of her own accord. We’re not losing sight of the matter, the young man had written to Miss Dewey remained un-

answered. Lawlor gradually gave up hopes of making the agreement. Ho became moody and dissatisfied. His bank balance was being slowly depleted. He was not in fear of poverty, but he began to realise —which was an excellent thing for him —that he was not yet such a great man az ho thought himself to be. And, as the weeks went by, Lawlor began to realise that he had by no means forgotten Miss Lizzie Moore. In fact, with the increase of time, ho began to picture her clearly. Her gentle nature, her flawless character, her mind, only awaiting cultivation to remove its surface blemishes. And one night he came to a momentous decision.

He dug up the address and wrote her a letter, reminding her of his promise, and apologetically referring to the business which had prevented him from redeeming it before. Back came a little letter. She had never forgotten him, but thought he had forgotten her. She would be glad to see him on the evening be had suggested, at nine o’clock, and “Mother is looking forward to meeting the fine gentleman friend I told her about.” Jimmy winced at the wording but — he called.

When he stopped at the door of the apartment house bls first thought was that Miss Lizzie must be a servant. Surely no saleslady could afford to live in such a place. But, seeing Miss Moore’s card in the box, he pressed the button. And, as the door clicked open, he knew that he was moving to his fate. But on the top story he stood still in amazement. Was this Miss Moore, this beautiful woman in the black evening gown, who stood smiling before him, and. still smiling at his discomfiture, invited him to enter? The apartment was furnished with elegant taste, from the shaded lamp to the oriental rugs on the floor. And, standing in the center of the room, Lawlor still looked hard at the girl and did not know what to say.

“Forgive me, Mr. Lawlor,” she whispered, placing a hand on his arm. “Don't you know who I am?” “Miss Mary Dewey!" stammered Lawlor, suddenly recognizing the portrait which he had seen in some magazine or other.

“I have done very wrong,” said the girl contritely. “But I didn’t know you would be in the Catskills when I went there. I wanted to draw the local types, and the store girls who went there for their vacations, and —I haven’t any mother, and I had to get that card printed for the box —won’t you forgive me, Mr. Lawlor?" “On one condition,” answered Lawlor, breathing hard. “That I sign that agreement?”

“No. That you let me keep my memories—only substitute your name for Miss Moore’s,” he answered. ♦ But long before he went he had begun to think in earnest of a second substitution. (Copyright, 1914. by W. G. Chapman.)