Evening Republican, Volume 20, Number 25, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 29 January 1916 — THE GIRL BELOW [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

THE GIRL BELOW

By HAROLD CARTER.

The best thing about Mrs. Simpson’s rooming house was its real privacy. Nobody knew anything about anybody else, and Mrs. Simpson never gossiped. Rawlinson, on the third floor, had often x wondered as to the identity of the pretty girl on the ground floor. What did she do? She wore stylish clothes, and had just appeared in some furs that must have cost every penny of a hundred and fifty dollars. But Mrs. Simpson would have frowned on an inquiry, and Rawlinson had to go on guessing. He had not much leisure even for that He had been supporting himself ever since he came to town by the hardest kind of hack literary work. Now he had practically received an order from a woman s magazine for a story at $75. He had had a story published in a small magazine, and the editor had dropped him a note saying that a story of the same wholesome and cheery type would be considered acceptable at the price named. The editor particularly wanted a wholesome story, with a strong “love interest.” Rawlinson knew what “love interest” meant. A story of a youthful pair who committed follies for each other’s sake—and how could he write that sort of story when, even at twenty-five, he had begun to despair of ever attaining success, when despair, not love, was his dominant emotion? He had puzzled his brain for days, but suddenly enlightenment came to him. “I’ll write a story,” he said, “about the sort of sweetheart I should like to have.” Once conceived, the plan was swiftly put into execution. There was a girl, simple, innocent, and sweet, and a

young man suspiciously like himself. But the hero showed strong tendencies toward dumbness. Here Rawlinson stopped. He hadn’t had a sweetheart since he was a lad in the home town, three years before. He had almost forgotten—Rawlinson blushedhow one made love. He had written about half the story when he went out to the restaurant where he took lunch. Coming in, he met the girl of the ground floor outside the entrance. She looked more entrancing than ever. Rawlinson raised his hat- The girl bowed very kindly. ", Somehow they fell to talking, and she asked him into the parlor floor. She was about the same age of Rawlinson, but she might have been his mother by the sympathetic way she spoke, and her apparent knowledge of things. It was not long before the young man had blurted out the story. “And so you don't know how to put in the love-making?” asked the girl, smiling. Rawlinson blushed again. “I—well, I guess it isn’t altogether that,” he answered. “But you see I’ve almost forgotten how a girl talks. It’s been a hard grind for me —” “Poor boy! I understand quite well. Now I tell you what we will do. You haven’t any engagement tonight, have you?” “No,” stammered Rawlinson. “Then we’ll take dinner somewhere together, and you shall see how I talk and put me into your story. You see, -I want you to make it a success, be cause I know myself what it is to be up against it.” He could hardly restrain himself from too earnest a declaration of gratitude. It was practically his first friendship, and a woman’s friendship’ meant a great deal to him. When she was ■eady and came out of her room, neatly dressed, In the expensive furs, he felt that he would like to have her at his side for ever. Tn the restaurant she drew him out further. Before the evening was ended he had told her all about his home and his struggles in New York. “You mustn’t give way,” she said. “Everybody who has accomplished anything has had to go through just what you have experienced. That story once printed in the magazine may lead to other orders. And then it will be an advertisement for you. Cheer up, Mr. Rawlinson!” He left her lnj&lgh elation, and with the i»romise that she would listen to him reading the story to her on the following Saturday afternoon. Rawlinson gathered that Miss Arthur was herself connected with some publishing house, from the way in which she spoke. She knew many of

the leading people in the literary field, and wanted to give him some Introductions. But his pride revolted against accepting this kindness, and she. had had the tact to see and not to press the matter. On Saturday, when he entered her pretty room to read his story he felt that they were already old friends. She did not Interrupt while he was reading it, but when he had finished she said: “I think that is a splendid story, Mr. Rawlinson, although I don’t recognize myself in your heroine. At least, the hero must have been a very Impetuous young man. I should change that love scene. No girl could fall in love as fast as that.”

“But she might—later?” asked Rawlinson, and he was conscious of waiting for her answer as if his whole fate depended on it. ; Miss Arthur blushed. “She might—later,” she admitted; and then Rawlinson's hopes went high up in the air. He knew already that he loved her. He had dared to surmise that she was not indifferent to him. But how many years must lie between that love and its fruition! “I am going to end it in a note of hope on the hero’s part, then,” he said. “That’s capital, Mr. Rawlinson. One Can always hope.” He rewrote the story in accordance with Miss Arthur’s suggestions and sent it in. For three days he waited with a heart that thumped every time the postman’s whistle was heard. On the third morning a letter came from the magazine. He tore it open. Inside was a check for $75. When Rawlinson gathered courage to read the letter he found that it contained besides an acceptance a suggestion for another story. And the signature, which had formerly been impersonal, was now “Julia Arthur.” It was the girl below. He had heard a friend address her as Julia once. He could not be mistaken. He ran downstairs. He was a mifture of emotions; joy, indignation, hurt pride. So she had accepted the story to help him! But when he rapped at the door and she came out, and stood before him, he could say nothing, but only stared at her speechlessly. The girl beckoned him in. And again she seemed to understand his feelings though he had not spoken. “Now you mustn’t be foolish, Mr. Rawlinson,” she said. “I did know you had been asked to write a story, but the invitation came from the manager, Mr. Smith. It was he who wanted it more than I. And I didn’t read it—just because you were a friend. So I had nothing to do except to sign that letter. And you will forgive me for deceiving you?” “If,” answered Rawlinson slowly, “I may—hope.” And her blush was significant of his answer. ; (Copyright, 1916, by W. G. Chapman.)

“You Mustn’t Give Way,” She Said.