Evening Republican, Volume 21, Number 236, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 8 October 1918 — THE TIE [ARTICLE]

THE TIE

By CARRIE L. P. CURTIS.

(OopnUbt, J»18, Westers Ntrw.paper U»ion./ , Don’s mother went out wearily, to look over the bloom of the garden, but the garden, like all things about the little home, had lost Interest since Donaid went to war. If he had not been such an exceptional son, his mother might not have missed him so bitterly. Always she had loved her boy with a selfish love- Fiercely she had claimed him in her widowhood, her own* Donald’s father had died when the lad was young but his mother had taken a silent, almost unconscious vow, that the boy must live to >care for her, even as his father would have cared, if he had been spared. The little home became eloquent 'of those things which pleased his mother. Donald did not realize that young women whose acquaintance he made, and for whom he entertained at times a passing Interest, were not made welcome in this home of his endeavor; he wondered vaguely, why mother found in each girl some disappointing quality. But he knew that the friendships grieved her, al«o he saw that she grew more frail each day, and that she foijnd her only joy in his presence. He had bidden her good-by, standing on the vine-shaded porch, whei'e nasturtiums nodded their bright heads, and though Don had been cheery and brave, a shadow lurked in his eyes, a shadow which his mother could not define. Now, he was in France,' far away France, where guns boomed their warning, where men fought for the safety of this beautiful land spread about her. . Donald’s mother sank down upon the porch. So many years she had devoted herself jealously to her son, there had been no need for other close companionship. Now she was alone. Tears made their way through her wrinkled fingers, she did not hear a light step on the path at the side. It was a girl’s voice wffich roused her. “I beg your pardon,” said the voice. “I have been directed to you. I am anxious to spend my summer in the country, and it was thought possible, that you, being alone, would take me in.”

"I could not care for any one— Donald’s mother was beginning, when the girl interrupted eagerly. “That I would not a»k, only that it might be a mutually beneficial ar- . rangetnent—you taking me into your home, I helping in every way. And," because of her heart-aching loneliness, because her need of human comfort was so great, Donald's mother did, what she never would have believed herself willing to do, she took the strange girl into her home. As time passed, she was glad. It was good to hear footsteps at night in Don’s room, even though the steps were so different and light; it was good to see a bright young face opposite her own at table. But best of all, were the confidences over Don’s pictures, pictures in childish frocks to the latest in soldier's uniform. Myra—that was the girl’s name —went to the post office each day, returning with Don’s bulky letters. Together they read them. It was Myra at last who answered letters, her flrm hand tracing readily lines which the trembling fingers could not master; so that Donald’s letters came to be a composite of them- both. Donald was reported missing; killed, it was believed, by a German plane. Her light step dragged as Myra moved with difficulty up the flower-bordered path. Donald’s mother was there on the porch wlA&e he had bidden her good-by. Twice Myra tried to speak to tell her terrible news, but that duty, was’ spared her. The mother looking Into the girl’s wide eyes read their message and understood. Diffidently the young woman followed the bent form of the other into the house. "I,” she murmured, “oh I I suffer with you.” Donald’s mother turned in unexpected passion. “What do you know of suffering?” she cried. "You! I love him. lam his mother.” The girl raised her white tearstained face. “I,” she quietly replied, "am his wife.” “When?” the mother asked unbelievingly, “could that have happened?" “In the city,” the girl answered. All life had gone from her voice. “And you knew when you came to me that I was his mother?” “Don sent me to comfort you,” she said. The mother looked again into the young face whose sorrow was now her own, then all at once she opened the arms which had been closed to all but her son, so the two clung together. It was a messenger on the porch who called the young wife to answer his summons, when, presently Myra 3 returned, her eyes were shining with some great Inner joy. > , . “Can you bear happiness?” she asked Don’s mother, “the great happiness of knowing that your son was not killed as reported, that he is but wounded slightly and in a hospital, longing to hear from you and me—” and slowly the rigidness left the older woman’s face. When she spoke her voice rang with a tenderness it had never known. “Daughter,” she said, “we win write to him now.”