Kankakee Valley Post, Volume 11, Number 2, DeMotte, Jasper County, 28 November 1940 — ‘WE WILL BE!’ [ARTICLE]

‘WE WILL BE!’

By LAWRENCE WARD

(McClure Syndicate-—WNU Service.!

X,f R. BRENT arranged his tie 1 with precision, brushed an imaginary speck from the shoulder of his immaculate black coat, opened a window so that the room might air while he dined, and then with one glance around the four grim walls he closed the door and walked slowly down stairs. On the floor below he hesitated as he always did when Miss Wren’s door was open. He liked the cheeriness of the crimson carpet, the wicker chair, the big Boston fern, the sewing table and an occasional glimpse of Elsie Wren, sewing or reading or feeding her bird with little housewifely airs that seemed strange in a fashionable boarding house. But Elsie was not there, and her door was almost closed, so he did not absorb any of the hominess which he craved. He went down and dined with a dozen other lonely men and women who tried to make homes for themselves out of four walls in another man's house, and with more or less success. James Brent ate his dinner in an abstract manner. He never joined in the general conversation about the long table, but occasionally someone would boldly address a remark to him, and he would answer m his deliberate manner, pleasantly but reservedly. He was a lonely man, alone in the world, and lately he had grown to detest the four walls of his room on the third floor front. The ' very sight of Elsie Wren’s red carpet thrilled him—he wanted a cheery room with a red carpel, a singing bird, a Boston fern, and a wicker chair with— This thought came to him as he took his after-dinner stroll down the street of the small town where he lived. Over there on the hill was the university where he taught every day. He wanted a home to come to after the day’s teaching, but he had nothing to offer such a bright, charming little woman as Miss Elsie Wren, who w'as a music teacher as well as the favorite inmate of the boarding house. JTf I had a home to offer/’ thought Mr. Brent, blushing painfully in the dark, “but I could not take a wife to a boarding house, though it has been done— ’’ he added hopefully. * Out of the darkness an automobile flashed its lights. In the sudden glare Mr. Brent saw a white and black sign nailed on a tree —he saw a gate, a little lawn, and a small house—then darkness absorbed the picture as the car disappeared. “Aha! A house to rent,” mused the bachelor as he leaned on the fence. “A house —to—rent —” A week or two later he went out for his Sunday afternoon stroll, overtaking Elsie Wren on a block beyond the house. He had to hurry a little to catch up with her swift pace. “Isn’t it a lovely day?’’ she asked. He agreed, and then added nervously, “Are you in a hurry?” “Yes—and no,” she laughed. “Why?” “I've been looking at a house—would like your advice, 0 mumbled Mr. Brent, opening the gate of the little place and closing it behind her. His clean-shaven face was set in tense lines; never had a greater problem confronted the gentle mathematician than this one. “Fancy your taking a place and keeping house," murmured Miss Wren, as she followed him into the tiny hall. “Isn’t it the cutest place —one could have plants in that window," she said with the flowerlover’s eagerness. "Yes, in any ol the rooms—the sun follows the windows all day," he heard himself eagerly saying. “Awnings in the summer will make it cool—the rooms upstairs are charmingly arranged, but they are, of course, unfurnished; so are the kitchen and the dining room.” He opened the doors, but Miss Wren quickly furnished them in her mind and the few suggestions she uttered betrayed the yearning of the single homeless woman for a real abiding place of her own. “One room is furnished,” he said at last, when it was time to go. “Which one?” “The living-room. I’ve had it furnished like one I’ve admired and—” he opened the door of the south room, and Miss Elsie Wren stood dumbly upon the • threshold while her face grew pink, pinker, pinkest. Here was a reproduction of her cheery room at the boarding house —a room furnished with odds and ends from her old home—a crimson rug, gray walls, white woodwork, cloudy white curtains, a Boston fern or two, a cozy fireplace, a wicker chair, tables, a big easy chair, a masculine touch not included in Miss Wren’s room! “Oh —how strange!” she breathed. ••Y ou —like it?” he asked, looking worried. *‘l must!” tears were in her kind eyes. “We could be happy here—together, Elsie Wren,” he declared desperately. Then there was a little silence while the fate of the house hung in the balance. Suddenly she lifted happy eyes to his tender ones. “We will be happy here,” she whispered.