Richmond Palladium (Daily), Volume 36, Number 87, 4 February 1911 — Page 2

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AT one end of the Wentworth garden Helen Adeline and Grace Margaret Wentworth, aged eleven and nine years eat with their beads close together and their 'back! to the observer, and conversed In low and ! thrilling tones. At the other end, under a brilliant'jlj flowering bush of goldenglow, the observer. (Genevieve Maude Wentworth, sat in splendid isolation holding her favorite doll absently by the left leg and regarding with growing disfavor this aloofness and absorption of her sisters. Genevieve Maud was but four, and of an Innocence befitting these tender years; but she knew that such contplcuous consultation, punctuated as It was with frequent glances her way, boded no good for a fat little girl. Experience had taught her that It meant one of two things: the planning of a forbidden pleasure from which she would be relentlessly excluded, or 'the consideration of some reform of which, in hi eventual working out, she would be the helpless and protesting victim. "Genevieve Maude.". Helen Adeline frequently explained to her friends, "Is beln brought up by us by me an Grace Margaret 'cause mamma's too sick an' papa's too busy. Ministers is always too busy- Of course," she sometimes added, expansively, "Katie dresses her an feeds her, but we have to take care of her soul, "cause souls la more important than bodies, papa says, an poor Maudle'a soul is perlshta Just as fast as It can." ' These repeated sisterly efforts in behalf of her . soul formed the tragedy of Genevieve Maude's Infant life Thinly disguised as games, they invariably took on, as the play progressed, aspects of subtly refined torture, such as only the Ingenious mind ol Helen Adeline could conceive. Genevieve Maude'possessot at once ot an optimistic temperament and an excellent memory, was incessantly torn by the conflicting hopes and fears that combination produced. At present the fears predominated She rose from the grass and backed away precipitately as her sisters , approached her, the light ol lofty purpose in their eyes. ; "Don't ysnt soul saved," , announced . Genevieve Maude, firmly, edging Into a flower-bed and seating berselt violently on choice geranium in her baste. Helen Adeline stopped considerately at the border, and regarded her with the sad, patient smile her features always took on at the beginning of a dls- , tusslon with her Infant sister. She allowed it to sink in, and then sighed and turned ostentatiously away. "Very well,'" she said, carelessly; "If you want to miss all the fun. you act that way. Come along. Grade; we'll play It by ourselves." Genevieve Maude wavered. Her fat legs made a . tentative effort toward rising. Clouds of doubt still rolled over her, but the sun of hope shone triumphantly behind them. Vaguely she reasoned, aa she always reasoned, that some day Helen Adeline must think of a really nice game: perhaps this was the day. The experience of "the Simple Life." to which they had once subjected her, had not been wholly bad. But Genevieve Maude was growing wise; she dropped her brown eyes now and stubbornly awaited further developments, which Grace Margaret, seeing her opportunity, hastened to supFly ; "My,1 she exclaimed, comfortably, "it would be a dreffle pity to leave Maudle out of it! . She loves pritei so." Maudle wriggled. Helen Adeline paused In bet ostentatious retreat and appeared to reflect. "Well," she conceded, slowly, "If she wants to. She laid she didn't want to." , "Don't yant soul saved," muttered Genevieve Maude with dogged determination. "Yon't have soul , eaved." The saving ot the soul, a topic much discussed in the household of her father, a somewhat fanatical minister, had been unpleasantly rubbed into Genevieve Maude's consciousness by these earnest domestic effdrts in her behalf. Grace Margaret, more tactful than Helen Adeline, waved aside with a careless band the artless prejudice so openly expressed. "I don't b'Heve it's goln to be saved," she announced, reassuringly. "I don't b'lleve we can save It. ever. But It's lots of fun trying! Don't you think if fun trying? An' this is a lovely game. It s eth'ca) culter." Genevieve Maude surveyed her suspiciously, and Grace Margaret smiled suavely down Into her sulky little face. Maude adored Grace Margaret, and that joung person, though hopelessly under the thumb ot her older sister, bad moments of weakness for the younger. She privately resolved now to see that nothing very bad happened to Maudie. Helen Adeline, wisely leaving the present conduct ot the affairs to such able hands, gazed pensively toward a distant point on the horizon. "Eth'cal culter." Genevieve Maude turned the words slowly ever In her mind. They sounded interesting. "Hurt?" she asked, guardedly, being more Spartan In speech than in endurance. "No." "Keep clothes on?" asked Genevieve Maude, mindful of the time they had stripped her and made her spend the day attired In tnnoceno and a larg sun-hat, at an apostle of "the Simple Life." "Yes. You have to." replied Grace Margaret, aUnply. Then the added: "You go round an' do

good deeds. Ot course you keep your clothes on." Nakedness is the adornment or Truth, not or Charity. Genevieve Maude did not know this; but ber Bister's words sounded reassuring. Nevertheless, she sought further light. "Wass dood deeds?" she inquired, dropping the doll and beginning to look interested. Grace Margaret grew vague. "Oh, lots of things. You Just do 'em for people with a heavenly smile." This was a straight plagiarism from the conversation of a visiting missionary, but Genevieve Maude did not recognize it. She experienced a growing sense of trust. "Wass flngs?" she asked, tacitly avowing perfect confidence in her ability to rise to the small matter of the heavenly smile. Grace Margaret turned

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1a W "IT IS NOT CHANCE. IT IS A COMMAND. I MUST OBEY IT." a worried eye toward her sister. Helen Adeline, feeling that the little plum was ripe, proceeded to pluck it. "If you're going to play, Maudie." she said with some sternness, "you mus play an not sit asking questions all the time. 'Cause if you won't play, we can't tell you any more. It's secrets." Genevieve Maude plunged headlong to her fate. "Aw right." she remarked, briefly. "Le's play." Helen Adeline drew a email note-book from her apron pocket and seated herself decorously on the grass. Grace Margaret sat down beside her, both facing their innocent victim. It had not occurred to either to suggest that Genevieve remove the pressure of her fat person from the geranium, and the infant was now too intention the flowering of "the heavenly smile" to heed the repression of that process in the crushed plant. Helen Adeline again took the lead. "First, I'll tell you what eth'cal culter is," she began, "so you'll know. I heard papa talking with lots of folks about it In the library Saturday, an I listened. They're going to have a club. So are we. Our club will be Jus' like theirs, only you, Maudie, you're goln' to be our objeck." Genevieve Maude looked dazed, not knowing what an objeck was. All these games were played in the dark, but her brave little soul went sturdily forth to meet their unknown perils. "Ooln'. to be objeck," she echoed, dutifully. "Eth'cal culter," continued Helen Adeline, didactically, "is when you try to be good. You" but the objeck was escaping. Genevieve Maude, having finally grasped the fundamental principle of the new game, proceeded' at once bitterly to disavow it and all its works. She struggled to her feet and writhed fiercely in the grasp of Grace Margaret, who had hurled herself upon her. Helen, Adeline quelled the budding revolt with quick authority. "That ain't all, Maudie," she called with great self-possession. "There's other things lots, an prizes. An' you don't have to be good all the time, you poor, perishing soul." Thus benignly calm, Genevieve Maude subsided with a choking gurgle, and peace again brooded over the assemblage. "You mus be kind an' faithful an live for others an have Ideals." continued Helen Adeline, who had now struck her gait and was enjoying herself exceedingly. "An you mus' love folks' an have morls." Genevieve Maude nodded contentedly. She could

love folks, of that her passionate little heart was very sure, and she' hoped, though with a pathetic doubt, that morals were something to eat. She fastened big, interested eyes on her older sister, and that damsel opened the note-book and resumed her discourse. "Here's the book of your deeds," she went on. "See, it says, Genevieve Maude's Deeds, an' here's the page where we're goin' to write the good ones when you do them." She revealed a tiny, virgin leaf. "Here are your bad deeds," she went on, "an we wrote down all we could think of. There's Just lots an' lots, Maudie." There were, indeed. She held the closely written pages before Genevieve Maude's eyes, and regarded with disapproval the stolid gaze wltn which the sinner surveyed them. "You have to be sorry." she explained, remonstrantly. "You can't ever be good unless you're sorry. Then your sins are as scarlet, but no one cares." - She was getting confused, and had herself a dim suspicion of the fact, but as her audience continued to regard her with full acceptance of this occult chromatic irresponsibility, she went on, bravely: "Here's two other pages. One says Prizes, an one says Penalties. If you ever do any good deeds, Maudie, we'll write 'em here, an' give you prizes. Isn't that nice? An when you do bad deeds we'll write 'em in all these pages, an' give you penalties."

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Genevieve Maude smiled like a email Chinese idol. "Penalties" was a new word to her, and conveyed no sinister suggestion to her artless mind. "We're goin' to help you," resumed Helen Adeline, stimulated by the close attention she was receiving. "We've got to make you live for others, an' save your squI for you, an' make it sing, an' make your heart sing. That's what they do in eth'cal culter." Genevieve Maude was deeply interested. "Like phon'grapbs?" she asked, eagerly. "Yes; I I guess so. Like the phonograph." Genevieve Maude was charmed. "Do it now," she urged with fervor. But Helen Adeline held back from this feat. "You've got to do some good deeds first," she remarked, darkly. "Then your soul 'II stng. Miss Simpson says so." With characteristic optimism Genevieve Maude put her hand on the spot where she supposed her soul to be and listened attentively. Perhaps it was singing even now. What did they know about it? But there was silence. A sense of hopelessness swept over her. "Don't know dood deeds," she remarked, dolefully, with quivering Hpsfc Helen Adeline closed her book and rose. There was cold finality in her manner. "That's 'zactly it," she announced. "You never did any. But now you've got to do some," she added, coming straight to the crux of the situation and fixing her sister with a commanding eye. "You've got to start right out in the world this minute an do good deeds. That's where Mr. Sercombe Baid tbey was most needed in the world. So you go. An' when you've done 'em you come back an' tell us, an' we'll put 'em in the book." She opened the garden gate as she spoke and waved the little Eve out of the only Eden she knew. Genevieve Maude rose obediently, and tnen stood hesitating, looking down the streets of the quiet old town, which stretched before her silent and almost deserted in the heat of the September afternoon. For a moment more she hung back, her lower lip drooping suggestively. Deeds of derring-do might appeal to her, but not essaying the unknown outer void. "Dun'no' dood deeds," she repeated, with plaintive insistence. But Helen Adeline thrust her forward and shut the garden gate when she had passed through. "Go right along, Maudie," she commanded, from the inside. "You go an do some good deeds, an then come back an' tell us." Genevieve Maude still lingered, looking back with homesick eyes at the place from which sne was exiled. That she knew and loved, but the strange wide streets that lay ahead of her seemed very long and lonely. The elms waved a greeting, how- . ever, the sun turned his warm smile upon ner, and a reassuring conviction grew and strengthened in her soul. At least, it was all new, and it might be interesting. Her heart leaped in a sudden Impulse of freedom. Without a word to her sisters, without even another backward glance, she abruptly trotted off down the elm-lined avenue, an innocent pilgrim making her first little journey out into life. As she hesitated an instant at the first corner, undecided which way to turn, she felt a, cold nose thrust into her hand and the impact of a large body against her own. Turning, she recognized Rover, who, suddenly realizing her departure, had leaped the garden - hedge and followed her. Genevieve Maud welcomed him with rapture. His company made the adventure perfect, . but she delayed not in passing on to him a sense of responsibility in their joint enterprise. Sitting down on the curb, she grasped him by the throat, her favorite method of Copyright 1910, by Harper A Brothers.

attracting his attention, and poured her confidence in his ear. "Mus" do dood deeds, Rover," she whispered. 'Mus' liver others an do dood deeds for Addie'a book. Then our souls will sing an sing".' This suggesting the idea of song, she began a little lilt, beating time with her fat sandalled fee:. "Your soul will sing, my soul will 6ing," she chanted, emphasizing her song with Jumps and bumps and an energetic beating of Rover's back. "Our soula will sing," she repeated, all thought of her mission now fading from her mind, and a delightful sense of Irresponsibility succeeding it. Equally care free. Rover escaped her grasp and leaped about her, barking wildly in the excitement of an experience he dimly realized was out of the ordinary. At last his small mistress rose sedately and resumed her pilgrimage, a cheerful medley of books and deeds and travels In her infant mind. They went rapidly at firstwith detours to pick flowers by the wayside, to try to capture elusive butterflies, or to inspect and loiter for a moment with strange but hospitably inclined, cnildren on verandas and lawns. Later, they went slowly and wearily, but on and on, always straight ahead, and thus ever farther from home. Many of those who passed looked at them inquiringly; several recognized them and stopped to question the little girl. But the presence of the dog, who growled a sullen protest against these approaches, and the entire

ACROSS A SMALL, NEWLYMADE GRAVE LAY A WOMAN DRESSED IN BLACK. self-possession of the child, were reassuring factors. Apparently, the two knew what they were about, though Genevieve Maude was non-committal; so they were allowed to continue their way. They had left the town behind them now and were trudging along a country road In the deepening shadows of the late afternoon. Already the birds were twittering sleepily in the trees, and a light wind had begun a droning lullaby among the branches. Genevieve Maude was very tired, and, whatever the increased development of her heart and soul, her stomach was sadly relaxed. There was in her, moreover, a sudden loneliness and the slow birth of a sensation new in the experience of Pastor Wentworth 'a youngest daughter. She did not like the silence, nor the stretch of dark forest that lay far ahead; but the sudden gleam of tombstones in a cemetery at her right was distinctly reassuring, for it gave her her bearings. This, she remembered, as she looked at the entrance, was the place where she and her sisters and her father often came oa Sunday afternoons to put flowers on the grave of a little brother- a little brother Genevieve Maude had never seen, and over whose untimely fate she had steadfastly refused to sadden her life, though Helen Adeline and Grace Margaret weekly drooped with dutiful melancholy above his tomb. The discovery of the familiar spot was very cheering now, and she decided to go in and bide awhile. Perhaps some one would come and get her. She began to experience a strong desire for the presence of grown-ups. She enlisted Rover's interest in her plan by grasping him firmly by the throat and dragging him with her through the open iron gates of the churchyard. Then both she and the dog stopped abruptly, startled by the sound of loud, hysterical crying in a woman's voice. Rover hung back for an instant, the hair bristling fiercely on his neck, but the child pressed forward with the assurance of knowledge and habit This was a grown-up. Her mother cried almost every day and Genevieve Maude was used to it, for the nurse frequently brought her Into the sick-room to kiss and comfort the nervous Invalid. She knew, therefore, what to do when women cried, so she trotted intrepidly along the narrow path following the sound, the unwilling dog keeping close to her heels. Across a small, newly made grave, in a lot next to the one where her little brother slept, lay a woman dressed in black. Her face seemed buried in the new earth; a long black veil trailed about her like a pall; her figure writhed, and the sobs Genevieve Maude had heard from the gate were deep, long-drawn, and. terrible. But without hesitation the baby approached her and put a dimpled and. grimy hand on the shaking shoulder. ' "Mus'n't c'y," she chirped with the most engaging cheerfulness. "Mus'n't c'y. D-on't c'y!" The woman sat up with a great start and turned wild, wet, surprised eyes upon her. Genevieve knew her. It was Elinor Chambers's mother, and all summer Maude and Elinor had played together in the Wentworth garden, and quarrelled fiercely over their mud pies and their dolls. Maude continued the patting process she always found effective at home, changing the stroke from shoulder to knee as the woman changed her position, and continuing to croon her murmur of comfort. As she patted the other's knee, her busy brown eyes took in all the things about her in the coantry bury-ing-ground the fresh flowers on the new grave, a rabbit scurrying to cover in a distant hedge, an inquisitive and belated robin cocking a drowsy eye at her from a near-by path. She was no longer alone, and a sweet content filled her heart. She even forgot that she was tired and hungry.

"Mus'n't c'y," she crooned again, not greatly Interested, but attending through habit to the task before her. The woman continued to stare at her, and as she did so recognition dawned in her eyes. . "You're Maudie," she said, dully; "Dr. Wentworth's little girl. What are you doing here, alone, at this hour?" Genevieve Maude did not know, and pumped her consciousness for knowledge. "Mus' do dood deeds, she finally evolved after the effort, dimly remembering something of her mission. The woman did not hear her. Her head had sunk again upon her breast, and a sudden return of memory had shaken her soul. "And Elinor is here," she wailed, turning and beating the new grave with bare, desperate hands, "here beside her father. Bpth here, leaving me alone." She turned again to the little girL "Don't you remember Elinor?" she asked. "Elinor, who played with you in your garden only last week?" She grasped the child's arm too firmly in her agitation, and Genevieve Maude rather coldly withdrew it. "Surely you remember Elinor?" she repeated, almost violently. Genevieve Maude nodded. She was not a brilliant conversationalist, and, after seeking in vain for words, she fell back on her first inspiration. "Mus'n't c'y," she crooned, resuming v. the patting, "mus'n't c'y. Maudle loves you." Elinor's mother caught her fiercely in her arms. To this, too, Genevieve Maude was accustomed. "Oh, you blessed, blessed, baby!" wailed the mother. "Elinor's little friend! What sent you here, I won,der?" ' Genevieve Maude endeavored to rise to the occasion. She could not answer the questions Mrs. Chambers asked, but there were other casual topics. She made a great effort. "Buvver's there," she announced, indicating the familiar spot with a fat forefinger. "Some day we mus' all be there. Addle says so. Papa an' mam ma, an' Gracie, an me, an an you," she added, ' generously, with an impulse of true hospitality. The woman groaned. "Yes, I shall be here," she said dully, "and soon, little Maudie, soon," she repeated in a whisper; "very soon." Genevieve Maude wriggled in her arms. "Tate me home," she commanded. "Tired." The woman looked at her, at first unseeing! y, then with slow comprehension as she set her on her feet. "Why, you .poor baby," she said at last, "of course you are tired! How will you get home? I can't take you. I I'm not going back," Genevieve Maude ignored this remark, which to ber had no bearing on the case. She was getting irritable and sleepy. "Yants to go home," she remarked crossly, and then, wheedlingly, Ie-ase fate me." The woman reflected, her eyes upon the newmade grave. "I can't," she gasped, half aloud, "f can't leave Elinor I can never leave here any more. And yet if I don't" She looked at the child, at the dog, at the gathering darkness. "I must, of course," she told herself. "Elinor's little friend. I can come back again later." She rose abruptly. "Come, she. said. "But you're too tired to walk. I must carry you." She lifted the exhausted child, who, finding herself again on the surface of a woman's' breast, snuggled contently against it, tightening the clasp of her arm around the other's neck and continuing the rhythmic patting on the back watch was her panacea for all human ills. She was a heavy burden, but the bearer did not know it. She had a child in her arms again but not her own. Her features twisted with anguish as she walked slowly toward the gate, turning her back on the new-made grave. "Mus'n't c'y," repeated Genevieve Maude, drowsily but distinctly; "mus' do dood deeds; mus liver . others; mus' save soul. . . ." She was asleep. But to the woman, in ber awful spiritual travail, the words, so natural from the child's lips in her last waking moments, came with, . the force of a command from on high. She stopped short and looked at the, sleeping baby, ner legs almost giving way under her. That such a message should have come in such a way, at such a time this, she felt, could be no mere chance. She raised her head to the calm twilight sky. In which the pale horn of an early moon was shining. The whole scene around her was Indescribably peaceful and soothing; and to her mind this setting, In her utter despair by ber baby's grave and from the lips of her baby's friend, had come words she felt she must heed. She stood quite still for a long time. Then she drew a deep breath, "It is not chance," she told herself at last, "It is a command. I must obey it" The little processlon moved slowly, out of the cemetery, along the country road, and back to the town, where excited citizens were already seeking Genevieve Maude. It was a tire trio that met Pastor Wentworth that night, but on the face of the woman, as she handed the sleeping child to her father, was an expression the minister bad not dared hope to see there again for a long, long time. "Don't be anxious about me any more," the woman said when she had told him all. "I can bear it now, because I must. And I shall never forget that strength came to me in this wonderful way, through Elinor's little playmate." Late that night Genevieve Maude was awakened from her innocent slumbers by a sudden pull at her shoulder. Gulping with surprise, she sat up in her crib, blinking protestingly in the dim light of the nursery lamp. Her sisters, chastely attired In their nightgowns and with tightly braided pigtails standing, stiffly out from the back of their beads, confronted her with impressive mien. "Wake up. Maudie," commanded Helen Adeline, sternly. We've got to ask you something. We didn't have time when you came in so late and were so busy getting fed and put to bed. Did you do any ' good deeds to-day?" The sleep-laden eyes of Genevieve Maude surTeyed the two with intense disapproval. "Don't yant do dood deeds," she announced, sulk- ' y. "Yon't do dood deeds." Then, as she lay back and closed her eyes, thus signifying that the audience was ended, a further satisfying remark occurred to her. "Didn't do dood deeds: she announced, with insolent triumph. But the mother of Elinor knew better.

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