(Continued from last week.)
XV.
Shall Ssffy Enter at This Cue?
Winter had come again—the fifth
one. They sat together in the great
hearth of the kitchen, in their charac
teristic attitude when before a fire.
The hickory logs sputtered savagely,
but sent out to them, nevertheless, a j
grateful warmth. Their faces and
bodies glowed in the fervor of it.. And
there is nothing like this to put one
at peace with all the world.
‘‘Sally,” said the old man, "this is
nice."
“Very nice,” agreed Sally.
Rut also there is nothing like this
to send one’s memory backward. And
this it was doing for both of them.
"Eferybodv don’t haf no such fire
to-night." And the everybody he
thought of as he sighed was—Seffy.
"No, not everybody," sighed Sally,
propping her head upon his knee.
"Sally—who do you mean by efery
body?”
“Just one person," admitted Sally,
"the same one you m< an."
"Yas,” said Seffy's father very soft
ly, and then they were silent.
"Mebby some a got no homes—and
■out freezing to-night,” the old man
said presently.
"I hope not,” said Sally. “We could
take them in here if we knew where
they are—couldn’t we, pappy?”
Rut that last note was the one which
dams ni> tears.
"Yas—if we knowed where they air!
My God—if we chust knowed where
they air! Sally, don’t you nefer turn no
one away from the door on a cold win
ter’s night. You don’t know who it
might be!"
“I’ll never turn any one away from
the door!” said Sally with emotion,
"That's right, Sally. Sorne's dead.
I’d rather be d*ad than haf no home.”
“And I.” agreed Sally.
"Nor no friends.”
Sally nodded.
"Sally, how long is it sence you was
married?”
"More than four years—nearly five,
pappy”
"My! but sings is changed!" said
the old man. “Efen the sun don’t
seem so bright no more.”
"Yes, things are changed," said the
girl.
“YU it must be chust an Idee. Why,
the Rible says that summer and winter
shall not change tell e-feryslng come to
pass—eforysing—efsryc.ng—” Then
his voice broke. “Yit—yit—yit It's
one sing ain’t come to pass and It
seems like it’s nefer going to. It’s bet
ter sence you come. Rut yit the house
is damp—and shifery," he shivered
himself—"and empty—like it was a fu
neral about all the time. Yit it’s no
one dead—no one's dead—he’s not
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(load—chust gone. You said so—you
said it first! And some day he’ll come
hack and we’ll git on our knees and
beg his pardon. But it’s so long—oh,
my God—so long! Oh, Seffy—Seffy—
little Seffy—I got a pain in my breast
about you! You was all I had. Como
back to me—come back! I’m a ol’
man. And I'm sorry—sorry—and
broke—broke down. But if you’ll come
lilk
JHT 3t/f¥ez> 70 mr/zoos Az//7s ZTrrr
back—Sally, do you think he’ll ha? a
scar on his face?"
Something stifled his utterance. The
girl put out a soft hand to comfort
him.
‘ Some day we shall know—see! Be
brave!”
“Yas—yas—that's easy to say. But
you nefer struck no one right in the
face—when they was looking up at
you—in that pleading kind of a way!"
She said piteously, "No."
“Then you don't know nossing about
j it! Oh, my God! if you'd had it before
! you for more than four years—like a
picture—morning and efening—day
and nig^it—eferywheres! The blood on
him—and the bed and me!"
“Pappy, I have done more—I have
hurt him worse than you did—I broke
—his heart!" whispered the girl. "Oh, j
I should have thought—there was no
one like him—but I let him go. If he
were here now—"
They sat silent then until the old |
man said:
“Ah well! Come, Sally, it's bedtime.” j
"Yes.”
This meant that it was time for ;
their prayer, which they always said j
in each other's arms, there, before the |
great fire. So Sally slipped to the |
floor, and they folded their hands each
in the other. And, after "Our Father"
was done, came this—rude, simple, but
not less a prayer; for in the five years
of Seffy's absence it had passed into
a formula.
"God, find Seffy, wherefer he may
be, for thou seest all the world, and i
put it into his heart to come back to
those who have repented these many
years; make him merciful to the old
and the evil-tempered.'and yet, if this
be not in thy infinite purposes, O God,
wre bend our heads in submission, for
it is thy punishment for our sin; but j
send some word or sign, that our i
hearts may be comforted, and thy wfill i
be done—Amen!”
And while this was being prayed a
face came to the window in answer—•
a hand brushed away the snow that
the eyes might see better. And then
a head, crowned wfith pale hair, w'as
uncovered—reverently.
Sally looked up. Something as ir
resistible as a magnet drew her eyes
to that face in the window.
As they got up the old man saw
Sally's white face and staring eyes.
“Sally.” he said, “you look like you’d
seen a ghost!”
There was a knock on the outer
door.
“Bring him in, whoefer he is, Sally,
and keep him tell he's got hungry no
more—nor cold—nor sorry—”
Sally did not speak, but went, still
with t.hat strange look in her eyes, as
f she had Indeed seen a ghost.
He heard her pass through the hall
md open the door—then a little cry—
some begging—silence—a sob. After
what seemed a long time, Sally re
turned alone. She did not cpme to his
knee again, but stood panting before
him. He could not see her face. She
did not mean that he should—the fire
i was all about her—illuminating her—
but there.
“Where Is he?” asked Seffy's father.
“Out there.”
He turned at the strange throbbing
of her voice. And then he saw her
face, lighted with a great radiance.
There was a moment of silence. In
the firelight she was as beautiful a3 a
figure of Greuze. That vagrant thine
joy, had come back. But whence":
How?
“Sally, what’s the matter? I nefei
saw you look so. My God! what's the
matter?"
“Shut your eyes!"
The light of the fire flooded her
face now and made it too wonderful tc
close his eyes upon.
“Sally—for the Lord's sake—’
pleaded the old man.
“Shut your eyes,” she glanced over
her shoulder, “and be happy."
"Don’t, Sally.”
She slipped to the floor and knell
at his fe^t.
“Pappy, to-night 1 am a magician. To
night 1 can give you anything you
want. But you must ask for what you
want most.”
She smiled lovingly upon him.
“Shut your eyes and ask.”
Poor old Baumgartner did as she
commanded. And, for a long moment
there was silence. Then a tear
dropped on his face. For in the fire
light poor, sad, sorry old Baumgartner
was making a picture, too; a white
old, hopeless, piteous, pleading face,
framed in masses of hair, shaggily
gray when Seffy went away, seniloiy
white now. The sunken eyes spoke of
hastening peace after sorrow, and the
whole piteous figure begged for those
tears which fell upon Its face.
"Oh, pappy, excuse me,” said the
voice which had gathered to itself all
the music of the life he thought
broken, “but you have so often called
me beautiful that I want to tell you
now that you have the most beautiful
face I have ever seen! Pappy—pappy,
dear pappy, God bless you!"
And her lips descended upon his, her
dear fingers closed his eyes once more,
her handkerchief wiped away the tear
she had dropped upon his face and
others which had followed it, and she
said:
“Are your eyes shut? Yes! N'ow,
ask for anything you want on earth
•or in heaven—and you shall have it.
Do not be afraid! The very dearest
tiling you cau think.”
"Seffy—’’ he whispered brokenly—
"Seffy and you—and me—together!”
"Presto! Open your eyes!” cried
Sally.
He did so—and there, kneeling be
fore him, was Seffy—and one arm was
about Sally, the other reaching out to
him—not quite certain how it would
be received, but with the old smile of
Seffy. He seemed bigger, and lie had
a young beard on cheek and lip, and
he appeared quite worthy to be the
president of the Kansas State League
of Farmers’ clubs.
Old Baumgartner looked without a
word, at first to be sure, then to fill
all his being. And then he rose to his
feet and shook off all the years that
had accumulated during Seffy’s ab
sence, and, when his arms were about
them both, and theirs about him, their
joint shadow rose and filled all the
room and ceiling—blotting out ail else.
And, lo, it was not three shadows, but
one!
“Seffy,” asked liis father, while his
arm went about his shoulders with the
unconsciousness of what seemed yes
terday, "how did you efer git president
of that sing?—what is it?”
"I fought for it, pappy.”
‘‘You? Gosh a'mighty! ”
They both laughed happily.
“Yes—you and Sally were right—I
fieeded to learn to fight. I went out
nto the world where you sent me—
thank you both—and found life. And
I found it a fight from start to finish.
Only with some there is no quarter.”
"Hut not with you," said Sally.
“Rut not with me,” agreed Seffy.
That is not necessary to success.”
"Gosh! Seffy,” said his father, “you
are as wise as ol' Kellerman, the
preacher. Say, you remember him?”
“I remember everything—the small
ast—and it is ail precious, pappy—
more precious than you can know. If
one were never to leave this Happy
Valley, one might live and die as I be
gan. And, if one should never learn
better it is good—good! Rift it is not
the life of the world out there. And,
for me, it is gone for ever! In one
way I am sorry. For the world has
nothing to exchange for these little
things. Out there my heart has al
ways yearned for them and always
will. You and Sally must keep them
as they are—nay, as they were. And
I shall live in them and with them and
we shall be happier for them.”
During all this Seffy's arms and
hands had been busy in the old fashion
of the days of their simplicity. It was
j good to see and better to be!
"I don't beliefe it," cried his happy
I old father, returning his caresses.
I “You ain't forgot a sing! You chust
the same—except the dictionary words
—chust the same—our Seffy! Ain't
so, Sally? Why don't you talk, any
way ?”
“Just—the—same,” said Sally, But
the tears were in her dear eyes and
she knew that her words were for the
father and not the son—for him she
understood that it would never be
the same—quite, and it was she who
had sent him forth to lose the aim
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The heme news; the doings of the people in this
town; the gossip of our own community, that s
the first kind of reading matter you want. It is
more important, more interesting to you than
that given by the paper or magazine from the
outside world. It is the first reading matter
you should buy. Each issue of this paper gives
to you just what you will consider
Kindi of
Hmatter
plicity of the Happy Valley.
“Not a bit—you ain't changed!” re
peated the father, as if saying it might |
make it so.
"Yes, I am,” laughed Seffy.
“You ain’t!" said his father.
"Oh, yes! Sam couldn’t get away
with me now!”
“Nor Sally, hah?”
"Nor Sally.”
"Don't,” pleaded Sally, "you hurt
me!”
"You see," Seffy went on, "you no
tice the changes in me, but not in
yourselves. Shall I tell you about
them? For none of us will ever again
be quite as we were. Shall I tell you
about the changes in you?”
"No," begged Sally quickly, with
drooping head.
"They are beautiful! All beauti
ful!”
"No!" sne repeated.
His father had dropped into his
chair, still happy but very tired. For,
you know, great happiness tires one,
too.
"Seffy," he sighed, “why did you wait
so long—tell I got old?”
“There is still one thing you haven’t
noticed about me, or spoken of, if
you did, in which I am not changed a
bit.”
“What?”
It was Sally's quick voice—Sally,
who thought she had already inven
toried every difference between this
Seffy and the old one—Sally, who hun
gered for the least thing in which he
j might be unchanged!
“I’m stubborn as ever—thank you,
| pappy!”
"Goshens! That's so! You was a
j stubborn little idjiot!”
“We were," laughed Seffy.
“If it hadn't been for that—"
i "I wonder what would have hap
i pened? Do you know?” Seffy said
to Sally.
“No,” sighed Sally.
"I think," said Seffy, with a grace
and tenderness he never had in the
old days, “that we get and lose what
| we deserve—to get and lose. [ didn’t
deserve you then, dear. Perhaps I do
i now?”
Sally said nothing—she could not.
| Her face was deep in his overcoat.
And she was making it so very wet—
that, presently, she lifted her face,
and, with her handkerchief, dried it.
“That is the sweetest thing you have
ever said to me—and it breaks my
heart—for I don't deserve it—that one
little, simple word—dear!"
“Well well," broke in happy old
Baumgartner, drying his own eyes, “is
this a time for weeping and wailing
and gnashing of the teeth? The prodi
gal has returned. We got. to find a
nice fat calf.”
"Well," laughed Seffy, not relin
quishing Sally, “what is the first
thing? I’m ready for work. I’m used
to it!”
“To-morrow, Seffy,” said his father
briskly, “you better let Sally marry
you. Remember she bought you."
He gave Sally time to blush, and
Seffy time to find both her hands and
her lips, and then he finished:
“And make it early—mebby the first
sing in the morning. In the afternoon
we'll take down the fence. All three
of us. It’s waiting for us. Sally kep'
it waiting. Ain't so, Sally?”
Sally affirmed this.
(THE END.)
Not What She Wanted.
“The stupid reporter who called to
see me, wrote me up as a peerless
beauty,” sobbed the heiress and soci
ety belle.
“Isn’t that flattering?” asked her
chum.
“Flattering? When every other girl
in our set has married or is engaged
to a foreign nobleman?”
Easy to Answer.
Niece—Uncle, they say there are
more marriages of blondes than of
brunettes. Why is it. I wonder?
Uncle Singleton (a confirmed bach
elor)—H'm! Naturally, the light-head*
ed ones go first.—Stray Stories.
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