Argosy, Vol. 118, No. 2 — page 108: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

238 said she’d teach you anything she knew about cookin’ or bakin’. She said she could just imagine the kind of a girl you were. And Ill be hanged if she didn’t describe you, although she didn’t do you justice. It was good, though, considering she had never seen you.” Dora shivered in her husband’s arms. Her conscience wasn’t pricking her. It was stabbing her. ‘Well, I sold seven lots to-day,” Henry rattled on. “And I’ve got the addresses of a lot of young folks here in town that’ll buy to be near the old folks. Say, those people are a bunch of real Americans. They’re strong on the family stuff. We'll have a reg’lar colony of real people out there. And { want to say right now that there won’t be a nicer home in the allotment than yours—- Why, what zs the matter, Dora.” Dora was sobbing in good earnest now. She freed herself from his arms and got to her feet. ‘““T— I always told you I wasn’t the girl to make a proper wife for you,’”’ she whis- pered. ‘‘ Now, I’m sure of it. Listen to the horrible thing I have to confess.”’ She told her story. Henry sat starmg at her. She finished and met his gaze. She expected an outburst of anger. But Henry suddenly threw back his head and exploded in laughter. Then he sprang up and caught his little wife in his big arms. “Oh, girl,” he said huskily because he had laughed so much, “ this is the crownin’ touch. I know you love me now. Why, you were jealous! Think of it! You were THE ARGOSY. : jealous on account of a big old slob like me.”’ | Late that night after a fitting celebration which had included a look at their future home, Dora thought of the handbag. She brought it out from the dresser drawer where she had hidden it. ‘““What’ll we do with this, Henry?” she asked. ‘‘ I—-I can’t confess to that woman that I went out there and got it.”’ ‘Why, just wrap it up and send it to her by parcel post,” Henry said. ‘“‘ She’ll never know who it came from.”’ ‘Oh, you’re so kind and good,”’ ee sighed. “ You think of everything for me.’ ‘ That’s because I love you,” said Henry. ‘“ Don’t you love me a little?” “A little?” repeated Dora tremulously. ‘“ Not a little, Henry dear.” She kissed him. Then she turned back to the handbag. She opened it and took out the card with her husband’s name and tele- phone numbers on it. She tore the card into fine fragments and dropped them into the waste basket. : “What was that?” Henry asked. “The card that woman had with your name and phone numbers on it,” Dora an- swered. ‘No use leaving it in there. If she wants to talk to you about—about the lots she can find your name in the direc- tory.” ‘Oh, her,” said Henry scornfully. *‘ She’s probably got me pegged as Wilkinson again by now.” S ‘IT hope so,” murmured Dora under her breath. ‘‘ The hateful thing!” A SONG IN DOUBT S it lover or friend that she holds me? I know not, but know That she shapes me and molds me As sculptor the pliable clay; My longing, it floods and enfolds me As does earth the snow, Or as, at the lapse of the thrush song, the darkness the day. Her eyes afte as skies at their fairest, Unfathomably blue; Her lips are as rarest Anemones touched by the sun; Ah, heart of my heart, if thou carest, Then give me the clue That shall point out the radiant pathway to paradise won! Sennett Stephens. _ (E©) MIEIOO (E@)