The Argosy, Volume XLIV — page 127: what you’re looking at

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

THE LISPING LASS. ation. And as I stood there the door into the hall, which had been ajar, swung open, and there stood Amy her- _ self. | I took a step toward her, but some- thing in the expression of her face re- pelled me, or else it was the remem- brance of my recent discovery. I said something in greeting—I couldn’t tell for the life of me what it was now—and she met me half way and gave me a cold little hand which had about as much life in it as a dead fish. * Your aunt was coming to town, and I came with her to shop,” she said, in a voice which seemed anything but nat- ural. “She is doing some business somewhere, and Jack Olmstead brought me over here to wait for her. He stopped down-stairs to speak to a man. You know Jack—Fred Marshall’s artist friend ? ” I acknowledged the acquaintance in some way, and Amy swept over to the mantel. Her eyes must have taken in the entire row of photos at a glance. She saw that her own picture was miss- ing. Then she picked up the photo of the beautiful Unknown. Amy is not a city girl, and she is not used to hiding her real’ feelings under a social mask. Her voice shook as she asked, with a laugh that was almost a sob: . “ Who’s your ‘ lady friend,’ Joe? ” And before I could explain, in stalked Olmstead himself. I had to greet him. Amy, with trembling hand, put back the fatal photo, but of a sud- den Olmstead pounced on it. “By Jove, Giddings,” he cried, 123 “where’d you get the picture of Princess Frieda of Loremburg? It’s just what I want—lI’ve tried in every print shop in New York. Let me have this one, will you? ” , He marched off to the window with it, so as to see it by a better light. “Are you sure that is who it is?” I asked in a voice that I think shook. “Sure? I’ve seen her personally. You know I traveled all through those little German principalities last year.” “TI did not know who it was,” I re- marked. Then, turning to Amy, I added: “When Fred Marshall was down here last week and I was cleaning up, I tried to throw the thing away. But Fred must have destroyed the wrong photograph, for I found that old thing among my pictures just now.” “Oh, this is Princess Frieda, all right!” said Olmstead again. “ Will you give it to me?” Amy had stepped quickly to the mantel; nevertheless I could see the blush and smile which transformed her face. She slipped something out of her handbag, and in another instant I saw her own photograph smiling at me from its accustomed place. I knew Fred had given it to her! I turned to Olmstead with relief. “Sure! Take it and carry it as far as you like—the farther the better!” I cried. But to this day I can’t imagine who the woman was at the Frivolity Theater who sent the picture out to me, or for whom it was intended. Nor has Jackson himself been able to explain the mys- tery. THE LISPING LASS. THERE'S naught in tobacco, there’s nothing in song, There’s naught in the wine filled glass, That is half as delightful, right or wrong, As the lips of a lisping lass. There’s naught in the rose so sweetly red As in lips where the words scarce pass— Nothing in poetry ne’er so well said As by lips of a lisping lass! Tom. Hall. (COL ElOOO YY \ S) COL