The Freeman

Pro Bono Publico.

Copyright, 1906, by K. A. Whitehead.

By FRANK H. SWEET.

The new minister had been in Roxville three months, and already the Thursday evening attendance had more than doubled, and there were premonitions that several presumptive engagements would not come off, and yet Burke Ellison was not a ladies' man in any sense of the word. He was fresh from his theological course, diffident, earnest and with his heart in the upbuilding of this, his first church, and his abilities were of so commonplace an order as to seem brilliant only in an out-country village like Roxville.

This Thursday evening the attendance was unusually large, and among the twenty or more girls there were nearly half as many boys, red, embarrassed and waiting impatiently for the close of the service.

As they filed out Carrie Morse, the organist, paused at the door for a leisurely buttoning of her gloves. A hand touched her arm suggestively, but she finished the buttoning calmly. Then she said, without turning: "No, Sam, not tonight. I'm going to walk with Alice. We've got things to talk about."

Come, to a girl who was standing with a young man just inside.

"All right, I'm ready. No, to her companion, you can't walk home with me this evening, Tom. It's such a short way, and Carrie and I want to be together."

As they went down the path a third girl joined them, running from a boy whose arm half rose in ineffectual protest. The girl was giggling.

"I guess I'll walk with you, girls," she cried. "We've just got to cold shoulder those boys a little or they'll begin to think they own us, and I - we don't want their company that way. But isn't he sweet?"

"Lovely," Carrie answered. She regarded the newcomer through the corners of her eyes.

"Funny," she commented, "you've been keeping company with John two years."

"That's just the trouble," the girl giggled, "it's getting too settled. But you've been going with Sam most as long, Carrie, and folks do say - oh, you needn't laugh, Alice. You and Tom are pretty much in the same boat. But never mind; you're both like me, and feel it's getting too settled. The boys need a little - little more uncertainty."

"There never was anything between Sam and me," said Carrie, shortly. "We're just friends."

"That's what Tom and I are," declared Alice. "It's silly the way folks talk. What are you snickering about, Lou?"

"Oh, nothing," giggled the third girl; "only I was sort of wondering if 'twas him."

Then, inconsequently, "He's coming over to my house Thursday. He asked if it would be convenient when I came in this evening."

"That's because you're a committee on the Easter decorations," observed Carrie, indifferently, "and his head is full of that just now. He spent all last evening at my house."

"Because you're the organist, and he's trying to improve the music," said Alice.

"Land knows, there's room enough. I'm going to have him in to supper Friday, just as a friend."

There were some minutes of silence, during which the girls walked on, several feet apart; then they came together again, giggling.

Just behind them was a neatly clad figure, alone. At first this girl had paid no attention to the conversation in front; then, as the tones grew more insistent and she understood, she fell behind, her face growing thoughtful.

Three young men pushed by her, indignant, and yet evidently afraid to advance, for they only went on a few steps, and then slackened their pace.

"I tell you, boys, I won't stand this thing much longer," she heard one of them declare hotly. "This makes two Thursdays I've been turned down, and I thought everything was all right, and I've even been on the lookout for a house. Of course, I wouldn't say this to you" - apologetically and lowering his voice, though not so low but the girl behind was obliged to hear - "but you two are being treated in the same way. What's the matter, do you think - him?"

"No, just girls' foolishness," answered one of his companions.

"Ellison isn't a Mormon, and, besides, everybody can see he doesn't care for girls. He's afraid of them. I guess ours are only trying to see how much strain we will bear."

"Um! Maybe you're right" - doubtfully - "but I feel as though I ought to be pinning the thing down somewhere and starting a row. If only he wasn't quite so - so absolutely unconscious" -

The girl fell back still farther, beyond any possibility of hearing; then there came a quick, firm step behind her, and

"How fortunate, Miss Jessie. I was afraid I might not be able to catch up with you. I wanted" -

"To see me about the new carpet?" she anticipated.

"No, just to see you," frankly.

"But I beg your pardon. I was not to allude to it again until after you finished schooling. One forgets so easily. I hope they are all well at home?"

She did not answer for some moments. When she looked up a tremulous smile was playing about her lips, but her eyes were clear and steady.

"I withdraw what I told you that evening, Burke," she said, "and will answer your request as you wish, and - and you may announce the engagement at once."

He stopped short, his face joyous, but incredulous. Then he caught her hands.

"Why, I - I don't understand it, Jessie," he stammered. "What does it mean? There was no intimation of it in your eyes or voice when I spoke to you this evening. How came you to - to change so suddenly?"

"For the public good, perhaps," she replied thoughtfully. "But never mind: you would not understand. Maybe I will tell you some time. Now you may walk home with me."