The Daily Ardmoreite

BILLY ADMITS THERE IS
AN ELEMENT OF LUCK
By Leslie W. Quirk

Billy Winslow had often been accused of being in luck.
Now.
As a fair-haired, blue-eyed sophmore who lives and loves by rule-of-thumb will admit, there really is no such thing as luck. Perhaps there is. But Billy Winslow was not old enough to be gray-headed and he did not live by rule-of-thumb. Hence the constant iterations on the subject were tiresome.

Today his dissertation on luck had been particularly positive and prolonged. So long had he derided the potency of chance, indeed, that not once in the whole afternoon had he found time to propose to Helen Thurlow. The oversight carried its sting. Any girl finds pleasure in heeding a proposal even when, as in this case, the man proposes some two or three times a day on an average, only to be politely but smilingly rejected. Down in her heart Helen Thurlow loved Billy Winslow, and meant in the fulness of time to say yes.

"But don't you think, Billy," she asked finally, "that something's luck, or chance, or fate—"

"Ah, fate," interrupted Billy, "is quite another thing. If it is ordained that a thing is to be, some power works for that end. But the act, while it may seem the veriest flip of luck, is really nothing of the kind. Now, if we go back into the history of the grand—"

"Please," pouted two pretty lips, "please let's keep to the present. Now, Billy, what were you about to say?"

And Billy, being neither gray-haired nor guided by rule-of-thumb in his loving, forgot ancients and luck, and proposed again.

"I—I don't know what to answer," said Helen, looking a little startled as if this were the first time. "I am not sure I love you enough to marry you. But, Billy"—and her face lighted rosily—"if you are certain that we are merely the playthings of fate, I am willing to leave my answer to—to luck."

This was striking in a wholly unfair and poignant manner.

"Please explain."

"Well," said Helen, "tonight I shall go to my desk and write you two notes. One will be an acceptance of your proposal and one a rejection. I shall enclose both in similar envelopes, with nothing to indicate which is which. Then I shall shuffle them fairly—oh, quite fairly, Billy, that no telepathy of mine shall interfere with that which is to be—and one I shall stamp and mail to you and one I shall toss into the fireplace without opening to know which has gone to you, and—"

"Helen! You're insane! You'll do nothing of the kind! Love is too sacred to trifle with in this fashion. I won't allow it."

"But, Billy, some power will work for the proper end that has been ordained. You have just said so yourself. You know, Billy, there is no such thing as luck. Now, not a word. Here's your hat. Tomorrow morning, when your mail comes, you will find my note. Good-bye and"—she could not resist the final boon of the last taunt—"good luck!"

For a man who had not been accepted—yet—the hour of Billy's call the next morning was little short of scandalous. But early as he was Helen was waiting for him. She met him at the door, and after he had swung it to, that the curious world outside might not share in his happiness, he took her in his arms without a word. For a long minute neither of them spoke. Then Billy lifted the girl's face to his.

"It's yes," he declared, not as a question, but as the repeating of a set form.

"It's fate, Billy," whispered the girl. Her whole face was wreathed in a smile of contentment.

After they had talked of many other things, the girl said abruptly:

"I think, Billy, I must have been mad yesterday to leave the decision to luck—that is, fate. After you had gone, and I had written the notes, I began to grow afraid. But I was stubborn enough not to give up the silly plan, and I burned one and mailed the other. Then, Billy, I began to wonder what you would think of me, and whether you mightn't stop loving me altogether; and I lay on the bed and cried myself to sleep. I—you'll forgive me, won't you, Billy?"

"Forgive you! It was my fault, Helen. I suspect I've been a babbling fool with my theories. I am the one who was to blame, because I goaded you into making the test to open my eyes. I—well, girlie, after this I am going to admit there is an element of luck in what we do. Shall we forget the whole wretched business?"

But she seemed not to have heard him.

"I was jesting, Billy; you know that. After I had mailed the note to you, I thought of the horrible possibility of your taking it seriously, of your considering it as my final answer."

"You mean you were afraid you had sent the wrong note?"

"I was jesting, I tell you. But, Billy, I was afraid you mightn't understand. I was mocking you for your belief in fate. I—Billy, I hardly dare confess it now for fear you won't want me, but I wrote both of the notes exactly alike."

"I think," said Billy Winslow soothingly, holding her close, "that I am the luckiest man on earth."

(Copyright, 1912, by Associated Literary Press)