Carolina Watchman

AWAKENED
ELINORE BARRY
TIMID WOMAN
AUTOCAST SERVICE—N.Y.
FIFTH INSTALLMENT

"I don't care who comes, I'm going out!" she decided recklessly. "On a glorious day like this it would be a crime to stick indoors. If this isn't a pleasant change from Philadelphia in November! It's all so marvelous!"

She went down to the dining room buoyantly, careless of whether or not it had been Frills' custom to appear so early.

After serving breakfast, Roxie lingered. "Will you be home for dinner, Mrs. Packard?" she asked. "Marcia would like to know if there'll be guests, and how many to expect, and what you'd like to order."

"Yes, I'll be here for dinner, but I'll be alone. And tell Marcia to have anything at all, it doesn't matter what, just so I don't have to decide myself."

She went out immediately into the garden and made her way around the dining-room wing of the house in the direction of the garage, sniffing delightedly at the exotic fragrance of the orange blossoms.

She was amused to notice a head dodge back behind the yellow checked curtains as she passed the kitchen. "I just know they're wondering what can have happened to Frills," she thought, smiling. "Well, they'll have to keep on wondering. I hope at least that they won't find the chance too unpleasant. Now, let's see—Oh, there's somebody! I wonder if that's the 'Sam' Neil mentioned?"

"He looks young and somehow not like an ordinary servant," she thought as she approached. "I wish he'd look up. Shall I say 'good morning' to attract his attention? I don't dare call him Sam till I'm sure he is Sam."

Her impression that he was not an ordinary servant was confirmed when the young man suddenly turned around, and seeing her, broke off in his whistling and exclaimed, "Good-morning, Mrs. Packard! Gee, I'm glad to see you out. How are you? Feel all right?"

His attitude, though deferential enough, had nothing servile in it. He spoke in an easy manner, as if questions of varying social levels had never disturbed him.

"Oh, yes, I'm all right," replied Joyce, feeling relieved that this was going to be easier than she had expected. "I did get kind of a bad crack on the head, though it's better today. . . . Is Fire Queen in the stable?" (She had one thing to thank Maitland for—he had told her the name of the horse.)

There was just the hint of a grin on the young man's face as he answered, "Mr. Packard gave orders before he left for me to take her over to MacBready's ranch yesterday."

"Oh?" Joyce frowned, not, as Sam probably thought, in anger at this news, but in baffled annoyance at having to stop and consider every remark before she dared make it.

"Mr. Packard had me bring Rosita over from MacBready's for you in case you want to ride. She's one fine little mare, lively as a kitten, without the mean streak of Fire Queen. Want me to saddle her up?"

Furnished with a plausible excuse for not riding, this would have been an excellent chance for Joyce to have remarked angrily, "No, if I can't have Fire Queen, I won't ride at all." Instead she answered, "I'm not going to ride today, but I'd like to see her."

"Sure, I'll bring her out," and Sam disappeared into the stable where she heard him speaking in low clucking tones with a soothing note in his voice. Sam was a nice young man, but she fancied he had looked a little disappointed at the quiet way she received the news of losing Fire Queen.

Sam came out leading a daintily-stepping chestnut mare, with a white star on her mild forehead. She nuzzled against Sam's shoulder with her soft nose, while he explained to Joyce, "Rosita's always been a pet at MacBready's and she's used to being made much over, aren't you baby?" He stroked her fondly, pushing her off when she playfully nipped his sleeve. "Here, get out, girl, pick on some one your own size. Isn't she a beauty? Look at her lines, she hasn't got a fault anywhere."

"She is a beauty," agreed Joyce with enthusiasm, coming closer and patting the horse's neck timidly.

"She looks as gentle as can be," went on Joyce, wondering whether Frills wouldn't have been disgusted with this very mildness.

"Sure she does," agreed Sam, "but say, get on her, and she's got all the life you want and don't you forget it. Say, that mare's got one of the fastest trots of any horse around here, and the smoothest canter you ever saw."

Joyce stepped back a little. In spite of Rosita's good character, she seemed disconcertingly big, and Joyce had a foolish fear of being stepped on suddenly. She lingered while Sam led Rosita inside again.

There was a varnished wooden station wagon standing on the gravel drive while inside the garage she could see a long low car, very sporty-looking, with brilliant canary-yellow body and disk wheels.

The upholstery was a bright lavender leather, and there was a great deal of shiny nickel about it. "I wouldn't be found dead in a thing like that," thought Joyce.

Sam, returning at the moment, caught sight of her expression. He looked puzzled and asked, "What's the matter, Mrs. Packard? Anything wrong with the car?"

"Nothing—except that it's all wrong," retorted Joyce, continuing to smile. She felt recklessly inclined to go on and tell him what she really thought about it.

"Well, I'd get tired of those jazzy colors myself after a bit," said Sam frankly, "but it's a darn good car. Shall I back her out for you?"

"No, thanks, I'm not going out today." She still lingered, however, as if she were not quite sure of her decision.

Suddenly she remembered something she had wanted, and forgetting everything else, she asked eagerly, "Do you know where I could get a dog?"

This time the astonishment on Sam's tanned face was so unmistakable that Joyce realized that she had at last really surprised him.

"But gee, Mrs. Packard, I thought you didn't like dogs" he exclaimed.

"Well, I've changed my mind," returned Joyce, embarrassment making her speak so shortly that Sam seemed to take her answer as a rebuke.

"Well, I don't know exactly what I do want," said Joyce uncomfortably, wishing she had given the matter more thought before getting into it this way.

"Why don't you go to Allen Kennels and pick out something you like?" suggested Sam after a moment.

"Oh. I don't want to be bothered," she replied, hoping this would sound enough like the capricious Frills to pass. "Can you get me one somewhere around here, so I can have it today?"

"Well, I know a dog I think I could get you," exclaimed Sam suddenly, "it's the cutest little white and black Boston bull you ever saw, about two years old and smart as a whip. Belongs to people named March. They're going to China and don't want to take the pup. Like to have me see if I can get him for you?"

"Oh, yes, do," said Joyce. "Do you want . . . had you better have some money? I can write you a check."

"I don't think they'll take any money. They'll be glad to find a good home for the dog."

"Get him as soon as you can, will you?" asked Joyce, smiling at Sam gratefully. "I'm crazy to see him. Now that I've decided to have a dog, I want it right away."

"Sure, I'll go right away, Mrs. Packard. I was just going to drive down to get the day's orders."

Joyce wished she might ride with him while he did his errands but realizing the inadvisability of such an outing she turned away reluctantly and went back to the house where she found that the morning mail had arrived. She sorted out the ones addressed to "Mrs. Neil Packard" and carried them down to the far end of the garden to a secluded corner hidden from the house.

The first one was a short, carelessly scrawled in a handwriting she seemed to have seen before. "Sorry you didn't feel like seeing any of the gang honey. I can't stand this any longer. Thank God, Neil is away for some time. I can't get over your look this morning, Frills. Call me up tomorrow, dearie, C."

"That's the same 'C' who wrote about the house party," thought Joyce, "and it must be the Mrs. Emery who telephoned yesterday.

The next letter on heavy masculine stationery began: "Star Baby!"

Joyce grinned to herself at this poetic opening. "How lovely!" she murmured sarcastically, and read on with interest.

"I'm sitting in my room at the window that faces where you are and think of you so hard that I can't settle to anything else. I'm bitterly disappointed that I can't be with you now, this minute. I had been living for it all day, and now I'm lonely as the devil. You've got to be better tomorrow, afternoon, sweetheart I thought I'd seen you in all your different moods, but you had me guessing today. I never felt so puzzled about you before. You seemed to have slipped away from me entirely. I can't quite get it yet. It makes me restless now and I'm tempted to try to get to you tonight in spite of everything. I'll be worried until I find you looking more like yourself.

"Why are you keeping me off like this? I'm pretty rotten at writing, you know, beloved, but when I'm with you again I'm going to tell you all over again—and demonstrate it—how I adore every inch of you. Won't you call me up right away? I want to know how you slept and how you feel now. All my love to my Frills, from her adoring Mait."

"Too much fervor!" murmured Joyce critically. She felt only a detached sort of disgust, as if she were reading a vulgar love letter addressed to another. She shook the letter impatiently. "All your fine passion is wasted on me, Mr. Maitland!" she said aloud.

"Well, let's see what else I have here? After Mait's passionate composition everything else will seem tame."

The next letter made her sit up with a jerk. There was no address. and Joyce hastily turned the envelope over and examined the post mark curiously. "New York, N. Y.," she finally made out.

In an angular, precise handwriting, in pale ink the astonishing letter read:

"My dear Florence: Although you seem to lack interest in hearing about the baby, I feel it no less than my duty to keep you informed of her health. She is a most engaging little mite, showing, even at her tender age, a decided personality and charm.

"Although truth compels me to admit that you are probably not the most suitable person to bring up a child, still I cannot understand how you can possibly feel that the sort of pleasures which fill your life are more important, more satisfying, than the care and bringing up of this dear little baby. I will send you a few lines each month. Please extend my faithful greeting to Neil.

Sophie."

Spellbound, Joyce read this letter, which flowed along without a single paragraph to break its smooth stilted sentences. The significance of its contents came as such an unexpected blow that she felt weak and shaken.

"A baby! It can't be true! . . . I never even heard of that. . . . Could Frills have had a baby in that time? Let me see, yes, it could have happened . . . the baby could by now be as much as five or six months old! . . . Oh dear, Oh dear, to think of me having a baby She sat and read the letter again and again trying to realize the incredible fact that she, Joyce Ashton, was a mother.

Joyce glanced up and saw a man coming down the path toward her. She took a deep breath to restore her courage and looked him over with surprising calm as she hastily put the letters aside.

Continued Next Week