The Columbus Commercial

AN UNUSUAL THING

By VIRGINIA LEILA WENTZ

Copyright, 1906, by Lucy Douglas.

The truth about the whole matter was that while Doris loved Jack she didn't want to marry him yet. Freedom spelled "fun"—travel, admirers—oh, in short, everything nice and exciting. She simply couldn't bear the thought of "settling down."

And Jack was so ardent, so boyishly impetuous, that she must perforce keep him at arm's length or all would be over. Therefore her promise to give him a straight answer "when he did some unusual thing" was merely a subterfuge to gain time, which she had employed at the beginning of the summer.

And now the summer and the last rose of it had flown. It was October. And Jack hadn't done anything unusual yet—nothing but be his nice, dear, wholesome self! The October days were full of elixir, and the tread of beauty was on the hills and the fields of grass and fodder, ripened by August suns and tanned by early September frosts to a mellow autumn bronze.

With the passing of summer almost all the boarders had left the pretty little Berkshire resort except Doris Dudley and her invalid mother, who were to remain there some weeks longer. It was Jack's custom, since he had been obliged to return to town, to run down on Saturdays and spend Sunday with them.

This particular Sunday morning Doris and he were crossing the sloping meadows, plowing through the tangle of withered sedge and brown grass, when Jack suddenly broke out bitterly:

"I don't believe you care for me at all—or ever have!"

"Really?" said Doris indifferently. She rested her white sunshade far back over her shoulder and looked dreamily across the meadows to the purple hills beyond, but there were dimples in her cheeks and a multitude of little curls blowing in her eyes.

"Why are you so provoking, dear? You've all but given your promise, and yet you keep putting me off and leading me along as if I were a pet animal with no will of its own. Well, I'm a fool!" he repeated, fiercely suppressing the expletive.

"Goodness, no, Jack," drawled the mischievous Doris. "Not so bad as that."

Jack cooled a bit and renewed his pleadings.

"But do be reasonable, Doris. If you don't intend to throw me over, tell me when you'll give me a positive answer, and—"

"When you do some unusual thing," interjected she sweetly, blowing the curls out of her eyes.

Jack, who had been carrying his hat, slapped it on his head with an exclamation of disgust. He was certainly vexed and took very long strides.

"Hello, Jack," called Doris daintily after him as he far outdistanced her. "That's not the way I'm going. I'm going down by the bridge. Want to come?" It chanced that he did.

Now, the path to the bridge was rather a pretty path, running through a small wood, which in summer time was full of shade and woodbine and foxgloves and ferns. These had vanished, but the story of the wood, the stream, remained.

Spanning the stream was the bridge. It was tiny and not particularly serviceable, with gingerbready trelliswork at the side for the tickling of unartistic tastes.

"Let's rest here," suggested Doris, sitting down comfortably on the flimsy side rail of the bridge. With one hand she held a bunch of ruffly skirts, and with her other she balanced herself on the handle of her sunshade.

"Isn't the purply haze on those hills beautiful?" remarked she poetically.

It was only some belated cricket, forgotten by July, that chirped an appreciative reply to this poetic observation.

As to Jack, he was silent for a few moments; then with coarse, masculine directness he went straight to the spot:

"But what in thunder can a chap like me do, Doris, that would be unusual? I'm a decent enough sort, I reckon—good family, wholesome instincts and all that, with enough money to live on and a reasonable amount of industry—but as for doing anything unusual, pshaw." he broke off irascibly.

Doris hummed an air from "Little Johnny Jones" and gathered her skirt frills a bit closer. Apparently she wasn't giving his recital the closest attention.

Jack flicked a beetle from the railing and changed his tactics.

"Isn't it enough for your purpose, little girl, to be sure that I love you?" he asked.

Doris shot a lightning glance at her big lover from under her dark lashes.

"Still," she said musingly, "I should like you to do some unusual thing."

Jack passed one hand over his swarthy brow and took a hurried review of his resources.

"Possibly," observed he coldly at length, "I might write a book."

Doris giggled. "Yes, and dedicate it to me," suggested she.

"In what form—To my Wife?" asked Jack boldly.

"Look!" said she quickly, nodding her head toward the opposite bank of the stream.

Jack looked. He saw a slight, sinuous movement among the high grasses of the margin, and then something slid suddenly into the water.

"Pooh," said he, leaning against the rail of the bridge to look over. "a water rat."

Doris swung a dainty russet shoe a bit beyond the edges of her ruffles.