the brow.

And the wonder was that Louis Latz, in his grief, was so proud.

"To think," he kept saying over and over again and unabashed at the way
his face twisted--"to think they should have happened to me. Two such
women in one lifetime as my little mother--and her. Fat little old Louis
to have had those two. Why, just the memory of my Carrie--is almost
enough. To think old me should have a memory like that--it is almost
enough--isn't it, Alma?"

She kissed his hand.

That very same, that dreadful night, almost without her knowing it,
her throat-tearing sobs broke loose, her face to the waistcoat of Leo
Friedlander.

He held her close--very, very close. "Why, sweetheart," he said, "I
could cut out my heart to help you! Why, sweetheart! Shh-h-h! Remember
what Louis says. Just the beautiful memory--of--her--is--wonderful--"

"Just--the b-beautiful--memory--you'll always have it, too--of her--my
mamma--won't you, Leo? Won't you?"

"Always," he said when the tight grip in his throat had eased enough.

"Say--it again--Leo."

"Always."

She could not know how dear she became to him then, because not ten
minutes before, from the very lapel against which her cheek lay pressed,
he had unpinned a white carnation.

BACK PAY

I set out to write a love story, and for the purpose sharpened a
bright-pink pencil with a glass ruby frivolously at the eraser end.

Something sweet. Something dainty. A candied rose leaf after all the
bitter war lozenges. A miss. A kiss. A golf stick. A motor car. Or, if
need be, a bit of khaki, but without one single spot of blood or mud,
and nicely pressed as to those fetching peg-top trouser effects where
they wing out just below the skirt-coat. The oldest story in the world
told newly. No wear out to it. Editors know. It's as staple as eggs
or printed lawn or ipecac. The good old-fashioned love story with the
above-mentioned miss, kiss, and, if need be for the sake of timeliness,
the bit of khaki, pressed.

Just my luck that, with one of these modish tales at the tip of my pink
pencil, Hester Bevins should come pounding and clamoring at the door of
my mental reservation, quite drowning out the rather high, the lipsy,
and, if I do say it myself, distinctly musical patter of Arline. That
was to have been her name. Arline Kildane. Sweet, don't you think, and
with just a bit of wild Irish rose in it?

But Hester Bevins would not let herself be gainsaid, sobbing a little,
elbow