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THE MOT I OX PICTURE STORY MAGAZINE
Billy on the shrinking back and pinched the girl's glowing cheek.
"Aha, you sly young folks!" he chuckled. "So there'll be another party— a wedding — when May Belle t omes home again !"
These words rang mournfully in Billy's brain as he and the little mother watched the last nicker of engine smoke fade from the sky, citywards, the next afternoon. They hurt him vaguely, with their sweet promise of unfulfilled joys. He had felt on his lips, for a brief, goodby moment, the cool, untroubled touch of her young lips; had seen the childanticipation in her tearless eyes. And he had let her go! With an effort, he smiled down into the pitiful, working old face at h i s side and tucked one big, warm hand under the shawled elbow.
"It's gettin' real chilly out here," he said briskly. "Come on, ma; let's go home. ' '
To May Belle, the city w a s a fairy tale come true, with her little, country self for heroine, and a splendid, willow-plumed, satin-dressed, fairy godmother indulgently waving her wand. It seemed quite impossible that Aunt Belle, with her marceled hair, slender waist and sparkling fingers, was any relation to her mother, or that the great, luxurious mansion on the Avenue could be in the same world as the farmhouse, shivering forlornly under its leafless elms. And when she looked into the mirror, in her own white-and-gold
little room, May Belle saw, not the small, country maiden of her pinebureau glass at home, with the loose curls and the green, f gured delaine, but a new. lovely seli; in soft blue silk, hair piled modishly on the top of her head, bright color, delicately veiled with powder, and round, radiant eyes. The eyes were those of the old May Belle, tho she did not realize it, eager, unworldly, innocent, widening with every fresh wonder of the wonderful days.
In the first three weeks of sight-seeing, shopping and shaking hands with the new life, May Belle learnt many curious things. She found that supper was dinner, and dinner, luncheon; that one must not laugh much or talk much, or skip, or clap her hands; that a man with money and automobiles was a "catch," but without them he was an "impossible"; and she found, too, that there were a great many men in the world who looked at her in a way that made her feel red and queer and thrilled.
And then there was Nelson Gryce. May Belle, among the perfumed, perfect artificiality of the afternoon teaguests, was like a cool, little, fragrant breeze or an old-fashioned, simple, wild blossom caught in a formal garden. And he was bored and sensejaded. So they became friends. At first, it was theater tickets; boxes of candy, such as May Belle had never dreamed of; flowers that came, city pale in tissue and silver foil. Then
THE PARTING