Picture Play Magazine (Mar-Aug 1916)

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The Turmoil 259 business. As he passed the Vertrees estate, he found himself slowing down his pace till he came to an abrupt stop. He stood looking over the lowtrimmed hedge, across the sun-flecked lawn, bordered by rosebushes, to the quaint old mansion, its many windows reflecting the glow of the afternoon sunshine. "I'm glad they haven't torn down the splendid old homestead and built a modern eyesore in its place/' he said, and, unaware that he spoke aloud, he was startled when a sweet, low-toned voice made answer : "I'm afraid our forefathers had a fuller conception of beauty than we have." As he turned to stare confusedly into the glorious eyes of Mary Vertrees, who had joined him silently, the girl went on : "You are Mr. Sheridan—Mr. Bibbs Sheridan?" He nodded and pulled off his slouch hat. "I have seen you, Mr. Sheridan, but only at long range. You are either very shy or you have done some terrible things that make you stay in the background." "It is not my sins of commission, but my sins of omission, that are to blame, Miss Vertrees," he said. "You are right in both guesses, and it was my shyness and love for my own society that made me keep to my room while you were making the acquaintance of the rest of the family. But my chief sin, in the eyes of my father and my brothers, is that I cannot fire myself with a great zeal for making money. Isn't that enough to keep me in the background ?" "Quite enough," she smiled. "And yet it is very interesting in these days to meet a man who doesn't think of dollars all the time. I am sure we are going to be very good friends. Let's call this an introduction." He took the small hand she extended. It lay in his palm for a brief moment, and the touch of flesh on flesh sent a thrill through him. "I seem to know you very well indeed," he said hesitantly. "I confess 1 have watched you moving about this lovely garden, and — and" — he laughed confusedly — "I made you the subject of some verses I wrote. I called you The Rose Maiden.' " Mary laughed unrestrainedly. "How splendid !" she cried. "I never felt so flattered in my life. Some day you will show me the verses ?" "Maybe," he said, with a certain diffidence. "You see, I am trying to forget poetry and the finer things. My father has insisted that I learn how to make automatic pumps. I hate them, but I am doing my best." She smiled — that alluring smile which had captured his father's heart and which sent the blood to Bibbs' cheeks. "You poor boy !" she said compassionately. "I am in sympathy with you. The talk of money-making all around nauseates me, and I'm glad to get away from it and think of other things. Poetry is your relaxation. Music is mine. Just now, for instance, I am on my way to a little chapel, where an organist, a friend of my father's, an old German, dreams over the keys for a half hour before supper. Would you not like to come with me and hear him?" "Thank you." he said, and, turning, he walked with her to the little chapel. The old German was already on the organ bench when they went in at the side door, and, softly crossing the transept, slipped into a pew. The soul of the organ spoke to them there in the darkened chapel. Eagerly Mary Vertrees leaned forward, her hands clutching the pew in front. Caught in the spell of the music, they drew closer together till their heads touched. In sympathy, his hand covered hers on the rounded back of the pew, and they sat thus silently till, in a thunder of melody, the old organist