Radio romances (July-Dec 1945)

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If your favorite dealer does not yet carry "Dark-Eyes", mail coupon today! "Dark-Eyes", Dept. JL-5 2 18 S. Wabash Ave., Chicago 4, 111. I enclose $1.20 (tax included) for regular size package of "Dark-Eyes", and directions. Check shades : □ Black D Brown Name Address Town State . . . . , I arrived early and Hank and I went down to the brook to go wading. It was cool and still in the shadows and the water felt wonderfully good. Hank had so much to show me — the colored stones he had found, the darting minnows, the way the puppy could swim. We were watching the little fellow splash about when a shadow, darker than the rest, fell across me. I looked up. "Pop!" Hank cried joyfully, and hurled himself at the man who stood on the bank above us. A tall, sandy-haired man with a shy smile that started at his blue eyes and spread infectiously. I could not speak. Bob, my Bob, was there, holding the wet, tousled youngster. Our eyes clung together over the small head buried on his chest. He spoke, but I could only watch his lips, his eyes. It was Bob! His words began to make sense. "I guess you know by now how much Hank needs you. How much I need you. This is home, Kit — for the three of us." I could not believe it. It was like some miraculous reprieve that I had not dared to hope for. Bob was here. And he still loved me. It was in his face, in his gesture as he held out a hand to help me up the little bank. His touch had the same magic for me, making my pulse leap; his voice held low, unsteady, "You're lovelier than ever, Kit." We were two people in a moment so spellbound that it seemed made of gossamer. No — three people. Bob took my hand on one side and Hank's one the other and walked us toward the little grove of trees that bordered the brook. A picnic lunch had been spread out beneath them. "This whole thing started at a picnic. . . . Remember? More than two years ago." Bob's voice held a caress. We stood motionless, facing each other. Then Hank said peremptorily, "The puppy ees ate!" Bob grinned. "His English gets better every day! You can almost understand him. What he means is that the puppy snitched a sandwich. . . . It's all right, Hank. Supposing we all have one." "Where — where did you find him?" I managed to say against the hard lump in my throat. "In a haymow, to be exact. And he was scared to death." And sitting there beside me on the grassy bank, Bob told me the whole story. Hank came from a little town in France near the Belgian border. After his parents were killed he was sent to a nearby chateau which had been converted into an orphanage. The day Bob's squadron established their quarters in a wing of the chateau, the jerries came over on a surprise raid. Bob found the little fellow in the barn, white-faced and completely terrorstricken. After that, Hank officially "adopted" Bob. He would wait for him at night to come in from the flying field, then they would have supper together. It was always Bob who put him to bed. "I wanted to adopt him legally even then. But I didn't know how you would feel," Bob said. "He somehow reminded me of you, Kit . . ." Hank had gone off to wade in the brook again. We watched him silently for a moment Then I turned to my husband. Again the spell was upon us. "I didn't want you to know about me, Bob. I tried to keep it from you. After Tim was born. . . ." He took me in his arms then and crushed me to him. All the barriers of restraint and pride were down. "You little fool. What do you think marriage is — a square dance where you change your partner to the tune of a fiddler? Kit, don't you know you're a living, breathing part of me . . . nothing could make me feel differently towards you. Nothing on God's earth. . . ." Long moments later he said, his cheek hard against my own, "When I got that last letter I knew something was wrong. Terribly wrong. My Kit could never be as insensitive and shallow as you sounded in that letter. I got an emergency furlough and flew West immediately. And — don't hold it against them, dear — but I had a private session with your folks. Then I saw old Dr. Watson. He told me we would have to work things out pretty carefully because you were in a serious condition. Fortunately I had enough points to get a discharge from the Army quickly. I bought this ranch and arranged to have Hank sent over from France in charge of one of my pals. Part of our plan was to get you interested in war orphans through the Red Cross." We'll make Hank yours because he's sandy-haired . . . "You don't mind — not having sons of your own?" I had to say it. I had to know. For answer, his arms tightened around me. There was a joyful shouting from the brook. Hank was waving both arms excitedly, "Pop! Ees Mom yet?" Bob and I stood up and went to him. "That's right, son," Bob said. "She is your Mom now — and always." 0a& d4e "teaUtf cutcUMtancC ' font pumv ? 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