Radio and television mirror (Nov 1939-Apr 1940)

good school; the head was a disciplinarian; he didn't understand the child, and Bunny was spirited — he ran away. He came back, but he and his stepfather never got along together. Bunny would be in school for a while, in camp, home again and in trouble, gone again. I lost him. He was wild, I know that, but he mightn't have been wild if his mother hadn't failed him. It got so that Clifford wouldn't do any more for him and I had no money. They sent for me to Arizona; it was too late; Clifford and I had gone into Canada on a camping trip — he loved those trips because they were made so easy for him, but I hated them — and when I got back the telegram was ten days old. I didn't even have my last look from my boy, I didn't have a chance to go down on my knees and say, 'Bunny, will you forgive me!' He died all alone, perhaps he was asking for me. . . ." THE story came by fits and starts, ' some little sequence one day, and perhaps the next not for many days. Tarn listened, never pressed her hostess, expressed no sympathy except the sympathy was in her eyes. "Clifford Hutton only lived five months after that," Mary Hutton concluded it. "I came out here to get away, and I guess for a little while I was queer. I know I used to walk nights, talking to myself; the village thought I was a witch. But that was six years ago. After a while I began to garden; I didn't have John, or little Mary, or Bunny, but the flowers didn't know it!" On Christmas Day, with a fire roaring in the dining room and the early breakfast smoking on the table, Ta mara went upstairs again, fumbled with a bedroom fire, gave up the task to little Hong. It was a bitterly cold day, without wind or sun. The low gray sky pressed closely down over the world; not a branch moved, not a bird hopped about in the stripped garden. Sounds came a long way today; Tamara could hear Christmas horns and church bells in the village as the endless morning dragged by; could clearly hear every motor car that came swiftly up the curves and twists of the low hills below the Hutton place. That would be the doctor — or this next would be. . . . Mary Hutton came in to see her at about three o'clock to ask her smilingly if she and her daughter would like some turkey. "Not this Christmas!" Tamara whispered. "Next Christmas! But they gave me some soup and it was delicious! Thank Lee Wing." And much later still, before the evening lamps were lighted, when she and Mary were alone in the soft firelight, she said: "It can't be — it just fundamentally can't be that God would make anything so lovely as this from what was all wrong and sinful and twisted. There must be some way to work it out to Tightness and goodness." "There's always a way to do that," the older woman said. "Yes, but how? How to begin so that it will be all right for her?" "The way to begin living right, Tarn, is only to begin. Everything straightens itself out if we can do that. I talk for you," Mary Hutton said in a lower voice, her eyes fixed on space, "but I can't remember it for myself. You're young, you can start again. But I'm old. I've nothing left but an old garden, and who cares whether or not my garden grows to be one of the loveliest in the world?" "Mary and I do," Tarn said quickly, under her breath, stretching out a hand to cover the rough hand on the sheet. "Some day we'll show you." VOU'VE paid me back everything I ' ever did for you," the older woman said presently. She turned aside to glance toward the big wash basket on the floor beside the bed. "Is it Mary?" she asked. "Is it for me?" "Mary. And for whom else?" Mrs. Hutton said nothing further. She sat looking down at the muffled occupant of the basket for a long time. Wood snapped sleepily in the round iron stove; the bedroom was warm in the cold twilight of winter afternoon. Outside twigs cracked in frost, and dry branches clicked together; at dusk a whinning little wind rose and moved restlessly about the house. Tarn lay with her head on her curved arm, her eyes upon the small, discontented saffron countenance of her child. One small mottled fist lay outside the blanket; now and then the little face wrinkled in a look of elderly despair. Tarn drank her milk. Presently, not thinking, not looking backward or ahead, she fell asleep. But when tomorrow comes, how will Tarn rebuild her shattered life? With the added responsibility of her fatherless child, will she be able to find happiness and security? Don't miss the coming chapters of Kathleen Norris' remarkable novel in the January issue of Radio Mirror. THOUSANDS MARVEL TO SEE THEIR SKINNY BODIES EILL OUT ■«• As these Wonderful IRONIZED YEAST Tablets Add 10 to 25 lbs. 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