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tm ii f OUR SHORT STO RY. 11 r CLÅR; s.ANCE. :Ir ?r?< i :1 By DOROTHEA CONYERS. JI I —I m————— IT would mean everything to mo, ? and- Clarence Graham looked M round his ceil, smiled biUürl,v, and put his hand to his wet eyes. J& A young fellow, with a weak, handsome face, blue-eyed, auburn- haired, thin from anxiety. I You didn't do it, Clarrie. Oh, you didn't? No. girlie—not this time. When d ark comes, he clears me-until then— The girl who looked at the prisoner •\ as so like him as to show- she was his t ill. But Nature, frolicking, had made tiie boy. handsome, the girl plain. Her features lacked the clear cutting; she was big for a woman, square-shouldered, honest-eved, a worker where the boy had slacked; quietly aware of her lack of charm—her plainness. Clarence lifted up the letter ho had been reading. He had cabled to his sister, and she had come to him as fast as the Hail Tetania engines could bring her. He was in prison for suspected murder; the only man who could prove the alibi he trusted to was out of Jsew York. The letter was in crabbed legal hand- writing. It stated that Sir Henry s'tanley, Mr. Graham's uncle, finding himself in failing health, wished to gather all his nephews about him. He intended to leave money to some or all of them, and this visit was, in fact, in the nature of a test. My mother was his favourite sister. He wouldn't forget me if 1 went," Clarence broke into sudden feeble soh- bing. If I had my chance, Clarice. If only I had my chance. There are Eva and the child. I dare not speak of them." The girl drew herself up, looking down at the boy—he was little more. He had wasted a good fortune; she had worked since she was seventeen. We are so like," she said, thought- fully, flushing. If lie-T-in,-Ic, Henry-hears of this, it is the end." Clarence said. My record is not so good before—that of a spend- thrift and a gambler. Now, when I would work for Eva's sake, when I'd live straight if I had a little money—I am repaid. If I had my chance—my one chance." You'll have it." Clarice put her hand on her brother's shoulder; her voice rang. I am very like you, Clarence. Your clothes will fit me. I will go to the Moate instead of you." "You!" he almost gasped. You, Clarice! And do my best to get you your legacy," she said, simply. I must go at once—I'll cable. Than") I money. Say you'll com? by the next boat" But—your liairr" Clarence said. Clarice's face whitened. Her one beauty —the shining, waving mass of auburn; brown in the shade, red-gold in the sun- fine as silk. It must go," she said, quietly, but trying to hide her eyes now. For you shall have your chance, brother The party at the Moate were not hilarious; the s hadow of coming death hung over them. They had been sum- moned by a failing man. a man who knew his days were numbered. Five nephews, trying not to seem anxious, to be natural ,1,1 at their ease; Dorek and James Stanley, who did not want money, and consequently wildly eager for a legacy; Dick Evertcn, a young farmer, wanting it sorely Neil Francis, a soldier. These tour looked covertly at each other, watched for' each half-hour spent with their uncle; were spasmodically pleaant J when together, moody and thoughtful when alone. The Stanleys dreamt of new motors, of trips abroad, and a few more luxuries; the farmer boy of fresh stock and im- provements; the soldier knew two horses which he wanted badly for the winter. One only, Hugh Danby, a big, quiet man. seemed to feel no ftfixiety. Old Sir Henry's favourite, he knew that the place and most of the money was to be his. Clarence would make the sixth of the competitors "I scarcely hoped for his coming, Hugh." Old Sir Harry took a letter from his pocket-book. I had heard tale* whispers." Big Hugh looked at the fire. He had heard more. "And he is.Clarice's sen," went on Sir Henry. "There's a girl. is there not?" Hugh Danby asked. A sister? A big, Tumping girl—yes. I have left her £ 500. She has some job on a paper, writes, and does well-a clever girl, but very plain. She has her mother's fortune, too." "So if he comes," Hugh Dunhy said; if he does. Uncle." Mr. Graham, Sir Henry." He has come," muttered Hugh, in astounded tone* Broad-shou 1 dered, honest-eyed, terribly afraid, Ciarico came in, held out a hand too small for a man, but brown and strong. Clarence, I am glad you've come/w Old Sir Henry pulled her near him, looked into the blushing face. You've enang>ed," he said, shortly, and for the better, Clarence." The shifting look old Sir Henry had hated was not there. This boy was tear- less, clean-looking, meeting the searching j look easily. I'm older," Clarice said. Her voice was a difficulty; she dropped it to a deep note, and dreaded' a mistake. Several pairs of socks had been necessary to make her feet large enough, and now she was here among them all, working for Clarence's chance, for his last chance in the wo.rld. She.K-new how poor he was. Hugh Danby watched her curiously, dramming his fingers on the marble mantel-shelf. Ho had never seen Clarence Graham, but this boy did not look like the fool who had gambled away his all and gone to scramble for work in America—who had done shady things more than once. Clarice's honesty was written on her face; she was capable, sturdy, keen- witted. The hounds are cubbing to-morrow," Hurrh said. Do you ride, Clarence?" Did she not?—hard and straight. Clarice had been companion for two years to a friend; slie had ridden then and drove a motor. Clarence was never much use on a horse," Sir Henry said, curtly. "But let him try," her honest laugh rang nllt. He is now, Uncle; he loves it. Only he's rather a heavy weigut." Again Hugh Danby looked at her. Sir Henry went away; they were left alone in the panelled room. What a ripping house," she said; a home. You had you forgotten it? he said. lightly, and saw her cheeks flush. One does forget." Ph e moved a Dreeden: figure- gently. I have not been here for t very long time, Cousin Hug-h." he said. "The bari-i,-ter" she asked, nervously. Clarice was a little nervous at dinner; ifae did not mi ss the looks of dislike which greeted -her. Once old Sir Henry, as he saw her re- fuse port, smiled. j Y ouare not unlike your mother," he said; there's a look, and then the hair— it's the same colour. It has darkened, Clarence. l'm glad I'm like her," she said, gently; but she was a beauty." she nushe(r and stopped. They laughed then, gaily, at her. Clarice was giad when she got to her room. She sat there trembling, wondering if she could carry it through—if weak, i handsome Clarence would get the chance he asked tor. he was afraid of big, keen-eyed Hugh Danby, afraid of some folly, some lapse. The dewy freshness of a September morning swept fear away: she rode astride, fearlessly and well. It was good to see the hounds working in the bracken-, goad to feci her horse stretch out beneath her, to swing on the flv fences when a cub broke away. She rode back with Hugh Danby, her eyes atire for the beauty of the country, for the hunting she was parted, from now. It was difficult, tired and happy, to re- number that she was Clarence the ne'er- do-well, the gambler, and living in New \ork. More than once she altered in her answers, grew white a.nd afraid as she pulled herself up. Someone suggested cards that evening. Clarice would not play. u I hate cards," her dear eyes flashed at the packs. I only play bezique." Once bittenh ? H Derek Stanley sneered nastily. T! then Clarice started. Yes, of course. I never play now." Honest, Clarence? Old Sir Henry' looked at her, and met a look straight as his own. Honestly, sir, Clarence will never play again So while they played she sat by the ifre, listening to Hugh Danby talking. He had been everywhere; it was good to sit there and hear tales of sport in other countries. And with the happiness of it came pain. He was so big and quiet, such keen humour in his eyes. What woman would have the right to love him -to see the grey eyes infien-to heat- a different note in the deep voice? Some- one good to look at. Someone who was nor square-shouldered and brown skinned, without even her long hair. A queer chap, that Clarence," the sol- j dier said, confemptuously. "Slips alter dinner, goes mooning with a book, lie overplays the reformation." Three days passed. Clarice was breath- ing more easily, and had written happily to Clarence. Then the old man sent for her. He was in the library, writing. Sit do" n. Clarencno. don't smoke A man ought to take his pipe. not cigar- ettes. -Box;, I'm glad you came." Yes," she said. her eyes alight. Whatever you may have done, you're straight now, Clarence. And no penny of my money would ever go to anyone crooked. There's honesty- in every line of your face. You wouldn't tell a lie, boy? Xo. but her head went down, for was she not telling one—worse, acting one-- now. But T might act one, Uncle," she! faltered. Not voii--nc,t with your mother's eyes. Clarence, this is my will, waiting for signature. It leaver you ten thousand pounds. Uncle! she gasped. She thought of Clarence: she believed he would take his chance.. He was out now, perhaps, waiting eagerly for her letters, living in his lodgings with his actress wife and the delicate child. He would come to England, he had told her: take a place somewhere: work on his farm, live a clean life: a.nd now it would be in his power. Oh. L ncle! she said again, her hands outstretched. But I don't want Clarence to have it soon," she said, so honestly that one could not mistake her. Well, boy," he said, you're to have the interest straight away. You're poor out there. So you can come iome and take up something—buy a farm, train your horses. You can ride. Something! There, steady. Clarence; don't cry! Does it mean so much to you ? So much! she whispered.-unsteadily, that he could not understand. He sent her away. Walking on air, she went into the library to write to Clarence. To-morrow she would slip away, send herself a wire. She had fought and won-her heart thumped un- steadily A man got up out of ono of the deep chairs—Hag1! Danby. Something wiped out the flood of joy, made Clarice stand still, wondering. The joy was Clarence's. Her part to disappear. Hugh Danby held a letter in his hand— his face was very grave. You—did it well," he said, quietly. Legacy and castle in the air all tumbling about Clarice's ears. A. numb, sickening fear—her heart beating heavily, wildly. You mean? she said bravel v. I had read something in an American paper, so did not expect Clarence." he paidi. I had a friend out there, and cabled him. Your brother Clarence is only just out of prison, and you are hero for four days." v Yes," she said, numbly. "Well! ho is out—innocent! And you acted a lie here—deceived us. no's still weak Clarence—a gambler—a gaol -bird." Falsely* one' she flashed out, resent- ful at last. "Falsely! There was no truth in the accusation But if Uncle Henry knew," he said, gently. If he did! His legacy gone—Clarence's chance gone. There were double curtains on the doors —one rustled, but they did not hear. For you are Clarice, the twin," he went on His sister—the worker." She spoke then. Told her whole story. mply, bravely. Of Clarence, weak but never vicious. Of his false accusation; of the hopelessness of his coming over wh-n he was sent for. And then:— "I fought for his chance," she pleaded. "Leave it tc him. Before heaven he will take it. for Eva's sake, and the child's. He will buy a farm—work. And if you tell, what is there? Poverty—a living wage, perhaps not that: a little help from me—he's proud, and often won't take it. So he'll go down—down—down, always down, when with this he might have come up for the ro.Tt of his life." Hugh Danby stood silent, watching the eager face. The old man hates deceit," he said. If I could I'd tell him myself," she said; "but for Clarence's sake—my brother—I have acted this lie." And you carried it through." "I was always big and boylike," she! I said, and ugly. There was only my It air, and that-was easily cut off." "It was rather wonderful hair. so I have heard," be said, gently. A nõ-" I The curtain rustled again. S'r Henry l came iu. I listened," he said slowly. Don't start. Clarice, I know." "And—oh! Uncle—oh!" sho cried, piteously. There was silence in the big room. Sir Henry put his h.^nds ori her shoul- ders. loa ked in to her wet eves: 1. I will give Clarence his chance," said Sir Henry, for his sister's sake. My j will will stand, Clarice. Oh For Clarice's arms went round him; she kissed him eagerly, girlishly; hugged him her tears on his thin rheek. Dear me," said Sir Henry, going out You are very like my sister." And now-I can go. Good-bye! Suddenly ashamed of he1- clothes, sud- denly ehy, Clarice went slipping towards the door. Couij Hugh Danby called lik-r. What are you going to do? You work for some paper, don't you? | I've lost that coming her; there arej always other things, though. I have 11. i little money to go on with." He took her by the shoulders, looking into the honest face. And so you," he said, are you to have no chance—no benefit?" I am only fit for work," she said, a little bitterly. Without even my hair." Then Clarice, brave for so long, be,-an to cry openly; she felt unsexed, ashamed of Joier masquerading. She felt lonely- tired of life. I am a fraud," she muttered. I came here—— And you are not going away again." Hugh said, oooly. You are going to stay here always, with me—if you care to." here ,i l ways, with you lart « But-with a cropped head." stam- mered Clarice, foolishly. And I was never good-looking." j I guessed, I knew that you were a girl, from the beginning—the only girl I ever cared for," he said, gently. Sir Henry, coming back, beheld tho amazing spectacle of a young man in grey I tweed with his head on another young man's shoulder; but he went away un- heard, and said nothing.

WHY NOT SNG1 I

DESTRUCTIVE FIRES.I

A NOVEL SELF-RAISER. I

I DREAMLAND AND ROMANCE.!

IEISTEDDFOD WINNER. __I

I ARAB HATE OF TURKEY. I

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