Faith Triumphant

Cromwell Argus, Volume LXX, Issue 3627, 3 July 1939, Page 7

Faith Triumphant

A HAPPY REUNION By Myra A. Wingate Ruefully Miss Chrissie Holway faced the little presence at her elbow. A new boy, and the year almost at an end! Only a deeper patience showed, however, in the kindly grey eyes, and th*e smile that never failed the third grade warmed the little stranger. ‘‘A new third grader?” she asked. “Name and age, laddie.” "Leßoy Kingolden, seven years old,” was the prompt response. Miss Holway’s pencil halted, while her eyes appreciated the boy’s natural beauty. Slim and graceful, with proudly poised head, ruffled golden-brown hair and deep, dark eyes, he was verily a king of seven-year-olds. She wondered if his mother, naming him, had thought him a king of babes, even while' her lips mechanically questioned : “You brought a record card? No? Then we must make a new' one. Get your father to write this at noon. See, here in this space, your father’s name The childish hand touched the teacher’s arm, the velvet brown eyes, heavy with tears, w'ere raised to hers. “Miss Holway, papa went away and left me and mamma. Mamma says ’twsn’t ’cause he didn't love us, but ’cause he made'a bad mistake, and he thinks w r e wouldn’t want him. But we’re always going to love him and some day he’ll come back. This is one of the first places he’ll look, ’cause mamma used to live here.” Tears smarted under Miss Holway’s own eyelids, as she gently checked the flood of confidence. “Then mamma’s name will do just as well,” she explained, and talked quietly until the little man had conquered his tears. The record card came back at the next session with the name, “Mary Kingolden. Occupation, housekeeper.” During the summer vacation (at this modest American school) w'hich took her far and wide over the State from the farm where she toiled to help one of her sisters with her brood of children, to the fine summer camp in the Maine w'oods, home of the other sister, w’ho had married Judge Brent, Miss Hohvay often thought compassionately of the hurt, childish face. The end of the school term found her at the Brent camp for a real rest before the opening of school. “Chris,” said the judge, critically, “you’re much too thin. When, in the name of common sense, will you give up this teaching game and come with me?”

“When the poorhouse door yawns wide before me,” she returned, gaily. “At present, said building is only a dark prospect on the horizon.” “Fiddlesticks,” said Paula. “Here we are, dying to make things easy and happy for you, and you are wearing yourself to death doing for your sisters and your cousins and your aunts!” “Too many ‘ands’ in that, Paul,” said Chris, touching her sister gently as she passed behind her chair. “Phil, i've the impression of having seen your guide somewhere. It’s a striking face, hut not a happy one.” “No use, Chris,” said the judge mischievously. “Lee Golden is adamant to feminine wiles.” Chris shook her head at him, while her mind pursued the elusive resemblance. The night before they broke camp was chill with the prophecy of autumn. A blazing fire burned in the rough stone fireplace before which the three, had drawn their chairs. Lee Golden, guide in general to the colony for the season, who had come in to smoke a pipe with the judge, sat on a stool close to the fireplace. “May I whittle some shavings for your morning fire, Mrs. Brent?” he asked with a smile, selecting a straight bit of pine from the basket. Chris Holway’s memory* caught at that smile. Like the match that fires the train of powder, it followed the whole train of puzzling resemblances straight to the source. The poise of head, the ruffled brown hair, the velvet dark eyes, the warm smile. Lee Golden Le Roy Kingolden! “It’s the very night for a story-tell-ing. Give you each five minutes to think. Every man has at least one story* he’s dying to tell, and most women have two or three.” Jestingly they fell in with her mood. "Come, Lee,” said the judge. “The ability to tell a good yarn is one of the first qualifications of a guide.” Lee good humoredly complied with a thrilling story of a night’s adventure in the big woods. Mrs. Brent followed with an amusing tale of complications at a house party. The judge gave them a glimpse of the mazes of the law in the story of a curious case. Chris was last, as she had planned. “Being a teacher,” she said, “I can do no more than give you an incident of the schoolroom —the story of a child’s faith and a child’s love. I’ve remembered the boy's name, for it was an unusual one —Le Roy Kingolden.” Lee Golden’s knife clattered down up the brick hearth. As he bent forward to retrieve it, Chris noted the trembling of his brown hand. Chris Holway was a born storyteller, and into this sorrowful little tale she put her best. The judge blew a trumpet blast into his handkerchief, and Mrs. Brent openly wiped her eyes. Lee Golden, as soon as might be, made bis good-nights and departed. Miss Holway was early at her desk on the opening morning of the term, and the first to come to her were a little brown-eyed boy and a tall, bronzed man. “Please, Miss Holway, may I have my record card?” asked the boy eager-

ly. "Papa's come and I'm going to a new school.” ''And if it isn't 100 much trouble, Miss Holway, could you make out a new card with the father's name on It?” asked the man. It was not too much trouble, and Miss Holway could. The new card bore the inscription: “Name of Parent or Guardian—Le Roy Kingolden. Occupation—Guide.”