Coming Through the Rye (Musaicum Romance Classics). Grace Livingston Hill

you wouldn’t go, Frannie!"

      "Aw, shut up!" cried out Frances impatiently, rubbing away at a very rosy cheek. "Now you made me put too much rouge on! You make me tired! As if a woman that was dead could come back. You wouldn’t see her if she did. Think about your nice Sunday school teacher and the book she brought you. Didn’t she have a swell dress on, though! Her hat was some class, too, only I’d have liked a little more color on it. She’s a real pretty girl."

      "Frannie, why do you put that old rouge on your cheeks? I think you look a lot better without it. She didn’t have any on. She just had her skin. It looked more real. I don’t like to look at you when you get your mouth all red and kind of pointed like that and so white around your nose. You look like one of those false faces you see at Halloween. I don’t feel like kissing you when you look like that."

      "Well, there’s others that do," preened Frances self-consciously, with a little unholy laugh her sister did not understand. "Oh, if you aren’t a scream, Wilanna! Wait another year till you grow up, if I won’t have piles of fun telling you how silly you were! Why, baby, I shouldn’t be considered dressed if I didn’t have on powder and rouge. Your teacher probably does it, too, when she really goes out to parties and things. She didn’t bother to waste it on us, that’s all. You can see by her clothes there’s some class to her. But I don’t think she has very good taste, myself. If I could dress like her, I’d go to a real beauty parlor every day of my life and get my face done and a wave. Her hair looked almost like natural curls. I don’t think it looks neat all irregular like that. If I had hair like that, I’d get a bob—that’s what I’d do."

      "Oh, Frannie, I thought her hair was lovely!" There were signs of tears once more.

      "There, baby! I guess it was all right, only she probably gets it fixed up when she goes to dances and things."

      Frances was arraying herself in a flimsy apricot-colored crepe de chine dress with an apron of flimsy yellow lace and a scarf going around her throat and over one shoulder, surmounted by a bright red silk rose where it crossed. She was very busy smoothing down her skirt and plastering a half moon of dark, slick hair out over each cheek as far as the cheekbones.

      The little girl surveyed her half in admiration, half in trouble.

      "My, but you look pretty, Frannie! But I can’t think you oughtta go t’night, with Papa in jail. It don’t seem right!"

      Frances wheeled about upon her.

      "Well, I gotta, Willie! What I gonta tell Larry when he comes? Say I can’t go to the dance and the movies and take a car ride because my papa’s in jail fer murdering a woman getting drunk? Would you like to tell a young man that? And such a classy young fella as Larry? Why, Willie, he ain’t like the other fellas. He’s polite and handsome, and he has just rolls of money. He’s free with it, too. I’m going to get him to get a whole box of chocolates for me tonight, and I’ll bring them home to you, all except one or two pieces I have to eat for politeness, you know. Say, Wilanna, can you shift yerself a little farther over on the other side of the bed? I wantta get out my hat, and these springs sag so in the middle that the box won’t budge. That’s it. Now I have it. I hope it ain’t mashed!"

      Frances pulled out a tiny hat of silver, faced with a dash of flame of color. It did not hurt the hat for her that it was a bargain on account of a slight spot of tarnish on one side. It was what she called a "classy" hat. She fitted it carefully on before the unflattering mirror and then sat down at the front window to watch for signs of her escort.

      "He’s coming in a car," she told her sister over her shoulder. "It’s a car he’s thinking of buying. Just think of me going out with a young man to try a car! Wilanna, wouldn’t it be great if we’d have a car someday?"

      "I’d rather have Papa out of jail!" wailed Wilanna, and she buried her face in her limp little pillow.

      "Well, nat’ally, baby, we all would. Disgrace isn’t the pleasantest thing in the world, but I’m going to forget it for one night. I’m going to have the time of my life tonight. But I hope it won’t be the last time either. Larry seems to be real fond of me."

      "Where do you go when you go out, Frances? What do you do all the time?"

      "Go? Oh, lotsa places. Ride in the park, and then away off on the hills. There’s a drive they call Lovers’ Lane, with the trees overhead, and it’s real dark, and there’s a little brook across the road, and sometimes we park the car—oh, you wouldn’t understand, baby! Wait till you grow up. Then we go to a roadhouse and dance and have a supper. That’s the kind of a fella Larry is. He never skimps things. We’re going to the whole show tonight, he says, and then some. There’s a place where they have dancing and a dandy orchestra, and they have suppers—they say the suppers are great, and only real refined people go there. Society people, you know, that is, kind of select people. It was a private entrance. You wouldn’t know there was such a place when you go in. It just seems like it was some sort of rooming house. It’s way down Vinegar Lane, just small houses there, but you go to this man’s room—he’s an awful rich fella and he just does this fer fun—I forget what his name is—and when you get into the room, it’s just a common room with a bureau and chairs and things, and you open a door into a closet or something, and that opens into another hall you didn’t know was there, and it leads to a secret room in between buildings! They say it’s a wonderful place, with carpets and pictures and soft chairs and lots of lights and flowers, and they have a big dining room, too. I’ve been dying to go there for weeks, ever since Gladys and Vivian told me about it. Heaps of the girls have been. I think we’re going there tonight. You see, Larry has a pull with the man that owns it, and he’s given Larry a ticket to get in. Only fellas with tickets can get in—and girls, of course. Every fella takes a girl."

      "Oh Frannie," broke in the little girl. "They don’t have wine there, do they? I don’t want you to drink wine, Frannie. Please, Frannie!"

      "Oh, now stop being a goose, Wilanna! They just have refined kinds of wine there, not the kind Papa drinks. Why everybody drinks refined kinds of wine now—not whiskey, of course——"

      "It’s against the law," wailed Wilanna. "The teacher in school said you got arrested if you bought it or sold it, and my Sunday school teacher, too, she said it was wicked to be a bootlegger."

      "Oh, baby! You silly thing! These people are not bootleggers; they are just classy society people. Why, Willie, they are real high-up people, these people. Some of the government folks, you know, that make the laws. Nothing couldn’t arrest them, you know, and anyhow, of course they know what the law is, and they wouldn’t break their own laws, would they?"

      "I s’pose not," admitted the little girl hesitatingly. "But, Sister, I’m afraid——"

      "Oh, now stop that nonsense! Listen, Wilanna, I want you to be a real good girl and not cry if I havta go before Mamma comes. You see I have a special reason for wanting to tonight. It’s about Papa. It’s to help Papa. Now, will you be good?"

      Wilanna beamed.

      "What is it, Frannie? Tell me quick. I’m afraid you’ll have to go before you tell me. Will it get him out of jail?"

      "Will you promise not to cry? Not to let anybody know you’re alone in the house when Larry comes?"

      "I promise," said Wilanna eagerly.

      "Well, you see, if I can get Larry to go to that place tonight, I might meet a high-up officer-in-the-government man, and if I do, I’ve got a real good story made up about Papa, and I’m going to beg him to help Papa. That’s why I put on this dress and hat, Baby, so he would like me and I could get to sit out a dance with him and talk about it."

      "Oh, Frannie, how wonderful!" The little girl’s face was bright through her tears. "And you’ll tell him our father wouldn’t drink if they would just close up those saloons, like the law says they must, won’t you? You’ll tell him how down at Booker’s corner they go in the back door and pretend like it’s closed in front, and how Jimsey’s is running all the time in the back. You will, won’t you, Frannie?"

      "Oh,