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A FALLEN IDOL
CHART Eft IV. 0
Continued.
He found himself able to catch the
«xact expression in Sybil's eyes and
mouth which had haunted and eluded
Jilm till then; It was rendered in so
marvelous and lifelike a manner that
lie caught his breath, only halt able
to believe that his hand had really
attained to such added skill.
Picture Sunday passed, but did not
affect him, for, wisely or unwisely, be
hud never encouraged the society
Stream to flow through his studio,
and It now passed him by in igno¬
rance.
Still he worked on, reaching and
Improving, with ever growing de¬
light, until past the regular Gros¬
venor sending-in day, for, on giving
the measurements of the space his
picture required, he had been granted
a few days' grace, but at last, one
afternoon, be had to allow it to be
taken away, and saw it depart with
a sense of desertion.
Even then he was not disposed to
be idle. He had forgotten Babcock
and hla landscape all this time, but
now, with a feeling that he owed it
ns a kind of atonement to his de¬
parted rival, he painted in a figure
from an old sketch-book with all the
care he could bestow.
And. a fortnight later, a letter
bearing the royal arms was brought
to him, containing an official notice
which he read with a sick bewilder¬
ment.
Two-thirds of his year’s labor
wasted, a crushing and double fail¬
ure! Xerxes and SRppho, in which
be had been so proudly confident, re¬
jected !
His self-confidence staggered un¬
ifier the shock—where was all the n
orease of power he had been so con¬
scious of? How could he have de¬
ceived himself so blindly, so grossly?
If Sybil’s portrait had not already
left the studio, he would have de¬
stroyed it then and there In the first
mad rush of despair and disappoint¬
ment. It was safe at least from re¬
jection, having been sent by express
Invitation, but for all he knew it
might prove as hideous a failure.
He was still chafing under the bit¬
terness of this rejection, when an
academician called Perceval, who
•was on the hanging committee that
year, looked In to see him. Perceval
bad always been a kind and appre¬
ciative friend, who had shown a
warm Interest In Campion from his
student days.
“You've had your medicine, I see,
he said, as he saw the young
pn'mfcr’s face.
“Yes,” said Campion, with a forced
laugh, “and gulped It down.”
\ “Well.” Perceval said, “I did all I
could for you, hut It was no use—
they wouldn't have you at any price.”
“Thanks,” said poor Campion,
drearily, “and—and did you think
them so Infernally bad?”
“Do you want my candid opinion—
idon't say ’yes’ if you mean ‘no,’ Very
well, then, if you must have it; I
couldn’t believe my eyes when I read
yaur name on ’em. My dear boy,
what could you have been about to
send in such screamers, like the pic¬
tures outside a shooting saloon, or
a peep-show: by gad they are! I
assure you, I consider it a good thing
for you they are rejected; you’d have
been guyed, sir, if they’d hung you.”
Campion groaned. "You saw them
a couple of months ago, and spoke
rather well ot them.”
“Well, you've played the very
deuce with them since. I scarcely
knew ’em again at first. Come, my
boy, you must set to and turn over a
new leaf unless you want to join Iho
noble army of rocket-sticks. You’ve
got on a wrong track; you’re playing
to the gallery, and a confounded
transpontine kind of gallery at that.”
“I suppose you’re right, Perceval.
I’ve been a fool. I’ve perpetrated a
portrait, too, which can’t, escape the
pillory, for it’s at the Grosvenor. If
the others are bad, I suppose this is
even worse, for I thought it was the
best thing I’d done.”
“Go round to the gallery, and see
If you can't get them to let you have
It back. You mustn't play any tricks
with your reputation just yet, my
dear fellow; leave that to us.”
Campion shrank from this ex¬
treme step. “I can’t do that; so
much depends on It, I can’t trust my
-own judgment any longer. 'Perceval,
you know them there; you’re exhibit¬
ing something yourself, aren’t you?
I’m leaving town to-night—I can’t
stay here now—will you see the pic¬
tures it you can, and use your own
•discretion? If it’s bad, use all your
influence to get It taken down. I’ll
give you the fullest authority.”
“Well, I don’t suppose they’re of¬
ten asked to do such a thing, and
St may be a ticklish business to man
age.” said Perceval, “but I’ll try my
best. If the portrait (I haven't seen
it, so I don’t know) is poor work and
unworthy of you, I'll worry them till
they give, it up.”
However, before another week had
passed this telegram came to him at
the homely inn where he was stay
Ing:
“Have seen pic. Daring, very, but
far from bad. Think it will do. Hung
ou line end of East Gallery. Under
/Circs. 1 iet it stay there.”
What relief this pregnant message
-brought him! He was not such a
complete failure, then, after all. Sybil
would not have to think him a
wretched imposter, and the fate of
his Academy failures troubled him
no more.
He had intended to remain away
from town until after the private
view, but now he found courage to
return.
CHAPTER V.
Explanations,
In spite of the fact that his mind
was at ease respecting the portrait,
Campion was by no means cheerful
during his journey to town, and it
was with a thrill rather of anxiety
than pleasure that, after lie had
stepped out on the Paddington plat
form, he found himself suddenly al
most faco to face with Sybil Els
worth.
The sudden light in her deep eyes,
and the frank welcome in her smile
and voice were enough to chase away
ail his brooding misgivings. No, she
had not given him^up yet!
“You didn’t expect to meet me
here?” she said, almost in the same
breath with her first greeting. just
“No," he replied. “1 have
come up from IMggleswede, to
Worcestershire, and had no reason
to hope for this.”
She shot a reproachful glance at
him. "But. you were going to pass
on at first—you know you were."
“I wasn’t sure what you would
wish,” he replied.
“Dear me,” laughed Sybil,
haps not without a spice of vexation,
"that was very punctilious of you.
It would never have occurred to me
that duty expected us to cut one an
other!"
“Not duty exactly,” he explained,
“Then what was it, please?"
“You took no notice of my letters,”
he said. “I couldn’t tell how they
might have changed you.”
“But I never got them! And so
you have been doubting again? Ah,
Ronald, I had more faith in you!”
“Did you write?”
“No, but only because Aunt Hilary
got a promise from begin. me that I would
not be the first to I shouldn't
have promised, but I thought you
were so certain to write. But you
did after all, so it’s all right—Isn't
it strange, though, that I should
never get your letters?”
“Sybil,” he said, passionately, “I
begin to see—your aunt has taken
care that my letters should not reach
you. This is her work!”
She was startled. “Aunt Hilary’’’
she exclaimed, “Oh, if I thought
that, but it can’t be—it isn’t like
her.”
"I wouldn’t think so if I could
avoid It. No doubt in keeping back
my letters she considered she was do
ing her duty to you. There, we won’t
trouble about it, will we? for, after
all, her plans have broken down.”
“Send hack the carriage, and let
me see you back to Sussex place,” he
said boldly.
“It would be great fun,” she
agreed, “but wliat would Aunt Hilary
say?
They were outside the ring of the
Botanic Gardens before Campion told
his story of defeat, but having begun,
he told it manfully, beginning with
his threatened legacy and ending
with his Academy reverse.
When he had finished she laid her
hand upon his sleeve with a pretty,
sympathetic caress. “And have you
been making yourself wretched all
this time by thinking I had given you
up? I suppose you thought It was
only your money I cared about, and
that I should reject you because the
Academy did. I didn't consult the
Academy when I accepted you, Ron
aid!” ,
“Ah, but, my darling, it leaves me
In a very different position from what
I was. I may lose the only thing
which justified me in asking you to
have me; in any case, I have lost
ground as a painter by these two
failures. I may never be anything
but a poor beggar all my life now.”
“I sha'n’t mind,” said Sybil, light¬
ly. “I’ll he a poor beggar, too.”
“I’m afraid your father won’t hear
of that,” he said, “even if I was sel¬
fish enough to ask for it.”
“Then I will wait. Ronald. Oh! I
know you think me frivolous and tin
feeling, because I do enjoy torment
lug you a little, but I do really care
for you very much all the time, and
you might—you might believe in me
a little more than you do!”
A great revulsion came over him
of Intense joy and relief and grati
tude. and a little shame, too, that he
shoul again have misjudged her. It
found a vent in broken expressions
of self-reproach and devotion. “If
you could only know,” he concluded,
“how wretched I have been making
myself!”
“AU about nothing, too.” she oh
served. “But you wont be so foolish
again, will you?”
His heart swelled with happiness
and love, as he saw clearly that, all
unworthy as he was he might hence
forth rest secure of her affection. She
would never change, unless, which
was absurd, he changed first.
And so they walked on by the edge
of the lake, whero they had met once
before, and all around them seemed
in harmony with their own happi
ness. From the little suspension
bridge came the lively clatter of feet
over its planks, and the merry shouts
or the ragged urchins sliding face
downward on its broad supports.
“I wonder what Aunt Hilary will
say to me when she hears where I
have been and with whom!” said
Sybil. ”1 can manage her now,
though; I have found out her plot.
I shall be fearfully stern and angry,
if I can only keep it up long enough.
She really has behaved very badly,
and I ohght to be in a greater rage
than 1 am. But even yet I can’t
quite imagine her doing such a thing;
It is so unlike her, with all her little
peculiarities.”
“I would rather believe, myself,
that she had no hand in It,” he
agreed. "But then her getting that
promise from you is very suspicious,
Sybil. I’m afraid there Is only one
explanation.”
“I shall soon know,” said Sybil.
“It’s disappointing, because I was
beginning to think she was rather
ashamed of making such a fuss about
our poor dear idol.”
”1 was thinking,” he said, slowly,
"that It might be better if you could
persuade your.aunt not to go to the
Grosvenor to-morrow.”
"Not, Ronald!” she exclaimed;
“but of course we shall go, when
we’ve tickets and everything! We
are going to lunch early, and be
there about two. I thought you would
be there, and we should meet. Sure¬
ly you’re not afraid she will make a
scene; don’t you know Aunt Hillary
better than that?”
“Well,” he said, with a sigh of res¬
ignation, “it can’t be helped, I sup¬
pose; you wouldn't go alone, of
course, and she will see it some
time.”
“See what?” asked Sybil.
“It’s a trifle,” he said; “an altera¬
tion I made at the last moment. I
wish now—but it’s no use wishing.”
"If you really won’t tell me, I shall
go away. Yes, I mean it; it’s getting
late, and I dare not stay here any
longer, I must go and have it out
with my wicked aunt. And, Ronald,
things will be so different after to
morrow.”
In a few minutes Sybil was at
Stissex place and went straight to the
drawing-room, where she found her
amjt seated by one of the satin
shaded lamps, 'With her embroidery
in her hands. She looked sharply up
as her niece entered. "What does
this mean, Sybil?" she demanded,
"It was such a lovely afternoon I
thought I would walk."
"You know very well I don't like
you to walk about London alone,
Sybil.”
“Ah, but I wasn’t alone—Ronald
was there.”
"Ronald Campion!” and Mrs. Stan
Hand's tone and look were awful In
their horror. “What, when you both
promised?”
“It was quite an accident. Still,
you broke your word; you said we
might write, you know you did.”
"I don't see how that affects the
case," said Mrs. Stanliand stiffly,
"It’s no use, Aunt Hillary. I know
all—about those two letters Ronald
wrote to me!”
“What about them?”
“Ah, you know,” cried Sybil, re
proachbully. "I daresay you meant
it. all for the best, but it was not
fair, indeed it wasn't. And whether
you and papa like it or not, I shall
never marry anybody else, you know,
Now, be a good old lady and say you
won’t come between us again in that
way.”
“I think you have lost your
senses,” said Mrs, Stanliand. “You
aije talking very strange to me.”
“Then I will speak plainly. Ron
aid sent mo twwletters; I never got
either. Aunt Hilary, I believe you
best know why."
Mrs. Staniland rose stiffly. "That
will do, Sybil. I never thought a
niece of mine would insult me iike
this. I keep back letters after giv
ing him leave to write! If that i3
your opinion of me, the less ee see of
one another in future the better.”
Instinct told Sybil that this indig
nation was no feint; she clung to her
aunt, and detained her by gentle
force from leaving the room, "i’or
Sire me,” she entreated; “I’m ever
so sorry I could think such a thing—
I was a wicked wretch to suspect
50 “'
I r presume," said the elder lady,
as she sat down with a non-commit¬
tal expression, “that Mr. Campion
I was good enough to suggest this?”
"We didn’t know what to think—
: you see, there were two letters; ttrny
cotildn t both miscarry, could they’”
‘ Easily—if they were neither of
the written,” said Mrs. Staniland.
I Sybil started. “Don’t talk like
; that,” she said; “he said he wrote—
why should he deceive me?”
! “That I can’t tell. I only know
j that I have neither seen nor heard of
i 1 * letters. If you want any further
: assll rances
] “Yon know I don't,” cried Sybil,
j and sank down Impulsively at her
aunt's knees. “Won’t you forgive
I me now—now when you see how pen¬
’■ itent and humble I am?”
”‘ ,» S ; ...... St J‘" i an d waa disposed .. . to .
1 m ho l f , i l g " eVan ^ S ^ e
j turned away her head ’ and made
J some inarticulate sounds to convey
j that she was irreconcilably offended,
j but she could not resist the vivid up¬
turned face very long, and presently
kissed her on the mouth with a. toler¬
ably good grace. "You’re a naughty,
| wilful child,” she said, "and-I shall
j be heartily glad when your father
comes home and my responsibility i 3
j over.”
! To be Continued.
Largest Alcohol Locomotive.
The largest alcohol locomotive
constructed at Deutz, Germany, is
rated at about thirty-two horse pow
er, with a range of speed from two
and a half to seven miles an hour,
This engine weighs about eleven tens
when ready for service.
The
Sunday = School
INTERNATIONAL LESSON COM¬
MENTS FOR NOVEMBER 21.
Subject: Paul’s Story of His Life, 2
Cor. 11:21-12:10—Golden Text:
2 Cor. 12:0—Commit Verses 24,
25—Commontary ou the Lesson.
TIME.—-A. D. 57.
PLACE.—Ephesus.
EXPOSITION. —I. What Paul
Suffered For Christ, 22-28. How
small the hardships we sfcffer com¬
pared with these. Yet Paul «arli#r
in this same epistle speaks of them as
“our light affliction” (cf. 4:17; Rom.
8:18). The stoning is recorded in
Acts 14:19. The three shipwrecks
mentioned were prior to the one de¬
scribed in Acts 27, “a night and a
day” was spent in the deep, swimming
or clinging to a spar, or in an open
boat. “The journeyinga often” were
not with the comforts of modern Hav¬
ing, but with very great hardships
and peril. “The perils of rivers”
were the perils of swollen streams
where many lost their lives, and even
to this present day many lose their
lives this way In the countries
through which Paul traveled. Paul
labored with toil and pain (v. 27),
not only with brain and heart and
lips, but with his hands also (Acts
18:3, 4). He spent whole nights in
vigils of prayer and watching against
perils of one kind or another. He
knew often what it meant to go with
out food or drink (cf. Phil. 4:12), to
have insufficient clothing and to suf
fer from cold; and all this time he
was a man suffering from physical in
firmity (ch. 12:7-10; Gal. 4:13, 14),
II. I take pleasure in infirmities,
In reproaches, in necessities, in perse¬
cutions, in distresses for Christ’s sake,
1-10, It might not seem expedient
for Paul to glory, but his heart, wa3
so full he just "must” There is a
difference between a “vision” and a
“revelation.” A “vision” is some¬
thing seen, a “revelation” is an un¬
veiling of truth (it might be through
something seen or something heard,
or in some other way; cf. 1 Sam. 9;
15, R. V., and margin). In visions
their meaning might or might not be
explained^ the tinm. In revelations
there was always an unveiling or dis
closing of the truth. The man to
whom Paul refers in verse 2 was him
self. This is evident from verse 7.
In verse 5 he distinguishes between
this man and himself, for there was
a wide difference between Paul as he
was himself in his weakness and the
rapt and glorified individual he be
came in this wondrous experience, j
He was not exalted by it as many of
us would be, hut humbled by it. The
experience occurred fourteen years
before, perhaps at the time he was
stoned at Lystra and supposed to J>a
dead (Acts 14:19). At that time his
spirit may actually have left the body
and been taken up Into paradise. It
may have been at the time of his sec
ond visit to Jerusalem (cf. Acts 22:
17). Paul himself did not know
whether he was in the body or out of
the body at the time (vs. 2, 3). Paul
evidently believed In the possibility
of conscious existence of the spirit
“out of the body” and “apart from
the body” (v. 3. R. V.). At that time
he was caught up even to “the third
heaven” “into paradise." The day of
Christ’s crucifixion He went into par
adise (Luke 23:43), which was then
“in tine heart of the earth” (Matt.
12:40), but at His ascension Christ
emptied the subterranean paradise
and took it up into heaven with Him
self (Eph. 4:8-10). Paradise, the
abode ot the blessed dead, is now with
Christ in heaven (cf. Phil. 1:23; 2
Cor. 5:8, R. V.). Into this paradise
Paul was caught up either in the body
(cf. Acts 8:39) or “apE^rt from the
body.” He heard there words which
it was not lawful to utter to others.
They were intended for his own edifi
cation and comfort alone, God shows
us some things that He would have
us tell others; some things that He
would have us keep to ourselves. Paul
apparently did not mention this won
derful experience to any one eise for
fourteen years, and even now tries to
put himself out of sight as the sub
ject of this remarkable experience
(v. 5). And he forbore to glcpy lest
some man might account of him
above that which he saw him to be or
heard from him. What the “thorn in
the flesh” was we are not told. The
words translated “weakness” and “in
firmity" are the usual words for sick
ness. The thorn in the flesh is also
spoken of as "a messenger of Satan.”
This would be au appropriate descrip
tion of physical infirmity (Luke 13:
16; Job 2:7; Acts 10:38; Heb. 2;
}*■ Q* ***, 1*>. Though this
thorn in the flesh was Satan’s messen
ger, it was “given” by God. God per
mits Satan to buffet His servants and
brings to them blessing out of this
buffeting. Eveu Satan’s hate and buf
feting brings blessing to the child of
God. Three times Paul prayed about
it and the first two times God gave
him no answer. Seemingly the thorn
was not removed, hut Christ’s power
was continually ministered to Paul
and gave him strength in his own nat
ural weakness. This teaches a num¬
ber of important lessons about pray
er: (1) To pray to Christ; (2) to ask
again and again for the same thing
until we obtain it or’the Lord reveals
to us that it Is not His will to give it;
(3) to go to Christ with our physical
infirmities, but knowing that there
are times when Christ will not re
move our physical Infirmities, but
will give us strength in Himself; (4)
that the probability is He will remove
S cS . .
e “ntH n Hr makes town fo
us that it is not His will to do so.
Defendant Accused of Threaten
convicted’of Denver M ?ol-Mrs 'luanTTead* trtain monejs
misufflng
S53[ £
in
Court, armed with the defense-of am
nesia. November 10, 1908, it is said,
she attempted to extort thousands of
dollars f^om Mrs. Genevieve Chand¬
ler Phipps, of Denver, by threats of
dynamite. Various theories as to
Mrs. Read’s condition when the al
leged crime was committed were ad
vanced.
Smart Frills of Fashion w a
to- ; fl
■
New York City.—The blouse which
shows no visible closing is always a
pretty and attractive one, and this
model includes the new deep, Harrow
chemisette that is so attractive and
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becoming, It is made with the new
sleeves, too, tha-fare cut off to show
pretty close fitting under ones of thin
material and it is equally well adapt
t0 cntire gowns and to the separate
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5l0Use j n the illustration it is made
of silk- cashmere with trimming of
banding, chemisette and under sleeves
..... tucked chiffon. Almost . all the _ in-,
coming materials are soft enough to
be tucked, however, and for the chem
jsette and under sleeves lace, net and
muslin, and, indeed, all pretty ma
terials of the sort are appropriate,
The waist is made over a fitted
lining and consists of fronts and back
with the chemisette, The lining is
closed at the centre front, the waist
invisibly at the left of the front. The
sleeves are tucked to give a novel and
becoming effect and arranged over
the i lni ngs, which are faced to form
the under sleeves
qua ntitv ‘ of material required ~
foc medium size is three and o .
seven-eighth yards twenty-one, twen
ty-four or twenty-seven, or two yards
forty-four inches wide, with three
fourth yard eighteen inches wide for
the chemisette and under sleeves and
tw0 an( j one -fourth yards of banding,
New Gored Skirt.
One ot the new skirts is known as
the gored corselet skirt. The gores
are quite narrow at the top and form
a low corselet with one point at the
f r0 ni, usually made with the front
pane] v and t wo at the hack.
_
„ Hwr Dresslnc upess,ag -
All coiffures are low. very much
built-out at the back, and rolled soft
j y the sides, Tiaras, wreaths and
barrettes are the usual hair orna
mcats ’ als0 metal gauze wreaths in
the form of laurel leaves.
Rose Behind the Ear.
prett £ ° £ a
single rose behtnci the ear has been
-S; of curis fan upon the shoul
der. a very strong reminiscence of the
fashions of the 50 s of last century is
aroused,
Military Effects.
__ The Russian Cossack and the mill- ...
tary effects bid fair to have a strong
in millinery.
Hands For Trimming.
Following several months of flat
trimming, there is a new arrangement
that consists of. bands of material
gathered at each edge to’form a puff
and used at the extreme edge of the
long-waisted dress.
Exercise Suit.
The exercise suit makes an im¬
portant feature of the modern ward¬
robe, for women long ago learned that
a few moments given over to system¬
atic exercise is one of the greatest of
all aids to perfect health and sym¬
metry. This suit is simple and prac¬
tical, yet smart withal and can be
utilized either for the gymnasium or
In the home. In the Illustration it is
made of light weight serge, but all
the materials that are used for suits
of the sort are appropriate, The
knickerbockers or bloomers are com¬
fortably full, yet simple, and the
blouse portion Is made in conformity
with the latest style. The three-quar¬
ter sleeves are those in most general
use, but long ones can be substituted,
if preferred. consists and
The suit of blouse
knickerbockers. The blouse is made
with fronts and back and is finished
with a belt at the waist line, The
knickerbockers are laid in pleats at
their upper edges and are joined to
waistbands, and these waistbands Ire
buttoned onto the band of the blouse,
so that there is no possible danger
of parting, no matter how active an
hour may be enjoyed.
The quantity of material required
for the medium size is eight and one
eighth yards twenty-seven, five yards
forty-four or four yards fifty-two
inches wide.
( L
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m-'i
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■ Vr
■s'!
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a v
i
v . .... berried ,
The new^t bag to with
the white gown, in which the hand
£VSZ
crochet. These reticules may be
i. ia d e 0 f two round medallions care
fully crocheted together, except at the
top, where an opening is left. Knotted
cords are run through the top, by
which , , , the .. bags carried, , . They
are
may also be made of hafid-darned filet
net and Italian filet doilies.