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1/,1-A IHI-y WIW-/III \MI1K M i This Is the Opening Installment of the New Serial—Read It! "T STi | A RAMBLE WITH EULOGIA PART I. A Locc Story of I he Old Spanish Missions By Gertrude Atherton Advice to the Lovelorn D ONA POMPOSA crossed her hands on her stomach and twirled her thumbs. A red spot was In each coffee-colored cheek, and the mole In her scanty eyebrow Jerked ominously. Her lips were set In a taut line, and her angry-llt eyes were fixed upon a «rirl who sat by the window strumming a guitar, her chin raised with an air of placid indifference. “Thou wilt stop this nonsense and cast no more glances at. Juan Turnel?" demanded Doaa Pomposa. “Thou little brat' Host thou think that I am wont to let my daughter marry before she $an hem? Thank God, we have more „t*nse than our mothers. No child of mine shall marry at fifteen. Now listen —thou shalt be locked in a dark room If I am kept awake again by that hobo serenading at my window. I am worn out. Three nights have I been awak ened by that tw-a-n-g. tw-a-n-g." “You need not he afraid,“ said her daughter, digging her little heel Into the floor. “I shall not fall In love. I have no faith in men.” Her mother laughed outright In spite of her anger. Had Read Dumas’ Novels. “Indeed, my Eulogia! Thou are very wise And why, pray, has thou no faith in men?" Eulogia tossed the soft, black braid from her shouledrs and fixed her keen, roguish eyes on the old lady’s face. “Because I have read all the novels of the Senor Dumas, and I well know all those men he makes. And they never speak the truth to women; al ways they are selfish and think of only their own pleasure. 'The women suffer, but they do not care; they do not love the women—only themselves. So I am not going to be fooled by the men. I shall have a good time, but I shall think of myself, not of the men.” Her mother gazed at her In speech less amazement. She had never read a book In her life, and had not thought of locking from her daughter the few volumes her dead husband had collected. Then she gasped with consternation. “A fine woman thou wilt make of thyself, with such ideas—a nice wife and mother, when the time comes! What does Padre Florges say to that, I should like to know.’ It is very grange that he lets you read those books." “I never told him," said Eulogia. In differently. “What!” screamed her mother “Thou •never told at confession?“ “No, I never did. It was none of his business what I read. Reading is no aln. I confessed all." Dona Pomposa rushed at Eulogia with uplifted hands; but her nimble daughter dived under her arms with a provoking laugh and ran out of the room. Town Was Still Awake. That night Eulogia pushed aside the white curtain of her window and look ed out. The beautiful bare hills and circling San Luis were black in the eiVvety night, but the moon made the torn light as day. The owls were hooting on the roof of the mission: Eulogia could see them flap their wings A few' Indians were still mov ing along the dark huts outside the walls, and within the Padre walked among his olive trees Beyond the walls the town was still awake. Once a horseman dashed down the street, and Eulogia wondered if murder had been done In the mountains; the ban dits were thick in their fastnesses. Che did wish she could see one. Then •ie glanced eagerly down the road be Ceath her wdndow In spite of the wis dom she accepted from the French Romanticist her fancy was Just a little touched by Juan Tornel. His black, flashing eyes looked so tender; he rode ao beautifully! She twitched the cur tains into place and ran across the room, her feet pattering upon the bare floor. She Jumped into her little Iron bed and drew* the dainty sheets to her throat. A ladder was leaned heavily against the side of the house She heard an agile form ascend and seat Itself on the deep window* sill. Then the guitar vibrated under the touch of master fingers and a rich, sweet tenor sang to her. Eulogia lay as quiet as a mouse in the daytime, not daring to applaud, hoping fatigue had sent her mother to bed Her lover tuned his guitar and began another eor.g. but she did not hear it; she was listening to footfalls in the garret above. With a pressnt- srutm of what was to happen, she sprang out of bed with a warning ory. but she was too late There was a splash and a battle on the window seat, a smoth ered curse, a quick descent, a tri umphant laugh from above. Eulogia Well, my daughter, have I not won the battle?” said a voice behind her, and Eulogia sat down on the window seat and swung her feet with silent wrath. Do You W ant White Skin ? I DLE wishing changed an never yet ugly com plexion Do something Kind the remedy. There Is a rem edy for every evil. 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Her hair was twisted under a red silk kerchief, and again she crossed her hands on her etomach, but the thumbs held the candle. Eulogia glgaled sud denly. “What dost thou laugh at. senorlta? At the vc.y I have served thy lover? Dost tlun think he will come again soon?“ “No, mamma; you have proved the famous hospitality of the Californians the Americans are always talking about. You need have no more envy of the magnificence of Los Quevos." “Oh. thou canst make sharp speeches, thou Impertinent little brat, but Juan Tornel will serendae under thy win dow no more! Go to thy bed! Diosl but the ashes must look w’ell on his pretty rnustachlo. Go to thy bedi I will put thee on hoard in a convent to morrow' .’’ Then she shuffled out of the room, her ample figure swinging from side to side like a huge pendulum. The next day Eulogia was sitting on her window seat, her chin resting on her knees, the volume of Dumas beside her, when the door was cautiously opened and her Aunt Anastacia enter ed the room. Aunt Anastaefa was very large. In fact, she nearly filled the doorway. She also disdained whale bones and walked with a slight roll. Her ankle* hung over her feet, and her red cheeks and chin were covered with a short black gown Her hair was twisted, into a tight knot and protected by a thick net. and she wore a loose gown of brown calico, patterned with large red roses. But good nature beam ed all over her indefinite features. Her little brown eyes dwelt adoringly upon little Eulogia. who gave her an absent smile "Poor little •one!" she said in her In dulgent and contralto voice. “But It was cruel in my siater to throw ashes on thy lover. Not but what thou art too young for lovers, my darling, al though I had one at twelve. But times have changed. My little one, I have a note for thee Thy mother is out. and he has gone away, so there can be.no harm in reading it" "Give it to me at once!” and Eulogia dived into her aunt’s pocket and found the note. Shrugged Her Shoulders. “Beautiful and Idolized Eulogia— Adios! Adlos' I came a stranger to thy town 1 fell blinded at thy feet. I fly forever from the scornful laughter of thine eyes. Aye. Eulogia. how- couldst thou? Rut no! I will not believe it was thee. The dimples that play in thy cheeks, the sparks that fly in thine eyes God of my life! I cannot believe that they come from a malicious soul No, enchanting Eulogia! consolation of my soul! it was thy mother who so cruelly humiliated me. wrho drives me from thy town lest I be mocked in the streets Aye. Eulogia* Aye, mlserl- cordla! Adlos! Adlos!" Eulogia shrugged her shoulders "Well, my mother is satisfied perhaps She has driven him away. At least, I shall not have to go to the convent." "Thou are so sold, my little noe,” said Aunt Anastacia. disapprovingly. “Thou are but fifteen years, and yet thou throwest aside a lover as if he were an old rebosa. Mother of God! In your place 1 should have wept and , beat the air. But, perhaps, that is the i rtas'-a ju* l eans »ea «Tft jvjli iur thee. Not but what I had many lov ers " “It is too bad thou didst not marry one,” interrupted Eulogia maliciously “Perhaps thou wouldst" and she pick ed up her book "if thou hadst read the Senor Dumas.” “Thou heartless little baby!’’ cried her indignant aunt. “When I love thee so, and bring thy notes at the risk of my life; for thou knowest that thy mother would pull the hair from my head. Thou little brat! To say I could not marry, when I had twenty " Eulogia Jumped up and pecked her on the chin like a bird. “Twenty-five, my old mountain! I only Joked Tjrith thee. Thou didst not marry because thou hadst more sense than to trot about after a man. Is It not so, my old sack of flour? I was but angy because I thought thou hadst helped my mother last night.” “Never! 1 was sound asleep ’’ “I know, 1 know! Now trot away I hear my mother coming.'' and Aunt Anastacia obediently left her niece to the more congenial company of Senor Dumas Green With Fruit Trees. HE hills of San Luis Objspo shot upward like the sloping sides of a well, so round was the town, let patches lay In the slopes—the wide blossoms of the low cacti. The garden of the mission was green T with fruit trees and silver with olive groves. On the white church and long wing lay the red tile; beyond the tvall the dull earth huts of the Indians. Then the straggling town, with its white adobe houses crouching on the grass. Eulogia was sixteen. A year had passed since Juan Tornel had “'sere naded beneath her window’, and, if the truth had been told, she had almost for gotten him. Many a glance had she shot over her prayer book In the mis sion church; many a pair of eyes, dreamy and fiery, had responded. But she had spoken with no man. After a tempestuous secene with her mother, during which Aunt Anastacia had wept profusely, a compromise had been made. Eulogia had agreed to have no more flirtations until she w r as sixteen, hut at that age she should go to balls and have as many lovers as sis* pleased. She walked through the olive groves with Padre Moraga on the morning of her sixteenth birthday. The n#W padre and she w r ere the best of fri^eds. “Well," said the good old A d, push ing the long white hair from his dark face it fell forward whenever he stooped "well, my little one, thou goest to thy first ball to-night. Art thou happy?" “Happy? There Is no such thing as happiness, my father. I sBSll dance and flirt, and make all the young men fall In love with me. 1 shall have a good time. That Is enough." The padre smiled; he was used to her. “Men Shall Love Me.” “Thou little wise one ' He collected himself suddenly “But thou art right to build thy hopes of happiness on the next world alone.' Then he continued, as If he hud merely broken the con versation to say the Angelus; “And thou art sure that thou wilt he the la favorita? Truly, thou hast confidence in thyself an inexperienced chit who has not half the beauty of many other girls." “Perhaps not; but the men shall love me better, all the same. Beauty is not everything, my father. I have a greater attraction than aoft eyes and a pretty mouth.'' “Indeed! Thou baby! Why, thou art no bigger than a well-grown child, and thy mouth was made for a woman twice thy size Where dost thou keep that extraordinary charm?" Not but what he knew, for he liked her better than any girl in the town As the night was warm the younger people danced through the low windows onto the wide corridor, and if eyea relaxed their vigilance stepped off to the grass and wandered among the trees The brow’n old woman In dark silk sat against the wall as dowagers do to-day. Most of the girls wore bright red or yollow frowns, although softer tints blossomed here and there Silky black hair was braided close to the neck, the coiffure finished with a fringe of chenille. As they whirled in the dance their fyll ^ er if you bright gowns loowed like an agitated flower bed suddenly possessed by a wandering tribe of goddesses Eulogia came rather late. In the last moment her mother had wavered in her part of the contract, and not until Eulogia had sworn by every saint In the calendar that she would not leave the sala, even though she stifled, had Dona Pomposa reluctantly consented to take her. Eulcgia’s perfect little figure was clad in a prim white silk gown, but her cold brilliant eyes were like jewels, her large mouth was red as the cactus patches on the hills, a flame burned in either cheek. In a moment she was surrounded by the young men who had been waiting for her. It might be true that twenty girls in the room were more beautiful than she. but she had a quiet manner more effective than animation, & vigor ous magnetism of which she was fully aware, and a cool coquetry which piqued and fired the young men. who were used to more sentimental flirta tions “I Am Not a Man.” By BEATRICE FAIRFAX. BOTH RUDE AND CARELESS. D ear miss Fairfax Is a young girl keeping company with a young man Justi fied in feeling offended when the young man making an appoint . ment to meet her on the way home from business does not keep this engagement, this having happened twice? The excuse given by the young man for not keeping the appointment was. “he had forgotten all about the ap pointment." ANXIOUS. She most certainly Is Justified in being offended, and if 1 were she 1 would never make another engage ment with him. He has treated her in a way that is both rude and careless. WITH HER PARENTS* CONSENT. D ear miss Fairfax I am a young man IS years of age. During business hours 1 am forced to answer the telephone very often. I have struck up an acquaintance with a young lady over the phone and have asked her to go out with me. but she re fuse- to go. Do you think it would be proper for me to ask th^» young lady again, and would it be proper for her to accept the invi tation? G. H. She is quite right in refusing to go to the theater with a mere telephone acquaintance. If you call at her house and meet her parents, and the> sanc tion the acquaintance. It will be all right for her to accept your invitation r cull on her. ] TROUBLED OVER NOTHING. D ear miss Fairfax I am 28 and hav e been keeping steady company for one year with a girl of 18. We are about to be engaged Do you think it improper to be married to a girl ten years younger than yourself? To be engaged, what is the proper way to do it and must it be announced ? Also is it nec essary to present her with an en gagement ring" E. F. S. She is not too young for you. Ask her to marry you, and if she accepts, you are engaged. If her parents know, further announcement is immaterial, though it is a safeguard against mis understanding if all your friends know it. By all means, give her an engagement ring. NO SERIOUS OFFENSE. JJEAR MISS FAIRFAX; She danced as airy as a flower on the wind, but with untiring vitality. “Senorita." said Don Carmelo Bena. "Thou takest my breath away. Dost thou never weary?" "Never. I am not a man.” "Ay, senorlta, thou meanest” “That women were made to make the world go round, and men to play the guitar.’’ "Ah, I can play the guitar. I will serenade thee to-morrow night." “Thou wilt get a shower of ashes for thy pains. Better stay at home and prepare thy soul with three card monte.’ “Aye. senorita. thou are cruel. Does no man please thee?" “Men please me How tiresome to dance with a woman!" “And that is all thou hast for ue? For u9 who would die for thee?" “In a barrel of aguadiente? I prefer thee to dance with. To tell the truth, thy step suits mine." “Ay, senorita mia! Thou canst put honey on thy tongue. Light of my life, Senorita—I fling my heart at thy feet.” To Bo Continued To-morrow. The Spinster By Ella Wheeler Wilcox Copyright, 1913, by Star Company. I. ERE are the orchard trees all large with fruit; And yonder fields are golden with young grain. In little Journeys, branchward from the nest, • A mother bird, with sweet insistent tries, Urges her young to use their untried wings. A purring Tabby, stretched upon the sward. Shuts and expands her velvet paws in joy, While sturdy kittens nuzzle at her breast. O mighty Maker of the Universe, Am 1 not part and parcel of Thy world. And one with Nature? Wherefore, then, In me Must this great reproductive impulse lie Hidden, ashamed, unnourlshed and denied, Until it starves to slow and tortuous death? I know the hope of Springtime: like the tree Now ripe with fruit, I budded, and then bloomed; We laughed together, through the young May moms; We dreamed together, through the Summer moons; Till all Thy' purposes within the tree Were to fruition brought. Lord, Thou hast heard The Woman in me crying.for the Man; The Mother in me crying for the Child; And made no answer. Am I less to Thee Than lower forms of Nature, or In truth Dost Thou hold Somewhere in another Realm Full compensation and large recompense For lonely virtue forced by Fate to live A life unnatural, In a natural world? n. T HOU Who hast made for such sure purposes The mightiest and the meanest thing that Is— Planned out th e lives of insects in the air With flpe precision and consummate care, Thotf sho hast taught the bees the secret power Of carrying on love's laws Wwixt flower and flower. Why didst Thou shape .his mortal frame of mine, If Heavenly joys alone were Thy design? Wherefor the wonder of my woman's breast. By lips of lover and of babe unpressed, If spirit children only shall reply Uifto my ever urgent mother cry? Why should the rose be guided to its own. And my love-craving heart beat on alone? "r 111. Y ET do I understand; for Thou hast made Something more subtle than this heart of ms; A finer part of me To be obeyed. Albeit I am sister to the earth, This nature self is not the whole of me; The deathless soul of me Has nobler birth. The primal woman hungers for the man. My better self demands the mate of me; The spirit fate of me, Part of Thy plan. Nature is instinct w'ith the mother-need; So is my heart: but. ah, the child of me Should, undeflled of me, Spring from love's seed. And If in barren chastity I must Know but in dreams that perfect choice of me, still with the voice of me Proclaim God just. I am 16 years of age. Last week I was invited to a party to which I was requested to bring a young man I invited a young man whom I know to be very re spectable and polite, but I had known him a very little time, and, at that, only to talk to. Now. what I want to know is if it was right to invite him. ANXIOUS. You have been introduced and you knew him to be honorable. Under the circumstances, you did no great wrong. The mistake, if there was any. lies In the custom of asking a girl of 16 to hunt up a boy escort. TELL YOUR BEST FRIEND. T~\EAR MISS FAIRFAX: I would like to establish a home. I have no woman ac quittance. Can you give me any help or direction toward the at tainment of my desire either through social or direct introduc tion? H. G. M. Tell the best friend you have among the men. If he is married, he will tell his wife, and every woman is. at the bottom of her heart, a born matchmaker. She will see that you meet other women and have a choice. YOU MUST DO NOTHING. FAEAR MISS FAIRFAX: I am eighteen and am deeply in love with a young man w'ho often invites me up to the show. He is an usher. What could I do to gain his love, or show him that I love him? HEART-BROICEN. You are too young to be involved In any sentiment as serious as lov ing. Make no attempts to win his love, and teach yourself to know that you do not love him. Beauty Secrets: “HAIR PULLING MAKES IT GROW QUICKLY” Two Portraits of Miss Josephine Brown. D',“ T' HERE seems to be one univer sal nfid unanimous answer to ihe question of “What makes life really worth the living:?" No matter to whom you put it. if he or she has lived—and in the living: Joyed and suffered—the one answer that is given is “Children.” And, after all, the little tykes do make this old world of ov"s worth living in. They may he a tribulation—they may t* dren will not have to deal with them, change in the atmosphere at once, The man who is money mad most | and humans who were glowering at times piles up his hoards of golden each other smile and laugh to see the and a sacrifice—but where is the one who answers to the name of father or mother, who are really human men and women, who do not prefer chil dren to all forms of wealth and all shades of glory. We see the king on his throne try ing to make things ea«y and settle coins for the children who come after him. The parent who lives in the hovel sees better times coming for his children, and is content to put up with his hard lot, knowing that he will live again in their enjoyment and in their ease. The society lady knows the vapid- al and ! ness of her life and feels that she has are | not lived in vain and been a drone in the hive if she gives forth to the world children. The poor wrasher- woman works and denies herself to keep her family of tots together and give them advantages that she had not. Uft times in a crowded car my little lady t omes in and perches primly on djmuuJl iT.ybJepu* m ^iuu. tu» cuu«. wn X&an. tan little one ape her grown-up sisters. The nifty little kid you meet on the way, who looks up at you with friendly eyes, clear and unafraid, stirs your heart more than all dreams and visions of money and success. The little tatterdemalion you meet makes you want to change conditions so that all children can be taken away from the city and given the joys of the country and a taste of chiidhood close to nature. And the baby, who plays with its little pink toes, and is all unconscious of your presence, is of more interest than the speculations and theories of the philosophers who have filled the libraries with their thoughts from EXPLAIN IT. MISS FAIRFAX: am a young lady of eighteen Some time ago a young man ask ed the pleasure of my company to a show. I refused It; later he staked me again, but I told him I did not care to go to the place, but changed my mind and went by myself. I met him as I was entering. He did not say any thing. Since then he has spoken to me, but has never asked for my company. Lately I have come to like him very much. DOT. Explain it by saying you changd your mind, but do not take it to heart if he never asks you again. Your actions showed you did not care for his company and that is what rankles. SHE WAS WRONG. UJEAR MISS FAIRFAX: I took a lady friend of mine to an evening dance, and at 11:30 o’clock I asked her to come home, and she begged me to wait until she had just one more dance. See ing that she enjoyed it. I consent ed, but it was to be the last, as we had about two hours' travel for home. After she got through with this dance she wanted to wait for the next one, and I re fused to give my consent. With this she claimed I offended her. MARK. She did not keep faith with you, but her offense is not serious. If you took her to the dance for her pleas ure, and that is always assumed, you should be glad to stay as long as she chooses, reserving to yourself the decision not to take her again if she chooses to stay too late. By Margaret Hubbard Ayer. M ISS JOSEPHINE BROWN, the pretty actress, stood before the mirror and clutched her short curly mane with both hands. Then she gave a yank as if she were deter mined to pull all her pretty reddish hair out by the roots. "Don't look so worried." she said to me. "I’m not mad at myself. This Is the latest Paris method of growing hair in a hurry. "Yes, I cut It off because I had to be in style. And to be In style In Paris to-day means that you must look as if you had short hair. Most of the really smart women are really cutting theirs off altogether. "Leon Baker, who did the costume designing for the Russian ballet and for all the Oriental plays, has set the rage for short-haired coiffures, and short hair Is absolutely THE THING now In Paris. To be chic you must wear your hair very flat on the head and bound around with a silk sash of Oriental material, from under which a few short curls are allowed to escape. "There must be no wad of hair to spoil the contour of the head. The head must look very boyish, indeed, and those women who have cut all their long hair off attain the true Bakst effect,” the pretty young act-ess continued. "I want to have long hair for sev eral reasons. First, l am in America again, and America has not accepted the short-haired woman. Over here you still think short hair masculine, while in Paris short hair is consid ered fascinating on a woman's head, and the boyish look of these Bakst coiffures is the latest and smartest and most bewitching style. Every* one is in love with short hair, and con siders a woman with curly locks, snip ped off at the nape of the neck, much more attractive than her sister of Sutherland descent. “I shall never keep my hair very long any more, because I know the delights of short, healthy, clean hair." This Model Greatly Reduced. The Sad Lady—I want a hat. The Milliner—Yes, madam, ‘'Merry Widow ?” art® £a<t.LadyW< Another Precocious Child. A director of one of the great trans continental railroadB was showing his 3-year-old daughter the pictures in a work on natural history. Pointing to a picture of a zebra, he asked the baby to tell him what it represented. Baby answered: “Colty." Pointing to a picture of a tiger in the same way. she answered: “Kitty." Then a lion, she answered: “Doggy." Elated with her seeming quick percep tion. he then turned to the picture of a chimpanzee and said: “Baby, what is this?” "■PAi'a,". aina-ass - A VOID IMPURE MILK tor Infants and Invalids Got HORLICK’S It means the Original and Genuine MALTED MILK "CMeti ate JmitatUmk The Food-Drink for all Ages Rich milk, malted grain, in powder form. For infants, invalids and growing children. Purenutrition.upbuilding the whole body. Invigorates nursing mothers and the aged. More healthful them tea or coffee. Take no substitute. Ask for HORLICK'S HORLICK’S Contains Pure Milk BLUE G E $4.75 Best Jellico $4.50 PIEDMONT COAL CO. Both Phones M. 3648