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Advice to the Lovelorn A RAMBLE WITH EULOGIA A Loce Story of the Old Spanish Missions By Gertrude Atherton By BEATRICE FAIRFAX I THINK HE DOES. D ear mips Fairfax: 1 am In love. I met a young -tin some five yearn ago, who ^ald attention to me. but T did not give him much encourage ment, as I am a little backward. 1 strayed front him. and every time he knew' I wus around he would make his appearance, but I a-.lll never gave him any hope It came, to me one day that 1 loved him. I wrote him and explained all, and told him I would be In the same city he was In. He came to sod me and said 1 did no harm In writing him. On account of my backwardness, I can not show fji-a my love. Do you not think this man loves me and that when he sees It he will show his love? a. p. a. o. He tried to be attentive to you for five years, and you discouraged him. Under thft circumstances, I think his J erslstende proves he thinks a great oal of you f)on't write him again. The next step is up to him. GO TO HER FATHER. TV EAR MISS FAIRFAX: S-' I have been going with a young girl for about two years Her father objects to my going with her under any circumstances and wishes her to go with another young man whom she dislikes very much. I have always loved her and always will For a while I thought she cared for me a lit tle, but they have moved Into . n- other town, and it seems as if she has forgotten me and is going with other young men (I think against her will). I have not been with other girls since 1 rnet her, and It seems as if I can't forget her. I don’t intend trying to love any other girl on earth If her love proves untrue. What would you do under the circumstances? BROKEN ARROW. Her father’s objections must be overcome, and you can't overcome them until you know what they are. Go to him like a man, and tell him what you have told me. If you can win him, it will be easy to win the girl. PERHAPS SHE FLIRTS. D ear miss Fairfax: I’m in love with a girl. She doesn't seem to reciprocate my regard for her. My brother and 1 go to see this girl. By vomo strange fate we have kept -on friendly terms. How Jong this will last, I can't say. This girl went away recently, and sent us a card. She told hint how much she missed hint and specified the time of her return as “to-morrow afternoon." She Informed me of the fact that she Jtad received my card and “sup- potnC she'd get home "to-mor- r.-v,.'' Difference, Isn't there? LOVELORN. Her cards sound as if she wants to ktep noth of you on her waiting list. Stand aside and give your brother a chance. If that doesn’t suit her she will soon let you know. But. don't, I beg. let love for this girl come be tween you and him. DON’T MARRY WITHOUT LOVE. D ear miss Fairfax: i I am nineteen and crazy in love with a man twenty-three. For four months he was devoted to me, showing by Ills manner he loved me, but never mentioning a word. He then went away and we corresponded. He said he would be ready to be marired in three years and asked me my future In tentions. At last he quit writing. Lately I met a wealthy mah who wants me to marry him, but I do not love him. I love the other man, who Is poor. BROWN EYES. The first man may be waiting till he Is financially able to care for you. You are only nineteen. Walt a little longer, and don’t make the tragic mistake of marrying a man you do not love. NOT THE WAY TO BEHAVE. D ear miss Fairfax: I ain twenty-five years of age and engaged to a young lady- one year my Junior. Before our engagement she had kept com pany with a young man for al- . most one year, but forsook him for me. Now that he Is paying attention to her again, not know ing that we are engaged, do you think it proper for her to allow him to kiss her as before? Do you think she is treating either one of us right? She always tells me what transpires between her and her old friend. J. J. J. No, she should not allow him to kiss her; and If you are wise you will insist on announcing your en gagement, or at least letting him know It. The girl Is not treating either of you fairly. • DON'T TRY. D ear miss Fairfax: I am a young lady of seven teen summers, and 1 have been keeping company with a young man of twenty-two summers. I had learned to love him very- much, but he has turned his back upon me and has been keeping company with a young lady of the same place and I would like to know how I can win him, TROUBLED. To win him back would require energy and time that could he bet ter invested in your books. Do you not know, my dear, ttiat a lover who needs winning “hack” is not worth winning? A MATTER OF TASTE. D ear miss Fairfax: When you take a girl to the theater is it proper to buy her flowers? If so. what flower would be suitable? J. W. If man can afford them, flowers are a thoughtful and pretty remembrance. In making a selection he should con sider her taste. What’s Gone Before 1'ndcr the influence of the romances of DumaH, Eulogia Is in love with Juan. The match, however, doeH not receive the approval of Dona 1'om- posa, who, while Juan is serenading her daughter, pours hot ashes upon his head. This drives him away and Kulogia promises that she will have no more sweethearts until she is six teen years of age. When her sixteenth birthday ar rives Eulogia is taken to a party by her mother and there meets Don Pablo Ignestria, who she at first dis dains but later asks to return to her city after he has been called away. While she awaits anxiously his ar rival she hears that he has been mar ried to a former sweetheart. Her mother then urges her to marry Don Hudson, the rich American, but Eulo gia demurs, saying that nothing is known of him and that she does not like him. She has gathered much wisdom from the reading of Dumas, and as she applies this to Don Hud son, her mother is angry. Now Go on With the Story. TODAY’S INSTALLMENT. “Dost thou never intend to marry?" demanded Dona Pomposa one day as she stood over the kitchen stove stirring red peppers into a saucepan full of lard. Kulogia was sitting on the table, swinging her small feet. “Why do you wish me to marry? I am well enough as I am. Was Elena Cnstanares so happy with the man who was made for her that I should hasten to be a neglected wife? Poor my Elena! Four years, and then consump tion and death. Three children and an indifferent husband, who was dying of love when he could not get her!" “Thou thlnkest of unhappy mar riages because thou hast just heard of Elena's death. But there are many others.” “Did you hear of the present she left her mother?” “No.” Dona Pomposa dropped her spoon; she dearly loved a bit of gossip. "What was it?” “You know that a year ago Elena went home to Dos Quervoa and begged of Roberto and Dona Jacoba on her knees to forgive her, and*they did, and were glad to do it. Dona Jacoba was with her when she was so ill at the last, and just before she died Elena said, 'Mother, In that chest you will find a legacy from me. It is all of my own that I have In the world, and I leave it to you. Do not take it until I am dead.' And what do you think It was? The green hide reata!” “But Jacoba must have felt as if she were already in Purgatory?” "It is said that she grew ten years older in that night.” Marry an American. "May the saints be praised, my child can leave me no such gift. But all men are not like Carlo Castanares I would have thee marry an American. They are smart and know how to keep the gold. Remember, I have little now, and thou canst not be young forever.” “I have seen no American I would marry.” "There is Don Abel Hudson." “I do not trust that man. His tongue and his face are handsome, but always when I meet him I feel a little afraid. Although It goes away In a minute. The Senor Dumas says that's a woman’s Instincts” "To perdition with Senor Dumas! Does he say that a child’s instincts are bet ter than her monther’s? Don Abel throws away the money like the rocks. He has the best horses at the races. He tells me he has a house in Yerba Buena" “San Francisco. And I would not live In that bleak and sandy waste. Did you notice how he limped at the ball last night?*’ “No. What of that? But I am not In love with Don Hudson If thou art so set against him. It is true that no one knows just who he is, now I think of it I had not made up my mind that he was the husband for thee. But let it be an American, My Kulogia. Even when they have no money they will work for it, and that is what no Californian will do" Will Be an Old Maid. UT Eulogia had run out of the room; she rarely listened to her mother's harangues. She draped a rebesa about her head and went over to the house of Graclosa la Cruz. Her friend w«a sitting by her bedroom window trimming a yellow satin bedspread with lace, and Kulogia took up a half finished sheet and began fastening the drawn threads into an Intricate pattern “Only ten days more, my Graclosa. she said, mischievously. Art thou going to run back to thy mother in thy night gown, like Joseflta Olvera?” “Never will I be such a fool, Eulogia, I have a husband for thee.” “To the tunnel of the mission with husbands! I shall be an old maid like Aunt Anastacla, with black whiskers Graclosa laughed. “Thou wilt marry and have ten children.” “By every station In the mission I will not! Why bring more women into the world to suffer? “Ay, Eulogia! Thou art always say- B A man had crawled out of the bush near them. His face was black with powder, one arm hung limp at his side. j I cannot understand that ing things I cannot undci thou shouldst not think anout marry ing. But I have a husband for three. He came from Dos Angeles this morn ing and is a friend of my Carlos. His name is not so pretty—Thomas Garfias —no. There he rides now.” Eulogia looked out of the windo# with little curiosity. A small young man was riding down the street on a superb horse, colored like golden bronze with silver mane and tall His saddle was heavily mounted with silver, and his spurs were Inlaid with gold and sil ver. The straps of the latter were w-ork- ed with gleaming metal threads. He wore a light red serape heavily embroidered and fringed. His boots, of soft deerskin dyed a rich green and stamped with Aztec eagles, were tied at the knee by a white silk cord wound about the leg, finished with heavy sil ver 'tassels. His short breeches were trimmed with gold lace. As he caught Graciosa's eye, he raised his sombrero, then rode through the open door of the neighboring saloon and tossed off an American drink without dismounting from his horse. Eulogia lifted her shoulders. “I like his saddle und his horse. But he is too small. Still, a new man is not disa greeable. When shall I meet him?" "To-night, my Eulogia. He goes with us to Miramar." The Night of the Ball. PARTY of youn& people started that night for a hall at Miramar, the home of Don Polycarp Quijas. Many a calbellero had asked the laxly of his choice to ride on his saddle while hi rode the less comfortable auquera be hind, and guided his horse with his arm as near her w'aist as he dared. Dona Pomposa with a small brood under her wdng, started last of all in tlie American wagon. The night was calm, the moon was high, the party very gay. Abel Hudson and the new-comer, Don Thomas Garfias, sat on either side of Eulogia. and she amused herself at the expense of each. “Don Thoma* says that he Is hand somer than the men of San Buis,” she said to Hudson. “Do not you think he is right? See what a beautiful curl his mustachios have, and what a droop his eyelids! And—Holy Mary! how that yel low ribbon becomes his hair! Ay, senor! Why have yoi^ come to dazzle the eyes of the poor girls of Pan Duls Obispo?” "Ah, 8enorita,“ said the little dandy, "It will do their eyes good to see an elegant young man from the city. And they should see my sister! She would teach them how to dress and arrange their hair." "Bring her to teach us, senor. and for reward we will find her a tall and modest husband, such as the girls of A CASTOR IA For Infants and Children. The Kind You Have Always Bought The Kl ^ Bears the ^■Lgnalure of *1 THE UNIVERSAL ROUTE Bu Ella Wheeler Wilcox A“ P we journey along, with a laugh and a song, We see on youth’s flower-decked slope. Lfike a beacon of light, shining fair on the sight, The beautiful Station of Hope. But the wheels of old Time roll along as we climb. And our youth speeds away on the years; And with hearts that are numb with life's sorrows. we come To the mist-covered Station of Tears. Still onward we pass, where the milestones, alas! Are the tombs of our dead, to the West, Where glitters and gleams, la the dying sunbeams. The aweet, silent Station of Rest. All rest Is but change, and no grave can estrange The soul from Its Parent above: • And. scorning its rod. it soars back to its God. To the limitless City of Dove. San Duis Obispo admire. Don Abel, why do you not boast of your sisters? Have you none—nor mother, nor father, nor brother? J never heard you speak of them. Maybe you grew alone out of the earth.” Hudson’s gaze wandered to the canon they weer approaching. "I am alone, senorita, a lonely man in a strange land.” “It Is Kind of You.” “Is that the reason why you are such a traveler, senor? Are you never afraid fn your long, lonely rides over the mountains, of that dreadful bandit— John Powers, who murders whole fam ilies for the sack of gold they have under the floor. I hope you always carry plenty of pistols, senor.” The muscles In the American’s hand some face seemed to swell out for an Instant. "True dear senorita,” he exclaimed. "It Is kind of you to put me on my guard. I had never thought of this man.” “This devil, you mean. When last night I saw you come limping into the room” * “Ay yi, yi, Dios!” “Marie!” “Dios de ml alma!” “Dios di ml vida!” “Cleo Sant©!” A wheel had given way and the par ty was scattered about the road. No one was hurt, but loud were the lamentations. No Californian had ever walked six miles, and the w'heel was past repair. But Abel Hudson came to the rescue. "Beave it to me," he said. “I pledge myself to get you there,” and lie went off in the direction of a ranch house. “Ay! The good American, the good American!” cried the girls. “Eulogia! How canst thou be so cold to him—the handsome stranger with the kind heart?” Abel Was Standing. IS heart is like the Sacramento Valley, veined with gold instead of blood. What 1? he bringing? The wagon of the country!” Abel Hudson was standing erect on the low’ floor of the wagon behind two strong black mules. The wagon was a clumsy affair, a large wooden frame covered with raw hide and set upon a heavy axle. The wheels were made of solid stumps of trees, and the harness of green hide. An Indian boy sat astride one of the mules. On either side rode a vasquero with his reata fastened to the axle tree. "This is the best I can do,” said Hud son. “There is probably not another American wagon between San Duis and Miramar. Do you think you can stand it?" The girls shrugged their pretty shoul ders. The men swore into their mus tachios. Dona Pomposa groaned at the prospect of a long ride in a springless wagon. But no one was willing to re turn and when Eulogia jumped lightly In they all followed, and Hudson placed them as comfortably as possible, al though they -were obliged to sit on the I floor. The wagon jolted down the canon, the Hunting a Husband By VIRGINIA TERHUNE VAN DE WATER. “H mules plunging, the vaqueros shouting; but the moon glittered like a silvered snow-peak, the wild, green forest was about them, and even Eulogia grew sen timental, as Abel Hudson’s blue eyes bent over her’s and his curly head cut off Dona Pomposa’s view. Used to Pretty Speeches. "Dear senorita,” he said, “thy tongue is very sharp, but thou hast a kind heart. Hast thou no place in it for Abel Hudson?” "In the sala, senor, where many oth ers are received with mamma and Aunt Anastacla sitting in the corner.” He laughed. “Thou wilt always jest, but I will take all the rooms and turn everyone out, even to Dona Pomposa and Dona Anastacla!” “And leave me alone with thee! How I should yawn!” • “Oh, yes, Dona Coquetta, I am used to such pretty little speeches. When thou wouldst begin to yawn I would ride away, and thu wouldst be glad to see me when I returned.” “What wouldst thou bring me from the mountains, senor?” He looked at her steadily. “Gold, sen orita. I know of many rich veins. I have a little canyon suspected by no one else where I pick out a sackful of gold every day. Gold makes the life of a beloved wife very sweet, senorita." All Were Wet. "In truth, I should like the gold bet ter than myself, senor,” said Eulogia frankly. “For, if thou wilt have the truth—ay! Holy Heaven! this is worse than the other!” A lurch, splash and the party with shrill cries sprang to their feet; the low cart was filling with water. They had left the canyon and were crossing a slough; no one had remembered it would be high tide. The girls, without an instant’s hesi tation, whipped their gowns up, but their feet were wet, and their skirts were draggled. They made light of it, how ever, as they did of everything, and drove up to Miramar amid high laugh ter and rattling Jests. Dona Duisa Quijas,- a handsome, shrewd-looking woman, magiiittcentl.\ gowned in yellow satin, the glare and sparkle of jewels on her neck, tame out upon the corridor to meet them. “What is this? In a wagon of the country! An accident? Come in, quick! quick! 1 will give you clean dottier. Trust these girls to take care of their gowns. Mary! What wet feet. Quick! Quick! This way, or you will have red noses to-morrow,” anti she led the; . down the corridor, past the windows, through which they could see the dancers in the sala, and opened the door of her new bedroom. "There, my children, help your selves.” And she pulled out the ca pacious drawers of her chest. “All is at your service.” She lifted out an armful of dry under clothing, then went to the door of an adjoining room anti listened with her hand uplifted. "Didst thou have to lock him up?” asted Dona Pomposa. as she drew on a pair of Dona Luisa’s silk stockings. "Yes! Yes! And such a time, my friend. Thou knowest he swore after I fooled him the last time, that I should never have another hall. I was never meant to be bothered with a husband, and have I not given him three chil dren. twenty times handsomer than him self? Is that not enough? By the soul of St. Duis, the Bishop, I will continue to promise, and then get absolution at the mission, but I will not perform. Well, he was furious, my friend; he had spent a sack of gold on that ball, and he swore I should never have another. So this time I invited my guests and told him nothing. At seven to-night I per suaded him into his room and locked the door. But Diego had forgotten to screw down the window and he got out. I could not get him back. Pomposa, and his big nose was purple with rage. He swore that he would turn every guest away from the door, he swore that he would be faking a bath on the corridor when they came up, and throw insults in their faces. Ay, Pomposa! I went down on my knees. I thought I should not have my ball—such cakes as I had made and such salads, but Diego saven me. He went Into Don Polycarpo’s room and cried "Fire!” Of course the old man ran there and then we locked him in. Diego had screwed down the win dows first. What have I done to be punished with him? "Thou art too handsome and too cruel, my Duisa. But in truth he is an old wild cat. The Saints be praised that he is safe for the night! Did he swear?” “Swear! He has cursed the skin off his coat, and is quiet now. Come, my little one, art thou ready? The Cabal leros are dry in Diego’s clothes by this time, and waiting for their waltzes,” and she drove them through the door into the salon with a triumphant smile on her dark, sparkling face. To Be Continued To-morrow. T Humanisms A misfit truth Is the worst of all lies. The average woman is a good actress off the stage. A good neighbor Is as great a blessing as a bad one Isn't. The poorer a man Is the less likely he Is to be called a grafter. Men are reasonably certain about the age of a woman of uncertain age. For every patient that swears by a doctor at least a dozen swears at him. Occasionally a couple marry and live happily ever after they are divorced. A rose by any other name would smell as sweet and cost as much when out of season. It’s awfully hard to be popular with yourself and please your neighbors at the same time. When the average man fails to make good he begins to look around for some one to blame It on. Just because a married man does the things his wife wants him to do is no sign that he is stuck on the job. With the waning of the honeymoon Cupid again gets busy and substitutes a pair of green goggles for the rose-col ored glasses. ™sHE ten days before Robert May nard’s wedding passed dully and monotonously for Beatrice Minor. Helen Robbins had changed her plans about coming to town, although she would run in for the wedding, she ex plained when the widow telephoned l»er. Pleasanton was so lovely In its autumn J'c!!”ge that she and John had decided to stay on indefinitely. She appended to this announcement an Invitation do her friend, to run out for a few days and enjoy the brilliant October weather. nelcn netfer held resentment long, and had evidently forgotten her recent tele phonic snub. But Beatrice declined the invitation hastily. She did not want to visit Helen’s country house just now. She had time to regret her precipi- tatp refusal during the following days. At the end of a week her loneliness and isolation were telling on her nerves. The children had returned to kinder garten. and when school hours were over they played out-of-doors with some older children, with whom they were safe. Walked for Duty’s Sake. Much of their mother’s time was spent in the apartment with* only Mary for company. Each afternoon she went out for a walk from a sense of duty, and, once, Dr. Haynes came by and took her for a short spin into Westchester, but he was busy and she saw him sel dom. She read until her eyes ached, and sewed until they smarted again. She listened to her children’s* prattle when they were in the house, and, when they were absent, to Mary’s gossip concern ing the other families with whom she had lived. She rose in the morning with no thrill of anticipation and went to bed at night with gratitude that in sleep, at least, she would have peace. The monotonous life of a great city where she seemed just now to have no friends whom she cared to see, oppressed her, and sometimes she longed for the summer days in Pleasanton, where, at least, something interesting had hap pened. Lacy Wrote Less Often. Keith Dacy wrote her less often than his role of an ardent lover would war rant, but his bright letters were an event in the woman's humdrum life She answered them gladly, and with more warmth than she might have used had she been less idle and depressed. She even mistook her loneliness for a desire to see her absent suitor. As for Paul Maynard, Beatrice knew that he was improving slowly, and that he would not be severely disfigured. That was all. Twice when she called up his nurse at the hospital Dr. Y’eager had taken the attendant’s place at the telephone, and, the second time, had given such brusque replies to her fal tered. queries that she hung the receiver up, flushed and angry, with the deter mination in her heart to forget Paul, wholly and forever. This she tried to persuade herself she had done, yet she would sit motionless, with her book or sewing lying idle In her lap, for a half-hour at a time, a wistful, abstracted look on her face, and her thoughts on the man she was try ing to forget. Beatrice had thought at first that she would not attend Robert Maynard’s marriage, but as the days crawled by and her life grew duller, she began to think of the wedding, of the people she would see there, and, still more, of the dress she might wear upon that occasion. She had a lltle money left from her fire Insurance, and, though she had resolved to put It away in the bank, the thought of the new cos tume she might purchase with it was too much for her resolutlbn. All Misgivings Fled. The dress that she finally bought at "a special sale” cost more than she could afford, and she suffered qualms at the recollection of her extravagance. But when the costume came home, and she tried it on before her mirror, all misgivings fled as soon as she saw its beauty. She was doubly glad she had bought it when Miss Damerel, Robert May nard’s fiancee, called on her late one rainy afternoon. “I know you are surprised to see me, and that my calling at this juncture Is most unconventional,” Miss Damerel said, after the preliminaries of greet ing had been exchanged and visitor and hostess were seated in the cozy living room. "But Robert said that you were all alone here In the city, and he asked ty me to see you and urge you t 0 com our wedding.’’ Beatrice assured her that she im. ed to he present at the ceremony ° "I have never had a chance ton, you." prattled on the hrtde-elect « your kindness to my dear boy j' n past. He has spoken of you very 0 fti “1 am sure that Mr. Maynard te ! me fully for whatever kindness i ever able io show him," replied the o\v, enigmatically. "He is the dearest man in the world declared Misa Pamerel, sentlmenu "The best and *the truest." “A woman should always feel about the man she is going t„ m my dear," replied Beatrice gentlv' 1 Sat Alone Thinking. When the happy gi*| had gone lonely woman sat for a time in the thinking. "After all," she muttered, "a B0 , can not be happy.—really happy— she is married." Her thoughts suddenly turned Keith Lacy with more warmth than had ever before felt for him. little she arose and turned on the II in " ' 1 Attn I the darkened room and spoke leer decision. Yes, it would be best," she i softly. "I would be happier than I now, at least.” A letter lay on the table undent the mellow glow of the lamp, she j membered now that Mary had laid trtere when she brought In the tea-sei Ice. She picked It up, and saw | sudden thrill that It was from Kel "Dear Lady,” the letter ran, ", ill be glad to learn that I was m ried to-day to the dearest girl | n world, and that I am very happy, has been a case of love at first si and I have written to you because have been my dear friend and had bounded patienpe with my futile ef to make you care for me as I fool: thought I wanted you to care. I k that you will rejoice In my happin You were so kind to me in my bo: love that I am sure you will rejoice me now that you know that real has come to me. She Is the 'little ter’ of my partner, and has been v ing him. Always your sincere friend, “KEITH LAC! eflfon knot w:*d Pure English. “TV/IY dear, I wish you would spa ivl more carefully," said a sticklt for pure English to his wife. "Y( say that 'Henry Joru-s came to town from Sunderland.’ Don't see that it would be better to sayt! he ‘came from Sunderland to tl town’?" "I don’t see any difference In two expressions," rejoined the "But there Is a difference In the expressions—a rhetorical differei You don't hear me make use of si awkward expressions. By the have a letter from your father pocket." “Oh, dear, Is my father In pocket?” inquired the wife. "Yi mean that you have in your pocket letter from my father.” "There you go with your little bles! You take a delight In ha: Ing me: you are always taking up thread and representing It as a "Representing it to be a rope, mean, dear.” And then he grinned a sickly and wished he had never started tl discussion. 1 ■ lady. st« iy 1 iu i r-*1 The Despots. Visitor—But why do you Intend 1 give up your flat and take a house? Hostess (wearily) — Because rather live under an absolute monarch than a dual alliance. In a house \ will still have the cook, but we have the hall porter. Successful in all the numerous ailments c&uwj by defective or irregular action o! the organs of digestion and elinu* nation—certain to prevent suffenitl and to improve the general health- BEECHAMS PILLS Sold •rerywhere. In boxes, 10c., 2S* I iliril An<l Everybody L/tUlm” Laughs With You The Great Comic Section of Hearst’s Sunday American On Sunday will be better than ever before. Don’t miss it! Order your Sunday Ameri can now! Then you will be sure to get it. I i BOTH PHONES MAIN 80001 —