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THE GIOKW MAGAZINE'
Two in a Train
< THIRD class single to Gal
rA way. pleas**!” Miss Mathers
moved away from the ticket
office, but not before a tall man,
wrapped in a thin ulster, with a tweed
cap pulled down over his eyes, had
seen her—started first at sound of her
soft voice, and then deliberately fol
lowed her to the waiting train. It
was a bitter winter evening, and Miss
Mathers shuddered Inwardly as she
thought of that long, long train jour
ney through South Wales, the odious
crossing of the Irish Channel and th*
wearisome journey to Galway.
Tears started to her eyes as she
thought of past arrivals there. How
different they had been! Then she
had traveled thither as a guest. Now
all was sadly changed, and she was|
going back to dear, well-remembered
places to earn her own living as a
governess.
Seated In the corner of a third
claas compartment, Mary Mathers
settled herself under her rug for the
firet stage of her journey.
A warning whistle from the train—
the door was wrenched open, and a
man. wrapped in a big ulster, got
In, followed by a pnrter with a bag
and bundle of golf sticks There was
a momentary bustle, during which tin
express began to glide slowly along
the platform. The porter jumped out.
shut the door—they were off.
And in the opposite corner was sit
ting—
Mary's heart gave a jump.
“I thought it was you.” said Mere
dith. quietly. "Aren’t you going to
spaak to me?”
“Os course.” she stammered, with
lips that tried so hard not to quiver.
“You startled me so." She smiled at
him gallantly. "You see. you are
about the last person I expected to
see. Are you going to Ireland?”
The Old Haunts.
“Yes, and you? To the old haunts?”
The quick tears started to her eyes.
"Yes. to one of the old haunts near
Galway."
“Lough Corrib?" he asked.
Mary winced.
“Yes. just on the shores, half-way
to Oughtcrard.”
He leant forward.
"You don’t mean to say that you
are going to the Wintons?”
"Yes."
"Good! So am I. They’re getting
up a first-rate house party, you know .
I’m awfully glad you’re going to be
one of t hem, too "
Mary gave a little gasp, opened her
mouth as if to apeak, and said noth- 1
ing. What could she say?
Tell him the truth, of course—that (
instead of an honored guest she was
going to the Wintons as governess at
1150 a year, relegated to the school
room in a distant wing, dining when
the rest of the party lunched, disap
pearing back again to the distant
wing of the house with her charges.
Perhaps now and then she would be
sent for to play accompaniments or
something as the kind. Brtt if Mere
dith was to be In the house, how
could she bear it? How could she
tell him? He probably knew nothing
about her reverses of fortune. Hhe
couldn’t blurt it out apropos of noth
ing at all.
Three years ago she and Meredith 1
had seen a good deal of each other.
No other man had ever touched her
heart <n made an> great difference i
in her life, but he—she wrenched
herself from her dreams with aq es- ]
fort as she spoke.
A Bad Prospect.
"I’m afraid it’s going tn be a bad ,
night. Are you obliged to cross?” <
"Yes.” *
"And if I remember rightly, you 1
don’t care much about the sea, do <
you ?” ’
"I care this much —that I loathe it,’’ J
eald Mary, with a faint smile. 1 »
have never got over my distaste for I
boat-and everything to do with them t
And the Irish Channel is always i
rough when I cross it.”
Meredith laughed
"Have you only just come back 1
from East Africa?’’ said Mary, break- I
Ing the silence that had fallen be
tween them. i
"Three months ago." I
"Rut you will go out again?"
"I don’t think so,” he said slowly. t
••It all depends on-
The door into the corridor was slid i
open, the dining car attendant looked
In
“Take your seats for dinner,
pleane."
He paqped on.
"You will dine, won’t you?” asked
Meredith. "Nothing like a good meal,
you know ”
The color mounted to Mary's face
How could she tell him that dinner
was not a possibility to her. simply ’
because she had no spare inonex to ,
■waste? She had a little packet of
sandwiches in her bag, and some bis. ;
cults, but her appetite sdekened at the 1
thought of them.
"I am not hungry,” she said, eva- ,
siveix. "I couldn't eat any dinner.” '
Left Alone.
“Very well. Willful woman must
always have her way. but don’t say 1
didn’t warn you. Will you be all <
right if 1 leave you" I feel the pangs
of a furious hunger"
“Os course. I am quite comfort
able"
Left alone. Mary sat up and gazed
out into the darkness Her face
burned. How could she endure the
hours of this journey with Meredith
Bitting there, talking, looking at her?
She must get away from him Her
hard-won self-control might desert
her, and then She rapidly col-
lected her rug. papers and bag and
slipped into the corridor walking
with difficulty toward the far end of
the swinging train to another com
partment.
Here she would be alone. Present,
ly. to the hum of the express, Mary
fell asleep, wrapped In her rug. and
dreamed things that brought a smile
to her lips and a color to her soft
cheeks.
And in the dining car. at his soli
tary meal. Meredith wondered why
fate had deliberately thrown him and
Mary together, when that
barrier of wealth still Mood between
them. It had driven him away from
her once before, and now—well, he
must let things slide. Perhaps, that
same interfering dame Fortune might
find away out.
The Irish air was soft and fresh,
and the gray country looked inex
pressibly lovely to Mary's tired eyes.
The crossing had been just as odious
as she expected, and she had hurried
Jrum the boat in the wintry darkness
■te the waiting room, dreading, yet
ag, to find Meredith at her side
She saw his tall figure once. He wa?
looking about him, but he did not see
her, and she took refuge in a car
riage with three other women, and
slept away some of her exhaustion on
the way to Waterford. There ehe had
to change, and on the platform the
first person she saw was —Meredith. I
He came up to her at once
“Why did you run away last night?" >
he said.
“I—I”
“I don’t want to worry’ you, but you '
must let me look after you You '
look half dead. Have you had any
breakfast ?”
“Yes."
She had had tea and bread and
butter in the train, and the cool
morning air had whipped a faint col- j
or to her w hite cheeks.
Slowly they crept away into the
thick mist, nothing to be seen but
low fields, stone walls and driving
mist on every side. Mary felt her
spirits sinking lower and lower as she
approached her destination.
Are we there’’” she said.
"No. we’ve stopped for something—-
signal against us I expect."
Meredith put down the window and
looked out into the mist. He saw a
row of low sheds, the outline of a
tiny station, a branch line, and nothing
beyond them but a couple of other ,
compartments. The rest of the train j
had gone.
She Confesses.
There they were, left behind —ln a
siding.
"What has happened?" asked M« r y.
Meredith turned and looked at her
with a rueful sort of smile.
"We’re left behind.”
“Left behind!" cried Mary aghas*. i
"What do you mean?”
"They’ve run us into a siding, and
the train has gone on without us. The
fact Is. J was asleep. 1 only woke up
to find ourselves dumped down here. ’
They let us get into the coach they
were leaving behind idiots! Rut
well get on somehow, Mary. After
all, it only means a little delay."
He said her name involuntarily,
and Mary's heart jumped. Then a
feeling of dismay swept over her.
"Rut we may not arrive till night.’*
she said. "I suppose the only thing
we can do is to drive, if a vehicle is
to be had. We must be twenty miles
from our destination, at hast."
"I suppose so, but what does It mat
ter? They’ll understand.”
"It may not matter for you,” said
Mary, in a low, harsh voice. "They
will excuse in a guest what they may
not pardon in the governess."
Meredith stared at her as If she ha 1
suddenly gone. mad.
"The what?" he said.
"The governess. That is what I
am."
"You’re mad”
"I'm not; it’s a fact.”
"You a governess? What does it
mean? What are you masquerading
for?"
"It’s no masquerade. I'm a govern
ess because I can not dig. and to beg
I am ashamed,” said Mary, with a
miserable little laugh "That’s all.''
"But do you mean to say you’ve got
tn do It?" said Meredith, dazedly.
"Yes. Everything went In a big j
smash on the Stock Exchange more
than a year ago. I have to do sotne
-1 thing, and the Wintons wanted a
governess for their two little nephews
who are living with them, that's all.’’
•Mi" said Meredith violently
"And I knew nothing of It I never
heard a word of this before. When
we met last do you know what sent
me away In such haste? Can you
guess ?''
"It was because I was afraid to <
stay. I loved you so much, and 1 (
could not speak. 1 was only a poor ,
soldier of fortune —you were a (
wealthy heiress. I had already been
called a fortune hunter by those who •
must have seen how I lingered at
your side. 1 didn’t think you cared, ;
so I went away. Now, Mary darling, '
I’m free to speak. 1 can’t give you <
the riches that are gone, but I can ;
give you a good home ami lots of
love, Do you care a little? Try to,
Mary, when I care so much I be
lieve Fate brought ua together on
purpose.”
"And let us in a siding.” said Mary,
with a smile breaking over her face
like sunshine through mist.
"It might have left us in a worse
place,” cried Meredith, hjs arm about
her shoulders. "Mary’. is it going to
be Yes?”’
"Yes—yes.” murmured Mary.
Do You Know--
Dr. Samuel R Ideal, of London Uni- :
verslty, who read a paper on the ad
vantages of gas over coal as the fuel .
at a teachers’ conference at Shes- |
field, said that 2 per cent of coal used
was converted into soot, and In Lon
don the annual sootfall was 76,000
tons. The annual soot and dust fall
in Leeds and London averages be
tween 300 and 650 tons per square
mile, in Glasgow. 1.331 tons, and In
<’oat bridge, 1.930 tons.
A marked crab that had been caught
off Catterline, on the Kincardineshire
coast, was sent to the fisheries offi
cer at Aberdeen for examination, and
it has now been ascertained that the
crab was liberated at BeadnelL
Northumberland, on October 9, 1912.
Catterline is 120 miles from Bead
r.ell.
A boy police force is to be insti
tuted at Portland Oreg. It is proposed
to have a boy < hies of polk e w ith
captains, sergeants, and other offi
cials. They will not be permlted to
make arrests, but will report youth
ful offenders to the police department.
The second wedding of the 13-year
old daughter of Haricharan Chaka
barty—the first Hindu widow who has
ever remarried—took place at Chit
tagong, India. Her first husband died
when she was six years old.
Drew On Account.
Doctor—From now you may let
your husband have a glass of beer
every day You understand”
Wise —Yes, doctor—just one glass I
a day.
1 *■ < tor ' a w eek later • - Now.ll •
you have kept strictly to that one
glass ptr day that I allowed your hus
band to take”
\\ ife—Most decidedly, doctor—only
he is four weeks in advance with his
allowance.
— , I
Beauty Secrets of Beautiful Women
How Dot Wilson Found Milk an Aid to Natural Loveliness
By LILIAN LAUFERTY.
I‘ F you want to have your skin
white, your eyes bright, your di
gestion good and your weight al
ways adjusted to a pleasing plump
j ness that does not increase to stout
ness, try the milk diet. This is pret
ty pink and white, sparkling-eyed
Dot Wilson’s great beauty secret, and
she longs for converts to her theory
of the simple life."
I found Miss Wilson and her sis
ters In a cool, wind-swept room down
nt Brighton Beach, New York, and I
after I had adjusted myself to this '
triple personality as illustrated by the
"throe-twin” sisters, we settled down
to a cozy little visit that gave me
one or two brand-new ideas for the
attainment of beauty. The first Idea
was something no one said—lt was
just the generous, kindly attitude of
admiration and willingness to have
their "baby slater” featured that Miss
Doris Wilson and Miss Alma showed
throughout our Interview. Next fall
B. F. Keith will give you al] a chance
to see the three clever girls who
make up the Doris Wilson trio—but
before that time pray let me present
to you a bit of their philosophy of
life- and beauty.
Only Milk.
"Milk, milk, nothing but milk—that
is what my mother brought me up
on. None of her children had any
other article of diet until they w’pre
12; and I have never found anything
so nourishing, so easy to digest and
ho productive of good results. So milk
is my diet, and though the girls vary
from it, they often regret some in
discretion of diet to the tune of a pain
of h skin rash or one of the Ills that
food Is so generous about presenting
people with,” said Miss Dot.
"I live on milk —no water to drink,
for milk takes its place. No indi
gestible food <«n tempt me. for milk
keeps me so well, so buoyant and so
free from moves that 1 llourish there
on and never long for the flavor of
any food but my tried and true friend.
About twice a year I have a taste of
some such foreign substance as lee
(•ream. Oh, yes. I can eat food, and
I do occasionally, but I don’t like It.
“I drink eicjht quarts of milk a day
—not iced milk to shock the sensitive
stomach nerves, but normal tempered
milk.
"I sip it slowly—‘Just sneak It
down.’ said one specialist who cures
all sorts of nervous and digestive dis
eases by a seven week’ milk cure.
Well, It takes me about fifteen min
utes to drink one glass of milk, and
I am enjoying it all the time. We’re
all only bigger babies—babies grown
up and if it is so good for the wee
things to !lv«» on milk, why should It J
not be good for them to go on living .
on milk, the friendly food of their
childhood? The girls drink five or six <
glasses of milk a day, ami whenever i
they are tired or nervous, or feel on t
the verge of a little breakdown, back :
THEIR MARRIED LIFE By MABEL HERBERT URNER. I
PARIS st 7 b’clock of a summer
evening! The gleaming lights,
the gay gowns of the women, the
trees, the outdoor cases—Helen, clinging
to Warren’s arm. walked down the broad
boulevard athrill with the glamour of it
all.
It had been just four hours since they
arrived from Cherbourg—tired, dusty,
travel-stained. Rut now, rested and in
cooler clothes, they started out to find,
as Warren expressed it, "a place to
feed."
Where should they go? Helen sug
gested a number of well-known places
that she had read of in the guide book.
But Warren was determined to have
their first dinner at a restaurant he had
been particularly fond of when he was
In Paris eight years before
Although he had forgotten the name,
he had felt confident of his sense of lo
cation. They had taken a ’bus to
Porte St Martin and had walked sev
eral blocks in what he felt was the right
direction.
“Must be around here somewhere,"
I frowning down a street that was plain
!ly unfamiliar "I don’t believe they’ve
moved."
“Isn’t that a restaurant over there —
where the lights are?" asked Helen
hopefully.
“By Jove’ 1 believe that’s the place."
: as they crossed the wide street. “I'd
have sworn it was on the other side."
Entering, they were met by an offi
cious head waiter, who bustled ahead,
ushering them to a table in an inner
room.
"Oh. we don’t want to sit back here,"
objected Warren “Give us a table out
on the veranda.”
“Sorry, monsieur, but they’re all
taken.”
"Why, there’s a half dozen vacant
ones up at that end."
“They’re all reserved, monsieur." re
peated the head waiter stolidly.
Warren turned to Helen with a scowl
ing "So they know that game over here,
too This fellow’s looking for five
francs. Well, what do you say? Want
to sit hack here—or look up some other
place?”
"Oh. dear, let’s go somewhere else,"
resenting the supercilious air of the
head waiter, who stood impatiently
tapping the dinner card with his pencil.
Outside Warren demanded curtly:
“Now, where to? It’s getting late and
I’m hungry We don’t want to wander
around all night, you know "
“But. dear, we don't want to stay
there. That man was almost insolent.’
He Blames Her.
“Well, you're pretty dam particular."
as usual throwing the responsibility
u]M>n her. "We'd have been sure of
good food there, anyway. But you’re
I always Kicking. Suppose you find a
' place now."
Helen realized that Warren was on
the verge of one of his irritable moods,
when he would blame her for whatever
happened, however inconsistent or un
just He had had nothing to eat since
that early and unsatisfactory luncheon
on Llxc train. It was a critical mo-
z
W -j
y - -
Ar W
jA' «• V
r x
L
gj 1 ■ \
'MA. ’ ; • VJ
Miss Dot Wilson.
they go to the milk diet, and then they
just get in tune with things again.”
1 looked at the three pairs of bright
eyes—blue, blue-gray and hazel
gray—each pair with a spark of lignt
at the back of their starry depths. 1
studied the creamy, peachblow com-
ment, and she was desperately anxious
to find some other good restaurant at
once—before his growing hunger in
creased his irritability.
They walked on for several blocks,
Helen gazing anxiously in every direc
tion. while Warren maintained the
scowling, sullen silence that always
foreboded a storm
"<»h. there, dear!” eagerly, as she
caught sight of a balcony, high above
the street, with white clothed tables
and rose shaded lights "Doesn't that
look like a good place?"
“You can’t tell anything about these
strange places in Paris." growled War
ren. "May be rotten. But we’ve got to
eat somewhere Come on And well
stay here understand? Whether we get
a table you like or not. No more trot
ting around for me to-night.”
Helen followed Warren up the broad,
red-carpeted stairs, hoping desperately
that at this place things would "go
right ”
The first glimpse was disappointing
The room was crowded. Would they
have to go somewhere else?
‘ Sounds Good.”
As they stood uncertainly at the door
way. a couple rose from a most desira
ble table on the veranda—one that Hel
en had seen from the street If they
could only get that’
The next moment the bead waiter was
bowing them toward it Two otln*r
waiters rushed forward with fresh linen
and sliver, and a third placed a foot
stool for Helen's feet
“Oh. dear, it's a wonderful place.”
sinking back with a sense of infinite re
lief that a critical situation had been
safely passed.
"Well, we'll not get enthusiastic till
we see what the food’s like," grunted
Warren, somewhat appeased by the at
tention they had received.
“I can’t make anything cut of this."
scowling at the menu, which was ille
gibly written in French with pale purple
ink.
"Will you have our 5-franc table
d’hote dinner, monsieur?" asked a wait
er at his elbow.
"Uumph, you speak English? Well,
that simplifies things. What do we get
with that dinner?”
“Hors d’oeuvres, potage. fish, entree,
roast, salade, entrements and a bottle
of red or white Bordeaux."
"That sounds pretty goo<i.” assented
Warren. "All right; we’ll try it."
To Helen the atmosphere of the place
and the street scene below was one of
enchantment. She was beginning to feel
the charm of Paris.
With the hors d’oeuvres and first
glass of wine, the scowling frown on
Warren s brow had relaxed., and with
the thick green Saint Germain soup he
grew almost genial.
“Just taste that fish' It’s great
What they call filet of sole at home is
only flounder We never see the real
thing there. This is an all right place.”
"Oh. I'm so glad we found this, dear.
For 1 felt that you were getting out of,
humor, and would blame me for not
staying at that other place," exclaimed
c plexions, and the gracefully rounded,
tall figures, and I decided that as a
t mar-milk cure made you pretty and
- the absolute milk-dietlst was conced
t ed to be the prettiest of the sisters,
I perhaps it would he a good idea to >co
right oft’ and corner the milk market.
Helen, who, womanlike, always wanted
to go back over a situation, instead
of being content to let well enough alone.
“And I couldn't bear to have our first
dinner in Paris an unhappy one."
“Who in thunder was going to make !
it unhappy, unless you were?" growled |
Warren, who haled post-mortems. ,
"What the devil are you harping on it
now for, anyway?"
“Oh, I only meant, dear—" began
Helen, hastening to conciliate. But for
tunately at this moment the waiter j
uncovered the fowl, roasted to a deli
cate brown, and Warren’s attention was
diverted from Helen’s untactful re-
, mark.
"Dear, there’s not so much difference
in the gowns worn by the French wom
en." commented Helen, now anxious to
change the subject. There aren’t any
sensational dresses here. That woman i
over there in pink, is rather striking, j
, but any of the others might be in New
York.”
“Well, this isn’t the sort of place
where you'd see much in the way of
dress. Some night I'll take you to sup
per at Maxim’s. The gowns there’ll be
striking enough."
"Oh. are we going to Maxim’s?” de
lightedly. “I thought it was a dreadful
place."
“Not so dreadful as they want you to
think that's their best asset. You’ll find
< it pretty tame. More than half the
■ crowd will be rubber necks like our- .
i selves."
But Helen had read and heard much
of Maxim’s, and as she minced over the
fruit salad she gazed down on the gay
boulevard in eager anticipation of a sup
i per there.
“Dear, what IS this?" as the waiter
placed before them two small brown
1 jars filled with a thick creamy substance.
"Search me!” shrugged Waren, investi
gating it with a spoon.
"That’s Creme de Zeigny. Monsieur.
Will you have sugar with it?"
‘ “I'll try it straight first.”
"Oh, it's delicious, dear." exclaimed
‘ Helen enthusiastically. "It’s sort of !
sour, salty and sweet! More like a deli
cate liquid cheese.”
Very Smooth.
"By Jove, that is pretty smooth,” ad- F
mitted Warren. Isn't this the stuff the |
’ Thustons raved over when they got back |
last year? We’ll have this often—that’s
sure."
1 W hen the waiter had cleared off the
’able. Warren lit his cigar and turned
, over the check placed unobtrusively be
s tore him.
“Ten francs—two dollars! Well that's
what I call a good run for your money.
Everything specially cooked, too-and
that was a whole chicken. To get a
dinner like that in New York, you'd
i have to order It a la carte, and'with
[ that wine it would cost you not a cent
less than $10."
“Now aren’t you glad we didn’t stay
at that other restaurant?" insisted Hel
en with a true feminine persistency, i
“The food COULDN'T have been anv i
better! You see I didn’t find such a bad ;
place after all."
But Warren was no longer in an in
flammable mood. The excellent dinner I
had had a most pacifying effect on his I
temper So to this raffier indiscreet re- i
mark, he only shrugged a good-natured
“Umph, that’s right—rub it in!” I
1
Advice to a
Young Man
By DOROTHY DIX.
A YOUNG man, who is ambitious
and who feels within himself
the ability to rise in the world,
is very much in love with k pretty young
girl who has no aspirations beyond a
new dress and going to Coney Island or
a cheap theater.
The young man is making enough
money for them to be married on and
live in fair comfort in their present
status in life, but he is not satisfied with
this.
He is anxious to get an education and
study a profession. To this the sweet
heart objects. She isn’t willing for the
young man to make his way through col
lege. She doesn’t see any use in an edu
cation, any how. When the young man
talks to her about books it bores her to
death, and when he wants to take her
to hear a good lecture or good music she
offsets it with a proposal to take in a
vaudeville show.
The young man wants to know wheth
er he should give up his books or his
girl, or if there Is any way in which he
could interest his fiancee in intellectual
pursuits and kindle the fires df ambitidTi
tn her soul.
To answer the last question first, I
would say, no. The homely old proverb
about the Impossibility of making a silk
purse out of a sow's ear is still gospel
I true. There Is no way to make a clod
! aspire, and you can no more change
the tastes of a woman who was bom
without a perception of the finer things
! of life than you can change the color of
her eyes, or the height of her stature
Born That Way.
j The girl who does not perceive the
advantage of an education, or the neces-
I sl-ty for one, who yawns over even a
i novel and who doesn’t see why anybody
; reads the daily paper, who is absolutely
and totally uninteliectual was simply
born that way. There’s some lack In
her mental equipment, and nothing that
her husband can do is going to supply
it. She was just born that way, and
that way she will stay to her dying day,
and it isn’t her fault.
Such a woman may be the best of
housekeepers, the most devoted of wives.
' but she is no mental companion for an
intelligent man. Many men marry this
kind of a girl because she has a pretty
j face, and then torture her trying to
make her clever—something she can
never be. This is cruelly unjust. He
who marries a girl who frankly admits
1 that she doesn’t like to read and has no
’ ambition should never bother her with
books, or reproach her with her lack of
progressiveness.
I As to which he should take when a
' man is called upon to choose between his
career and his sweetheart. I should say
take the career every time, because an
ambitious man soon learns to hate any
woman who is tbe handicap that pre
vents him winning in the race of life.
When even those that we love become a
burden upon us that keep us from suc
cess—good-bye love! This is unromantic,
but true
Many an ambitious man finds out
after marriage that he has saddled him
i self unknowingly with a wife who can
not and will not keep pace with him,
and who holds him back from the
achievements that he is capable of mjik
Ing. Such a man is the victim of a hard
and bitter fate, but in honor there is
nothing left for him but to bear with
whatever fortitude he can the misfor
tune that he has brought upon himself.
A Chance.
But the man who finds out before
' marriage that the girl he thinks himself
i in love with is not his mental and spir
itual mate, that she can not think his
thoughts, that she is not interested in
the pursuits that he is interested in;
that she does not wish to reach the goal
I toward which his feet are set, has still
a chance to save himself from a mar
riage that is bound to bring misery
both to himself and the woman.
For what attracts him to her is only
• the ephemeral charms of her youth and
good looks, and when they are gone,
as they must be in a few years, noth
ing remains but the memory of the sac
rifice he has made for her. and the
irksomeness of a tie that binds him to a
wife with whom he has not one thing
in common.
In that day a man remembers what
he might have been and is not. He sees
other men, no better equipped than
himself, climbing up to the top of the
ladder while he sits at the bottom with
his dull and commonplace wife. And In
that day he sees with fatal clearness
just how much of the earth earthy’ is the
woman who is not animated by anything
except a desire for the things that make
for her physical comfort.
Matrimony can mean the closest com
panionship that two human beings ever
attain. It can be literally two souls
with but a single thought, and it can
mean a lonesomeness that is as great as
Robinson Crusoe ever suffered on his
desert isle. And when it is that it is
the abomination nf desolation.
The Solitude.
Think of what the ambitious man 1
suffers when he is married to a woman
who never wants to advance one step,
who never sees why he wants to make
a change, and whom he has to fight
at every step of his progress. Think
: of the solitude of soul of a man married i
to a woman with whom he can never I
discuss a book he has read, or a play I
he has seen, or an opera he has heard; !
who never even comprehends anything
I that he tries to tell her that is more '
psychic than the price of butchers’ meat 1
Not always “the woman who never
could know, and never could under
, stand” is a vampire. Only too often
she is just a dull and stupid wife, with
out brains or imagination or aspiration. I
So I say to the man who is hesitat- |
ing between his career and his pretty. ;
ambitionless. uninteliectual sweetheart
to choose the career He will soon out
grow her anyway, and it is far. far bet
ter for both that this inevitable separa
tion should come before they are mar
ried than afterwani.
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SOLB BY DRtGGISTS EV'ERYWIfIK |
Confessions of a Medium
No. 3. — When the Clock Stopped
By Chas. D. Isaacson.
Copyright 1913 by International News
Service.
IN the midst of the seance the grave
faced spirit medium paused. He
slowly rose from his seat before his
assembled auditors and impressively
spoke:
“My good friends, we are now going
to attempt the most difficult experi
ment of all—something never before
accomplished in the records of the
world. If we succeed in doing it, we
shall prove beyond all possible doubt
the fact that we CAN communicate
with th.e dead.”
He cleared his throat and waited as
a sharp flash of lightning illumined the
room and a murderous peal of thunder
i crashed on its heels.
. It was a night late in August—a hot,
• black, scary night, when you look war
• lly over your shoulder at the bent,
. slinking, soaking figures that pass you
by; when the very air seems laden with
hobgoblin phantoms, and the wind seems
1 to echo the moaning and groaning of lost
’ souls.
A Night of Wonders.
Within the darkened room, fifty
( frightened people held firmly to their
chairs and listened to the deep, far-
I away tones of the speaker medium. This
had been a night of wonders. Tables
! and chairs had floated about by unseen
i supernatural means. Wonderful mes
sages had made fifty hearts flutter like
leaves In a Kansas cyclone. To these
persons, accustomed to unusual things
. brought about by their mystifying lead
er, the startling events of the meeting
, had overshadowed anything of the past.
’ And now the thought of something still
more dramatic brought them to breath
less and awed attention.
i “Dear spirit," breathed the medium,
raising his eyes to the ceiling. “we
crave your assistance and beg your par
1 don for tiring you so much this day.
Accomplish this seeming impossibility
which I am about to put to you, and
' prove your existence and your ability
to communicate with us, to the most
skeptical, unbelieving member of this
1 circle.
“Over there is a clock" —and the
' speaker pointed a long, lean, bony fin
ger to the opposite end of the room,
where on the mantel could be faintly
traced the outlines of a ponderous old
fashioned timepiece.
“Listen. Spirit, listen. Over there,
you hear the ticking of that clock. Over
there —you head It?"
Tick—tick —tick fell on the ears of the
listeners, who held their breath for
fear it would drown the sound which
grew louder and louder with each suc
cessive second, until it seemed to beat
on their very hearts.
A Request.
“Spirit, think carefully now please.
Here is where the experiment begins.
Can you—will you STOP THAT
CLOCK?”
Deathly silence ensued. Just tick
tick —loud and clear and sharp as a
bell.
No answer.
“Spirit, will you do it?"
Tick —tick—tick.
“Will you?"
“Why—why, y-yes. I’ll try," came
the answer in mysterious taps on the
table.
Tick—tick—tick tick each second
seemed an hour to the 50 auditors, who
sat half turned toward the clock,
eager-eared, faint-hearted.
Tick—tick
Snap! In the very middle of a beat!
IT STOPPED!
Oh, the eternity of silence that fol
lowed broken soon by a storm of gasps
and screams. There was a crash of
thunder, and some one, no longer able
to stand the oppression of the darkness,
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I . THE SCENIC WAY
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turned on the gas. flooding the room
with light. Then they crowded about
the clock—pale and wide-eyed. It was
stopped, no question of that. The men.
comparing it with their watches, found
it recorded just one minute behind
theirs.
“Wonderful’’’ "Weird!" "Proves
spiritualism absolutely,” “Could NEV
ER have been done by human or ma
terial means—it was surely the work of
a spirit." These were the comments
rapidly uttered, as they examined the
( lock to see if any wires or mechanical
contrivances could have been connected
with it.
The Answer.
This incident happened. To those who
were there, it was the most wonderful
phenomenon they had ever witnessed.
At least that is how It happened to all
but the medium. And the medium was
myself. Would you like to know how
it was done? I will tell you.
No spirit stopped t ne clock. No< me
chanical means stopped it. Even I did
not stop h. IN the; FIRST PLACE.
THE CLOCK WAS NOT GOING AT
ALL! “How and why was ticking
heard ?*•
Here is the whole story: Back ofitne,
on a roll-top desk, I had previously
placed a very tiny alarm clock, noted
for its loud tick. Nobody thinks of a
clock until you mention it. When I
said. “You hear the ticking over there—
OVER THERE,” the audience ineg
ined the sound emanated from the di
rection I pointed; and, by suggestion,
on which is based hypnotism, by the
way, they haci placed it as coming from
the silent clock on the mantel. Then,
while they were listening for the unex
pected, half turned to the opposite wail,
I had. unobserved, slipped my finger to
the pendulum, stopped the alarm and
dropped the clock into a drawer!
“But then how was the other clock
the exact time?"
Before the audience had arrived I
had placed the hands ahead several
hours and had brought my experiment
to conform to the very minute I had
arranged. This was simple—in a flash
of lightning I had casually looked at
my watch. The mystery of the night,
the darkness, the wonders already wit
nessed, had all aided me to fool these
intelligent people, among whom were a
magazine writer, an artist, two theat
rical folks, and several writers and law
yers.
Now consider this: That this experi
ment was far more dramatic and inex
plicable than is generally seen at pro
fessional seances, where money is paid
for admittance. Yet on Incidents such
as these, the credulous people of the
masses are convinced of spiritism and
defrauded by fakers, whose wonders I
warrant could be unraveled as simply
as the one I have just recorded. I did
these things to study and expose. Pro
fessionals do them for money. Is it not
highly probable that others who earn
their living at this mockery are forced
to work out similar “wonders?” I do
not say spiritualism is wrong. I do not
essay to pass judgment on this great
question. It is Against the fakers that I
direct my campaign, beseeching every
sensible man and woman to save their
hard earned money and evade them.
Going the Limit.
Jones—ls Mr. Oldboy makes any
.such assertion, I will denounce him as
a liar.
President—Mr. Jones, I call you to
order. Our by-laws do not allow you
to go that far.
Jones —Then I call Mr. Oldboy a liar
as far as it is permitted by the by
laws of this association.
Literally.
Boarder (tackllnn- a tough steak, to
boarding house keeper)—When you
undertook to provide me with board,
madam, I was unaware that you
meant to do so literally!