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THE WOMAN THOU G AVES X M E By Hall Caine Author of “The Christian,” Etc. This Is the Story the Whole Country Is Talking About. Read the Sy nopsis and Installment and Con tinue Itin Hearst sMagazine for August, Just Out. SYNOPSIS D ANIEL O’NEILL, a powerful, self- made man, forces his only daugh ter, Mary, Into a loveleaa mar riage with the impecunious and prof ligate Lord Raa. so that his ambi tion to have his descendants the right ful heirs of the one earldom in Elian may be realized. Mary, a convent- raised young woman, shocked to find her husband a man of sordid, sensual passions, refuses utterly to have any thing to do with him until such time as he can prove himself worthy of her love. During the honeymoon abroad Alma Lier. a divorcee, who had been expelled from the convent Mary attended in Rome, attaches herself to the party and makes the “honeymoon trip” a long series of slights and in sults for Lady Raa At last Lady Raa becomes certain of the infidelity of her husband and of his mUconduct with Alma Ller. On her return to Ijondon Mary encounters her old play-fellow, Martin Conrad, who has returned from his triumph ant expedition to the Antarctic. Drawn Into ever closer relations with the only man for whose friendship she had ever cared, Mary finally awakes to the fact that she Is hopelessly In love with Martin. Terrified by this knowledge, and finding herself more and more in love with Martin, she determines to run away from the cause of her distress, and go home. Mary’s home-coming to Castle Raa is a sad affair. Her husband fills the tumble-down old mansion with his fast friends from London, including Alma Ller, who assumes control of the household. Ultimately the illness of her father offers Mary excuse for escape from the Intolerable environ ment. But before visiting her old home Mary appeals In turn to her Bishop and to her father's lawyer, only to be told that neither church nor state can offer any relief from her false position. She returns next day to Castle Raa to find that Martin Is arriving for a farew'dl visit, and that by Alma Lier’s deceitful scheming the whole house party has gone off for a few days’ cruise. During her three days alone with her lover Mary fights a grim battle with temptation, only to find on the last night that her faith in renun ciation and the laws of the church is a fragile thing compared with her overwhelming loVe for this pure-heartod man With Martin’s passionate words, “You are my real wife. 1 am your real husband,” ring ing in her brain she forgets every thing else, and with strong stops walks across the corridor to Martin’s bedroom. This is the action which Martin hss advised as being the only course open to them which It sure to bring the one result they have decided to attain—Mary's divorce from Lord Raa. Mary decides, nfter the departure of Martin Conrad, to hide herself In London. She Is driven by fear of Lord Raa’s discovery of her unfaith fulness to him; she is equally afraid of the venomous tongue of Alma Lier. She Is no sooner settled In a cheap, little boarding house In Lon don than a great h\ie and cry Is raised by her father. Of all persons, it Is Mildred, that one truest friend of her convent days, who ferrets her out; but for Mary's sake she breaks a vow and refuses to give her up. Then comes the report of the loss of Martin's ship In the Antarctic. The report is false, but Mary, who flees from Mildred to a still more obscure part of London, Is plunged into the depth of black despair from which she is saved only by the birth of her child. Mother hood is poignant with Joy and sorrow, but poverty compels Mary to deny herself of even Its privileges; she de cides to leave her child with a poor family In Ilford while she searches for employment. lemorandum by Martin Conrad. , /rY great-hearted, heroic V/l little woman! * A ah thig time x, in my iin belief that our expedition as of some consequence to the orld. was trying to comfort yself with the thought that my irling must have heard of my fetv. But how could 1 imagine that ic had hidden herself away in a ass of humanity which ap- ears to be the most impenetra te depths into which a human »ing can disappear? How could ! dream that, to the ev asion of all such interests as mine, e was occupied day and night, ght and day, wttli the joys and rrows, tlie raptures and fears of e mighty passion of Motherhood, hioh seems to Is* tin* only tiling in !e that Is really great and eternal? Above nil. how could I believe that Ixmdon Itself, In the heart of the vlllzed and religious world, she was ilng through trials which mnke lne, in the grim darkness of the ,lar night, seem trivial and easy? It is aU over now. and though, lank God, 1 did not know at the me what was happening to my dear te at home. It In some comfort to ,e to remember that 1 was acting tactly as If 1 did. From the day we turn'd back 1 ,ard my darling's voice no more, ut I had a still more perplexing and irmentlr.g experience, and that was dream about her, in which she was alklng un a crevassed glacier toward Daysey May me and Her Folks By FRANCES L. OARSIDE. W HEN President Chauncey De- vere Appleton ascended the platform to preside at the 149th convening of the Children’s Con gress, called In session extraordinary he did not take a seat in the presi dent’s chair, a.« was hla custom, but remained standing in rather a con strained, unnatural attitude. The secretary read the report of the previous meeting; the treasurer reported three pennies, a marble and ft gumdrop in the treasury; Tommy Nuckles, aged 3, sang, “Oh, I’m a Pirate Brave,” breaking down on the second verse in stage fright; Leoni das Srqith, when called for an open ing prayer, could think of nothing but “Now I lay me,” and repeated that; and through it all the president re mained standing. The sniffling of three sleepy chil dren; the whispered scoldings given them by older sisters; the walls of one little girl who dropped her doll and broke it, and the restless move ment of 40 pairs of feet were all that disturbed the solemn hush when President Appleton wiped his brow and waved # his hand in token that he was ready to speak. “The thought I will give you to take home to-day,” he began, the weight of a sad experience giving gravity to his voice, “is that none of you must take your mothers literally “I am 7, and while I believe, that I have reached an age of dignity and wisdom, my mother does not always agree with me.’’ A groan swept the house that caused the sleeping delegates to awaken and cry to go home. “Overcome with pain recently,’' he resumed, “at the slap I received from my sister when I used her oil paints in decorating my dog, I broke Into tears. •* ‘Don’t cry,’ said my mother. ‘Be a man!’ “‘Be a man!’ It sounded good te me, and I resolved to be one. “That evening I watched my father closely, and the next day I tried to ‘be a man.’ I grumbled about my break fast, I picked up the morning paper and scattered it all over the house; I collected father's cigar stumps and left one on the piano, two in the fern dish, three on the dresser, and four, with ashes and matches, on the din ing room tablecloth. I threw one of my slippers under the bed and hung the other on the bathroom door knob; I hung ties on everything, from the pictures in the parlor to the hall chandelier: I threw the contents of the top chiffonier drawer on the floor, and was swearing about my collar button, when my mother heard me. “T am trying to “be a man!’’’ I cried when she grabbed me ’You told me to be a man!’ I wailed when she began to punish me. “Brother and sister delegates, my appeal was In vain!” Then he turned and walked stiffly and painfully from the platform. Hs hadn’t sat down during the entire ses sion. Every week for monthe and months I carried a large black bag of ready-made garments back and forth to the large shops in the West End. Oh. how I dreaded those trips, haunted as they were by the terror of accidentally meeting Sister Mildred. Again and again I was ready to give up, but always that one thought came, and I whispered to myself: “For baby’s sake.” I did not dare even to ask my employer to give me something else to do, for I could not forget his words as he had said with a significant smile: “You vill be gradeful and convenience your em ployer, mine child.” Still, in spite of my fears, I never saw a familiar face among the multitudes that passed through the streets like waves under the moon at eea. But what eights I saw for all that! What piercing, piteous proofs that between the rich and poor there is a great gulf fixed! EA TONE A Vegetable Compound m a precipice which she could not see because the brilliant rays of the au rora were in her eyes. Anybody may make what he likes of that on grounds of natural law, and certainly It was not surprising that my dreams should speak to me in pictures drawn fro m the perils of my daily life, but only one thing matters now—that these experiences of my sleeping hours Increased my eager ness to get back to my dear one. My comrades were no impediment to that, I can tell you. With their faces turned homeward, and the wind at their hacks, they were showing tremendous staying power, although I we had thirty and forty pretty con- 1 stantly, with rough going all the time, for the snow had been ruckled up by the blizzard to almost impassable heaps and hummocks. A Message. On reaching our second installation at Mount Darwin I sent a message to the man at the foot of Mount Erebus, I telling them to get into communica- ! tion (through Macquarie Island) with i the captain of our ship in New Zea- I land, asking him to return for us us I soon as the ice conditions would per- | mit, and this was the last of our jobs (Accept packing our instruments tight and warm) before we started down the “long white gateway” for our quarters at the Cape. With all the heart in the world, though, our going had to be slow. It was the middle of the antarctic win ter, when absolute night reigned for weeks, and we had nothing to alle viate the darkness but the light of the scalding moon, and sometimes the glory of the aurora as it encircled the region of the unrisen sun. Nevertheless my comrades sang their way home through the sullen gloom. Sometimes I wakened the echoes of those desolate old hills my self with a stave of “Sally's the Gel," although I was suffering thoughts of what the damnable hypocrisies of life might be doing with my darling, and j my desire to take my share of her trouble whatever it might be. The sun returned to us the third week in July. Nobody can know what re lief that brought us except those who have lived for months without it. Tt j see the divine and wonderful thing rise up like a god over those lone white regions is to know what a puny thing man is in the scheme of the world. 1 think all of us felt like that at sight of the sun. though some (myself among the rest) were thinking more of it as a kind of message from friends at home But old Treacle, I remember, who had stood looking at it in awed solemnity, said. “Well, I’m d—»—!” After that we got on famously until \Ne reached winter quarters, where we found everybody well and everything «^d That tone* the liver. Price 25 cents, at all drug and grocery stores. JOHN B. DANIEL, Distributor it. if ha cannot sup- ply the MARVEL, accept no other, but tend stamp for book. . lAanrcl Cs.,44 E,23d St. AT. in order, but received one piece of alarming Intelligence—the t the at tempt to get into wireless communi cation with our ship had failed, with the result that we should have to wait for her until the time originally ap pointed for her return. That did not seem to matter much to my shipmates, who, being snugly housed from blinding blizzards, set tled down to amuse themselves with sing-songs and story tellings and readings. But, do what I could, to me the de lay was dreadful, and every day, in the fever of my anxiety to get away as soon as the ice permitted, I climb ed the slopes of old Erebus with O’Sullivan to look through powerful glasses for what the good chap called the “open weather.” Thank God, our wooden houne w as large enough to admit of my having a cabin to myself, for I should have been ashamed of my comrades heat ing the cries that sometimes burst from me lb the night. It is hard for civilized men at home, accustomed to hold themselves under control, to realize how a man’s mind can run away from him when he is thousands of mile# separated from his dear ones and has a kind of spiritual certainty that evil Is befalling them. I don’t think I am a bigger fool than most men in that way, but 1 shiver even yet at the memory of all the torment I went through during those days of waiting, for my whole life seemed to revolve before me. and I accused myself of a thousand of fenses which I had thought dead and burled and forgotten. Home of these were trivial in them selves, such as hot and intemperate words spoken in childhood to my good old people at home, disobedience or Ingratitude shown to them, with I all the usual actions of a naughty i boy, who ought to have been spanked and never was. | But the worst of them concerned my 1 darling, nnd came with the thought | of my responsibility for the situation 1 in which I felt sure she found her- •elf. ! A thousand times I took myself to task for that, thinking what I ought and ought not to have done, and then giving myself every bad name and my conduct every damning epithet. Up and down my cabin I would walk with hands buried in my pock ets. revolving these thoughts and working myself up. against my will, to a fever of regret and self-accusa tion. I Talk about purgatory—the purga tory of our dear old Father Dan! 1 That was to come after death—mine : came before, and. by the holy saints, • I had enough of it. Three months passed like this, nnd ! when the water of the sound was open I and our ship did not appear, mine j was not the only heart that was eat- I ing itself out, for the spirits of my I shipmates had also begun to sink. In the early part of the Antarctic spring there had been a fearful hur- | icane, lasting three days on the sea. j with a shrieking, roaring chorus of i fiends outside, and the conviction now . forced itself on my men that our i ship must have gone down in the storm. Short Rations. Of course. I fought this notion hard. 1 for my last hopes were based on not ' believing it. Hut when, after the | la pee of weeks, I could hold out no ! longer, and we were confronted by the possibility of being held there an other year (for how were our friends to know before the ice formed again that it was necessary to send relief?) 1 faced the situation firmly—measur ing out our food and putting the men on shortened rations, 28 ounces each and a thimbleful of brandy. By the Lord God, it is a fearful thing to stand face to face with slow death. Some of my shipmates could scarcely bear it. The utter solitude, the sight of the same faces, and the sound of the same voices, with the prospect of nothing else, seemed to drive most of them nearly mad. There was no sing-songing among them now, and what speaking I over- | heard was generally about the great dinners they had eaten, or about theli dreamt 1 , which were usually of green fields and flower beds, and primroses and dairies—dailies, by heaven, in a world that was like a waste! As for me, I did my best to play the game of never giving up. It was a middling hard game, God knows, and after weeks of waiting a sense of helplessness settled down on me such as I had never known before. I am not what is called a religious man, but when 1 thought of my darl ing’s danger (for such I was sure it was) and how I was cut off from her by thousands of miles of Impassable sea there came an overwhelming longing to go with my troubles to somebody fUionger than myself. I found it hard to do that at first, for a feeling of shame came over me, and I thought: “You coward, you forgot all about God when things were going well with you, but now that they are tumbling down, and death seems certain, you whine and want to go where you nev er dreamed of going in your days ol ease and strength.” I got over thaL though there’s noth ing except dentn a man doesn’t g^t over down thqge—and a dark night came when (tne ice breaking from the cliffs of the (’ape with a sound that made me think of my last even ing at Castle Raa) I found myself folding mv hands and praying to the God of my childhood, not for mys*elf. but for my dear one. that He before Whom the strongest of humanity wer nothing at nil, would take her into His fatherly kfeping “Help her! Help her! I can do no more.” A Glad Sight. It was Just when I was down to that extremity that It pleased Provi dence to rome to my relief. The very next morning I was awakened out of mv broken sleep by the sound of a gii-n, followed by such a yell from Treacle as was enough to make you think the sea-serpent had got hold ol his old buttocks. • The chip! The ship! Commander! Commander! The ship! The ship!” And. looking out of my little win dow, I saw him. with six or seven other members of our company, half naked, Just ns they had leaped out of their berths, running like savage men to the edge of the sea. where the Sco tia. with all flags flying (God bless and preserve her!), was steaming Mlowly ur» through a grinding pack of broken ice. What a day that was! What shout ing! What hand-shaking! For O’Sulli van it was Donnybrook Fair with the tall of his coat left out. and for Tre ad.' It was Whitechapel road with “What cheer, old cock?" and an un quenchable desire to stand treat all around. But what I chiefly remembered is that the moment I awoke, and before the idea that we were saved and about to go home bad been fully grasped by my hazy brain, the thought flashed to my mind: “Now you’ll hear of her! M. C. The Unforgettable. T HE door of No. 10 was opened by a rather comely woman of perhaps 30 years of age, with a weak fact- and watery eyes. This was Mrs. Oliver, and it oc curred to me even at that first sight that she had the frightened and eva sive look of a wife who lives under the intimidation of a tyrannical hus band. She welcomed me, however, with a warmth that partly dispelled my de pression, and 1 followed her into the kitchen. It was the only room on the ground floor of the house (except a scullery), ami it seemed sweet and clean and comfortable, having a table in the middle of the floor, a sofa under the window, u rocking chair on one side of the fireplace, a swinging baby's cot on the other side, and nothing about it that was not homelike and reassuring, except two large photo graphs over the mantelpiece of men stripped to the waist and sparring. “We’ve been looking for you all day, ma’am, and had nearly given you up.’’ she said. Then she took baby out of my arms, removed her bonnet and pelisse, lifted her barrow coat to ex amine her limbs, asked her age, kissed her on the arms, the neck, and the legs, and praised her with out measure. “And what’s her name, ma’am?” “Mary Isabel, but 1 wish her to be called Isabel.” “Isabel; a beautiful name, too! Fit for a angel, ma'am. And she is a lit tle angel, bless her! Such rosy cheeks! Such a ducky little mouth—such blue eyes—blue as the bluebells in the cemet’ry. She's as pretty as a wax- work. she really is, and any woman in the world might be proud to nurse her." A young mother is such a weakling that praise of her child (however crude) acts like a charm on her. and in spite of myself 1 was beginning to feel m«>re at ease., when Mrs. Oliver's husband came downstairs. lie was a short, thicly’set man of about 3f>, wdth a square chin, a very thick neck, and a close- cropped, red. bullet head, and he was in his stocking feet and shirt sleeves, as if he had been dressing to go out for the evening. I remember that It flashed upon me—I don’t know why—that he had seen me from the window of the room upstairs, driving up in the old man’s four-wheeler, and had drawn from that innocent circumstance cer tain unfavorable deductions about my character und my capacity to pay. I must have been right, for as soon as our introduction was over, and I had interrupted Mrs. Oliver’s praises of my baby’s beauty by speaking about material matters, saying the terms were to be four shillings, the man, who had seated himself on the sofa to put on his boots, said in a voice that was like a shot out of a blunderbus: “Five.” “How’d you mean. Ted?” said Mrs. Oliver, timidly. “Didn't we say four?” “Five," said the man again, with a still louder volume of voice. I could see. that the poor woman was trembling, but assuming the sweet air of persons who live In con stant state of fear, she said, ”Oh, yes. It was five; now I remember.” I reminded her that her letter had j*aid four, but she insisted that I must be mistaken, and when I told her I had the letter with me, and she could see It if she wished, she said, “Then It must have been a slip of the pen in a manner of speaking, ma’am. We alius talked of five. Didn't we, Ted?” “Certainly,” said her husband, who was still busy with nis boots. I saw what was going on, and I felt hot and angry, but there seemed to be nothing to do except submit. “Very well, we’ll say five then,” I said. “raid in advance,” said the man. and when I answered that that would suit me very well, he added: The Last Coin. “A month in advance, you know.” By this time I felt myself trembling with fear, for while I looked upon all the money I possessed as belonging to baby, to part with almost the whole with lndignaton, as well as quivering of it in one moment would reduce mi to utter helplessness, so I said, turn ing to Mrs. Oliver, “Is that usual?” It did not escape m© that the un happy woman was constantly study ing her husband’s face, and when he glanced up at her with a meaning look she nnsnvered. hurriedly, “Oh, yes. ma’am, quite usual. All the wom en in the Row* has it. Number five, she has twins and gets a month In hand with both of them. But we’ll take four weeks, and I can’t say no fairer than that, can I?” “Bu* why?” I asked. “Well, you see, ma’am, you’re— you’re a stranger to us, and If baby was left on our hands—not as we think you’d leave her chargeable as the saying is. but if you were ever ill and got a bit back with j’our pay ments—we being only pore people—* While the poor woman was floun dering on in this way my blood was boiling, and I was beginning to ask her if she supposed for one moment that I meant to desert my child, when the man, who had finished the lacing of his boots, rose to his feet, and «.id. 1 “You don't want yer baby to be giv over to the Guardians for the sake oi a week or two, do you?” That settled everything. I took out my purse and with a trembling band laid my last precious sovereign on the table. A moment or two after this Mr. Oliver, who had put on his coat and cloth cap, made for the door. “Evenin’, ma’am,” he said, and with what grace I could muster I bade him good-bye. “You aren't a-going to the ‘Run’ to-night, are you, Ted?” asked Mrs. Oliver. “Club.” «*ud the man, and the door clashed behind him. I breathed more freely when he was gone, and his wife (from whose face the look of fear vanished instantly) was like another woman. “Goodness gracious!” she cried, with a kind of haggard hilarity, “where’s my head? Me never offer ing you a cup of tea. and you looking so white after your journey.” I took baby back into my arms while she put on the kettle, vet a black teapot on the hob to warm, laid a napkin and a thick cup and saucer on the end of the table, and then s*at on the fender to toast a little bread, talking meantime (half apol ogetically and half proudly) about her husband. He was a bricklayer by trade, and sometimes worked at the cemetery which I could see at the other side of the road (behind the long railings and the tall trees), but was more gen erally engaged as a sort of fighting lieutenant to a labor leader whose business it was to get up strikes. Be fore they were married be had been the “Lightweight Champion of White chapel,” and those were photos of his fights which I could see over the mantelpiece, but “he never did no knocking of people about now,” being "quiet and matrimonual.” In spite of myself, my heart warmed to the woman. 1 wonder it did not occur to me there and then that, liv ing in constant dread of her tyran nical husband, she would always be guilty of the dissimulation I had seen an example of already, and that the effect of it would be reflected upon my child. It did not. I only told myself that she was clearly fond of children and would be a kind nurse to my baby. It even pleased me, In my foolish, motherly selfishness, that she was a plain-featured person, whom baby could never come to love as she would, I was sure, love me. Time to Go. I felt better after I had taken tea, and as it was then 7 o’clock and the sun was setting horizontally through the cypresses of the cemetery, I knew it was time to go. I could not do that, though, with out undressing baby and singing her to sleep. And even then I sat for a while with an aching heart, and Isa bel on my knee, thinking of how 1 should have to go to bed that night, for the first time, without her. Mrs. Oliver, in the meantime ex amining the surplus linen which 1 had brought in my parcel, was burst ing into whispered cries of delight over it, and, being told I had made the clothes myself, was saying, “What a wonderful seamstress you might be if you liked, ma’am!” At length the time came to leave baby, and no woman knows the pain of that experience who has not gone through it. (Continued in Hearst’s Magazine for August.) Advice to the Lovelorn By BEATRICE FAIRFAX. A HARD TASK. Dear Miss Fairfax: I am twenty years old, while my girl is seventeen. Her father favors me, but her mother objects to me, for which she gives no rea son at all and is trying to per suade her daughter to give me up. I have an A No. 1 character, no bad habits except smoking, and earn a good salary with an ex cellent chance of advancement. Whenever I call on this girl her mother treats me like one of the family, but when I am gronff she talks about me. How can I make myself liked by her, as I want to marry this girl in two or three years. We love each other. GEORGE. No mother likes to lose a good daughter, and often she objects with out any reason more definite than this. You must persevere; conduct your self in a manner with which she can find no fault, and respect all her wishes and foibles. You have won the daughter; now’ you must court the mother, and good luck to you! FOOLISH IF YOU DON’T. Dear Miss Fairfax: I have been keeping company with a younr man four years my senior for the past fifteen months. He is fickle-minded, and when making an appointment with me always seems to find an excuse every once in a while for not coming, and then I am left In the lurch. Do you think it would be prop er for me to go out with others? He says he cares for me very much. HEARTBROKEN. You are encouraging him in his> neglect by letting him continue it. Go with others, and may you meet and win the love of some man who will treat you better. 1892. Donald Fraser School for Boys. 1913 Decatur, Ga. Thoroughly prepares for college. Experienced faculty of mala teachers. Gymnasium. Athletic sports. Limited number. Catalogue upon request. PAUL J. B’CB NG, Principal. Phone Decatur 253, MAIL YOUR FILMS TO US M^f k 6rd°J ,S DS^^t bUt “ 1S0 tiV6S true E. H. CONE. Inc., 2 Stores, Atlanta, Qa. 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