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4
BEHIND CLOSED DOORS
One of the Greatest Mystery Stories Ever Written
Playing With Cupid—and After
By ANNA KATHARINE GREEN.
(Copyright,
1913, by Anna
Green.)
TO DAY’S INSTALLMENT.
“No—yes ” she murmured, looking
down at his hand with a sudden and
violent change of color. "I—I ” She
turned away and laid her hand on her
husband s arm “Do you wish to stay
any longer?" snc asked. “It seems to
me we ought to he going."
There was confusion In her tone,
while her manner to the doctor had
certainly savored of rudeness, but Dr.
Molesworth seemed neither to notice the
one nor the other
“I am In no hurry," said he, “to lose
the doctor’s company, especially as I
have another case here which I am sure
it will Interest him to see “ And he
looked af Dr Cameron, who at once
cried:
*‘I am on hand for anything of that
kind.”
“Come, then," cried the other. “But
first excuse me while I take off my
cuffs. 1 can do nothing at a bedside
with them on."
And while the two waited this strange
man pulled off his cuffs and put them
In the pocket of his overcoat, after
which operation hi# brow looked lighter
and he passed with thorn up the hall,
chatting quite genially
Genevieve felt sick at heart. This
business was not as pleasant In reality
as In anticipation, but she kept by their
side, thankful that she was not ex :
pected to say anything. On their re
turn she again expressed a wish to
leave, and this time no demur was
made. But Just as they turned to go a
startled cry made them look back
It was from Dr. Molesworth, and the
word he had uttered was:
“Tg>st!“
“What Is lost?*’
Tt was Dr. Cameron who spok<»; his
wife scmed incapable of uttering a
word.
Dr. Molesworth laughed “Excuse
me." said he. “I did not mean to be so
tragic; but in our short absence my
cuffs have been taken out of my over
coat pocket, and though the loss Is not
great, it Is certainly annoying.”
•T know who did it,” cried a voice
near them “It was that slim small
man who came in aft?r ”
But Dr. Cameron did not keep his
wife waiting any longer to hear these
simple explanations, the affair seemed
altogether too puerile
Would he have thought any more se
riously of it had he known that written
on the inside of one of those cuffs the
one which had been on the hand which
Dr. Molesworth had extended to Gene
vieve—were written In large characters
these words
“Beware! I was not released to sud
denly without a motive.”
Husband and Wife.
I T must not be supposed that the sud
den and remarkable change which
had taken place In Mrs. Cameron’s
physical appearance had passed un
noticed or uncommented upon by so
ciety. It was only too widely discussed,
ami while it formed the basis of innu
merable compliments, it also awakened
an equal number of surmises and ques
tionable remarks.
They were sitting in the parlor, and
Dr. Cameron, anxious to behold her
smile again, was talking gaily. Sud
denly he paused and asked her a ques
tion about some one they had seen.
She answered but vaguely Her thoughts
were elsewhere. Judging from the di
rection of her gase. they were on her
self. She sat where she could see her
own image mirrored in the glass before
her. and it was upon this elegant figure,
clad In gray velvet and pearls, that
her eyes were fixed with an Intentness
which might have suggested the pres
ence of innate vanity, if the disdain
which curled her Up had not shown that
she half despised the beauty which re
quired ao much splendor to adorn it.
Her husband’s eyes followed hers and
glistened merrily.
“An imposing figure.” he smiled. “Did
you think you would ever be a famous
beauty. Genevieve"’’
She rose lip with an Instantaneous
impulse, and. coming to his side, knelt
down at his feet.
“Am I pretty,” she asked, “to you?"
“No.” he returned, "you are not pret
ty, you are beautiful, and Just a lit
tle awe-inspiring I love you. and T
wonder at you. You arc so different—"
She did not wait for him to finish
“You love me." she murmured "How
much do you love me, Walter" Enough
to care more for me than for my beau
ty? Would your heart still glow and
your arms still embrace me if. instead of
pleasing your eye. 1 only appealed to
your sympathies and your affections"
Do not say yes carelessly, Walter. How
deep have I sunk into your heart? Past
the first boundary or not, Walter?
Speak! I am strong enough to hear.”
Affected deeply, for h«r look was
even more earnest than her words, he
drew her to his side, and answered
gravely:
"You are my wife; you are the woman
I have chosen and would choose again
out of all I have ever seen for my
own. I love your beauty- bow can 1
help it!—and 1 love what gives that
beauty life. Had I to choose, were it
given me to have this lovely form, these
brilliant eyes, this whole harmonious
and speaking figure, with a cold and
treacherous soul within It; or to have
your heart, your intellect Hnd your na
ture In a faded or marred body, I
should take “
“Which?"
Her eyes were burning, her lips were
parted: she was breathless.
“Your heart and nature; I know I
should, and 1 rejoice in it. You have
charmed me. Genevieve; I cannot re
sist your spell nor do I try any longer
to do so Were these features all over-
there would still be your person-
personality which I do not
which holds me and
k>re f) ,in any an; ni’ •{
could do.”
an enigma, only me
’you. When I am solved ”
ever he solved. Genevieve?"
11
depth of her regard, which was always
remarkable, never struck him more
forcibly, than at this moment; while the
smile that Just touched and sweetened
the corners of her lips possessed a
melancholy for which he could find
little reason, save in the strength and
fervor of her fully aroused feelings.
“I think the day will come.” she re
marked, “when you will no longer won
der at me. Will It he also true that
you will no longer love me?"
She did not seem to expect a reply,
ami he did not give any. He felt sure
of himself, but why rej*»at asseverations
that were as old as love He merely J
smiled at her and waited for the new
question that hovered on her lips. It I
seemed to be a serious one, more se
rious than any which had gone be
fore. It looked as If she dreaded to j
put it. He encouraged her w r ith a kiss j
on the hand that lay In his.
"I see. you want to know what I
am going to ask next,” she pursued
“Well, I may be a foolish woman, but
I have a fancy to probe your heart to
the bottom. Would you love me”—
she dropped her eyes from his face—
"if you found that I had kept some
thing back from you which i ought to
have told; that that I had ever been Fn
love before, or or thought I was; that
I was not Just what you Imagined me
to be when you married me, ami that —
that I had a secret in my life, as many !
women have, which, while It argues
nothing wrong In my heart, still lends I
to my hours many regrets, and to my
thoughts a shadow which all the pres- [
ent brightness cannot quite charm
away?”
“Genev!eve , “ His face had changed;
his iif*H took a hard line. “Have you i
any such secret In your life? Did you
ever love another man?”
She looked up. met his eye and quak
ed “Do you demand to know?” she
asked.
His brows contracted; he thought of
the promise she had given him to al
ways te.II him the truth, and hesitated
What If she said yes; would it in
crease their happiness? «,They were
married; she loved him now. and any
such raking up of old bygones was cer
tainly unwise as it was unpleasant, j
Besides, who could expect to have the
first love of a Genevieve Oretorex? A
woman who has counted her suitors by
scores might be pardoned for having
yielded one Jot of her pent-up woman
ly emotions In return. He would not
press his question; he found he loved
her too well.
“I demand nothing." was his reply.
“The past is past; and we no longer
have anything to do with it. As long
aa your heart is all mine now—and I
am sure It is what Is it to me that
you once smiled for a week or a month
upon some on© else* 1 would dare
wager that no one hut myself ever
touched these lips.”
Her smile Hashed out bright and dar
kling "No one ever did," said she. and
at that word and at that smile his
brow cleared ami he almost laughed.
“Most every life has had some harm
less flirtations in it." he remarked “I
adored a girl myself once—for a fort
night But that does not make me tin-
happy now. On the contrary, I think It
acids a little to my satisfaction. The
value of true gold Is more apparent after
some slight bundling of dross.”
She drooped her head. There was a
far-away look in her eyes. She did
not seem to hear what he said.
“I wish I could see you really cheer
ful again,” he ventured. "You arc not
ill enough to look so sad."
Brought back to realities, she moved
a little farther from him. while a reck
less gleam shot from her eyes.
"I have read," she began slowly, and
as If pursuing her own train of thought,
“that love Is powerful with some men
That no amhltlon Is considered too
dear, no hope too precious to stand in
the way of their passion. Is there
truth In such tales? Is there a man
among your acquaintance, for instance,
who would be willing to sacrifice any
really good thing he possessed for the
sake of an unfortunate woman win* was
dependent upon him for happiness?"
“I hope ’’ he commenced.
But she stopped him with an impe
rious gesture
“Do you know of one man,” she asked,
"who would share disgrace with a
woman cheerfully?”
“Disgrace is a hard word," he assert
ed. "and cheerfully does not readily go
with It ”
“But " -
"1 am thinking of an extreme case
Perhaps you did not mean positive dis
grace Such does not come often to a
man from a woman It is more apt to
come to a woman from a man "
“You speak of an extreme case,” she
softly whispered. “Let us put It at its
extreme*!. Say that l had done an
uot which if known would brand me wifli
infamy; that you became aware of it
and also knew that the heart which
prompted it was not bad, only untu
tored and Impetuous, would your love
be so slight that it would give way
under the revelation, or would it hdld
firm. and. though changed, remain to
solace and encourage one who who—
never realised “ Her voice sank to
nn unintelligible murmur; her eyes,
which were fixed on his, turned glassy,
for his brow had grown threatening and
his regard stern.
"Genevieve," he cried, "these are not
the questions of an excited fancy. There
is meaning back of all this What mean
ing'* Is there disgrace lurking in the
air for us? Have you done anything—"
But here her laugh broke, out merrily
and shrill A transformation seemed
to be worked in her which made his
words sound incongruous and absurd.
He stopped in his turn and looked at
her in a sort of cloudy amazement
She arose and made him a mocking lit
tle courtesy; then she suddenly grew
grave.
“Forgive me,” she entreated. “I had
a nation to test the extent of your love.
I I think there is yet opportunity for it
to deepen and broaden. But perhaps 1
do not understand men 1 have never
cared to study them until now. I did
not know my happiness would hang
upon your regard Your regard,” she
repeated, “not the world’s, Walter.”
To 3* Continued To-morrow.
This Is the Way the Game
with Cupid Begins—
“L
. One Woman’s Story .
By VIRGINIA TERHUNE VAN DE WATER
By BEATRICE FAIRFAX.
OVE cornea like a summer I
aigh.” goes an old song, and
those who have known nothing
of I»ve. or know it only in Its begin
ning, think, culm-eyed, that Dove is
always a summer sigh—a lutelike strain, j
sweet, so thing, telling a story of flow
ers shaking their heavy, honey-bur-'
dened heads drowsily In the sun; of
birds giving sleepy twitters from un
der the shade of the leaves, and of lazy
streams, droning and crooning their way
between warm, mossy banks, and giv
ing no hint in their songs that they
were ever turbulent.
That, the summer sigh is followed by
tempestuous winds and devastating
floods that tear down and sweep de
struction where all was lazy peace, is
never credited by those who do not know
Dove.
The girl whose love tale Is In the be
ginning regards l^ove as she would a
plaything She tosses him in the air,
sometimes catching him with fervent
arms and loving kisses, and as often
letting him fall that site may laugh at
his woe-begone, face and make merry
over his bruises.
She tweaks, pinches, slaps and throws
the little g«*l about, finding renewed
merriment in every moan and protest.
"Love,” she sings, “Is more than a sum
mer sigh. He, is a game. He is the
greatest Joy in the world.”
First hot, then cold; first loving, then
disdainful; the plaything in her hands
would be driven mad entirely did he not
know that, just aa surely as to-mor
row’s sun follows to-day’s, hts time will
come.
He is the plaything to-day. He knows
who will be the juggler to-morrow, and
with a face which bears no sign of the
malice in his heart he submits to every
torture she Imposes.
And bides his time!
What hour murks the beginning of the
new game where Dove is the Juggler and
the plaything In his hands is the bruised
and aching heart of his tormentor no
one knows.
The inexperienced declare that that
hour never strikes. The love-scarred I
know that it struck when they were j
merriest, and that in a twinkling they |
found themselves the sport of that which
But It
Ends So.
60.
had been their game.
The girl who is playing witli Dove
grows tired and bids Dove go. He turns
to depart, and there comes to her a
swift revelation of the dreariness of life
without him, and she commands him to
stay.
The hour has struck! He refuses, and
then she drops to her knees and begs
for that which she once scorned.
“Only stay,” she implores, “and you
may do with me as you will.” And Dove
stays, and for every tear that she has
made him shed he makes her shed a
torrent.
Every little pinch and bruise on his
bods lias made a mark on his heart
that is charged to her account, for
which she must pay in humiliation and
anguish. No cold-blooded, calculating
enemy who starts out to destroy and
lets nothing under heaven interrupt or
change or balk or defeat his plans, was
ever more ruthless than this little God
of Dove.
Dove is, as the young hope, the only
real joy life holds. And only those who
have kr.uwn it know the depths of de
spair and sorrow.
In the beginning it is the plaything,
in the end the hearts of men and wom
en are its toys.
, i,
I he Cry of the Heart
By BEATRICE FAIRFAX.
i he One You Didn’t Marry
BY DOROTHY DIX.
“L
OVE, courtship and marriage
are not passing sentiments
or accident*. Romance and
silence must become fast friends.
Sentiment and reality must meet. 1
want the young man and woman to
know each other and to greet each
other sanely and well under the best
influence I know of—the church.”
The Rev. John R. Gunn, who made
this statement Is pastor of the North
Baptist Church, No. 234 West Elev
enth street. New York.
He has heard the Cry of the Heart.
He has learned through his associa
tion with young people that in the
civilization and salvation of tills gray
old world the heart must he reck
oned with as well as the soul, the
body and the brain.
It is not enough to throw open the
church doors to save souls. The
work does not end with establishing
schools to train the fingers and brain
The public clinics that teach the care
of the body accomplish wonderful re
sults. but this and all these are not
enough.
The man with perfect lungs and
liver, skilled hands, a fcell-trained
brain and a soul that he believe* Is
saved is of no more account than a
collection of dry bones if his heart
has a longing that neither mental nor
physical tiring can still. He wants to
love and he loved. He wants the
greatest gift life holds, and the same
longing is implanted In the breast of
every woman.
In a small town where every one
knows every one else meeting and
mating are easy. A man sees a girl
he admires and the next day a mu
tual friend Introduces them. In a
large city he may see The Girl every
day for an eternity, and the rules
which were made for her protection
prevent them from speaking without
an introduction and there is no one in
the world who knows him and her
who cares.
Their Cries.
The Kiri a nice man W’ants for a
wife is not the girl who lets a street
corner stand sponsor for him. The
girl who will let a wink or a smile
serve as an introduction is not the
girl he wants to marry. He wants to
meet and marry the nice, modest kind
of a girl he knew “back home." and
he knows, as every one knows, that
the city is full of them. He also
knows that his chances for meeting
her are not any better than if she
were stranded on an island in the
North Sea. and he were a nomad in
the Sahara Desert.
Dove is too priceless to be lost
through formality and too precious to
he risked through its lack The re
formists mast in time recognise this
and open social centers where decent
young men may meet decent young
women in a sane, decent way. On
this the happiness of the world de
pends.
“I am a young girl nineteen years
of age.” writes one who signs herself
‘Anxious,’ “and have no chance what
ever to get acquainted with young
men. While 1 have girl friends, they
are selfish and would not introduce
me to any young man. Anyhow, they
are the kind of men they meet in
public dance halls, and I don’t care to
know them. Will you ten me of a
way to meet a few nice men?”
i am m with * young girl/*
writes another, “who is working near
the place' 1 work. She is looking at
me all day long with a great deal of
interest but she never says anything
because we have not been introduced.
I try to make her understand with
my eyes that 1 love her. but she keeps
silent, just looking at me all the
time. Is there a way I can meet her
and get acquainted?”
"I am eighteen”—this time it is a
girl—"and every day meet a nice
young man who says ‘How do you
do?’ and passes on. I like him very
much, but have never been intro
duced to him. Tell me how I may
know him.”
"I am a young man of nineteen and
am very very bashful. When with
young ladles I do not know what to
converse about. Dately I have been
corresponding with a medical institu
tion that offered to permanently euro
me of my bashfulness In twelve les
sons but I have an idea I could be
cured quicker if T could meet more
girls and be with them oftener. But.
I live in a large city and never meet
any girls, and am in despair.”
One Way.
It is the Cry of the Heart for love,
and the cry is universal. The man ir
woman who fails to heed tt or who
stills it pays the penalty all through
life. Only through satisfying this
hunger for love may happiness be se
cured.
The Rev. Gunn, recognising this de
mand. has opened a parlor in his
church for the purpose of making 1'
possible for well-intentioned young
men and women to meet. He will act
as the Intermediary of Cnpld, and the
| poor tittle god of’Love needs more In
termediaries these days than at any
| previous time in his troubled exist-
| ence.
I.et others who claim they want to
do good emulate the Rev. Gunn. Sat-
I isfy this longing for love first of all.
and ambition, achievement, and all
that counts In the progress of human
ity will follow.
Harum 2d.
Two farmers stoped to talk crops and
the price of potatoes.
“Say. Jim " finally remarked one of
the agriculturists, “are ye in the market
i fer a good hoss?"
! “Wouldn’t mind buyin’ a hoss if it
suited me. Jake.” responded Jim “What
kind of a hoss is it?”
1 “It’s thet little roan mare o’ mine,"
i answered Jake. “Guess you’ve seen her
i hain’t ye?”
“Think I hev,” reflectively returned
Jim. “Yes. T know her, all right.”
“Mighty good little hoss," declared
Jake, with a hopeful glance at Jim.
"An’ she’s yours cheap fer a cash deal.”
"It’s jes* this way. 4ake." said Jim.
picking up his lines and preparing to
start. “Id like to have her. all right, an’
I’d buy her this mornin’, only I hate to
i bust a dollar.”
T ^^NCXi" said the woman who
I likes to philosophize above her
tea. “that there are very few of
us, either men or women, who do noi
cherish the memory of some rare and
radiant being that we have met some
where in the past, and who do not have
moments in which we speculate upon
what life might have been if only we
had married the ideal. Instead of the
individual that we did marry.
“Of course, for the most i>art, we are
fairly well satisfied with our own par
tlcular Darby or Joan, but in times of
domestic strife we recall with a sad,
sweet pleasure, the face of Angelina
or Edwin, and reflect that lje or she
never would have been such a goose,
or so pig-headed, or raised such rows
about nothing as does the wife or
husband to whom wo are tied.
“Ah. no! Angelina would always Jiave
been fair and beautiful, and slim and
young, a perfect housekeeper, and a
marvel of economy, far different from
our own fat and grizzled middle-aged
Joan, who is a hit-or-miss cook, and
apparently thinks a man can gather
money off the trees. Our Edwin, too,
would always have been a romantic
hero, who could make us thrill at his
touch, who would murmur beautiful
sentiments of affection, couched in
Booth Tarkington language for forty
years at a stretch, and who would have
lived on such a high plane that he
wouldn't even have perceived when the
coffee tasted like dish water, and the
soup was cold, and the ices hot. And
he would have been utterly incapable of
saying such things under such circum
stances. as does the commonplace Dar
by to whom we are united.
The Retrospect.
“As the years go by, and we get far
ther and farther away from Edwin and
Angelina and the gilt rubs more and
more off of the gingerbread of matri
mony that we are daily forced to con
sume. the picture* of our early loves
grow brighter and brighter, with a more
and more roseate halo, until at last we
come to the place where we privately
consider ourselves blighted beings, who
have made fatal mistakes !n matrimony.
“1 am convinced that a great deal
of domestic unhappiness arises from
this cause, and I think that ten years
after marriage there ought to be a com
pulsory excursion back to the scene of
one's early romance, »o that husbands
and wives could get a near view of their
first love. Take my word for it, that it
would do more to make men and women
satisfied with the life partners they
did got than anything else on earth, for
If there Is one thing that makes you
want to go out and burn joss sticks to
luck it is to meet up with the one
you didn’t marry.
“1 have just been seeing a most illu
minating example of the value of my
theory. I have a friend, whom I will
call Susie, because that isn’t her name,
who. when she was a young girl, fell
in love with a good-loo king and attrac
tive young fellow who was one of those
youths who live upon their mothers.
“Fortunately for Susie she had a sen
sible, hard-headed father who repre
sented to her that a man who had
never supported himself was! not likely
to support a family, and as Susie had
too much independence to want to set
tle down on a poor mother-in-law to
be taken care of, she was kept from
marrying the young man, and, of course,
in time got over her girlish fancy.
“Eventually she made an excellent
match. She married a thrifty business
man in a distant city, who was able to
give her a beautiful home, fine clothes,
an automobile, and every luxury that
wealth can supply. Also her husband
is a man of weight in his community,
looked up to, and deferred to..
“But always her early love has
loomed in Susie’s mind as a fairy prince,
and she has contrasted her husband
unfavorably with him, and said to her
self how blissful she might have been
with it man who understood her poetic
yearnings, and her grasping at the
whatness of the what, instead of with
a sordid business man, whose soul was
not on material things..
"Well, last month Susie went back
home for the first time in many years,
and saw’ her early love. Also hi* wife
and children. The shiftless ne’er do
w’ell had gone down, and down, !
until he had become the village loafer.
People spoke of him with sneering con
tempt. His wife was a poor, pitiful, j
overworked drudge who supported him
by taking boarders. Half a dozen dirty
little children clung to her skirts.
The Outcome.
“You never saw such an instan
taneous cure as that sight of the man
she didn’f marry worked on Susie. She
scuttled back home as fast as she could
go, and she’s been so busy ever since
scattering roses in the path of the man
she did marry that she has got him
guessing as to what has happened.”
“That’s right,” said the other woman |
coolngly, ”1 never miss an opportunity
of inviting my husband’s early loves to
dinner. They are sure to be fat and
frowsy, or living skeletons, and I can
see his ideal crumbling to pieces as he
contrasts them in propria persona with
the way he remembered them.”
“But w r e also have changed since we
inspired love’s young dream,” suggest
ed a third woman.
“Oh. our husbands are used to us.”
rerlied the woman philosopher, com
fortably. “And they’ve quit looking at
us, anyway.”
CHAPTER XXV.
A S Boon as Herbert Fletcher was
engaged he brought his mother
to call upon his future wife. That
was the only time that Mary Danforth
saw her soon-to-be mother-in-law until
after her marriage.
Mrs. Fletcher was a large-boned, stout
woman, florid of face and with a voice
that was masculine In quality. She
shook hand* with Mary and eyed her
critically
“How do you do?” sne said, adding,
as in duty bound, “My son has told me
about you.”
“And he has talked to me often about
you,” Mary rejoined timidly. “I am
glad to know you. 'it is kind of you
to call."
"Bert insisted on my coming," re
turned Mrs. Fletcher bluntly. “I was
willing to humor him to keep the
peace.”
She Was Surprised.
Mary was surprised to hear herself
talking with assumed lightness of
trifling matters—the weather, the noise
of the city streets at this time of the
year when the windows were open, the
many impersonal matters that make
what is known as “small talk." Fletcher
sat by and looked at her with uncon
cealed admiration; her mother seconded
her efforts to keep the conversational
hall rolling, but Mrs Fletcher said lit
tle. Her quick feyes were taking in
every detail of the simply-furnished
room, and Mary felt that her gaze was
an appraising one. She looked often
at the embarrassed girl, and at last
voiced her thoughts:
“I guess you’re not very strong, are
you?”
Mary flushed hotly. “Why, yes," she
said, trying to laugh, “I have never
been really ill in my life. Perhaps the
first warm weather may make me look
a little pale, but I am very well, thank
you!”
Fletcher spoke up quickly. "Tt isn’t
always the big women that are the
strongest, ma,” he said oracularly.
"You, yourself, ain’t quite up to the
mark sometimes.”
“I know that,” said his parent as
she rose to leave. “But,” turning to
Mary, “my son tells me that you and
he have decided to get married, and I
think it only fair to say to you thai, as
he hasn’t a fortune, any girl that mar
ries him may have to work. But I guess
you’re used to that here in your own
home. And,” as an after-though T “T
hope you both will be happy.”
Mary did not return Mrs. Fletcher's
call—indeed, was not asked to do so.
But she wrote a pretty little note to
Bert’s mother asking her to come to
the wedding, explaining that it was to
be the quietest affair Imaginable. To
this invitation the older woman sent a
verbal acceptance by her son.
Herbert Fletcher had always wanted
to live In the country, and Mary was
willing to get away from New York and
from all the old associations. She and
her husband took a wedding trip down
to Atlantic City and staying in an inex
pensive boarding-house over Sunday.
Then the young couple returned to the
Danforth flat and began preparations for
moving out of town.
Decided on Small Town.
Fletcher had decided upon a small
village in New Jersey, the distance of
three-quarters-of-an-hour from New
York, making it convenient for him to
commute daily. He and Mary* went to
Middlebrook one Saturday afternoon and
chose the little house in which they
were to live. It had seven small rooms
and a diminutive bath, but to the girl
who, for two years, had lived in a cheap
flat, the cottage looked quite large. All
the w'ater used in the bathroom and
kitchen must be pumped by hand into
the tank at the top of the house, the
pump being close to the kitchen sink.
"A good job for a fellow that’s get
ting too stout—eh, Mamie?” Bert re
marked jocosely.
(He had insisted that “Mary” was
“too formal” a name for a man to
call his wdfe by. Mary had suggested
that she preferred it to any nickname,
but her husband had his way.)
"When I don’t feel like pumping the
water, the girl can do it,” he said later
as the two sat together on the train
taking them back to New York.
"Are you sure I can get a maid?”
Mary asked timidly. *7 nave heard
that it is sometimes difficult to secure
one in a country place.’’
"Well, we’ll get one from town then,”
said the master of the house loftily. “I
don’t mean that you should do rough
work in my home—at least, if you can
hire a girl whose wages make it pos
sible for us to keep her.”
"Ma Says You Were Right.”
It was evident that he discussed this
matter with his mother, for the next
evening he remarked to his wife:
“Ma tells me that you were right
in saying that it’s hard to get good
help in the country. You know she
never keeps a girl, and she seems to
think that you and your mother could
do a good deal of the work of that little
house yourselves. Perhaps you could.”
Mary hesitated. “I do not want moth
er to do housework, Bert,” she de
murred. “She is not strong, and work
in a house is harder than in a flat.
If you can not afford a maid, the house
muM be attended to by me—but 1
would prefer keeping a servant, if pos
sible.”
She tried to speak firmly, but there
was a tremor in her voice and her hus
band noted it.
“Well,” he said, “let’* hope we can
get a girl cheap somewhere. If not,
my dear, I guess you’ll just have to put
up with matters as lot* of other women
do, and as you and your mother have
done lately and as my mother has al
ways done. Your husband ain’t rich,
you know.”
His wife made no reply. She seemed
these days to be slowly awakening from
a stupor in which she had lived since
the night on which she received the
news of Craig’s engagement. She had
not allowed herself to look a day ahead,
nor an hour backward. That was the
way, she reminded herself, that she
had lived through the past three months.
She Aroused Herself.
She aroused herself to listen to her
husband again. "Ma says she’ll help
me choose any furniture w-e need,” he
was saying. “She’s a crackerjack at
finding bargains. I never knew such
an economical buyer.”
“I thought,” ventured his wife, “that
we might choose our furniture to
gether ”-
“Oh," the man returned easily “you’re
bucy packing, so you’d better let ma
and me attend to that. I saw r a real
bright and cheerful blue sofa on Four
teenth street the other day, and I’ll see
what we can get it for for our parlor.
I’ll let ma make the deal.”
Suddenly the wife appreciated that if
she would not protest too much she
must keep silence.
Sixth City.
The city of Cleveland has a citizen
who is a great bopster. When he *t<$p*
at a hotel he invariably registers “Sixth
City” instead of Cleveland. He is anx
ious for every one to know that Cleve
land is the Sixth City in the United
States. His zeal in this respect nearly
cost him a lot of trouble last week.
One of his New York business acquaint
ances called up the Waldorf, where he
had been told Mr. Hose was stopping,
and asked for him.
“I want to speak with W. G. Bose,
of Cleveland,” said the New Yorker.
After a. long wait the clerk told him
that there was no W. G. Hose, of Cleve
land, stopping there. The New Yorker
insisted that Mr. Rose was there an^i
asked the clerk to make another in
quiry.
“No,” answered the clerk, after an
other long wait. “There is no Mr.
| Rose, of Cleveland, here. But wc have
J a W. G. Rose, of Sioux City.”
Hereafter Mr. Hose is going to regis
ter “Cleveland—Sixth City” to avoid
mistakes.
That Reserve.
Boob—What’s this federal reserve that
they're talking about?
Simp—Why, that’s the Wilson policy
about doing nothing in Mexico.
There 9 s a wide
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