Newspaper Page Text
♦im
the unintentional
her own diiicom-
the tears In her
she said hastily,
for you deserved
One Woman s
Story
By Virginia T. Van De Water.
CHAPTER XXVII.
O BEDIENT to her husband's »ng-
gestion, Mary Fletcher tried to
$et a maid from the city First
of all she visited many employment
agencies. At each she was received
with a smile of welcofne by the person
In charge, but that smile was replaced
by a look of Incredulous surprise when,
in reply to the question: “What wages
do you pay?*' Mary responded: “Twelve
dollars.'’
“My dear madam!" exclaimed one
such agent “Excuse me, but you can
not get any girl, white or colored, to
do general housework for that price."
V “But," said Mary tentatively, “sup
pose I get a green and inexperienced
girl, and teach her everything, and help
her with the work—what wages would
she come for?"
Might Advertise.
“Certainly for not less than eighteen
dollars at the lowest," replied the
agent. “And If you wish one to go to
a lonely place in the country, you will
have to pay more."
After many such fruitless efforts,
Mary ceased visiting intelligence offices
“You might advertise." her mother
suggested when Mary recounted her ex
perience to her. “I used to get good
maids in that way. But. then. I paid
very good wages. Tour dear father
always Insisted, you know, on having
me get the best of everything—servants
included. *
Mary winced at
thrust, then forgot
flture as she saw
mother's eyes.
“I know. dear,"
“and he was right
the best of everything. But you must
remember. mother, that father had
more money than Bert has." V
“Oh, I know, I know," the widow
responded quickly. “Dear child, don’t
fancy for a moment that I meant to
criticise your husband. He has, of
course, derived many of his ideas from
his mother, and—pardon me. Mary —
but she has not lived as we have, so
she Is to be excused if she has taught
her son to feel that women ought to do
their own work. Naturally, as Bert la
a good son. he takes her tone. I do
not blame him.”
“Of course not,” her daughter as
sented. In her own heart she was won
dering if she, this man's wife, could
say as much.
“Your husband is very kind to me,”
remarked Mrs I>anforth. somewhat Ir
relevantly. “I ought to be happy.”
But was she? Mary pondered. Did
she not think that perhaps her daugh
ter was not as content as she would
like her to be? Did she not suspect
that Mary did not love the man to
whom she was married? And, If so,
could she be happy—she, the mother
who had taught her child that a love
less marriage was a sin?
Her Cheerful Voice.
As If reading the unspoken thought,
/ Mrs. Danforth took her daughter's hand
7 tenderly In hers. “Tell me. darling.”
she said, wistfully, “are you satisfied?
Are you worried about anything?
Sometimes I almost fear that you are a
little disappointed about something."
The young wife put her arms around
her mother and drew the gray head
down to her shoulder.
“Little mother." she said, her voice
determinedly cheerful, "what notions
you do get! Why should I not be happy
here In this cozy little cottage, with the
best mother that ever lived, and the
man l have chosen out of all the world?
Dear mother," with a light laugh, "why
should l have married Bert If 1 did not
want fo?"
The mother laughed, too, and there
was a ring of relief in the sound.
“Of course, dear! Why, Indeed? For
give your silly old mother—hut I love
you so much that if you were not hap
py—why, l Just could not stand It!”
She ended with a little sob, and the
daughter held her closer.
“You believe now that 1 am happy,
don't you, dear?” Mary asked.
“Oh. yes, I believe It now," said the
widow tremulously, "and you don't know
what a comfort it is to be sure of It."
With her head still on Mary's shoul
der she did riot look up at the sad eyes
gazing out of tlie window, nor did she
see the bitter smile that twisted the
young lips. In a moment the wife's face
was again placid, and she smiled on
leaving her mother, making the pretext
that she had "some work to do down
stairs."
She did not go downstairs at once.
Instead, she turned into her own room
and closed the door. But she did not.
Lady Constance Stewart Richardson
OH
How to Acquire a Beautiful Figure Through Dancing
The two exercises
pictured to-dav show
classic dancing steps
intended to produce
suppleness of limbs
and waist.
THE TUNNEL
GREATEST STORY OF ITS
KIND SINCE JULES VERNE
m
k
WHAT HAS GONE BEFORE
The story opens with Rives, who Is In charge of the technical work
ings of the great tunnel from America to Germany, on one of the tunnel
! trains vgith Baermann, an engineer, in charge of Main Station No 4 They
i are traveling at the rate of 118 miles an hour. Hives is in love with
; Maude Allan, wife of Mackendrick Allan, whose mind first conceived the
great tunnel scheme. After going about 250 miles under the Atlantic Ocean
1 Rives gets out of the train. Suddenly the tunnel seems to burst. There
' is a frightful explosion. Men are flung to death and Rives is badly wounded,
i He staggers through the blinding smoke, realizing that about 3,000^ men
' have probably perished. He and oher survivors get to Station No. 4.
Rives finds Baermann holding at bay a wild mob of frantic men who want
to climb on a work train, somebody shoots Baermann, and the train slides out.
The scene is then changed to the roof of the Hotel Atlantic. The greatest
financiers of the country are gathered there at a summons from C. H.
Lloyd. “Th<* Money King " John Rives addresses them, and introduces Al
lan Mrs Allan and Maude Lloyd, daughter of the financier, are also pres
ent. Allan tells the company of his project for a tunnel 3.100 miles long
The financiers agree to back him. Allan and Rives want him to take charge
of the actual work. Rives accepts. Hives goes to the Park Club to meet Wit-
tersteiner. a financier. At Columbus Circle news of the great project la being
fiashed on a screen. Thousands are watching It.
Now Go On With the Story.
M-™, th. r.,™.n Of B.rrt.rtl Ken.rm.na- | long. Incline into the bowels of the
dermaii t-rr.ion Copyrifhted. 1913. by a. , earth these puffs that tell of terrific
Fu'her Verlag, Berlin Lugiiah traualation aud j blasts are shooting Up. Great dredges,
npilatT.n L>
ev
These Pictures
Were Espe
cially Posed
for this
Page.
ot
By LADY CONSTANCE STEWART
RICHARDSON.
(Copyright, 1913, by International
News Service.)
NE of your great Americans sang
an exquisite little poem of
“The glory that was Greece;
the grandeur that was Home." The
glory and grandeur of these nation*
were founded not only on their art
and culture and prowess as warriors,
but on a basic condition that male
brains and power reach a great helgnt
of perfection—on the sublimity and
healthy beauty of the human body.
When laziness and high living j
weakened the bodies of the Greeks
and Homans, decline and fall were
near. Hut in the flower of their na
tional health and youth the bodies of
the Greeks and Latins were physi
cally splendid, and the endowment - f
mental power followed physical
health.
In these simple facts there lies a
great lesson for u* of to-day. In
bodily health and strength lie the
power of the Individual and the health
of the nation as \yell. I have said so
often and am always glad to say
again that in the beautiful classic
dances that have conn* down to us
from the ancients lies the simplest se
cret of bodily grace. But to-day 1
want to add n few principles of bodiiv
health and care that are practiced of |
necessity by the professional dancer, I
and that the bodily beauty-seeker j
would do well to emulate.
Begin by training children so that
their muscles will fall naturally, in
motion or repose, into graceful lln *s.
Teach them that food is very im
portant in one way and of no conse
quence In another. Food must nourish
the body and give It strength, but be
ware the pleasureful-overeating of
the well-nourished, 111-proportioned
gourmet.
Food and Mood.
Now, you could done.’ n canonn o.*
a breakdown however you hated the
world—and Indigestion surely pro
duces misanthropy—but you have to
be In harmony with life to express
poetry in dandne So. since mood
affects dancing and food affects mood,
this little cycle « ill make the classi
cal dancer careful of the dower of
health that spare, sane, sensible eat
ing produces.
For breakfast I have coffee and hot
milk, for lunch fruit and one nourish
ing solid and my simple dinner is
guiltless of sweets. Clothes 1 regard
as covering and not ns trammeling
ornaments that interfere with free
dom of movement or deep breathins.
Perehaps if I convert a few of tnv
readers to a love for and a belief in
the graceful movements of the clas-
M
tu
r’
¥
sic dance, l shall at the same time
make converts to the healthful joys of
simple living, of deep breathing and
of high thinking.
To-day 1 will tell you about two
little movements of the dance that
may be done at home without music
and to tho slower tempo of the walk
Try them for general bodily grace
and ease of motion.
The first picture shows a very sim
ple equally pretty figure, and for sup
pleness of arms and legs and waist
it counts as atrongly as it does for
lightly poised and carried head and
body. Advance with the head carried
lrigh above the column of the throat
and the lifted chin. Sway slightly
from the waist as you swing the arms
in the arc of a circle; left arm is for
ward slightly above the shoulder
height as the weight advances for
ward to the light foot, and at the
same time the right arm is stretched
back in a straight line anti lowered
from shoulder to wrist until the hand
is just at tiie line of the hip. Do this
with gradually increasing tempo, un
til tin' springy walking motion has
I become a light dancing step. Fifteen
minutes of this night and morning
will give great grace and resiliency
to your ordinary gait.
The second picture brings the back
and shoulder muscles into play and
exercises the throat. In other essen
tials it has the basic principles and
advantages of the first exercise. Ad
vance as before. This time the for
ward notion' Is flrst on the left and
then on the right side of the body
and thus great muscular co-ordination
is assured ofr the devotee of this ex-
is assured for the devotee of this ex
elbows close to the waist line and the
hands relaxed In eamf lines from the
wrist. Sway head and arm from sid°
to side as th< body pivots slightly
from the waist muscles and the feet
advance in the lifted prancing step of
the dance.
"More power to ye,” says my neigh
bors of Erin’s Isle, in kindly greet
ing. To you—my neighbors across
the sea—I say it, too, “More power to
you;” and may the principles of the
classical dancing I have so earnestly
studied and so earnestly love, bring
you beauty and grace and power to
live gloriously and well.
A TALE OF LOST CHERUBS
(Copyrighted. 1813. International New* Sorrioa.).
Before daylight two thousand more
| men arrived, and with them began
i the endless stream of freight. Hives
began to feel like a swimmer who has
; been bucking a tide-rip. But he asked
that the pace be increased, rnd he
shut his teeth and Jumped in. Twen
ty lieutenants worked on his imme
diate staff, all of them young men.
but all of them chosen for the cut of
their jaws and the cleanness of their
records in stress and storm and strife.
And Rives worked them as hard as he
worked himself, lie gave no instruc
tions. There was not time for that.
He told each man what was to be
done in a few curt sentences and left
the doing of it to him.
That third night a terrific thunder
storm broke up the heat wave. It
came down in a terrific gale, and the
j flrst thunderbolt fired a freight shed
where 500 cots were stacked to the
1 roof, as there had been no time to un-
! pack them that niglit. Before the
j fire got well under way, the wind
ripped the burning roof off, and then
■ came the deluge. When day broke,
Hives found that about a third of his
| Jerry-built houses had collapsed—
i and the flood of materials and men
| from Toms River set in as before.
It was a terrible setback, but he
shook his head and went at it as if
I nothing had happened, and his men
backed him with the easy energy and
resource of men long accustomed to
uneven warfare with Nature. That
day Tunnel City looked like a storm-
swept mining camp. Two days later
it was like the temporary camp of
the great army. At the end of ten
days it was a city with concrete
houses and streets and electric lights
and sewerage—a city of 20,000 men
with a postofllce, a telephone system,
two railroad depots, bakeries, dairies,
abattoirs, stores, saloons and a hos
pital.
And over everything, the discour
aged and drooping trees and the few
scattered clumps of bushes, the win
dow sills and the roofs, was the
thick white dust of the cement that
had made the miracle possible.
Pages of this and many succeed
ing issues of this paper might be
filled with the details of the wonders
of energy and the mighty toil of
those summed months on the Jersey
coast. And in four other spots on
the face of the earth similar scenes
were being enacted. But terrific as
were the results, grandiose the scale,
the details must needs be tiresome,
for after all they were only digging
a hole in the earth. In this, as in all
other matters of great moment, it is
well to trust to the trained and not
the technical observer. Edgar Hark-
ness, the star man of The New York
Evening Journal staff, was at the
works from the day the flrst man
reached there. Looking over the files
of the paper for that summer 1 came
upon a special article he wrote de
scribing the progress of the work.
You can gather some idea of the
tremendous undertaking from his
picturesque but vigorous English:
“This place of bedlam," he wrote,
in part, under date of September 11.
of that year, “looks as if it were go
ing up in smoke. To-day the cloud
above it is so dense that electric
discharges like heat lightning flash
across it and there is always a mut
tering like distant thunder, while be
neath its edges a deep blue horizon
tells that elsewhere the sun is shin
ing. Beneath the Tunnel City roars
and shouts explodes, whistles, thun
ders and yells.
"From the midst of the pandemo
nium and settling over everything
j like a white sea-fog rises a mon-
i strous white column of dust to join
! the black smoke canopy overhead,
j Meeting the heavy blackness it seems
^ ^rpHK Gudgeon children
I lost!" panted Mrs. Sprinkle
as she flung open the screen
door unceremoniously and burst in
upon the Liffick family, variously dis-
as she would have done in her girlhood J posed in hammocks and sprawly
hairs.
days, fling herself upon the bed and
give way to her misery. Instead, she
went to the window and looked out into
the July sunshine But she was looking
into her heart, not into the summer
noon.
“Good Lord!" she whispered, "what a
liar I have become! A liar both In
speech ar.d life!"
She stood motionless a moment longer,
then lifted her head with a gesture of
decision—almost of defiance.
“But I won’t look back," she mut
tered. “I have made my bed and must
lie on it—even if it is made of thorns.
At all event*, mother Is comfortable
and cared for."
She Had Learned.
Advertisements for domestics at the
price named by Herbert Fletcher and his
mother proved useless. As a final re
sort, Mary engaged one so-called “help
er" after another from the village, but
each was so Inefficient that this trial
was abandoned The young housewife
had learned that to secure good service
:>ne must pay an adequate price for it —
and that even then one might fail to
obtain it.
So it came about that at last Mary
Fletcher did the work of her own house,
hiring a woman from the village for
two days a week to "wash, iron and
■scrub." and even then she had to sup
plement her at every turn It was
taken as a matter of course that the
wife should help hang out the clothes
and assist with the ironing. She told
her mother that she “enjoyed the nove
tusk." In fact, that she thought the ex
ercise ai 4 J fresh air good for her Her
husband did not protest Why should
he? His own mother had always done
that kind of work.
"Wh-where?" demanded Liffick in
telligently as he awoke from a peace
ful dream.
"My goodness!" cried Mrs. Liffick.
“Again ?"
“They’re truly lost," explained Mrs.
Sprinkle, excitedly. "And we want
you to come and help find them. They
are sending parties in every direction
through the woods and they’re going
to telephone the life-saving crew to
drag the lake "
“Did the boat tip over'”’ asked
Liffick, now entirely awakened, as be
reached for his cap.
Mrs. Sprinkle heaved an exasper
ated sigh. “If they're lost," she said,
succinctly, “they might possibly oe
drowned, mightn’t they? We don't
want to leave any stone unturned.
Dire Thoughts.
“Mrs. Gudgeon left Imogen® and
Harry playing just as nicely under
the trees beside their cottage while
she walked down to the pier to fish,"
related Mrs. Sprinkle, "and they were
gone when she came back in an hour.
She has called and called for them,
and they are nowhere within a mile!
Imogen© had such beautiful eye®, too’
Maybe gypsies “
“It will break their mother's heart!”
said Mrs. Liffick. "How perfectly ter
rible! I'm sorry I scolded Harry for
breaking off all my geraniums! An !
the time lie scalded our cat—I might
have made loss ha? bi remarks to him.
Suppose they've fallen down that old
quarry pit! Arthur, you go right over
in that direction and see! It’s only
four mile*'
Liffick, starting oft, ran into sev
eral oth< r men from the various cot
tages bound on the same errand.
"It looks serious," said Tilton with
a shake of his head. "Kids like that
and so venturesome! There’s a dozen
things that might have happened .to
them! I’m bound >r the creek bank,
where it is so marshy! There’s quick
sand there."
The whole summer colony was soon
deserted. Everybody had gone to
hunt for the Gudgeon children, whose
various sins "!' commission were now
tenderly covered by the veil of charit
able anxiety. Mrs. Gudgeon alter
nately wept at home and darted out
tin spasmodic hunts. Again she would
wander around the cottage making
the air rnlg with the names of the
missing ones. There was no answer.
"Harry might have grown up to be
President some day!" said Mrs. Lif
fick mournfully. "They say these
mischievous little children always
turn out so well. Dear little Imo-
geno”
"You said she was a hateful child,
mother, when she cut holes in your
new embroidered waist,” put in Sally
Liffick. who was tagging around that
she might miss none of the excite
ment.
"Sally, you go straight home!”
commanded her mother. "Haven’t you
any sympathy at all? The idea?”
One by one the searchers staggered
in toward dusk. Each had the same
talc of disappointment and each was
dusty and thirsty and hungry and de
spairing.
“Something per-perfectly awful
must have happened to them, because
every inch of the woods has been
searched!” said Mrs. Sprinkle. "Poor
Mrs Gudgeon! Harry was such a
brilliant child!”
"1 always said Imogene would turn
out a beauty, too,” put in Mrs. Tilton.
"It's hard!”
"There never were such darling
. .. , thoir i t0 spread and mingle with it, form-
children in tho whole world! their , , ng a c , Qud such u * observed ' at , he
mother informed everybody between : eruptions of volcanoes. Pressed down
sobs. "Oh, where are my babies? j by the colder air above it spreads like
irms around them”— j a gigantic umbrella, and little shreds
are whirled away by puffs of the sea
ward breeze.
“Oh.
Just to get my
Harry Found.
There was a shriek and a scuffle
from the little cellar under the Gud
geon house and everybody rushed to
see.
The Gudgeon cook was dragging
“S'
HIP captains report that when
there is a steady off-shore
wind this dust forms white
scum on the ocean for miles, and
New Yorkers know the source of the
Harry out from the depths of the po- j nuisance that turns their blue serge
tato bin, while Imogene was unroll
ing herself from a pile of old carpet
ing. The assembled searchers and
their parents start'd, voiceless.
"We W’uz playing hiding from the
Indians," vouchsafed Harry. "You
made awful good Indians—you yelled
so! ”
As Gudgeon reached for Harry w ith
an arm motion that promised a lay
ing over his knee, while Mrs. Gudgeon
did likewise with her darling daugh
ter, the searchers melted away.
“Wow!” said Liffick as juvenile
wails rent the air. "That sounds good
to me! Four miles to the stone quar
ry and back!"
Yield to Baby.
One afternoon not long ago in the
vicinity of Grant Park there might have
beer seen a young man industriously
pushing up and down a baby carriage,
intently reading a book the while.
“Henry! Henry!” called a young
woman from the second story of a
house opposite.
Henry heard It, but continued to push
the baby c arriage and to read his book.
In about an hour the cries for ’Hen
ry” were repeated.
“Well, what do you want?” he de
manded, rather Impatiently.
“Nothing, dear," was the irritating
response, "except to inform you that
you've been wheeling Harriet's doll all
the afternoon. 1 think it’s time for
the baby to have a turn now.”
suits gray
Here Mr. Harkness drifts off tem
porarily to little things that were im
portant for the day only, and then
goes on to report the progress of the
actual work.
“The place of construction, follow-
ing its fixed width of twelve hundred
feet, is now nearly the finishing of a
straight inland cut of three miles. It
is laid out in long terraces so that
the construction trains can hold to
easy grades until they reach the last
level, which will be GOO feet below
the level of the sea. Here the actual
sinking of the tunnel itself will begin.
"But the day before yesterday this
place was a sandy heath, half re
claimed from barrenness. Swiftly it
became a gravel pit, a quarry, and at
last a monster chasm that swarms
seemingly with insect ltfe. Queer lit- !
tie busy beings covered with white j
dust that dig and growl and grovel
and toll, gray-faced and dusty-haired. |
"Twenty thousand of them hurl
themselves into this mighty ravine j
every day. Their drills and picks and
shovels glitter like the sunlight on a
lake. A whistle shrieks a warning, a ,
column of dust rises to Join the vast j
cloud overhead, a colossus of stone, I
wrenched by dynamite from its grip I
of earth, swerves outward and falls j
with a thundering roar. Another puff
of dust leaps up and the insects swarm I
, into it.
j "As far as eye can reach down that i
ttacking the quicksand, shriek and
whine as they suck up liquid death.
The chain pumps groan and rattle.
Derricks and steam shovels whirr and
dip. Aerial carts whizz past you on
trolleys. Swarms of tiny locomo
tives hustle and fuss around, shriek
ing at each other with shrill voices.
"Sand and gravel flies back to the
town where mountains of bagged ce
ment are stacked, for there must be
housing for 40,000 men before the
cold weather reaches. Here another
arr*y is toiling at break-neck speed
about this gigantic task.
"And all of this is but preliminary
to the real work of the great pn^ject.”
Then there follow's a wonderful de
scription of the workings of the great
tidal basins, Allan's improvement on
the designs of Schlich and Lippman,
the famous German engineers, to
whom we owe the harnessing of the
incalculable power of the tides.
Through his ingenious arrangement
of reservoirs thousands of tons of
water were dumped on gigantic tur
bines every hour of the twenty-four,
and the lift and fall of the tides gave
him all erf this power for simply the
cost of original work—less than $5,-
000.000.
The scene, indeed, recalled the
Tower of Babel—a project so vast
that its very conception seemed im
pious.
And this was only one of five such
scenes. In Bermuda, Fayal, at Fin-
isterre and on a great plain beyond
London similar mighty panoramas of
daring were being unrolled. And
Allan, the genius who had provoked
these upheavals, was the motive spirit
of each. He was tireless and^unrest-
ing. Rives and Mrs. Allan heard from
him in one camp or another, and be
fore they had finished his short dis
patches—so it seemed to them—an
other from some other tunnel city was
laid in their hands or he himself
dropped off a construction train from
Toms River, clear-eyed, smooth-
shaven, and fresh and energetic as
ever. i
Hives had built a beautiful little
house for the chief engineer and his
wife on the seaside of the tunnel city,
and Allan encouraged Mrs. Allan to
spend much of her time there, even
when he was in this country. Rives
was the one warm personal friend he
had made in his lonely life, and know
ing how much pleasure Mrs. Allan
found in his society, he was glad to
have her as nearly contented as pos
sible while he darted back and forth
across half the Northern Hemisphere.
They had one child—a little girl,
Edith—and she grew to be almost a
stranger to her father.
Even when Allan was in New York
he saw but little of his wife and
child. His business affairs usually
took him a great deal to the house of
the great Lloyd, where he held long
conferences with the old financier or
his daughter, who had the details of
the tunnel at her finger ends.
A Neglected Wife.
Thus Mrs. Allan, a lonely and neg
lected woman, was thrown constant
ly with Rives, an impressionable and
high-strung man, who already held
for her at least a deep admiration.
"Mac is in New York—I got a wire
from him late this afternoon,” re
marked Rives one evening as they
were taking a horseback ride along
one of the wide level roads that led
northward from Tunnel City.
‘“Yes, he called me up,” said the
woman, with a faintly weary note in
her voice. “He said that he would be
busy about the real estate deal for
the next day or so and would have to
go to France within a few days. He
called up from the Lloyds,” she added,
without conscious meaning.
Rives was silent for a few moments
as the horses pounded along the
gravel road, side by side.
“Did he say anything about run
ning down here or ?” he stopped
off short. He bad tried to make the
tone nonchalant, but she understood
and bit her lip.
“I know what you are thinking
about, Jack,” she said soberly, and her
voice trembled slightly. “And I wish
you wouldn’t—pity me.”
Rives swore at himself in an un
dertone and tried to stammer out
something light and reassuring.
“You’re too old a friend,” she cut
in, quietly. “It would be just like
you to go and talk to Mac, and that
would be worse than anything else.
He is doing the best he can, and J
know I ought to be happy.”
"Aren't you?" asked Rives.
"No, I’m not, and you know’ it per
fectly well, my friend. I am as proud
of Mac as a woman could be of a
man, but I want to be married to a
man, not to a—a—an institution.”
Rives looked at the lightly poised
body and the delicate brown . head
and soft eyes that shone like amber
in the moonlight. And he laughed
uncertainly to check the something
that rushed to his lips.
“Oh, well,” he said lightly and kind
ly. “It won’t be so bad in a little
while. Mac is trying to do eight
men’s work and everything is just
starting now, but when ”
"I know,” she interrupted grimly.
"Everythin* has been Just starting
for months and months. I went over
all this with him a few weeks ago
and he told me just what you are
trying to tell me. I only know that
I have been under the same roof with
my husband for 24 consecutive hours
in six months."
"But, little girl, don’t you see—
“Oh, yes! I know I am unreason
able. I have cut out about a bale of
newspaper clippings about Mac and
pictures of me, and I ought to be as
vain and pleased as—as—as a wom
an. I am proud of him. I even ad
mit that it gratifies the woman in me
to be pointed out in department stores
and at the theater as the wife of Mac
Allan—but that isn’t all that a nor
mal woman wants the man she loves
to give her.”
Rives wisely held his tongue and
there was another little silence. At
last he asked:
“Did you ever—have you ever let
Mac know exactly how you feel about
—about this?”
The woman did not reply at once.
“I went down to his office about a
month ago,” she said at last in a low
voice. “I couldn't help it, Jack. I
was so lonely and miserable. He sent
out word that he was very busy, but
would be out in a little while. I told
the boy to tell him that I wanted to
see him at once. I was mad by that
time. He came out perfectly good
humored, as he always is, and I told
him I wanted him to come home for
dinner and spend the evening with
me. He said he couldn't and I—I
cried, and I’m afraid I made a scene
—but there was nobody there.”
The Manicure
Lady
I
S HE paused, and Rives made no
comment. He was looking
straight over his horse’s head up
the moonlit road, and his face was in
the shade of his broad-brimmed hat.
She looked at him and put her hand
on his arm.
“You don’t blame me. do you,
Jack?”
She felt the muscles stiffen under
her hand.
“No,” he replied, almost gruffly, “I
don’t.”
She sighed. “He told me he would
have more time in a few months, it
would be different, and 1 said I didn’t
want to wait any longer. I told him
I was going to take up nursing and go
to work in the hospital here—and
that’s why I’ve done it. If I couldn’t
have my husband I had to have some
thing else to occupy my mind. I can’t
bear to be Useless, Jack.”
“What did he say when you told
him that?” asked Rives, quietly.
‘He laughed—and told me to go
ahead.”
Again they rode on in silence for a
brief time.
“I suppose I am foolish,” she said
at last, in a wistful tone, “but some
times I wish that Mac had never suc
ceeded In getting this tunnel plan
through. He doesn’t belong to me
any more; he belongs to the world. I
have to live in the light of his halo—
and I’d rather live in the light of a
fireside."
Rives abruptly pulled up his horse
and turned.
“Let’s go home,” he said.
"I
’’M glad you could get up here,
old man. The storm Is about
to break. Listen!”
Up to them from the street, where
hundreds of real estate brokers were
gathered, came a steady roar. Al
lan and Rives listened and smiled.
"You certainly did some smooth
work in a publicity line,” said the
latter.
“It wasn’t smooth,” disclaimed Al
lan, a little resentfully, “and I didn’t
do it. It just did itself. You know—-
but maybe you haven’t had time to
see their stunts—but the viograph
people have been among my best lit
tle advertisers, and they have paid
for the privilege. They have been
showing pictures with miles and miles
of beautiful houses and department
stores and all the trimmings of a great I
city along with their regular films I
showing the progress of the work—all
labeled ‘The Tunnel City of the Fu
ture’ and ’Tunnel City Ten Years
From To-day.’ ”
To Be Continued To-morrow.
By WILLIAM F. KIRK.
WAS reading an awful Interest
ing short story last night,
said the Manicure Lady. "It
was about them Aztecs, that used to
have splendid palaces and everything
fixed up in big league style down in
Mexico. The story said that was ,
many centuries ago, long before there
was even any Irish came to this
country, and it said they was a splen-
did race, the men all tall and fair
and handsome and the women regular
cuties. The hero of the story must
have been about eight feet tall, be
cause it said that he loomed head,
and shoulders above the tallest war
riors of their army, and they wasn t
none of them shorties.”
"I never seen any very tall Mexi-
cans,” said the Head Barber. That
Mexican porter we had here wasn t
any taller than Frank Daniels, and
he wasn’t fair, either.”
“Oh, but these people was long be
fore the Mexicans we see nowadays,’
said the Manicure Lady. “They was
superior race of people, like us.
only bigger and I guess brainier.
They used to worship the sun, and I
think that showed they was a fine
race, because anybody that worships
the sun ain’t worshiping no minor
league Idol.
“I always thought if I had to wor
ship anything except my family and
my future husband I would worship
the sun. The sun is so big and nice
and warm. But I must tell you the
story. The name of the hero was Io.
It Is a jerky sort of a name, Io, but
all you have to do to remember it is
to think of Iowa or an I. O. U.
“Well, this Io is in love with the
niece of a Aztec priest. Her name
is Ilia, which you can remember by
thinking of Illinois. That's how I
keep the two names so plain. The
priest is a crusty old piece of work,
and he doesn’t want Io to get Ilia
because she has a lot of gold and
precious stones which he hay his eyes
on. He says that the gell belongs to
the sun and that he is the nun's
agent, which the sun doesn't deny.
“There is some beautiful lines in
the story- When the priest tells Ilia
that she cannot marry Io she says to
him:
.“‘Know this, oh priest of the sun!
Before you there were many priests,
and when thou passest beyond the
purple horizon there will be many
more priests to worship that orb of
fire and beauty upon which we now
fix our puny mortal gaze. My Io is
my all, so handsome and so strong.
No man like him in all this country
dwells. When in the morn he kneels
before the shrine, still is he taller
than the puny warriors at thy beck
and call. It is written upon the
waves that roll eternally, written,
with the rays of the sun itself, that
I be Io’s bride.’
“ ‘But Io like not,’ the priest an
swers. ‘I owe Io a lot of money, and
he presses me sore. Tell him to can
cel that debt, and his bride you shall
be upon the day when I owe Io
nothing.’
“The way the story ends, Io makes
the sacrifice, and he lives happily
with Ilia until they both croak. Gee,
George, I wish I had been living then.
It was all so romantic and different
then. 'Imagine the average young
Atlantan passing up a lot of money
to get the girl he loves. Not a
chance! He is too busy finding out
if his bride’s father is there with the
fat, bankroll. They didn’t think of
money in them days, George.”
“That young guy that just went out
doesn’t think much of money, either.”
said the Head Barger. "He didn’t
think to give me a tip.”
KODAKS
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THE STATE NORMAL SCHOOL, ATHENS, GA.
Named by a United States Commissioner of Education as being amoni
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SOUTHERN UNIVERSITY OF MUSIC
GERARD-THIERS, KURTJVSUELLER,Directors ,
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TELEPHONES—Office: Ivy 6490; Dormitory: Ivy 4416.
Among the Faculty—Kurt Mueller, Oerard-Thiers, Michael Banner.
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THE SOUTH’S MOST BEAUTIFUL SCHOOL
DISTINCTIVE FEATURES.
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3. Courses in Domestic Sclenoe and Physical Tnilnlng a part of regular cur
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4 Departments: Kindergarten. Primary. Academic, College Preparatory,
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Thirty-sixth Session begins SEPTEMRER 1-lth, 1913.
Write for illustrated catalogue.—B L. D, and EMMA B. SCOTT, Principals.