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By Virginia T. Van De Wat«r.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
S UMMER slipped into autumn, and
autumn faded into winter, and
the life In the Middlebrook cot
tage continued on It* somewhat monoto
nous way. Mary Fletcher knew few of
her neighbors, for, although several of
the villager* called to see her, ahe did
not return their visits. She found them
to be kind, good-natured people, but
those with whom she was brought into
contact had tastes and manners entire
ly different from hers.
It was now that she appreciated for
tha first time that in marrying a man
on a lower plane of education, breeding
and refinement from herself, she wan
cutting herself off from the class to
which she belonged There wen* in
Middlebrok families of culture, but none
of these came to see her The men of
such families, meeting Bert Fletcher on
the train, found him coarse and common
and took it for granted that his wife
was like htm, therefore never suggested
that their wive* and daughters should
call on her and her mother. The peo
ple of whom Bert Fletcher would have
made friends considered his wife •'stiff
and haughty.” Mary went out little, for
her household duties kept her at home
much of the time and she did not like
to leave her mother alone Moreover
she herself was not well and shrank
from making new acquaintance*
Early Breakfast.
Bo one day was much like another to
the young wife Each morning she pre
pared her husband's early breakfast,
then cooked her mother’s breakfast, tak
ing her own morning repast after Bert
had started for his train. He was a
heavy sleeper, and awakening him at 6
o’clock on a winter’s morning was not
an easy task He usually lay abed so
late that he had time to gulp down only
a hasty breakfast before leaving the
house. Under these conditions the wife
could not eat with him, and he did not
ggeat that ahe do so, but seemed very
willing to have her wait upon him,
bringing him his cereal, egg oread and
coffee as he was ready for them
When the furnace fire was started at
the beginning of the cold weather. Bert
had attended to It morning and night
Soon, however, he detailed the morning
shaking down of the furnace to Ids
wife, and. as she did not demur, he got
into the habit of letting her perforin
this work. Several times lately he had
come home at night with his breath
smelling of liquor, and on these oc
casions Mary had advised him timidly
to “go to bed early,” an<i she had
banked the fires for the night and. when
necessary, pumped the water into the
tank for use in kitchen and bathroom.
In the hours between her husband's
leaving and returning home. Mary toiled,
not only because In a country house
there la much actual toil to be tier-
formed. but to keep herself from think
lng Sometimes Bert remained in town
all night, and she was conscious of a
sense of relief when he did this, even
while she was afraid to wonder what he
was doing and if his breath smelt again
of whisky. Her father hail never cared
for liquor in any form and she had the
horror of drunkenness felt by women
who have known only temperate men.
It seemed to her as if a dark shadow
were creeping stealthily into her life,
but she feared to face It.
There were days w) en Burt would ap
pear as his good nat red, clear-headed
self, and then his wife tried to love him
She made herself consider his good
traits, and to talk of them with her
mother. When her mother-in-law came
out at Christmas to make a visit. Mary
played her part so well that the preju
diced matron remarked to Bert that
perhaps, after all. he had “picked a bet
ter wife” than she had at first feared.
“But she ain’t very strong. Bert.” she
warned him ”!f you don’t want a sick
ly woman on your hapds, make her take
care of herself ”
Herbert Fletcher laughed comfort*
bly.
"Oh. don't you bother about her. ma."
he said "She never complains, and she
would If she was sick Besides, she
don’t work near as hard as she did be
fore I married her Then she was In
Pearson’s all day. and doing housework
at homo morning and night ns well.”
She Did Not Answer.
Only once did Mary venture to speak
to her husband of the fear that gnawed
at her heart It was the day after New-
Year's Mrs Fletcher. Senior, returned
to town on January I. declaring that
she had "stood the lonesomeness of the
country” as long as she could Bert
had escorted her back to New' York,
stating bis Intention of staying in town
that night Mary took It for granted
that he would dine with his mother,
but when, the next day Sunday he
came out on the dimming train, she saw
by his heavi « yes that he had been tip
late the night before, and noted that
there were still the fumes of stale to
bacco on his breath She said nothing
about the matter, however, until, the
noon meal dispatched, he threw himself
on the parlor sofa to read the Sunday
papers Then he held out his hand to
nef
“Bit here by me. why don’t you. Ma
mie 0 Perhaps the smell of mv pipe
makes you sick, does it?" he asked.
Solicitude for her welfare was not fre
quent with him these days, and his
kindly inquiry touched the unhappy
woman. She came to him swiftly, and.
drawing a chair up to the edge of the
sofa, spoke eagerly, yet embarrassedly,
touching his huge hand lightly with
trembling fingers
“Bert, 1 she began gently, “I don’t
mind the smell or tobacco. But lately
—I have worried Bert worried, dear
because your breath smells often of
whisky, and 1 have been afraid
Her husband threw back his head with
a boisterous laugh “Little goose!” he
exclaimed. “Have you let a silly thing
like that worry you? Look her. Ma
mie. I do take a glass of liquor with a
friend sometimes, but It don’t hurt me.
I’ve been doing It for years, and I don't
propose to stop it now, see?'
His wife did not answer, and he went
on:
“You don’t know life, and you don't
know roe. If you did you would under
stand that business demands that I treat
a chap n -w and thet^ and drink with
him, too. If I would not seem like a
cheap skate And. child,’’ becoming se
rious as he saw her anxious face. ”1
never take a drop too much, so don't
let's talk about the matter f^ln I’m
free. white and a good ways past 21.
and I don't need management, even by
you Moreover.” setting his square law
stubbornly. "I don’t mean to stand it
from any woman Don't forget that I
won't be bossed!”
There was no danger of her forget
ting the fact, the wife mused bitterly.
THE TUNNEL GREATEST STORY OF ITS KIND SINCE JULES VERNE
tTrrm tt)» of JHlwmsaa—
flrrman »*T«ins CepTOxhted. IS1H. bj *■
p,„her V#rl»f. Berlin. KnflUh translation an*
Why Don't You Get Rid
night?
TO-DAY’S INSTALLMENT.
“No; but sometimes our benefits are
so much like impositions that a near
sighted and quick-tempered man is
likely to get th< two mixed up in
the meantime all we can do Is go
ahead. But don . mistake the motives
of your investors. You’ve simpiy
given them a new expetieftca—g new
song, a song In keeping with the age.
You’re digging a hole and you’re go
ing to make them rich It s like tho
roar of the subway—they can under
stand it But that doesn't make them
like paying for rides to pay Interest
on watered subway stock.’’
“Let’s go In and get one little
drink,’’ suggested Allan, rising with
laugh. “I think you need It. Your
mental vision Is obscured."
“No," returned Hives, as he, too,
rose, “my mental vision is again busy
regarding the ruins of the Tower of
Babel."
A Crisis.
f'l'^HAT same afternoon Maud Allan
[ had a somewhat casual visitor,
an occurrence that might have
had strange results if Destiny had no?
at once begun to move In the great
tunnel drama with Inconceivable sud
denness
The visitor was Ethel Lloyd. There
was no reason why she should not
have called on M s. Allan at the Tun
nel City, excepting that she had not
done ao for several years Also, there
was no reason why she should have
two several and distinct ex uses. And,
furthermore, then was no occasion
for her to blush when she gave either
one of them—but she did all of these
things.
Mrs. Allan was somewhat flustered
at first herself when the caller was
announced, hut she received the girl
with sweet cordiality. She had Just
been talking to her husband over the
telephone, and possibly this had some
thing to do w'ith It. He told her Hives
was on 11s way down to Tunnel City
and that he, Allan, had just been
called to Montreal
“It has been a long time since I
have seen you," she said, as she
pressed the girl's face and looked Into
the lovely face
“Yes.” said Miss Lloyd. “I have
never been so busy. Papa gives me
more and more to do all the time, and
It seems to me I have hardly breathed
for a year "
“Mr. Allan tells me he sees you
occasionally."
Their glances flickered and crossed
for an Instant, and Maud felt a long-
formed sub-conscious suspicion leap
Into a conscious certainty.
“Yes," the girl was saying, calmly,
“papa has given me most of the de
tail of the tunnel work to handle.
But " she smiled like a child, “I
didn’t come to talk about my work—
I want to see yours."
"Mine?" Mrs. Allen smiled a little
vaguely,
“Yes I’ve heard so much about
your model hospital and kindergarten
and all the rest of it for the working
people here. You know. I’m greatly
interested. In that sort of work, too,
In my leisure time."
A Peculiar Tone.
Mrs. Allan felt that the tone some
what belittled the great humanitarian
work she had carried on in the Tun
nel City, and resented It; but she
smiled as little Edith trotted out onto
the veranda where they were sitting.
"I can give It only my leisure time,
too." she said. "This Is my real work.’
Miss Lloyd cooed over the child In
tho most approved fashion, and then
suggested that she would love to see
the hospital and recreation building If
Mrs. Allan could sj^are the time to
guide her. This was safe ground, and
the two women passed an interesting
hour on an inspection tour. In the
course of which Miss Lloyd instated
that she be allowed to complete the
somewhat Inadequate library.
"Mr. Allan is not here?" she In
quired. with Just faint suggestion of
an effort to be natural. They had re
turned to the house and she was pre
paring to make her adieu.
4 i \ TJ, unfortur
Allan, w!
nfortunately," replied Mrs.
Ith regret. “He tel
ephoned just as you came
that he had been suddenly called to
Montreal. I was expecting him this
evening .’’
"That's too bad!" exclaimed Miss
Lloyd, sympathetically. “How Is he?”
“Very well. I think, but badly over
worked. Sometimes he Is unable to
come home for even a few hours for
weeks together My only fear is that
he will break down under it. He ha*
kept thts up for years, but he think*
that the work will he lighter from
now on.”
Miss Lloyd shook her head ns ona
who longs to be optimistic, but can
not conscientiously. Her wonderful
eyes were filled with concern and Mrs
Allan resented this, too.
“And now he has this new worry,"
said the girl.
Another Lie.
Mrs Allan eyed her. questioning.
”1 mean the financial one Yon
know it was understood that we
would not try to raise the second
$.1,000,000,000 until the work was
practically half completed. The ser
pentine tunneling at Bermuda ate up
such«an awful lot more than was ex
pected that it won’t be possible’to
finish more than a quarter of the en
tire work on the first subscription,
and Mr. Allan Is trying to figure out
how he can make the showing s
good as possible. But, of course, yyu
know about It," she broke off
“I knew something of It," lied Mrs.
of That Corn To=ni
Where V reasot. In paring, peel
ing. picking and gouging at that corn,
when you have been at it for months
and it hurts more than ever 0 You
can't remove the whole corn that way,
but you can and do endanger yotirself
to blood poisoning. Yes. many deaths
have resulted from a careless slip of
the blade and an irritated, bleeding corn.
Jacob*’ Mag c Corn Liquid is a scien
tific formula from our own laboratory
which we have thoroughly tested and
guarantee to be successful. There is
positively no pain and no danger in
this method, and it will bring out any
corn, hard or soft, completely, root and
all. no matter how„ deep the growth It is
the surest and safest com remedy that
we hav ever sold. Use it to night a:. .
get rid % H:at painful, torturing c«
20c, by .»ail 22c.— (Advt)
To Women 2
Do Not Delay
B
If you are convinced that
zz
your sicknese i* becauee of
some arrangement or dis
z:
E
ease distinctly feminine.
—
Z1
you ought at once bring
*
=
to your aid
Dr. Pierce’s Favorite Prescription
U' / V
•V >• v,
islU,
»«<< W, .V-
A ill ii i/a i ., » •. ' v»,> (
-v
*
Maud Allan and Jack Rives, tw«o human beings to whom what was, perhaps, the inevitable, had happened.
It acta directly on the IS
~ organ* affected and tone* ■—
jjZ tha entire system.
5 Atk Your Druggist 2
Allan, and she was angry because she
knew that Miss Lloyd could tell she
was lying.
There was no reason for her re
sentment, she told herself, on tins
particular count when her visitor was
gone. It was natural that Mar shoul 1
talk over many business things with
Lloj <Ys daughter, m it t< rs that he had
no time for In the' few softer mo
ments of his visits homo. But while
the Intimacy between her husband
and Miss Lloyd might have been, and
might still be, all business on his side,
Maud Allan knew that there was
something beside business in Miss
Lloyd’s attitude toward her husban 1.
Was this also true of him?
She asked the question with a calm
ness that startled her. Was this the
reason that he did not And or mails
time for more frequent trips to Tun
nel City? Something gripped her
tight something at her heart—when
the thought came; but she was
shocked to find that It did not bring
the desolation she would have been
sure would have followed. She had
leaped to arms Instinctively when she
divined Miss Lloyd's attachment for
her husband hut how much of her
readiness to do battle was prompted
by pride and the right of possession?
Was it true that he had grown away
from her and toward this wonderful
and masterful young woman in these
years? And, more amazing, was it
possible that she had ceased to re
gard him as the mainspring of her
life?
Possibly it was In all that long
afternoon in which she struggled
with new and strange thoughts she
did not once consciously recall to
herself the fact thnt Mac was the
father of F.dlth, and when Rives
came up the steps In tho twilight
she greeted him In a sudden warmth
of feeling she had never known be
fore.
It had not been a very pleasant
afternoon for Rives He had hur
ried to hls office where he had sat
for an hour gazing at the piles of
work before him. and hls thoughts
were far awa v from It His thoughts
were not altogether unpleasant, but
he. too, was undergoing a cross ex
amination at the hands of himself.
He came out of it well, he told
himself, but Conscience still kept step
with him. He had a sternly re
pressed feeling of Joy. a feeling that
a man forbids himself to recognize.
It arises from the knowledge that
what we have secretly desired to hap
pen Is happening, though we have
striven our hardest In our duty to
prevent It.
Bad New*.
"I have had news for you. Maud.’’
he said, as he came up the steps.
She smiled at him—easy-moving,
sun-blackened and handsome, and
dressed In white from collar to shoes.
“Have you?" Her tone was light
and here eyes soft. ‘T>o you know
what you look like?"
He was a trifle taken aback, hut
he laughed Joyously to find her In a
light-hearted mood.
"No—tell me I guess I can stand
It."
“You look like a photograph nega
tive when you hold It up to the
light.” she bubbled.
He threw his hat on a table and
slumped into a seat with an affecta
tion of affront
"That’s nice," he reproached her.
“Here I’ve been playing tennis to
keep my pristine grace and gone hat
less to get a fine, athletic color—and
even now I am fresh from a bath
and a shave. I expected at least that
you were going to say I looked like
a young god alighting before a mor
tal damsel Instead of which I anil
told I look like a dolled-up nigger," I
“The reward of foppishness. ' she
told him. But what Is the bad
news?”
"Mac can’t get down to-ntghl.”
She nodded. “I knew it, ’ she in
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, with Baermann, an engineer, in charge of Main Station No. 4 They
are traveling at the rate of 118 miles an hour. Rives 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
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.
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 ure gathered there at a summons from C. H.
Lloyd, "The 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 hls 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. Rives goes to the Park Club to meet Wit- j
tersteiner, a financier. At Columbus Circle news of the great project is being
flashed on a screen. Thousands are watching it. Mrs. Allan becomes a lonely
and neglected woman nnd is much thrown In the company of Rives. Sydney
Wolf, the money power of two continents, plots against Allan and Rives.
Now Go On With the Story.
formed him gravely. “He telephoned
this afternoon. He has been called
to Montreal.”
“To Montreal?"
"That's what he said.”
"Hm! Oh. yes,—that Canadian steel.
Well, that won’t take him long."
"I hope not. In the meantime, we
needn't wait dinner until he gets
back."
Rives smiled back at her as they
went into the dining room, but hls
smile was a little puzzled. He nad
never seen her in quite this mood be
fore. It was not hei custom to take
disappointment in the matter of Mar’s
visit in this seeming off-handed way.
But his heart leaped as ho told him
self he had never seen her so lovely,
so alluring.
A Bad Meal.
It whs a mad sort of meal. Maud,
in some filmy white dress, sat across
the table from him and laughed and
talked in light-hearted abandon.
There was softness in her eyes as she
looked at him. a softness in her sil
ver voice as she laughed at him and
softness in her fine-spun hair in the
mellow light and all of it went to
his head like wine And through all
of it there was a barely sensed tense
ness as of expectancy.
At last she rose and held out her
hand to him with a bewildering smile.
"Come out on the piazza," she said.
"We can have our coffee and your
cigarette out there."
Looking back and laughing like a
child she led him out to the piazza
where the coffee and cigarettes were
served It was a wonderful night, and
the magic of it came upon them so
that they sat long in dreamy silence.
Out beyond in the white moonlight
the great white horses of the Atlantic
were racing shoreward and the swish
of their manes and the thunder of
their charge came up to them from
the strand. The fresh salt air was
scented with perfume of sweetpeas
that grew in the thick tangle along
the rail. The beat and clamor of
the tunnel working far inland were
only a faint murmur.
Rives’ gaze was out to sea. His
cigarette burned down to his fingers;
until, at last, he tossed it over ths
railing and turned to her with a sup
pressed sigh. There was only a small
low stand between them and their
chairs faced the sea. Maud was
leaning her elbows on the arm of her
chair, w’atching him Her lips were
parted in a wonderful little smile. The
piazza was in shade, but there was a
light in her eves that shone through
the darkness.
He was conscious of no will to
move, but as if drawn by the witchery
of her eyes, his hand crept out slow
ly and closed over the slender fingers
of her own. She made no move un
less it was to sway, ever so slightly,
toward him. Nearer and nearer ahe
came, unresisting like a flower bend
ing its head. Hor feathery hair touoh-
ed his face and—their lips met.
“Maud! Maud' Maud!” he whisper
ed brokenly and her head rested
lightly on his shoulder.
Then suddenly he almost pushed
her from him and sprang up.
"My God!" he exclaimed.
The Reaction.
Maud sat with her head bowed and
he could not see her face. His head
was whirling and there was singing
in his ears. He could not seem to
grasp that that which had happened
had happened, and when realization
came it brought with it a stab of an
guish.
"Now—I’ve done it!” he exclaimed
in a low r voice. "Maud—Maud—can
you ever forgive me?"
» The pain in his voice rather than
the question made her look up at
him. Her own voice was low and
steady.
“There Is nothing to forgive on your
side.”
H R stood for a moment in rigid
silence and then suddenly sat
beside her again and took her
hand.
“Maud-—Maud," he began. "I can’t
—I don’t **
“Don’t try, Jack,” she interrupted
gravely. “It wasn’t your fault"
“But it was—it was!" he cried,
dropping her fingers and clutching his
hair with both hands. Hls "code”—
hls system of honorable living—had
been shattered from end to end.
“If there was any fault," she said,
slowly and distinctly, "it was mine,
Jack.”
He could only groan miserably.
“You see. dear boy." she went on
softly, stroking his hand with her An
gers. “I’ve known that you loved me
for ever so long."
At this he straightened with a sort
of gasp and stared at her She smiled
gently upon him
“Didn’t you suppose that I knew?
Why, Jack, you are so open and frank
and honest that I am glad that there
have not been other women around
here much. They would have seen it
a* easily as I have.”
“But why—why did you let me "
Her eyes fell. "I knew you loved >
me and—I let you stay. If I had been
aa clever with myself as I was with
you I would have known why. But I
didn’t know—really—until to-day."
Her voice*was very, very low. “Now
—both of us know!"
He rose and stood before her, look
ing down. "And I never dreamed that
you guessed I—oh, Maud! I believed
that you never thought of anyone but
Mac—that you never loved any
one "
Oast Aside.
"I wonder," she said, slowly, “if I
ever loved him. I know I could have.
Jack—I know that! But I was so
young when we were married. I had
never seen any other men, and Mac
was so masterful and sure of himself
—Just the sort of a man to take a girl
by storm. When he proposed to me
and I put him off I got a not* the
next day—like a business letter—giv
ing me 24 hours to decide. That took
me. But the woman in me never truly
loved him—it was only the girl's ado
ration for a strong man. He won the
girl and he never thought it neces
sary to win the woman.”
"Do you mean " he began won-
deringly.
“I mean, my dear boy, that the
love of the woman was cast aside for
the honor of digging a bigger hole
than anyone had ever dug before,"
she said, without bitterness. "Please
don’t think I am spiteful or small or
ungenerous. I glory in Mac’s achieve
ments and am proud of his greatness.
I told you that one night when we
rode up the Lakewood road. But a
man doesn’t win and hold the love of
a woman by digging remote holes in
the grouhd."
"You don't think Mac doesn’t love
you!" he exclaimed. “You know that
everything he does Js for you.”
“Sit down. Jack," she gently ordered
him. And when he had mechanically
obeyed: “That is a very beautiful
thought. It is what young girls be
lieve of the man they love; hut grown
women krrnw better. A man's love
doesn't Ann expression in steam shov
els. You know and I know that Mac
would have built this tunnel no mat
ter whether he had ever seen me or
not. When a man says that every
thing he has done is due to hls wife,
it is merely i beautiful compliment.
The wife, if she has any sense, knows
that it isn’t true. Can you imagine
yourself building a skyscraper at Rio
Janeiro as a proof of your love for
me?"
“Not that, exactly," he conceded,
feebly, "but ”
"Let me finish," she interrupted.
“You have been nearly as busy as
Mac. You have been called awav
from here when It would have been
easier for you to stay a week—bht
you have come back. sometimes
every night, at the cost of sleep and
rest and comfort to have an hour
with me. Your work Is just as im
portant to you as Mac’s to him—-but
you could always find time for me—
because you loved me!"
He was silent for a moment, con
fused and groping. Then tho sense
of his position came over him with a
rush.
"But, Maud! Maud! Mac is my best
friend in life and—look! I’ve broken
every line of decency, of honor,
of " He filled the hiatus with a
groan.
A Woman's Story.
“I understand, dear," said the wom
an. Why is it that at a time like
this a woman is so much the older
and surer of the two? She took his
limp hand and pressed it to her cheek
“But you couldn’t help it, could
| you?"
| “No,” he groaned. “I couldn’t he'p
loving you, dearest—God knows! But
I could help the—your knowing it—
this way."
She laughed a little low. tremulous
laugh. “Haven’t I told you, my big
honest boy, that I’ve know It for
ever so long?"
“Yes, but I didn’t know that you
knew—and that is where the hell of
it lies. And there is no hell quite as
hot as the one that waits for r he
man who violates the home of hls
friend."
She pressed his fingers hard. “I
know, Jack, dear. I've thought about
this—I know how you feel. But this
is different. 1 wonder if that cove
was invented by men so that they
mieht neglect their wives with im
punity? A man’s wife ought to be the
biggest thing in his life, and no one
has a right to tamper with the big
gest thing in anyone's life. Bur I
am not the biggest thing in Mac’s life.
He would feel less the wrecking of
his home than the wrecking of his
tunnel. If I love<Y him in spite of it.
this would be all wrong but I have
not loved him for a long time."
"But, Maud." he protested, aghast,
as the future opened before him.
“What can we do? I can’t go to
Mac and tel! him ill this. Ah—I
don’t see what else I can do and
hold any semblance of honor.”
“The trouble about ‘honor,’ Jack,"
she said, gently, “is that it admits
of too many definitions—all of them
made bv men. Do you think it ‘s
honorable—or even moral—for a
woman to hold the place and position
of a wife when she no longer has for
a man the attachment that should
accompany that position?”
Rives shook his head and groaned
again.
VI can’t think—I can’t think about
it to-night,-dearest, ’ he said patheti
cally, and he ros»e to go. "I’ve got to
go down to the end of the workings
to-night—should have gone there
earlier. I’ll see you to-morrow, and
by that time we’ll have it thrashed
out. Good-bye—and God bless you!"
He took both of her hands in hh>
and, stooping, kissed them. She
watched, with that soft light in her
eyes, the bowed head, with its wavy
hair, and she suddenly took it in her
hands and kissed it.
“Good-bye—till to-morrow," she
whispered, "and take good care of
yourself."
She s f ood at the head of the steps
and watched him until his white fig
ure was lost in the white background
of the road. \
To Be Continued To-morrow.
The Engaged
Girl
By FRANCES L. GARSIDE.
Y T THAT shall a girl say when she
V/y receives an engagement ring?
Well, now’, what da you
think of A question like that?
Who gave you the ring, little sis
ter, and what did you think when he
gave it to you? Do you love htm,
were you so happy you could scarce
ly breathe?
Well, then, why didn’t you say so,
and be done with it?
What shall you say, how shall you
act; is this proper; is that right?
The heart is the best judge when
it comes to things like this.
Is Your Heart Frozen?
What have you done to your heart
—frozen it up solid, reading a lot of
stuff about what is “the proper
thing’’ and “what isn’t done,” and who
ought to speak first and who must
never, never say a word though the
whole world be hanging in the bal
ance?
Etiquette—what etiquette is there
about being engaged?
What do you think you’ll do when
you come to die—ask some one to
read an etiquette book to tell you
how to shut your eyes and bid fare
well to this vain world?
When they put your first baby in
your arms, how in the world will you
know* how to act unless some Mrs.
Grundy is there to tell you?
What! Shocking! Oh, yes, of
course, babies are dreadfully shock
ing. aren’t they, and so Is life and so
is death and so is love and so are
lots and lots of things, but they are
real just the same. And so. why
don’t you meet them like a real wo-
man and not like some little, painted,
jointed doll that has to wait till'you
pinch her even to say "Mamma” or
“Papa" in her squeaky little artificial
voice.
What must you say when he gives
you the ring, dear heart, what must
you say when he’s sick and wants
you to hold his hand and make him
something good to eat and pull down
the shade and make the room comfy
and tr-ad him something to send htm
to sleep.
What Must You Say?
What must you say when you and
he stay up all night watching for the
daw n to tell you whether she’s going
to live or not?—the little girl you
both love so dearly.
What must you do wh°n somebody
tries to take him away from you and
your heart is breaking and you don't
really know r whether he cares or not?
What are you, little sister, any
how; a girl—a real live girl—or Just
a make believe, cut-out of some
fashion paper with bits of feet that
couldn't walk an honest step to save
anybody's life and tiny hands that
couldn’t put a biscuit Into shape if
the fate of a nation depended on it?
What must you say?—why, say
what you think, say what you feel,
say what you mean—and stop think
ing about it. that’s all.
Before the decisive battle aFTshtib an
ingenious method of signaling on the
(.part of the enemy was discovered by
the Servians. A cowherd was taking
five cows out to pasture on a hill half-
w r ay between the two camps. He drove
them about, sometimes two together,
then one at a time, then three, thus
conveying Information to the Bulgarians
as to the position and strength of the
Servian battalions.
•
The Mountaineering Club of Baber-
hauser, In the Harz Mountains, has pre
sented a diploma to Frau von Hanstein,
a 75-year old lady, who last month
made her sixtieth ascent of the loftiest
peak of the range, a snow-clad crest
4,000 feet high.
TTiree nuns have just left Montreal to
spend the remainder of their lives in the
leper colony at Rheeklung Island, near
Canton All three are only a little more
than twenty years of age. For a time,
at all events, they will be the only nuns
to care and tend for four hundred Chi
nese women suffering from the awful
disease of leprosy, and a separate hos
pital has been erected for them by
Father Cohrardy and hls few assistants
Who Was?
Little Biffins—Jolly party that at
the Highflyers last night. Is it true
you were the only sober man in the
room after I left?
His Reverence (shocked)—No, cer
tainly not!
Little Biffins (innocently) — By
Jove, you don’t mean that? Who was
then?
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