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® 4 Wise "Voman Learns All Her Life, She Cunlrals'T.er sngue and Keeps From :Sj_'flff”m’ e
THE GEORGIANS MAGAZINE PAGE—>
A W‘;;QOR Should Read
A Man and His
e it 3
By Virginia Terhune Van
E de Water.
| (Copyright. 1915, Star Comix ')
2 . ———
. "Srhy haven't you gone before ™ his
- asked. Her manner had mnged
the stlept disapproval that had
. pterined 1t during Adlnner Nhe
o force him to state That he
: found her soclety more attmetive
that of all the men in the world
: smiled eastiv
" Siopase for the eame ressea ne
. hat most men when they are
rat married l:'fl" their old friends
R i chang tor them and mar
! i the higgest thing In ihe
. “And later it becomes of less 'm
% ™ Nis wife gueried with »
i of bitterness
£ *Not at all.” John demurred. “While
are on this subject let me expiain
| and then thers will be no hard feaiing
o the matter. When people are
1 married, they are abeorbed in the
o of it all, thelr own sociely
% new home, sach other's perfec-
A Al last when there are no mors
for them, they settle down
20 quiet, sensible existence in which
. Jove each other just the same
more-~but yel are not »o
w that they oan not understand
E there are other people In the
. who have some clatm on them =
Thinks He Has
It Clear.
. "] sea” said the wile
John Hamilton told himseif that he
had made the onse fio.ln and had told
% truth. Yet in soul he knew
he had not told ilt all, and that
had hh-mmnwungam
- this evening he would not have
. bered his duty to his ¢lub But
9 was evidently in a bad humeor, and
a woman was peeved and qulet
' the cludb was jollier than home o
how much he loved the wom-
E Naturally he could not explain
= to Isabel '
if he bad, it might have been &
= thing for her. llf more wives
told there facts unwm uns |
5 bafore it is too And lli
men knew that to keep & wom
-~ affections it s advisable ocon- |
- lly to show her loverly atten- |
men might not have to com
p of wives' fickleness. Both sexes
dov to be loved, and both like to be
_ John's statement that he was going
_ %0 his club r\u Isabel a sudden sink.
[ing of the heart, but her pride com
s § with her temper to make her
i her uneasiness. She tried to look
~indli nt and she hummed a little
tune to ‘d.;t.’::l‘ she went into the
~ parior an e up A book,
|~ “What are you going to do with
N f this mn!ngu?" asked John.
] fallure to make further comment
%q Rhiz speech suddenly produced in
= a sensation of insecurity. Did |
e dm:. mean acquiescence or dis. i
§ “Oh, 1 shall be well enough,” #he |
-’ “I have an Immaunl book. |
4 qmu(y to do. lam never lonely.”
- ‘s good,” the husband re
marked Her indifferent attitude
’ \ him, even while he congratu
dat himself that it made hig de
. ; easier. As he went toward
" his club he reflected that he had taken
¢ 0(3 that meant his right to dis
his time as he wished. Of!
he loved Isabel dearly, but she |
o nly knew how to be disagree
| able when she was in the mood she
" had been in to-night. He had done
all that could be expected toward con
' elllating her—and she would not be
if sillated. He certainly would not
pgize for what he had sald at
b 3 that morning, for he had
‘mot been in the wrong. This was a
- of his wife's character he had
. r seen before, and he would not
3 or her by staying at home trying
‘o cajole her. If she was going to be
_grouchy and glum, he would go where
‘things were pleasanter—that's all. Tt
W strange that women did not un
o nd that.
'He Is Warmly
Welcomed at the Club.
| He had kissed Isabel good-night,
‘and she had had the good sense this
| time to let him kiss her on the Hps,
Dbut she had not returned the kiss. Oh,
“well! Why worry about #t! Bhe
‘would get over her huff, and then his
e would be once more the jolly
| fittle retreat it had been for the past
. He had reached his club by this
time, and the greeting that he re
- e from some of his old friends
& ymbled there warmed his heart and
‘made him consider himself a fool for
~ having stayed away for so !ong. He
‘would not be so forgetful and neg
potful again.
| “Now that my wife and I are actu
_ally settled in our home,” he told a
~¢hum o! his Dbachelor days, who
~chanced to happen in, “I mean to run
- oyer here often—just as 1 used to.”
L H companion laughed. “They all
. come to that, Jack, after they've been
m »d a while,” he observed. “My
‘brother did, and 1 watched him do It.
It raised somewhat of a dust when he
started in at the club again, but his
‘wife soon got used to it. And yours
will, too.”
. The color mounted to John Hamil
" ton’s forehead. "My wife,” he said,
proudly, “is not he kind to ‘raise a
dust,’ as you put it. She and I under.
‘stand each other perfectly. She is al
. ways glad to have me go anywhere
that I want to do. She is a sensible,
_broad-minded woman, George.”
" % congratulate you” his friend
. said, dryly.
. Something in the tone made John
SHamilton look at him keenly and
s“ r if George Dawson really he-
B i ' CHAPTER V.
‘g T Was A new experience for Isabel
: ‘%fi [amilton to pass an entire even
s" Ing aione. As Isabel Davis she
‘had bee: ' accustomed to this kind of
r.ed.ll S
BHICHESTER S PILLS
SRS - ER LAMOND BRAND. g
OB gt Asraer Urepg @
N g boxes . s Daee
RS i [DuNon nflfiiin%?fifl
B P Best, Gafast, Always Reltabie
B mm
Jihing— hefore she hecame engaged to
{John Hamilton To-night. musing
{over the events of the pasi year, ahe
Lappreciated that for twelve monthe
| her evenings had bheen apent in John's
jeompany. She had sienply taken his
presence for granied. As her be
| trothed he had bheen at her beck and
ioau As her husband bhe had been hior
jroperty during such hours as he had
inot been enguged at the office. He
'had becoms & habit in her life, and
§~h- resented his absence
With 4 woman's eapacity for self.
"urwn she wondersd If this was the
beginning of the condition of affairs
of which she had read in lurid tales of
marital infelicitien There had 1o be s
first time for everything —even for a
man's negloct of his wife Was this
John's first time® Was he going to
attend the clud regulariy ¥
. She found thal she was geiting
| nervous and ov‘r'm,ll and calied
herself silly and fanciful John had
| spoken the truth when he sald that,
as & member of an organisation. It
was his duty to appear there ocos
slonally. Perhape he would not repeat
the visit for monthe |
As & lmohelor. he had besn & fre
quenter of the place. but of late he
had had sttractions n his own home
that had kept him oontented. Then
she remembered that his home had
not been especially pleasant this
evening. She had been silent at the
dirner table and had not seconded her
husband's efforts to make CONVersa
tion. She regretted the cloud between
them, but she had not been to blame.
It John had not been oross at
breakfast, or even If he had apolo
gized for the morning’s diaplay of
temper, she would not have been
quiet and sad. 1t was surely her duty
to show him that he had erred. If he
was too blind, or too self-satisfied (o
see that he was in the wrong, that
was his fault. Her skirts were clear
' When one ie alone, self-justification
s not always as much comfort as one
\oould wish. The book that Isabal had
thought would be Interesting pmvnd‘
‘h--m than her own unhappy
thoughts. At last she flung the vol- |
Lu-o down in despair.
“1 enn't fix my mind on anything!"
;-bo muttered. “T might as well go to
bed and get some rest”
%llnaou to Bed, But
Can Not Go to Sleep.
i This she proceeded to do-—at least
she went to bed, taking as much time
as possible in her preparations for the
night, that she might not have to wailt
long In the darkness before John's re- |
turn. It was after 10 o'clock when she
at last lay down, but she did not rnu.l
To be sure she did fall into a little
dose a few minutes after she had put |
out the light, but she awoke from this
with a nervous start as the clock on
the small table at the head of her bed |
struck the half hour. Usually the
striking of this timepiece aid not dis. |
turb her. Now the sound seemed to !
reverperate through the quiet reom.
Half past ten and John still at the |
club! Oh, well, he would be at home |
iby 11 o'clock.
~ "But 11 struck, and half past 11, and
12, and he had not returned. For a
while Isabel was indignant, then she
became anxlous. What might not |
happen to him coming along the lone- |
1y #treets all by himself? Perhnpl[
he had been sand-bagged and lhmwni
{nto some areaway where he would lle
wounded, perhaps dead, until morn=- !
ing, when the police would find him, |
They would see by the papers in his |
pockets who he was, and would call|
her un and teil her. How could sihe
stand it? Oh, how could she stand it 7
She sat up In an agony of fear;
suddenly her mood changed. Was 1t
possible that John might be having
a good time at the club aMI this while?
If @O, she would give him a plece ofl
her mind. But, no, he would not be
go cruel, so Inconsiderate. Something
must have happened to him. Atwhd‘
hour had he left the club? she won
dered. In such an emergency as this
there was but one thing for her to 10.
That was to call up the club and
make inquiries. ‘
She threw her bath robe about her
and thrust her feet into her bedside
shoes; then hurried out into the hall,
where the telephone hm&‘ With |
trembling hands she seized direc
tory and searched its columns for the
number she wanted. Ah, here 1t was!
Some man at the club answered
after she had waited for what seemed
to her a long time. |
“Hello!” he called as a.«m&r
{f it was midday instead of mid t.
Somehow his matter-of-fact volce
made the wife's act seem suddenly
mdiculous to her. But it was too late
to withdraw now.
“Hello!" she returned, in as steady
and practical a tone as she could mus.
ter. “Can you tell me if Mr. Hamilton
—Mr. John Hamilton—is there?”
“Hamilton? Just wait a moment
;nd I'll go see,” the voice informed
ar.
And she walted, her heart beatiny
with nervousness and excitement, 1t
John were there, he would be dis
rlmed with® her for calling him up.
bfo ge were not there, where could he
“Hello!" the volce sald again. “No.
Mr. Hamilton's not here. He was
here, but he's gone.”
“Oh, how long ago?" came the ag
tated question from Mrs. Hamilton.
“Wait and I'll go see,” the uneeen
speaker sald once more.
| And onve more the wife waited in
' suspense—but only for a moment.
I “He's been gone only about ten or
| fifteen minutes,” the man informed
her. “I guess he'll be home pretty
soon now,” he added. in a tone that
may have meant to be comforting, but
which brought the blood to the wife's
| cheeks.
“Oh, I'm not worried about hm at
all,’ she said, frigidly. “I thank you
for the trouble you've taken.”
“Pray don't mention it,” rejoined
her informant. “Good-night!"
“Good-night!” she returned, hang
d.g up the receiver with the con
mb(l,.m that she had seemed likea
Then a sidfht sound made her start
and listen. It was John's key turn
ing softly and cautiously in the lock.
l"[’he telephone was in the hall. Theére
wi: *o time for the wife to-disap
[ pea: before the front door opened.
(Te Be Continued To-morrow.)
“Oh! What a Difference!"
{ m{’
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Y :O\A iy
ARTHA MARY left her little white gate in the cosy Loy town.
M where everybody knew everybody else and their grandmother,
too, to stay a week in New York Town with Martha Mary's
cousin, whose bag of platinum mesh was set with sapphires and al
ways fat with spending money At the little white gate leaned her
mother—ample and smiling—smoothing back her hair from her brows
all dewed and warm with “packing” Martha Mary; her father in from
the fleld to kiss her good-bye, her small brother and his scraggly
A Story of a Belated Love
In the Shadow of
¢ DDeath 8
¢ ‘G')OD evening, Plerre.”
“Good evening, Marie.”
Many, many times the two old
friends had met and exchanged greeting
in this scrupulously neat, old-fashioned
drawing room, which any one could see
at the very first glance belonged to an
old maid. There were times, Indeed,
when hardly an evening passed that
Captain Menil did not come to ask his
friend to play Beethoven or Chopin to
him on the old square plano, or to give
him & cup of her delicious China tea.
Since then, however, the war had
broken out, and even if their hearts re
mained the same their minds neces
sarily became occupied with other
things, :
“] see you are knitting for the -01-l
diers, Marie." |
“Like everybody else. Winter is ap
proaching. You don’t mind my going
on, do you?"'
“Of course, | don't. 1 have come to
say good-bye.' g
“You are going away?
“Like everybody else. 1 coulM not
bear the idea of staying at home when
1 am still able to serve my country.”
Marie Renaud had laid aside her knit
ting and her hands trembled.
“Yes,” she said, in & volce that shook
with emotion, “I know what it cost you
to give up vour military career while
you were still young, because you had
your old mother to provide for.”
“She had set me the best example in
the world by her devotion to me. But
1 must admit there are two things shat
have cost me considerable suffering.
One was to give up my career and the
other to give u%our marriage. We may
talk quite frankly of this now?"
“Alas,” she sald and quite mechani
oally her hand went to her while hair,
which stood in erranfe contrast to her
eves and youthful smiie.
“Yes,” he said, “everything couspired
against us. We were hoth poor and had
both heavy responsibilities, and so You
hawve bad 10 make a llvlnf giving music
;_(é;xr;j'w. while | had to glve up my ca
“it was necessary, Pierre, and you
know I gave it up only five years ago,
when I got that small inheritance from
my aunt.”
“It was the same year I lost my dear
old mother,” said Plerre. ‘T was firty."”
“And 1 was forty-five.”
“It was too late then.”
“Yes, too late.” |
“Bspecially for me. No, please do not‘
protest, Marie. 1 have seen few womer |
remain young as you have done. All
that is past now. But lam glad at least
'that | have not grown too old to fight
for France now when she needs all her
sons. Oh, Marie, you can't realize what
it means te me at my age once more
to find myself at the head of my oom-‘
pany and that in time of actual war.
‘;At the bottom of my heart | have 11-!
ways been a soldler before anything else
and now it is even a certain relief .to
know that one's life is not necessary
to anybody but that I have a perfect
right to offer it to my country.”
He had no idea how deeply these
words wounded the heart of the woman
to whom he was talking. She had taken
up her knitting once more and kept her
eyes lowered, brayely bearing up under
the wounds which ha was unconsciously
inflicting upon her.
“And are you going away soon?' she
asked.
“In three days [ join my old regi
ment. But what is the matter with
you, Marie? Are you not well?"’ he ex
claimed, noticing the change that had
come into her face.
“It is nothing, Plerre. Merely the
'sudden shock of {our departure, which
I oughit to have foreseen, knowing you
as well as 1 do and for which I can only
love you even more.'
Tears smothered her voice and fell
down on her brown knitting work.
“Marie,” erled Pierre, deeply moved,
“Inls ‘poaslble that you are orying be
cause |am going away™"”’
she raised her frank blue eyes to him
and said:
**At my age, Plerra, there is no ex
cuse for false modesty. The memorias
of cur vouth and our love have been my
life's costliest treasure, as your faith
(A Week in Gotham Made in ilmln Mary)
pup bdoth grinning and signaling “fare-you-well.” And Mary was
clothed, her slim little figure, in a demure blue suit that her mother
had made, with a “Peg-o"-my heart” coat and a little round-about hat
smothered in yellow daisies—(Oh, a hat she had dreamed over o
nights!)—and her crinkly blonde. hair was drawn in looping waves
away fror her face like the Blessed Damosel’s,
And oh, when Martha M.fi next saw the plain white gate! One
week—one little week after—my gracious but the face of things was
ful friendship for & lonely old mald has
been my only solace!"
“Forgive me, dear friend. I ought to
have told you aboyt my departure in a
mora gentle way. Had 1 only
known——"" !
“Yes, it hurt me to find that you even
for a moment have been able to doubt
my affection.”
““Oh! If T had only known,’ he re
peated. ‘‘Five years ago when we both
became free and independent there was
a short moment when I thought of our
old plans, but then, I told myself that
1 was an old fool.”
For & few minutes they looked into
each other’s souls In deep sllence.
“Marie,” he saild then, “is it too late
now to offer you my name?"”
“My dear friend,” she said, ‘“‘people
would laugh at us.”
“They would laugn at us both then.
But really I don't think anybody would
langh after all. Listen,” Plerre said,
pointing to the open window. ‘“Noisy
Paris i almost quiet now. REverybody
has duties to ‘attend to, the nursing of
the wounded, the feeding of the poor
and hungry, the wiping away of the
tears of thousands of unfortunates. Ask
your own heart, Marie. J.eave out ev
erything else. If I do not return will
you be my widow? One must be pre
pared for anything, Widow's weeds will
be very fashionable this year my dear
‘old fglend. And if 1 should come back
our marriage would pass quite un
inotlced; there would simply be more
gray-halred couples.
"My friend,” she said stmply, “it has
' been the dream of my life.”
~ ““Then let it be to-morrow, dear. ¥ou
know they have done away with all
dilatory red tape at the Mayor's. We
don't even need any witnesses. Time
is very favorable to us.”
l}lo smiled but there was & tear in his
smile.
And this Is how Marie my, now
Marie Plerre Mendil, is agfieflw n!h"“
cruel happiness of trembline and "hop
ing for her husband.
| Arcadian Islands.
. The Cross-Keelings are a up of
iabout twent{ small islands &o miles
e athwest of Sumeatra. Theg form a
part of the settlement of ln.a'lpom.
"l'here are about 800 inhabitants. hese
islands are looked upon by some trav
elers as & kind of modern Arcadia. The
gervants there are sald to Among
the best behaved in the worl and, as
there is no money in the isl for all
the transactions are conducted through
the medivm of sheenskin notes signed
by the Governor, there is not much
tewmptation to thieves. The climate is
said to be suitable for those who suffey
from lung Arouble, though the islands
are subject to cyclones.
Beatrice Fairfax Writes on
Making a Star Role
o for Yourselt ¢
By BEATRICE FAIRFAX.
“We do noit oppose the part we
play in life—but whether we play
that part well or ill, we do ohoose.
The part was chosen [Jor us by
the AUTHOR OF THE PLAY."
—HEpictctus.
ISCONTENT casts a gray shadow
on all the brightneas of life. It
occuples the soul with regret
and causes the mind to feel maltreated
and abused. It fills the heart with sor
row. It occuples so great a place in the
mental and spiritual life of the one who
feels it, that there is no room for more
active physical forces to drive it out.
Discontent is not one of the vices that
takes possession of one foreibly and for
evil. It is a result of deliberately fos
tered moods. What is more, it is akin
to one of the finest of the virtues—if
only that virtue is not misdirected. Dis
content can be turned into ambition,
almost for the trying.
The vice that embitters life and leaves
its token visible for all to see—the vice
that weighs down the mouth corners
and dulls the eye of the physical being
as well as of the mind and soul an
heart ,can be transmuted into pyre gold
for the mere trgvlng.
How much did it ever profit any one
te sit in sackcloth and ashes crying
either ‘‘Mea cul;mmmea maxima culpa,”’
or lees gorrowfully and more bitterly
oompln.lnlr.% of the unfairness of life?
There is absolutely nothing to gain by
feeling that you have “made & mess of
things''—or that you have not had “a
square deal.” There is everything to
gain in trying to make the best of the
circumstances that surround you and
to hew your way to a better set of cir
cumstances,
&115 almost hackneved to speak of
A ham Lincoln studying in his pov
erty-ridden shack In order to be ready
for any chance that might come. And
yvet he stands only as a notable example
of men and women who have acted so
well the narts for which they were cast
that a minor role unfolded itself and
becafhe one of the star parts of the
part of life in which it was cast
The minute disconfent is purified of
its feeling of helplessness, the seocond
that it determines to cast off its gar
ment of mourning and to gird iteelf
for endemvor, that minute it rises above
whining fnactivity to the shining
‘realms of ambition
changed! For Martha Mary's mother was barricaded—thinking under
her set brows that “this is one of the dancers from the show that came
to town last night,” the brave, small brother and the scraggly pup
ventured to the gate post to take a “peep” at the curious creature,
the hollyhocks were scarlet with amazement—the dalsies swayed
bewildered—for Martha Mary had brought back with her to her plais
white gate and pebbled walk a bit of Gotham-Town. Please look al
Martha Mary!—NELL BRINKLEY.
I know & girl who makes it a source
of sorrow that she has a discontented
nature. ‘I can't ever be happy,'' says
Gertrude. “I simply have one of those
discontented natures that longs for all
the things it can not have and that is
bored by what it is given. I am just
cursed by mry own discontentedness, and
the worst of it is that I know what is
the matter with me. I have a jealous,
envious, discontented nature.”
What a useful bit of knowledge you
have lin your power of self-analysis
Gertrude! Why not "o after some of
the things you want Why not look
about you and proceed to attain through
effort all the best prizes in your circle
of livmfi? Coin your desires .nto ac
tions, ake of your own envy a force
for trying to win some of the things
you see others possessing and long for,
too. Use your discontent with what
{ou are and have as a scourge, if need
e, to being and havlnf more. And in
action your useless jealousy will die of
lack of morbid leisure in which to ex
ercise itself and grow.
There is a story told of a girl who
found herself suddenly orphaned and
poor, and with nothing m her education
or talents to win a livelihood. Stranded
and without ability, the fate of the ‘‘de
cayved gentlewoman” who lives a pen
sioner on the bounty of any relatives or
friends who will give her a place in a
chimney corner, stared her in the face.
And then it occurred to her that she
had always dusted her father's priceless‘
porcelains and {vories, since no maid
could be trusted with them, and her
steady fingers and loving patience made
the dusting of these treasures a safe
and pleasant process.
What she could do was—dust! A
most unromantic role truly. Would you
consider adopting it, Miss Discontent?
But since dusting seemed to be the
{-art this girl could play, she adopted
t and did her best with it. She
brotht intelligence,. interest and en
thusiasm to bear upon the task of
cleaning house for rich folk who hated
to intrust delicate ornaments and fab
rics to careless hands. She started with;
one customer and at the end of ten
vears held the dignified position of—
curator of a museum. For in acting
well the part of caring for fine, rare
things, she came to know much about
them and to feel inspired to study
them.
Last year in the stage world the same
principle waa illustrated. A woman
who had been playing minor roles in
country town stock companies was in
By NELL BRINKLEY
trusted with the role of an elderly cock.
ney servant in a plece filled with many
more attractive roles. But so well did
the woman act her part, and so clev
erly did she portray the elderly and
unattractive servant, that she was ‘‘the
hit of the piece.”
It is always possible to be ‘“‘the hit
of the piece’ if you play your part well
enough—and it does not matter one
whit what your part is! Be contented
to play it—and ambitious to play it as
wel? as ever you can. You are not
“miscast’”’ unless you make yourself a
misfit to your part, There I 8 a chance
for success in doing well the most
trivial thing. For anything well done
is worthy of applause—and of the more
tangible and lasting thing—success.
‘M
|
A BAD CASE
~ AND ITS RELIEF
l
| o
Lady Tells Details of Ten
‘ . .
Years of Suffering Which
- .
{ Now Lies Behind Her.
‘ Wallace, Va.—Mrs. Mary Vest, of
‘thia town, says: "About ten years ago
1 had very poor health and for five
'years it steadily got worse, I could
not stand on my feet. 1 got so I could
only drag about in the room. Most of
the time I was not able to do my
work.
~ “I had terrible bearing-down pains,
my back ached all the time and was
very weak. I could scarcely carry
anything and suffered agony when I
lifted anything. The muscles in my
abdomen were so weak I could scarce
ly lift myself up étraight, and 1
thought I would surely grow crooked.
I had difficulty in walking, it was so
painful. I suffered in hips and back
and could hardly raise up at all. At
times I couldn’t sit on the chalr—
would have to lie down, I was in such
agony. 1 just sat around and cried.
“At this time, about flve years ago,
I began to take Cardui, at my moth
er's insistence. After two or three
week's’ use I saw an improvement.
The pains got less gradually until
they disappeared, In two months I
could walk without pain and could do
most of my work. For about three
years my improvement was steady
and continued 'until 1 had back my
health and strength.
“The cure has been permanent, for
have been in good health for the past
two years, due to my having takern
Cardui, which effected the cure.”
All druggists sell Cardul. Try it-—-
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