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TWELVE
“The Story of Waitstill Baxter”
(Continued from Yesterday.)
Those lonely Mika, too hard foi
fflrl's hands, those unrewarded druili:
erles, those days of faithful labor I'
nnd out of doom, those evenings o
self aocrlflre over the trending baskei
the quiet avoidance of all that mlgli
vex her father's crusty temper, her pr
tlence with Ids miserly exnctlons, ti
hourly holding bark of the hasty won
—all these hnd played their part: a 1
these had been somehow welded lnt<
a strong, sunny, stendy life wlsdon.
there Is no better name for It, and t
■he had unconsciously the best of a
harvests to bring up dower to a Ini*
band who was worthy of her.
These were quietly happy days i
the farm, for Mrs Boynton took a nr'
if transient bold upon life that d>
eeivad even the doctor. Hod mao wn
neatly at anient n lover as Ivory, hov
erlng about Waltstlll and exrlalmlu;
"Ton never stay to aupper. and It's si
lonesome evenings without you! Wl’
ft never be time for you to come an
live with ne, Watty, dear? The day
crawl so slowly!” At which Ivor;
wonM laugh, push him away and dra"
Wathrtlll nearer to ble own tide, say
tng, "H yoo are In a hurry, you yotiny
cormorant, what do you think of roe?
•*We can never wait two more days
Bod; let ue kidnap her! Let us take
Dm old bobsled end ran over to New
Hampshire where one can be married
(he minute one feels like It. Wf
ooold do it between sunrise and moon
rise and be at home for a late supper
Weald rim be too tired to bake tin
bieaeite for ne, do you think? Whin
do yon say, Bod, will you be besi
man?” And there would be youthful
aonooeetoaed laughter floating out
from the kftrhen or living room, bring
tng a smile of content to Lois Boyti
ton's (sew as she lay propped tip in bud
nrlth her open Bible beside her. "Hr
Mods up the broken hoarted." sin
Whispered to herself. “He give* nnt<
them a garland for ashes, the oil of
»«r for mourning, the garment of pralsi
for the spirit of heaviness.”
• ••••*•
The quiet wedding wns over. There
bad been neither feasting nor finery
nor presents nor bridal Journey, only n
homecoming that meant as deep ami
■acred a Joy. os fervent gratitude a*-
any four hearts ever contained In al
the world Rut the laughter cessed
though the happiness flowed sllenth
underneath, almost forgotten In the
sudden sorrow that overcame them,
for It fell out that Isils lloyutou had
only waited as It were for the mar
riage and could stay no longer.
• • • Th*r» ar« two hituvini • • •
Both mads of leva—nnp. Inconralvahlc
Ev'n by th« ottifr, no divine It la;
The other, far on thla aide of the atara.
By men called home.
And then* two heavens met over ni
Boynton's during these cold, white
glistening December days
Lota Boynton found hers first After
■ windy moonlit night a morning
dawned In which n hush seemed to lx
•n the earth. The cattle huddled to
gather in the farrayanta and the fowls
shrank Into their feathera. The sk}
waa gray, nnd suddenly the whlti
heralds came floating down like scouts
ear king for paths and camping places
Waltstill turned Mrs. Boynton's bed
■o that she could look out of the win
dow. Slope after slope, dazzling In
white crust, rose one upon nnother nnd
vanished ns they slipped sway into tin
dark green of the pine forests
Then,
• • • there fell from out th# eklea
A feathery whiteness ovsr sll ths land
A strange, soft spotless something, pure
as light
It could not be called a storm, for there
had been no wind since sunrise, do
whirling fury, uo drifting, only a still,
•toady, solemn fall of crystal flakes
hour after hour, heur after hour.
lira. Boynton's book of books was
open on the bed, and her Anger mark
ed a passage In her favorite Bible
poet
“Here It la. daughter," she whisper
ed. "I have found It, In the same
chapter where the morning stars slug
together snd the sous of Clod shout foi
*
•Our llttl# brother i« navar in tha
way.”
Joy. Tb« Lord apeak* to Job ont ol
tho whirlwind ami anya, 'llaat tlioi
•ntorod Into the trooaaroa of tba *m>w
V hM» thou area Uie treaaur** of ttu
hall?' bit in- in me, WuiUtiU, snd look
out on the hills. 'Hast thou entered
Into the treasures of the snowy No
not yet, but please God 1 Bhiill, and
Into many other treasures eoon,” and
she closed her eyes.
All day long the air ways were filled
with the glittering army of the snow
flakes, all day long the snow grew
deeper and deeper on the ground, and
on the breath of some white winged
wonder that passed Lois Boynton's
window her white soul forsook Its
“earth lot” and took flight at last
They watehed beside her, but nevei
knew the moment of her going. Her
face was so like an nngel'a In Its shin
Ing serenity that the few who loved
her best could not look upon her with
anything but reverent Joy. On enrth
abe had known nothing but tbo “bro
ken arcs,” but In heaven she would
find the “perfect round " There at last,
on the other side of the stars, she could
remember right, jioor Eds Hoynton!
Kor weeks afterward the village was
shrouded In snow ns It had never been
before within memory, but In ever'
happy household the home life deepen
ed day by day. The books came out In
the long evenings; the grundslres told
old tales under the Inspiration of the
hearth Are; the children gathered on
their wooden stools to roast apples nnd
pop corn, and hearts came closer to
gather than when summer called the
housemate* to wander here and there
In fields and woods and beside the
river.
Over at Boyntons', when the snow
was whirling and the wind howling,
round the chlmueys of the high gabled
old farmhouse, when every window
had Its frame of erudite and fringe of
Icicles and the sleet rattled furiously
against the glass, then Ivory would
throw a great back log on the hank ol
oouls between the Analogs, the kettle
would begin to slug and the cat come
from some snug corner to curl and
purr on the braided hearth rug
School was In session, and Ivory and
Bod had tbelr textbooks of an evening
but, oh. wlint a new and strange Joy to
study when there was a sweet wotnun
sitting near with her workbasket :•
woman wearing a shining braid of hall
as If It were a coronet; a woman ol
dear eyes and tender lips, one who
could feel as well as think, one wtio
could be a man's comrade as well as
bis dear love! Truly the second hear
en. the one on "this side of the stairs
by men culled home.'" was very present
over at Boyntons’.
Boiuotliiics the broad seated old hair
cloth soft would be drawn In front ol
the tire, &ml Ivory, laying his pipe tuui
his Greek grammar on the table, would
take some lighter book and open It on
his knee. Waltstill would lift her eyes
from her sewing to meet her husband's
glance that sjioke longing for her closer
rouipanlonsbip and. gladly leaving her
work and slipping Into the place by his
aide, she would put her elbow on bis
shoulder and read with him.
Once Hod from tils place at a table
on the other side of the room looked
and looked nt them with a kind of Ip
atinct beyond his years und dually
crept up to Waltstill and. putting an
arm through hers, nestled bis curly
bead on her shoulder with the quaint
charm and grace that belonged to him
It was a young and beautiful sboul
der. Waltstlll's. mid there Imd always
been and would always be a gracious
curve In It where a child's head mlglc
lie In comfort I'reseutly with a shy
pressure. Hod whispered "Shall I sll
In the other room, Waitstlll and Ivory';
Am I In the way?"
Ivory looked np from hls book
quietly shaking hls head, while Walt
■till put her arm around the Ihi.v mid
drew him closer
“Our little brother Is never In the
way," she said, as she kissed him.
Ou midsummer evenings Ihe win
dows of the old farmhouse over at
Boynton's gleum with unaccustomed
lights and voices break the stillness,
lessening the gloom of the long grass
grown laue of lads Boynton's watch
Ing In days gone by. On sunny morn
ings there Is a merry babel of chil
dren's chillier, mingled with gentle
mnternal warnings, for this la a new
brood of young things, nnd the river
Is calling them as It has called all the
others who ever chine within the ctr
cla of Its magic The fragile hare
bells hanging their hhie heads from
the crevices of the rocks; the brilliant
columbine* swaying to nnd fro ou
their tall ntnlks: the patches of gleam
lug sand In shallow places beckoning
little bare feel to come aud tread
them; the glint of stiver minnows dart
ing hither and thither In gome still
pool; the tempestuous Journey of some
weather beaten log. fighting Its way
downstream berets life In abundance
luring the child to share Its risks and
Its Joys.
When Waltstlll's boys and Patty’s
glrla come back to the farm they play
by Saco water us their mothers mid
their fathers did before them The
paths through the ptne woods along
the river's brink are trodden smooth
by their restless, wandering feet Theb
eager, curious eyes search the way
sides for adventure, but their babble
and laughter are oftenewt heard from
the ruins of an old house hidden by
groat trees The stones of the cellar,
all overgrown with btackt>erry vines
are still there, and a fragment of the
brick chimney, where swallows build
their nests from year to year. A wll
derness of weeds, tall and luxuriant,
springs up to hide the stone over which
Jacob Cochrane stepjied dally when
be Issued from his door, und th# pol
lahed stick with w hich throe year-old
Patty beau a tattoo may be a round
from the very chair in which he sat
expounding the Bible according to his
own vision. The thickets of sweet
clover and red tipped grasses, of wav
log ferns and young abler bushes hide
all of ugliness that belongs to the de
serted spot and serve ns a miniature
forest In whose shade the younglings
foreshadow the future at their play of
borne building and housekeeping. In
a far corner, altogether concealed
from the passerby, there is a secret
treasure, a wonderful rosebush. Its
green leaves shilling with health and
vigor. When the July sun Is turning
the hay-fields yellow the children part
the bushes In the leafy corner nnd lit
tie Waitstill Boynton steps cautiously
In to gather one splendid rose, “for fa
ther anil mother.''
Jacob Cochrane's heart, with all Its
faults and frailties, has long been at
peace. On a chill, dreary nlgbt In
November all that was mortal of him
was raised from its unhonored resting
place, not far from the ruins of his old
abode, and borne by three of Ills dis
ciples far away to another state. The
gravestones were replaced, face down
ward, deep, deep In the earth, nnd the
nod laid back upon them, so that no
man thenceforward could mark the
place of the prophet's transient burial
nnild the scenes of Ills first nnd only
triumphant ministry.
“It Is a sad story. Jacob Cochrane's,”
Waltstlll said to her husband when
she first discovered that her children
hod chosen the deserted spot for their
play, “and yet. Ivory, the red rose
blooms and blooms In the ruins of the
man's house, and perhaps somewhere
In the world he has left a message
that matches the rose.”
Til K ESP.
Reactionaries in Duma
Want Newspaper Ads to
Pass Thru Their Hands
St. Petersburg.—Reactionaries in
the Duma imposed today that all
newspaper advertisements should
pass through their hands, and t\)t
they should give them to the papers
they chose.
The campaign to stifle free publi
cation continues with increased vio
lence. The l-abor Dally has
in pluce the usual editorial one en
titled "Heads Cut Off,” giving the
names of 21 I-iettish papers which
have been suppressed recently.
The editor of “Our Printing Trade”
has been sentenced to three months’
Imprisonment and a fine of 800
roubles for an article on “The Prin
ters and the Struggle for a Free Press
in the October Days” That Is 1905.)
Proceedings have been taken against
the editor of the “Northern Dab or Ga
zette." The first number of ' Prole
tarians of the Needle” has been con
fiscated and the editor prosecuted for
an article "Look-Outs and the Opera
tive Tailors.”
“Education" has been confiscated
and the editor prosecuted, us well as
the author of an article “A Hay of
Light In the Night.”
“Path of Truth' 1 has been fined 300
roubles for making a collection "con
trary to the order of the state and
the public peace."
„ The Kleff authorities have confis
cated a volume of Breltman's short
stories
"Who can tell me about the little
chameleon?" asked the teacher.
"1 can," said Joe.
"Well, tell us." said the tarher.
"A chamelon looks like a lutl y alli
gator and It chaoses ts clothes all the
time." said Joe.—Kansas Cilv Star.
PROMINENT^A-rOPERA
ST" ' ■ -Wfc-.va-rit,
MRS. JAMES B. DUKE.
London,—At the gala performance
of opera at Covent Garden tn honor
of the King snd Queen of Denmark,
where many American women were
prominent. Mrs. James R Duke at
tracted much attention. She was In
cloth of gold with magnificent rubles
Mrs. Duke does not Intend to do
much entertaining at Crewe House
Just yet and has made no definite
plans for Ascot. When court mourn
ing ends she will give a hall In the
meantime she ts giving small, smart
dinners. She has also spent much
time In Paris.
i'HE AUGUSTA HERALD. AUGUSTA, GA.-
Touring World on Steam Yacht Niagara
Peking.—Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Leiter of Chicago, with Mr. and Mrs.
Blaine Elkins and Miss Williams, who are touring the world on board the
steam yacht Niagara, while in Peking said they hoped to cross the Pa
cific in time to he the first world-touring party to make the passage
through the Panama Canal.
THE TRAGEDIENNE
Doris Vaughan had a cheerful disposi
tion, and a merry and musical laugh.
You will realize this better when I tell
oyu that if she laughed at the break
fast table the other members of her
family always Joined in. Doris had prac
ticed that laugh for hours In the priv
acy of her bed room; yet it sounded
quite natural, which proves that Doris
was clever.
Doris practiced speaking in the pri
vacy of her bed room, when she retired
for the n glit, much to the annoyance of
her brother, who slept in the next room.
For Doris was an elocutionist. She had
obtained a bronze medal In that branch
of art from the London College of
Music.
By profession Doris was a typist. As
she worked in the city all day, the only
time she had to [Wactlce her elocutionary
art was at bedtime.
Of course 1 need not tell you that
Doris's ambition was to go on the
stage, but possibly you have guessed
that nothing would satisfy her but—
to become the greatest tragedienne
of modern times. In fact, a second
Sarah Bernhardt.
Every night, when she should have
been having her beauty uleep, she
"elocuted" In front of the long glass
door of aer wardrobe. She practic
ed breathing exercises, tragic recita
tions, and "tumbles," or, in her own
words, “g'raceful falls.” These lat
ter were only tolerated by the family
on ihe (ondition that she kept the
Hat supplied with incandescent gas
mantles as requerd.
Nevertheless, 1 am pleased to say
that Doris's family, which consisted
of a brotner and sister, treated her
with much more respect after her
strenuous efforts had been rewarded
with the bronze rndal, which, need
less to say, she wore, suspended by
a thin gold chain, round her neck.
But even the bronze medal did not
give Doris courage to unburden her
mind i nthe bosom of her family, con
cerning her one hope in life.
Doris'B brother and sister imagined
tier Saturday afternoons were spent
at matinees. They were, at all
events, spent at theaters, at the
stage doors of which she tried —and
occasionally succeeded —to get
speech with the managers.
Up to now Doris had drawn a blank
every time. Not the bronze medal,
not even her most engaging smile,
which showed her dimples, had mov
ed the stony-hearted managers. So,
having exhausted the West End thea
ters, she began 'her crusade at the
suburban halls and theaters of North
1-ondon.
Doris was always cheerful at the
breakfast table but ou this particular
morning her spirits received a sudden
check, causing her to ejaculate a
faint "On!"
"What's up?" asked her brother,
whose name was Henry. He saw that
the imstman hail brought Doris two
typewritten envelopes The exclama
tion had been wrung from her upon
reading the contents of one of them.
‘"Oh. it’s nothing." said Doris.
"Only ‘to account rendered.’ ”
But the contents of the other type
written envelope had a most start
ling effect upon Doris. She sprang
to her feet, and placing her left hand
at the back of her neck, and raising
her rlgnt arm above her head, she
waved the letter tn the direction of
the celling, and crying. "At last! At
last!" dashed madly !rom the room
"1 wish ” began her sister.
"Yes, so do I," said her brother.
'’This theatrical way of hers will have
to be put a stop to. She will be
wanting to go on the etage next, or
something Idiotic like that."
“What I was going to say was,”
satd Ethel, “wish Doris would shut
the door behind her; she hardly ever
does "
Doris, In her bed room, was eagerly
reading the letter, this is what it
said:
"Dear Miss Vaughan—Shall be
pleased to put you on as an extra
MR. AND MRS JOSEPH LEITER.
turn next Saturday matineo. Biease
let me have full particulars at once
the exact time your show takes, what
scenery and properties you will re
quire, also your professional
name and title of sketch, as I will
try to get your name on the program.
“If this date does not suit your
agent to be present, I will try to ar
range another, but please fix it up
if possible.
“Yours faithfully,
“JOHN MACKIE.”
Doris was thinking; “Arrange
with Mr. Hemming, the agent, pacify
—somehow—Henry and Ethel, write
Mr. Mackie, rehearse the sketch up
to such a pitch of excellence that the
audience of the Finsbury Hippodrome
will be enraptured, and all to be ac
complished by Saturday.
Doris managed to ring up Mr. Hem
ming during the morning. He said
he was quite free on Saturday after
noon, and would make a point of be
ing there if she should let him know
the exact time.
She stayed at the office after six
o’clock to compose and type a letter
to Mr. Mackie; then, with a sigh,
went home to face the music.
She let herself into the flat with
her key, and made a dramatic entry
into the sitting room. Posing after
a picture she had somewhere —her
right hand hanging down at her side,
the other placed horizontally against
the door, eyes looking straight be
fore her just over the heads of her
brother and sister, who were peace
fully having tea, quite unaware of
the thunderbolt- so to speak was
about to drop—Doris said:
"I am going on the stage-*’
"What?” shouted Henry.
“Good gracious me!” cried Ethel.
That was all they had time to say,
for Doris heeded no Interruption, be
gan at the very beginning and told
them all about it.
“And I’ve got the loveliest sketch,’’
she finished up. “It is called ‘An Uu
availing Sacrifice,’ but I am going to
change the title of ‘Mrs. Brown's
Baby'; It is so much more lucid. It
Is frightfully dramatic, you know.
They’ll love it.”
She stopped at last
“Who did you say tile fellow was?”
asked her brother.
’Do you mean Mr. Mackie, the
manager?”
“No, the other one—the agent who
you say Is going to book you a tour.”
“Oh, you needn't worry about him;
he Is quite old.”
“Oh. yes; but supose he does not
like your show, what then?”
"Well, I supose in that case he
wouldn't. Oh, hut he is sure to like
It —everyone will; they can’t help It.
It makes me cry every time I re
hearse It. It Is simply brimming
over with the 'human touch,' or ‘soul’
or whatever you call it."
“Vm," said Henry. “Well, at all
events I shall go with you. and you
must Introduce me to the Heme.ing
fellow. 1 want to see that all’s
square.”
“All right, you old dear,” replied
Doris, and rushed fro.n the room in
her usual tempestuous way.
"Do you know what this sketch Is
about. Ethel?” asked Henry.
“I don't, but If you listen outsld*
Doris's bed room door tonight. I’ve
no doubt you will hear. There is one
thing about It —“her voice is all right;
I should think It would fill the Albert
Hal! with ease when she "elocutes,"
as she calls it.’
“Well." said Henry, "all I hope Is
that she wont make a fool of her
self. and above all, not wave her arms
about as If they were windmills."
Henry listened outside Doris's door
that night, and what he heard did not
make him any happier.
“Mr. Hemming—my brother, Mr.
Vaughan.”
Mr. Hemming was tall and thla
Dissension is Rife in German Army;
At Least, So Say the Socialists
Reports Are Constantly Appearing in the Newspapers Telling
of Suicides and Citing Terrible Cases of Cruelty—Govern
ment Refuses to Be Drawn Out on This Subject—Repre
sentatives Say It’s True.
Berlin.—ls the Socialists ip the
Reichstag are to be believed, dissension
is rife in the German army. Recent
questions in the House, however, have
failed to move the Government and re
ports are constantly appearing in the
newspapers telling of suicides and cit
ing terrible cases of cruelty. In the
Reichstag a few days ago, a number
of Socialist deputies called attention
to complaints of cruelty to soldiers in
the Strassburg garrison. The speak
ers claimed that the officers harassed
the men night and day to such an ex
tent that there had been numerous
desertions and several suicides.
The Government refused to be drawn
out on the subject, and Its represen
tatives said they were sure the facts
could not be as stated by the Social
ists, and that they could do nothing.
It was further bluntly declared to be
no business of the Reichstag to con
cern itself with what passed in the
army, or to interfere in any way with
the manner in which the Emperor’s of
ficers thought it their duty to train the
troops placed under their orders.
111-T reatment.
Practically every day fresh causes
of ill-treatment are recorded despite
the fact that the affairs are usually
kept as quiet as can be by the au
thorities. Some idea of the reputation
which infantry regiments are getting,
may be obtained from the fact that a
few days ago an apprentice named
Rauch committed suicide after declar
ing that he preferred death to doing
military service in a line regiment, as
had fallen to his lot.
Recently also a non-commissioned
officer named Walker was sentenced
by court-martial to fifteen days' arrest
for kicking and hitting one of his men.
He was brought up oji the complaint
of a bombardier who had had his jaw
broken by a blow.
Killed With Hammer.
Again, it is reported from Leipzig
with a lean jaw and melancholy eye.
When Doris had left the two men at
the stage door, he proposed to Henry
that they should ‘‘go and have one,
as Doris’s turn did not come on tor
nearly half an hour.
John Mackie met Doris as she
stepped inside the stage door, ana
himself took her bag and showed her
the way to her dressing room. He
was a young man, and much en
amoured with Doris, whidh, of course,
was the reason why she hadn’t plead
ed with him in vain.
Dors was too nervous, and felt
much too queer to notice that John
Mackie was, as the saying goes,
“very much put out.” But she dd
remember to ask hm, just before he
closed the door, if she could see a
program.
“Er—er—l'm awfully sorry; they
haven't sent any round here yet, I’h
let you have one as soon as they do.
Patricia Pennell, Tragedienne.
Doris had spent hours, months ago,
in choosing the name. How would
it look in print? It sounded splen
did.
Just for a moment Doris lost her
self in a happy dream. Then she
opened her bag and got to work.
Her dressing and make-dp took a
long time. She had never been so
clemsy in her life; her heart was
clumsy as though she had been run
ning for a mile. Every now and
again something queer happened in
he r throat which made her swallow
quickly. Nevertheless, she took the
utmost pains with every detail of her
make-up. Her black dress was shab
by, rusty and torn, her apron dirty,
her shawl ragged, her bonnet, utterly
he r boots were in holes.
At the last moment an inspiration
came to her. Of course, the time be
ing winter, and Mrs. Brown without
fuel, she would be frightfully cold;
consequently her nose would inevit
ably be a little red. So the hare’s foot
was gently applied to Doris’s rather
tip-tilted nose.
A thump on the door, and Mr.
Mackie’s voice;
“Your turn, Miss Pennell, please.”
That queer “something” happened
in her throat again; It was a second
or two before she answered.
Doris, with the “property” baby In
her arms, walked beside Mr. Mackie.
She felt giddy.
“Miss Pennell, I want to give you
a hint, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh, please do,”
“I’m sorry to say the house is
rather noisy this afternoon. Now I
want you to take no notice of them
if they make a little noise during
your turn. Just chuck It at 'em. And
remember, it is Mr. Hemming whom
you have got to please.”
By this time they were on the stage
at the back of the scenery. The or
chestra was playing, hut above that
came a strange terrifying sound,
something like the beating of the sea
upon the share. Doris felt so weak
she could scarcely stand. Mr. Mackie
had his hand on her arm. Quite sud
denly he loosed it, said “Now!" very
sharply, opened a door quickly and
mysteriously disappeared.
As Doris stepped Into the hot glare,
tue murmur rose to a roar. Some
of the roar, she realized, was ap
plause. This acted as a slight spur.
Still, it was undoubtedly the cour
age of desperation which caused her
voice to be heard above the din. For
a moment, while she told the au
dience how Mr. Brown was drunk, as
usual, and how the falllff was In the
next room, there was utter stillnehs.
But when she staggered to the rude
pallet, as she called It, a great roar
of laughter broke out; It made Doris’s
blood boll. They should be
quiet, she told herself; she
would make them. She tried to put
her whole soul Into her words and
gestures.
When she toW the house how. to
save her husband from prison and her
home from the bailiff, she was going
to sell her only child, the laughter
and catcalls were deafening. Doris’s
anger evaporated; her agony and
shame were terrible to hear. The
thought of her friends who had come
specially to see her performance —
her brother and Mr. Hemming—was
an added sting.
She was In a glaring, hot Inferno,
enduring the moat horrible tortures
the brain of man* could devise.
Yet Doris kept on. not because she
defied the audience, but because Bhe
was too frightened to runaway.
When the motor horn sounded to
announce that the millionaire was
coming for the “baby", when Doris
passed the "baby" through the door
to someone and received a bag of
FRIDAY. JUNE 12.
that, maddened by ill-treatment, he
had received, a soldier named Meyer,
belonging to the 100th Grenadier Reg
iment, attacked a non-commissioned
officer with a hammer and killed him.
The murderer afterwards committed
suicide.
Last week an official inquiry was
held into the suicide some weeks ago
of two soldiers at Neuss, in Silesia,
after they had assaulted a general to
whom they were attached as orderlies.
The general had an extraordinary
habit of waking his orderlies in the
middle of the night by pouring buckets
of icey water over them. On this occa
sion the men resented his action while
they ywere ha.lf asleep, and when they
realized what they had dona they threw
themselves in front of a train. No
punishment is suggested for the gen
eral.
Suicide.
Yet Germany is apparently not the
only country where suicide is common
to the army. It appears that in 1905
no fewer than 144 cases of suicide oc
curred in the Russian army. In the
following year the number rose to 192.
Since then it steadily kept on growing,
being 210 in 1907, 242 in 1908, 263 in
1909, 268 in 1910, 347 in 1911, and 405
in 1912.
Within seven years, therefore, the
number of suicides increased about 150
per cent.
The first eight months of 1913 show
ed 377 cases of suicide and 189 cases of
attempts at suicide. Of the 277 cases
of suicide just mentioned, 72 occurred
among officers.
It has recently been calculated that
since 1870, the total number of sui
cides in the German army has amount
ed to 10.459, which makes about 240
cases per annum. In addition, there
yearly occur, on an average, in the
German army, from 130 to 150 at
tempts at suicide.
‘“gold” in exchange, the house rocked
with delight.
When thert was heard a loud crash
outside; and she, after loking through
the window, told the audience that
the car had run over and killed Mr.
Brown and the bailiff, so that her
sacrifice had been all in vain, the
house laughed until its sides ached.
Doris’s bonnet was all awry, the
perspiration had absorbed all the
powder from her face, her nose shone
lurilly. She staggered—this stagger
was not assumed—the front of the
stage, threw up her arms, and fell
“dead” with a loud shriek, scattering
the “g’old” coins as she did so. The
fall was natural —certainly not the
kind she had practiced so often.
There was a soft switching sound,
then a little thud, and then a mighty
roar mingled with cries of “ ‘core,
‘core.’ ”
Mr. Mackie picked up Doris and
carried her into the wings. *
The inspiration was his.
The curtain went up; the roar grew
louder.
“Go on and bow.”
“But ”
“Do as I tell you.”
Doris did as she was told. She
was half dazed. Mackie knew this.
Again the Insistent voice was say
ing, “Do as I tell you.”
And for a second time she faced
the horrible roar. Then she was be
ing led along the strange stone pas
sages again, back to the little room
she had left such a short time —or
was It years—ago, with such high
hopes.
Mr. Mackie switched on the- light,
shut the door, and gave her a chair.
"Miss Pennell, Mr. Hemming will
be here in a few minutes for an in
terview. He will offer you five
pounds a week; I advice you to ask
ten, then you’ll probably get seven.”
“You brute!” said Doris in a sort
of “‘stony calm” manner.
"Read this,” he said, handing her a
program.
Patricia Pennell, Comedienne.
"How dare you? Oh, if I could
only kill you!”
If Mackie had been less enamoured
with Doris, he would have laughed.
He badly wanted to. Her absurd
tragedy-queen air, her shiny red nose,
her face ilped with brown wrinkles,
and her rakish bonnet were so ludi
crous. But instead he said;
I was not I. It is a compositor's
error I suppose the poor fellow
could not realize that we were 'having
a tragedienne here, and so thought it
must be meant for commedienne. At
all events, It was a lucky mistake.”
Then Mackie talked straight to
Doris. He told her how her voice,
her features, her movements were ab.
eolutely suited to a commedienne. He
advised her to take her sketch on the
halls as a burlesque. Doris listened
as she cleaned her face and arranged
her hair.
“What! And make a mockery of all
that Is most gaored and heautiiul in
life?”
"Miss Pennell, there is nothing sa
cred or beautiful in the idea of a
mother selling her child no matter
what the cause. And In the case of
your sketch It seems to me so ab
surd as to he funny. The fact re
mains that you can either go on the
stage and do well, or make yourself
and me the laughing stock of trie
neighborhood.”
"You?” satd Doris.
"Yes, I shall get the sack It the
syndicate get to hear of It. But it
you call yourself Patsy Pennell, and
‘bn?*- dfte sketch as a burlesque, no
one will ever dream it was anything
else.”'
“Give me five minutes to think It
over, while I change my dress.
Mr. Mackie was a true prophet.
When he returned Mr. Hemming was
with him, with a strange twisted sort
of smile on hls cadaverous face.
"Delightful, delightful, Miss Pen
nell! Why, it made even me laugh.
Your brother. I am sorry to say. had
to leave before It wae over, to fulfill—
er —er a very Important engagement.
Now as to terms. I shall be pleased
to offer you a tour of thirteen weeks
at a salary of five pounds & week.
Why, what are you two laughing at?
It’m a fair offer. Isn’t It?”
But Doris stuck to her guns En
couraged by winks from Mackie shs
got her seven pounds a week.
“Oh, you dear thing!" she cried,
throwing her arms around Mackie’s
neck, as the agent’s footsteps t»
treated along the corridor. "How
clpver you were to think of it! Do
you think I shall soon be a star?