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About The Augusta herald. (Augusta, Ga.) 1914-current | View Entire Issue (June 12, 1914)
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?
