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&r GEORGE BARR McCUTCflEON
Illustrations jhmy Walters
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CHAPTER XXIII—Continued.
—15—
“And I'm not so sure of that," said
•he. sagely. "It isn’t the way with
men. It may not have been love that
he felt for the physical Yvonne, but it
wasn't Matilde that he held in his
arms. You can't get around that, nor
«m he. Matilde's soul and Yvonne's
body are quite two different—”
"Gad, you are analyzing things!” he
exclaimed in amazement.
“But all this Is neither here nor
there," she said, flushing. “The point
Is this: we are going away tomorrow,
ft»r heaven knows how long—you and
I. my mother and your father. We
•re going to Vienna and in St. Ste
phen's cathedral—where your father
■nd mother were married with poor
Bttle Therese as one of the witnesses— '
is St. Stephen’s we are to be married.
She will not be there. She is not asked j
to come with us. She is barred out.
tan’t it the refinement of—cruelty?”
“Cruelty, Lydia? I'd hardly call It ;
that. It’s the order of destiny, or I
something of the sort. She gambled i
with fate and lost out. She’s a good
loser. She hasn’t squealed once."
"Squealed? I hate that word.”
“I hate squealer worse,” said he. I
“But seriously, it knocks me all out !
whenever I think of her. I've hesi- '
fated about speaking to father, dear. '
You see. I'm in rather a delicate posi |
don. Six weeks ago I was madly in- I
fatuated with Yvonne. I don’t deny !
It—and he knows all about it. Gad, I
I’d give ten years of my life if she !
were going along w ith us tomorrow. |
I'd give more than that to see this j
whole unhappy business patched up so
that they could start off anew. But
I'm afraid he wouldn't take it well
from me if I asked him to include her
in the—er—party. It's his affair, not
mine, you see. He'd be justified in
considering me selfish in the matter.
It might seem as though I didn't care
a hang for his personal feelings and—”
“She’s his wife, however," said j
Lydia, with a stubborn pursing of the !
lips. “She didn’t wrong him and, after j
all, she's only guilty of—well, she isn’t ;
guilty of anything except being a sis
ter of the girl he wronged.”
“I’ll have a talk with him if you
think best,” said he, an eager gleam in
bis eyes.
"And I with Yvonne,” she said
quickly. “You see, it's possible she is
the one to be persuaded.”
“He'll never ask her,” said Frederic, j
after a long period of reflection.
“What is to become of her?” asked i
Lijrnia, ratner meanly.
“I suppose she'll go away. It will
be the end.”
“I—I don’t think I could bear it.
Freddy,” she said, a trace of tears in
her voice.
He swallowed hard. Then he cleared
his throat briskly. "Of course you’ve
observed that they never see one an
other alone. They never meet except
when someone else is about. He rather
resents the high-handed way in which
she ordered him to stay away from me
wntil I was safely out of danger. He
has spoken of it to me, but, for the
fife of me I can't tell whether he holds
ft up against her or not. He says she
saved my life. He says she per
formed a miracle. But he has never
uttered a word of thanks or gratitude
or appreciation to her. I’m sure of
that, for she has told me so. And she
is satisfied to go without his thanks.
She lather likes him the better for the
way he treats the situation. There’s
■o hypocrisy about him. There’s no
use shamming. Lyddy.”
"I see what you mean." she said,
with a sigh. "I suppose we just can’t
understand things.”
"You've no idea how beautiful you
»re today, Lyddy,” he said suddenly,
and she looked up into Ills glowing
eyes with a smile of ineffable happi
ness. Her hand found his and her
warm, red lips were pressed to its
palm in a hot, impassioned kiss. “It’s
groat to be alive! Great!”
"Oh. it is," she cried, "it is!”
They might better have said that
it is great to be young, for that is
what it all came to in the analysis.
Later on Brood joined them in the
courtyard. He stood, with his hand
on his son’s shoulder, chatting care
lessly about the coming voyage, all
the while smiling upon the radiant
girl to whom he was promising para
dise. She adored the gentle, kindly
gleam in these one-time steady, steel
like eyes. His voice, too, of late was
pitched in a softer key and there was
the ring of happiness in its every
note. It was as if he had discovered
something in life that was constantly
surprising and pleasing him. He
seemed always to be venturing into
fresh fields of exploration and finding
there something that was of Inesti
mable value to his new estate. Every
day he was growing richer, happier—
and yet poorer when it came to self
appraisement. "All his life he had
hoarded the motives and designs that
applied to self. He had laid by a
great store of hard things for his old
age; they were being wrested from
him by this new force that had taken
possession of him and he saw how
illy he had invested his powers He
appraised himself very lowly and with
an ever-increasing shame. Rich, how
ever, was he in humility, conscience,
remorse; on these three treasures he
laid the foundation for his new for
tune.
He spoke of the morrow without the
faintest indication in his manner that
it was to bring a crisis in his own af
fairs. His brow was clear, his eye
sparkling, his serenity undisturbed
If there was a thought in his mind
of Yvonne he did not betray it by a
single outward manifestation. His in
terest was centered in the two young
people and their immediate future. It
would have been easy to believe, as
he stood there chatting gayly, that
there was no one else in all the world
so far as he was concerned. Quite
casually he expressed regret that poor
old Dawes and Riggs were to be left
behind, but of Yvonne not so much as
a word.
Lydia was something of a diploma
tist. She left father and son after a
few minutes, excusing herself on the
ground that she wished to have a good,
long chat with Yvonne. She did not
delay her departure, but hurried into
the house, having rather adroitly pro
vided Frederic with an opening for
an intercession in behalf of his lovely
stepmother. Her meaning glance was
not wasted on the young man.
He lpst no time in following up the
advantage. “See here, father, I don't
like the idea of leaving Yvonne out in
the cold, so to speak. It's—it's pretty
darned rough, don't you think? Down
in your heart you don't blame her for
what she started out to do, and after
all she's only human. Whatever hap
pened in the past we—well, it's all in
the past. She—”
Brood stopped him with an impera
tive gesture. “My son, I will try to
explain something to you. You may
be able to understand things better
than 1. 1 fell in love with her once
because an influence that was her own
overpowered me. There was some
thing of your mother in her. She ad
mits that to be true and I now believe
it. Well, that something—whatever it
was—is gone. It can never return.
She is not the same. Yvonne is The
rese. She is not the woman I loved
two months ago. She—”
“Nor am I the boy you hated two
months ago,” argued Frederic. “Isn't
there a parallel to be seen there, fa
ther? I am your son. She is your
wife. Y’ou—"
Aiieit? uever a nine • wueii i
really hated you, my son. 1 tried to—
but that is all over. We will not rake
up the ashes. As for my wife—well, I
have tried to hate her. It is impossible
for me to do so. She is a wonderful
woman. But you must understand on
the other hand that I do not love her.
I did when she looked at me with your
mother’s eyes and spoke to me with
your mother’s Ups. But—she is not
the same.”
“Give yourself a chance, dad.”
“A chance? What do you mean?”
“Just this: You will come to love
her for herself if only you will let go
of yourself. You are trying to be
hard. You—”
Again Brood interrupted. His face
had gone very pale and his eyes grew
dark with pain.
“You don't know what you are say
ing. Frederic. Let us discontinue the
subject."
“I want you to be happy—I want—”
“I shall be happy. I am happy. Have
I not found out the truth? Are you
not my beloved son? Are—”
“And who convinced you of all that,
sir? Who is responsible for your pres
ent happiness—and mine?”
"I know. I know,” exclaimed the fa
ther in some agitation.
“You’ll regret it all your life if you
fail her now, dad. Why, hang it all,
you're not an old man. You are less
than fifty. Your heart hasn't dried up
yet. Your blood is still hot. And she is
glorious. G^ve yourself a chance. You
know that she’s one woman in a mil
lion, and—she's yours! She has made
you happy—she can make you still
happier."
“No, I am not old. 1 am far younger
than I was fifteen years ago. That's
what I am afraid of—this youth I real
ly never possessed till now. If I gave
way to it now I’d—well, I would be
like putty in h^r hands. She could
go on laughing at me, trifling with me,
fooling me to—"
"She wouldn’t do that!" exclaimed
his son hotly.
“1 don't blame you for defending
her. It’s right that you should. L too.
defend her in a’way. You are forget
ting the one important condition, how
ever. She has a point of view of her
own, my son. She can never reconcile
herself to the position you would put
her in if I permitted you to persuade
me that—” /
“I can tell you one thing, father,
that you ought to know—if you are so
blind that you haven’t discovered it
for yourself. She loves you.”
“My son, you are dealing with a
graver mystery than you can possibly
suspect—the secret heart of a wom
an."
“Well, I’m sure of it, father—I am
absolutely sure of it.”
"You speak of giving myself a
chance. Why do you put it in that
way?”
“Because it’s the truth,” proclaimed
his son. "You’ve missed a good many
things, father, because you never gave
yourself a real, honest chance. I—”
“We’d better drop the subject, Fred
eric,’’ said Brood, an abrupt change in
his manner. “There is nothing more
to be said. Matters have shaped them
selves. We will not attempt to alter
them. I cannot reconstruct myself in
a day, my boy. And now, let us talk
of Lydia. She—”
“All right, but bear this in mind:
Lydia loves Yvonne, and she's heart
broken. Now we'll talk about her, if
you like.”
Lydia had as little success in her
rathet more tactful interview with
Yvonne. The incomprehensible crea
ture, comfortably ensconced in the
great library couch, idly blew rings of
smoke toward the ceiling and as idly
disposed of her future in so far as it
applied to the immediate situation.
“Thank you, dear. I am satisfied.
Everything has turned out as it should.
The wicked enchantress has been
foiled and virtue triumphs. Don’t be
unhappy on my account, Lydia. It will
not be easy to say good-by to you and
Frederic, but—la, la! What are we
to do? Now, please don't speak of it
again. Hearts are easily mended.
Ix)ok at my husband—ai—e! He has
had his heart made over from top to
bottom—in a rough crucible, it's true,
but it's as good as new, you'll admit,
in a way, I am made over, too. I am
happier than I’ve ever been in my life.
I'm in love with my husband, I'm in
love with you and Frederic and I am
more than ever in love with myself.
So there! Don't feel sorry for me. I
shall end my virtuous days in peace,
but I shall never sit-by-the-flre, my
dear. Tomorrow you will go away, all
of you. I shall have the supreme joy
of knowing that not one of you will
ever forget me or my deeds, good and
bad. Who knows! I am still young,
you know. Time has the chance to be
very kind to me before I die.”
That last observation lingered in
Lydia's mind. Hours afterward she
thought that she had solved its mean
ing and her heart was sore.
CHAPTER XXIV.
"I Cannot Come to Him.”
The next day came, bright and j
sweet, and as fair as a blue sky could j
make it for one who looked aloft. But i
eyes are not always turned toward
the unclouded sky. There are shadows
below that claim the vision and the
day is bleak.
The ship was to sail at noon.
At ten o’clock the farewells were be
ing said. There were tears and heart
aches—and there was fierce rebellion
in the hearts of two of the voyagers, j
Yvonne had declined to go to the pier j
to see them off and Brood was going •
away without a word to her about the
future! That was manifest to the
anxious, soul-tried watchers. In si- i
lence they made their way out to the
waiting automobile. As. Brood was 1
about to pass through the broad front
door, a resolute figure confronted him.
For a moment master and man stared j
hard into each other's eye#, and then,
as if obeying an inflexible command,
the former turned to glance backward
into the hallway. Yvonne was stand
ing in the library door.
‘Sahib!” said the Hindu, and there
was strange authority in his voice.
"Tell her, sahib. It is not so cruel to
tell her as it would be to go away with
out a word. She is waiting to be told :
that you do not want her to remain in
your home.”
Brood closed his eyes for a second,
and then strode quickly toward hi3
wife.
“Yvonne, they ail want me to take
you along with us,” he said, his voice
shaking with the pent-up emotion of
weeks.
She met his gaze calmly, almost se
renely. “But of course, it is quite
impossible,” she said. "I understand,
James.”
“It is not possible,” lie said, steady
ing his voice with an effort.
“That is why I thought it would be !
better to say good-by here and not at '
the pier. We must have some respect i
for appearances, you know.” She was !
absolutely unmoved.
He searched her eyes intently, look
ing for some sign of weakening on her
part. He did not know whether to feel
disappointed or angry at what he saw.
"I don't believe you would have gone
if I had—”
“You need not say it, James. You
did not ask me, and I have not asked
anything of you.”
“Before I go." he said nervously, “I
want to say this to you: I have no
feeling of resentment toward you. I
am able to look back upon what you
would have done without a single
thought of anger. You have stood by
me in time of trouble. I owe a great
deal to you, Yvonne. You will not
accept my gratitude—it would be a
farce to offer it to you under the cir
cumstances. But 1 want you to know'
that I am grateful. You—”
“Go on, please. This is the psycho
logical moment for you to say that
your home cannot be mine. I am ex
pecting it.”
He straightened up and his eyes
hardened. “I shall never say that to
you, Yvonne. You are my wife. I
shall expect you to remain my wife to
the very end.”
Now, for the first time, her eyes
flew open with surprise. A bewildered
expression came into them almost
at once. He had said the thing she
least expected. She put out her hand
to steady herself against the door.
“Do—do you mean that, James?”
she said wonderingly.
"You are my property. You are
bound to me. I do not intend that you
shall ever forget that, Yvonne. I
don’t believe you really love me, but
that is not the point. Other women
have not loved their husbands and yet
—yet they have been true and loyal
to them."
“You—you amaze me.” she cried,
watching his eyes with acute wonder
in her own. "Suppose that I should
refuse to abide by your—what shall I
call It?”
“Decision Is the word," he supplied
grimly.
"Well—what then?”
“You will abide by it, that’s all. I
am leaving you behind without the
slightest fear for the future. This is
your home. You will not abandon it."
"Have I said that I would?”
“No."
She drew herself up. “Well, I shall
now tell you what I intend to do—and
have intended to do ever since I dis
covered that I could think for myself
and not for Matilde. 1 intend to stay
here until you turn me out as unwor
thy. I love you, James. You may
leave me here feeling very sure of
that. I shall go on caring for you all
the rest of my life. 1 am not telling
you this in the hope that you will say
that you have a spark of love in your
soul for me. I don’t want you to say
it now, James. But as sure as there
is a God above us you will say it to me
one day, and I will be justified in my
own heart.”
“I have loved you. There was never
in this world anything like the love 1
had for you—I know it now. It was
not Matilde I loved when I held you
in my arms. I know it now for the
first time. I am a man. 1 loved you—
I loved your body, your soul—”
“Knough!" she cried out sharply. “I
was playing at love then. Now I love
in earnest. You’ve never known love
such as I can really give. I know you
well, too You love nobly—and with
out end. Of late I have come to be
lieve that Matilde could have won out
against your—your folly if she had
been stronger, less conscious of the
pain she felt. If she had stood her
ground—here, against you, you would
have been conquered. But she did not
have the strength to stand and fight
as I would have fought. Today I love
my sister none the less, but I no
longer fight to avenge her wrongs. I
am here to fight for myself. You may
go away thinking that I am a traitor
to her, but you will take with you the
conviction that I am honest, and that
is the foundation for my claim against
you."
"I know you are not a traitor to her
cause. You are its lifelong supporter.
You have done more for Matilde
than—”
“Than Matilde could h^ve done for
herself? Isn't that true? I have forced
you to confess that you loved her for
twenty-five years with ail your soul.
I have done my duty for her. Now I
am beginning to take myself into ac
“Everything Has Turned Out as It
Should.”
count. Some day we shall meet again
and—well, it will not be disloyalty to
Matilde that moves you to say that
you love me. 1 shall not stay out of
your life forever. It is your destiny
and mine, James. We are mortals,
flesh and blood mortals, and we have
been a great deal to each other.”
He was silent for a long time. When
at last he spoke his voice was full of
gentleness. "I do not love you,
Yvonne. I cannot allow you to look
forward to the—the happy ending that
you picture so vividly in your imagi
nation. You say that you love me.
I shall give you the opportunity to
prove it to yourself if not to me.
When I came back to you a moment
ago it was to tell you that I expect you
to be here—in this house—when 1
return in a year—perhaps two years.
I came bark to put it to you as a
command. You are more than my
wife. You are my prisoner. You are
to pay a penalty as any convicted
wrongdoer would pay if condemned
by law. I order you, Therese, to re
main in this house until I come to set
you free.”
She stared at him for a moment and
then an odd smile came into her eyes.
■‘A prisoner serving her time? Is that
it, my husband?”
“If you are here when I return 1
shall have reason to believe that your
love is real, that it is good and true
and enduring. 1 am afraid of you now.
I do not trust you.”
Her eyes flashed ominously. She
started to say something, but refrained,
closing her lips tightly.
“You used the word prisoner,” Brood
resumed levelly. "Of course you un
derstand that it is voluntary on your
part.”
“For a year—or a year and a half,
that’s what it will come to,” she
mused. "I am to stay in this house
all that time?”
"Within these four walls.” said he
and his face was very white.
"Is that your sentence?”
“Call it that if you like, Therese.”
“Do you mean that I am not to
put foot outside of these premises?"
she asked, wide-eyed. He nodded his
head. “My keepers? Wno are they
to be? The old men of the sea—”
"Your keeper will be the thing you
call Love,” said he.
“Do you expect me to submit to
this—”
He held up his hand. “I expect you
to remain here until I return, Therese.
I did not intend to impose this condi
tion upon you by word of mouth. I
was going away without a word, but
you would have received from Mr.
Dawes a sealed envelope as soon as
the ship sailed. It contains this ver
dict in writing.. He w ill hand it to you,
of course, but now that you know the
contents it will not be necesary to—"
“And when you do come back am
I to hope for something more than
your pardon and a release?” she cried,
with fine irony in her voice.
“I will not promise anything," said
he, slowly.
She drew a long breath and there
was the light of triumph in her eyes.
Laying her slim hand on his arm, she
said: “I am content, James. I am sure
of you now. You will find me here
when you choose to come back, be It
in one year or twenty. Now go, my
man! They are waiting for you. Be
kind to them, poor souls, and tell them
all that you have just told me. It will
make them happy. They love me, you
see.”
“Yes, they do love you,” said he, put
ting his hands upon her shoulders.
They smiled into each other's eyes.
"Good-by, Therese. I will return.”
“Good-by, James. No, do not kiss
me. It would be mockery. Good luck
and—God speed you home again"
Their hands met in a warm, firm clasp.
“I will go with you as far as the door
of my prison.”
From the open door she smiled out
upon the young people in the motor
and waved her handkerchief in gay
farewell. Then she closed the door
and walked slowly down the hallway
to the big library. She was alone in
the house save for the servants. The
old men had preceded the voyagers to
the pier. Standing in the center of
the room, she surveyed this particular
cell in her prison with a sort of calm
disclaim
“He has taken the only way to con
quer himself,” she mused, half aloud.
“He is a wise man—a very wise man.
I might have expected this of him.”
She pulled the bell cord, and Jones,
who had just re-entered the house,
came at once to the room.
“Yes, madam.”
“When Mr. Dawes and Mr. Riggs re
turn from the ship, tell them that I
shall expect them to have luncheon
with me. That's all, thank you.”
“Yes, madam.”
“By the way, Jones, you may always
set the table for three.”
Jones blinked. It was a most un
usual order. He had been trying to
screw up his courage to inquire what
his mistress’ plans were for the im
mediate future—whether she intended
to travel, should he dismiss the serv
ants, would she spend the heated term
in the mountains, etc., etc. He, as
well as the rest of the servants, won
dered why the master's wife had been
left behind. Her instructions, there
fore, to lay three places at the table
took him completely by surprise—
“knocked the breath out of him," as
he expressed it to the cook a few min
utes later. She had never been known
to take a meal with the garrulous old
men. They bored her to distraction,
according to Celeste. And now he was
to lay places for them—always! It
was most extr’ordernary!
A cold, blustery night in January,
six months after the beginning of
Yvonne's voluntary servitude in the
prison to which her husband had com
mitted her. In the big library, before
a roaring fire sat the two old men,
very rtiuch as they had sat on the De
cember night that heralded the ap
proach of the new mistress of the
house of Brood, except that on this
occasion they were eminently sober.
On the corner of the table lay a long,
yellow envelope—a cablegram ad
dressed to Mrs. James Brood.
“It’s been here for two hours and
she don't even think of opening it to
see what's inside.” complained Mr.
Riggs, but entirely without reproach.
“It's her business, Joe," said Mr.
Dawes, pulling hard at his cigar.
“Maybe some one’s dead," said Mr.
Riggs, dolorously.
“Like as not,” said his friend, “but
what of it?”
“What of it, you infernal—but, ex
cuse me. Danbury, I won't say it. It’s
against the rules, God bless 'em. But
I will say that if anybody else had
asked that question I'd say he was a
blithering, unnatural fool. If any
body's dead, she ought to know it.”
“But supposing nobody is dead,"
protested Mr. Dawes.
“There’s no use arguing with you.”
“She'll read it when she gets good
and ready. At present she prefers to
read the letters that just came from
Freddy and Lyddy. What’s a cable
gram compared to the kind of letters
they write? Answer me, Joe.”
“Foolish questions like that—”
“Haven't you had letters from them?
You’ve been tickled to death over their
happiness and their prospects and—’’
"That doesn’t prove that they’re not
dead or dying or in trouble or—”
Maybe it s from Jim,” said his
friend, a wistful look in his blear old
eyes.
“I—I hope it is, by gee!” exclaimed
the other, and then they got up and
went over to examine the envelope
for the tenth time. “I wish he'd tele
graph or write or do something, Dan.
She's never had a line from him
Maybe this is something at last."
"What puzzles me is that she always
seems disappointed when there's noth
ing in the post from him, and here’*
a cablegram that might be the very
thing she's looking for and she pays
no attention to it. It certainly beats
me.”
"You know what puzzles me more
than anything else? I've said it a
hundred times She never goes outside
this house—except in the garden—day
or night. You'd think she was an in
valid—or afraid of detectives or some
thing like that. God knows she ain’t
a sick woman. I never saw a healthier
one. Rain or shine, winter or summer
she walks up and down that courtyard
till you'd think she'd wear a path in
the stones. Kats like a soldier, laughs
like a kid, and I'll bet she sleeps like
one, she’s so fresh and bright-eyed in
the morning.”
“Well, I’ve got this to say, Joe
Riggs: she has been uncommonly de
cent to you after the way you used
to treat her when she first came here
She's made you feel everlastingly
ashamed of your idiotic behavior—”
“I beg your pardon, Danbury.” ex
claimed Mr. Riggs, striking the table
with his bony knuckles so violently
that the books and magazines bounced
into the air. “Don't you ever say any
thing like that again to me. It's
against the rules for me to call you a
scoundrelly liar or I'd do it in a sec
ond."
“For your sake, sir. I'm glad it's
against the rules,” said Mr. Dawes,
fiercely. “I'm mighty glad.”
Mr. Riggs allowed a sheepish grin
to steal over his wrinkled visage. “I
apologize, Danbury.”
“And so do I,” said his friend, where
upon they shook hands with great cor
diality—as they did at least a dozen
times a day since the beginning of the
new regime.
'She’s the finest, loveliest woman on
earth,” said Mr. Riggs.
“I never knew 1 could be so happy
as I’vje been during the past six
months. Why, this (louse is like a bird
cage filled with canaries 1 some
times feel like singing my head off—
and as for whistling! I haven't whis
tled for years till now. I—”
“Sh!" hissed Mr. Riggs, suddenly
backing away from the table and try
ing to affect an unconcerned examina
tion of a worn spot in the rug.
Mrs. Brood was descending the i
stairs, lightly, eagerly. In another in- !
stant she entered the room.
“How nice the fire looks,” she cried, j
crossing the room. Never had she ;
been more radiantly, seductively beau
tiful than at this very instant. “My
cablegram—where is it?”
The old men made a simultaneous
dash for the long-neglected envelope.
Mr. Dawes, being fat and aggressive,
succeeded in being the first to clutch
it in his eager fingers.
"Better read it, Mrs. Brood,” he
panted, thrusting it into her hand.
“Maybe it’s bad news.”
She regarded him with one of her
most mysterious smiles. “No. my
friend, it is not bad news. It is good
news. It is from my husband.”
“But you haven’t read it.” gasped
Mr. Riggs.
“Ah, but I know, just the same.” She
deliberately slit the envelope with a
slim finger and held it out to them.
"Read it if you like.”
They solemnly shook their heads,
too amazed for words. She unfolded
the sheet and sent her eyes swiftly
over the printed contents. Then, to
their further stupefaction she pressed
the bit of paper to her red lips Her
eyes flashed like diamonds.
“Listen! Here is what it says:
‘Come 'by the first steamer. I want
you to come to me. Therese.’ And see!
It is signed ‘Your husband.’ ’’
“Hurray!” shouted the two old men
“But,” she said, shaking her head
slowly, “I shall not obey.”
“What! You—you won’t go?’
gasped Mr. Riggs.
“No!’’ she cried, the ring of tri
umph in her voice. She suddenly
clapped her hands to her breast and
uttered a long, deep sigh of joy. "No.
I shall not go to him.”
The old men stared helplessly while
she sank luxuriously into a chair and
stuck her little feet out to the fire.
They felt their knees grow weak un
der the weight of their suddenly inert
bodies.
“But, Mrs. Brood, he wants you!”
came almost in a groan from the lips
of Mr. Riggs.
She lighted a cigarette. “If he wants
me, Mr. Higgs, let him come and get
me,” she said sending a iong cloud of
smoke toward the celling as she lay
back in the chair and crossed her
feet in absolute, utter contentment
“He will come, my dear old friends—
oh, I am sure that he will come.”
“You—you don’t know him, Mrs
Brood,” lamented Mr. Dawes. He’s
made of steel. He—”
“He will come and unlock the door.
Mr. Dawes,” said she, serenely. “He is
also made of flesh and blood. Th-*
steel you speak of was in his heart It
has been withdrawn at last. My friends,
he will come and get me—very soon.
Ring for Jones, please.”
“Wha—what are you going to do?’
Mr. Dawes had the temerity to ask.
“Send a cablegram to my husband
saying—” S’ paused <fto smile at the
flaming logs, a sweet, rapturous smile
that neither of the old men could com
preheud.
“Saying—what?” demanded Mr.
Riggs, auxiously.
“That I cannot come to him,” she
said, as she stretched out her arms
toward the east.
THE END
First English Medals Issued.
Medals as decorations for military
service were first issued in England
by Charles 1 in 1643.
EFFECTIVE WAY TO TEACH
Indirect Method and Concrete Example
Alike Praised by Writer in
; Magazine.
The Indirect method and the con
crete example are the most effective
ways to teach, according to a writer in
Leslie’s The girls' canning clubs, or
ganized throughout the South by the
genera! education board, co-operating
with the federal department of agri
culture, have not only taught thou
sands of girls how to can scientifically,
but have indirectly opened the eyes of
as many mothers to the possibilities of
home system and home development,
and have exerted strong and helpful
social influences on hundreds of farm
ing communities. The method has been
to assign to each girl joining a can
ning club one-tenth of an acre, and
to teach her how to select the seed,
to' plant, cultivate and perfect the
growth of the tomato plant. When the
tomatoes are ripe, the girls meet first
at one home, then at another, to can
the product. Everything is done in
the most up-to-date style, and the girls
are taught the necessity of scrupulous
cleanliness and sterilization. Canning
club day becomes an occasion of social
importance in which all of the family
are Included, so that indirectly the
clubs have helped to awaken a com
munity social spirit There has been
financial profit, as well as practical in
struction and social pleasure. The
average profit made by girls reporting
in 12 states was $21.98. In the four
years the canning clubs have been in
operation the number of girls has in
creased from 325 to 30,000, and the ap
propriation of the general education
board has advanced from $5,000 to
$75,000. The board has spent no money
anywhere that has secured better or
more far-reaching results.
The Old Wheeze.
The world is eternally plagued by a
class of estimable people who dread
the new. Their instinct is to club it
over the head. Since that primitive
implement went out of fashion they
have carried an antique flintlock pis
tol known as an old wheeze. With
this they take deliberate aim and the
noise which follows is: "Of course
there is some truth in what you say.
but you can never change human na
ture.” Now while old campaigners
like Columbus, Darw’in, Cromwell and
Giordano Bruno could view this weap
on with equanimity, it did often terrify
amateur rebels into silence, until one
bolder than the rest looked unflinch
ingly into the bore. The reward of
his courage was this damaging discov
ery: The Old Wheeze is loaded with 1
nothing but blank cartridges.—Sey
mour Deming, in Atlantic Monthly.
---- ]
Immutability.
In a field that I passed there was
unearthed, not long ago, the great ]
country grange of a Roman settler, |
with its refectory, its little cloistered
court, it3 baths and chambers, and
storehouses. And it may all last on
hardly changing, for another thousand
years, or longer still.—A. C. Benson
in the North American Review. ,
II GROWTH OF „
WESTERN CANADA
Increase in Railway Mi eage,
School Attendance and *
Population.
Some idea of the extent of railway
construction in Western Canada can
be derived from the fact that the rail
way mileage In the Province of Al
berta has been doubled in three- years
The present mileage is 4,097. In all
of the settled districts there Is ample
railway privileges. The rates are gov
erned by a Dominion Railway Commis
sion, and in the exercise of their pow
ers they not only control the rates,
giving fair equality to both railway
and shipper, but form a court to hear
complaints of any who may desire to
lodge the same.
In the matter of education no better
instance of the advancement that is
taking place can be given than that
found in the information to hand that
attendance at the University of Al
berta has increased 1,000 per cent In
five years, and is now thoroughly rep
resentative of all settled portions of
the Province. The students in attend
ance are from sixty-one distinct dis
tricts.
Then as to the prosperity which fol
lows residence in Western Canada, J.
E. Edward of Blackie. Alta., gives v
splendid testimony. He writes, ‘ In .
the spring of 1907 1 first came to this -I
locality from the State of Iowa, Cass
County, and located on a quarter sec
tion of land near Blackie. Since com
ing here I have been engaged in mixed
farming, which I have found to be
more profitable than where I forme-!-.
lived. On coming here my worldly
holdings were small besides having a
family to care for. I now own three
quarter sections, sixty head of cattle,
twenty head of horses and forty head
of hogs, without encumbrance
“During the seven years I have not
had a crop fail. My best crop of oats .
averaged ninety bushels per acr°. with
a general yield of thirty-five bushels
and upward. My best wheat crop aver
aged forty-three bushels per acre
When I have had smaller yields per
acre I have found that It has been
due to improper cultivation. The win
ters here, although at times the w eath
er Is cold, I find as a whole are very
agreeable. The summers are warn
but not sultry. The summer nights
are cool and one is always assured ot
a good night's rest. My health ha?
been much better, as 1 do not suffer
from catarrh since coming here I
have no land for sale, and am not
wishing to make any change, bui
would be pleased to answer any en
quiries concerning this locality.”—Ad
vertlsement.
DANGER IN CLOSE ALLIANCES
Investigation Has Shown That Cance
ls Most Probable When Cousins
Are Wedded.
Speaking of the possible hereditary
tendency to cancer. Dr. Charles B.
Davenport of the eugenics laboratry
at Cold Spring Harbor, N. Y . says
of the fact that the incidence of cancer
is highest in Maine: "I have no doubt
that this is due to the presence of one
or more races in Maine which are non
immune to cancer."
Doctor Davenport's studies ‘ indicat
that resistance to cancer is a posit.ve
(dominant) trait and that nonresist
ance appears in children only whe:
both parents belong to a nonresistan
race. And this result is communes*
other things being equal, where cou
marriages are commonest, becaus
that makes It probable that is c::e
parent belongs to a cancer race. t.i-»
other—the cousin—will belong to the
same cancer race. Now, in rura.
Maine cousin marriages are extrem
frequent, especially in the islands
the coast, and here we have the c« :.
ditions for the result—the high ::.
dence of numbers of the cancer ra *
in an inbred community."
HANDS LIKE VELVET
Kept So by Daily Use of Cuticun
Soap and Ointment. Trial Free.
On retiring soak hands in hot Cut;
cura soapsuds, dry and nib the 0:at
ment into the hands some minutes
Wear bandage or old gloves during
night. This is a "one night treat
ment for red, rough, chapped and
sore hands." It works wonders.
Sample each free by mail with 33-p.
Skin Book. Address Cuticura. Dept.
XY, Boston. Sold everywhere.—Adv. ^
Practice Makes Perfect.
An ex-corporal of the regular arm>
wanted a job in the park spearing bus
of paper and other debris with a sliu ,
stick.
"Do I have to take a civil eerrice
examination?" he asked the district
leader.
"I guess not," said the man of inti,
ence. "Just bring me a letter from
your captain stating that you are pro
Sclent in bayonet drill. That ought
to convince the commissioner that
you’re qualified for the job.
Two Vegetables.
Dicer—Isn’t there another vegetable
:hat goes with this beef besides potu
:o?
Waiter—Yes, sir—there’s borserai
sh.
The idea.
“How was it that Hamfat was
jueering the act?”
“I believe it was by act: • ^
lueer.”
Smile, smile, beautiful clear white
lothes. Red Cross Ball Blue, American
nade, therefore best. All grocers. Adv.
When a married man disappears hu
■elatives drag the river But the do
ectives look for his “lady friend.
Drink Denison’s Coffee.
Always pure and delicious.
The rule is that those who sha
hemselves hear less baseball.
#
