LOUISE SEEMS TO HAVE REACHED THE POINT WHERE SHE DIDN'T CARE WHAT HAPPENED TO HER— AND THEN JOHN STRANGEWEY CAME INTO HER LIFE .... - ■ - - - "" 1 — - Sy"op»i»— the Interest of John Strangewey and is in turn : -•--d ! i Thr.-«‘ months later John, on impulse, takes a train f--.- I. -i !• ;.-i immediately renews his acquaintance with Louise, lie :« bj h«-r friend. Sophy. n->t to be puritanical in his regard for Louise. CHAPTER VII. The first few minutes that John spent la Lou:»r'* little house were full of acuta and vivid interest. The room that he wu* so eagerly studying con ftrtasfl hi* cloudy impressions of its »»4a There was. for a woman's apartment, a curious absence of orna mentation and knickknacks. The walls were blu> k and white; the carpet was wrhite; the furniture graceful in its •atitnr rather heavy in build, and cov ered with old-row*- colored chints. There were water-colors ui*>n the wall. •oum- smull black-and-white fantasies, puzzling to John, who hud never even bear*] the term futurist. A table, drawn Cp to the side * if one of the easy chairs, waa covered with books and magazines, ■ome Italian, a few English, the great er part French; and upon a smaller woe. dose at hand, stood a white bowl full of pink roues. Their odor was aoeaehow reminiscent <>f L>uise. curi ouai; sweet and wholesome—an odor which suddenly took him back to the morning when she had come to him fro® under the canopy of apple-blos #o®. Hi* heart began to beat with pleasure even Iwfore the owning of •b# d »r announced h*-r presence. She came in with Sophy, who at once seat ed b erseif by his side. "We have lo a making plans." Lou ise dciartsl. “for (Us]M*sing of you for the rest Of the day." John smiled liuppily. “You re not sending ine away, then? You're not acting this evening?” "Not tin'll three weeks next Mon day." she replied. “Then, if you are good and the production is not post poned. you may *eat yourself in a box and make all the noise you like after the fall of »he curtain. These are real holidays for me. except for the nui latu'i- of rehearsals. You couldn't have come at a better time." Soph) glanced at the clock. “Well.'' she said. “1 must show my respect to that most ancient of adages bjr taking my departure. I feel—" “Yon will do nothing of the sort, child.” 1-ouise interrupted. “I want to Interest you in the evolution of Mr. •trangewey. We must remember that tt is hi* first night in lamdon. What aspect of it »!iall we attempt to show him? Don't s»y a word, Sophy. It is not for us to rh««o*e." “I'm afraid there isn't any choice." John declared his face falling. “I haven't any clothes except what you art- me in.” “Hooray!” Sophy exclaimed, “off with your smart gown. Louise! We'll be splendidly Bohemian. You shall put on your black frock and a black hat. and powder your nose, ami we'll all go to < 1 aide's first and drink vermuth. I can't look the part, hut I cuu act it!" “But tell me." Louise asked him. “did you lose your luggage?" “! brought none." lie answered. They both looked ut him—Sophy po tttely curious. Louise more deeply in “You mean." Louise demanded, “that a#>,-r waiting all these months you i> . rted away u[*>n impulse like that— without even letting your brother know or bringing any luggage?” “That's exactly what I did,” John agreed, smiling. “I hud a sovereign in tny pocket when I hud bought my tic! -t. The joke of It was.” he went on. joining in the girls' laughter, “that Mr Appleton has been worrying me for tnoulbs to come up and talk over reinvest meats, and take control of the money my uncle left me; und when I raaie at last. I arrived like a pauper. He went out himself and bought my ahirt." “And a very nice shirt, too." Sophy declared, glancing at the pattern. “Do tell us what else happened!” “Well, not much more.” John re plied “Mr Appleton stuffed me full of money and made me take a little Mltte of rooms at what he called a more fashionable hotel. He stayed to lunch with me. und I have promised to ««• film on business tomorrow morn ing." The two girls sat up und wiped their eye*. “Oh. this Is a wonderful adventure you have embarked upon!" Louise cx rlalmed. “Yon have come quite in the right sjiirit- It is your first night here, Mr. Strangewey. so 1 warn you that Sophy la the most irresponsible und capricious of all my friends." Sophy made a grimace. “Mr. Strangewey." she hogged ear nestly. “you won't believe a word she .aj„ will you? All my life I have n looking f«r « single and stead fast attachment. Of course. If Louise wants to monopolize you. I shall fall Into the background, as I usually do; but If y«« think thnt ! am going to uc t hint* and let you go out to dinner 'no you are very much mistaken. Tonight, at •“? «**• 1 ‘usist upon 001,1 ll* iJm! *><«* her head. *' , . .... *a mi trlfh hpr ’ Tlx* door of the room wus suddenly ' opened. The parlor maid stood at one i side. "The prince of Seyre. madam," she announced. Louise nodded. She was evidently expecting the visit. She turned to John. ■'Will you come hack and call for us here—say at seven o’clock? Mind, you ure not to bother about your clothes, but to come just us you are. I can’t tell you.” she added under her breath, "how much I am looking forward to our evening!” Sophy sprung to her feet. “Won’t yoa drop me, please. Mr. Strungewey?” she asked. "Then, if you will be so kind, you can pick me up aguiu on your way here. You’ll have T- ---■'Tfc-V. ‘Ti “We Shall Have to Put Up With Her," She Told John With a Little Grimace. ^ | to puss where I live, if you are at the Milan. I must go home and do my lit tle best to compete.” Louise's frown was so slight that even John failed to notice it. Upon the threshold they encountered the prince, who detained John for a mo ! meat. "I was hoping that I might meet you here. Mr. .Strangewey.” he said. “If , you are in town for long, it will give me great pleasure if I can be of any service to you. You are staying at a hotel?” I am staying at the Milan,” .John j replied. "I will do myself the pleasure of | • ■ailing U|»>n you.” the prince con tinued. “In the meantime, if you need . any service that u Londoner can offer | I you. he sure to let me know. You will | easily find my house in Grosvenor square." "It is very kind of you indeed,” John | said gratefully. Sophy made a wry face as the prihee entered the drawing-room. ‘'Didn't some old Homan once write something about being afraid of Greeks I who brought gifts?” she asked, as they ! descended the stairs together. "Quite right.” John assented. “Well, be cureful 1" she advised him. “That's all.” John handed Sophy into the taxi and took his place beside her. “Where shall I put you down?” he asked. "It’s such n terribly low neighbor ..I! However, it’s quite close to the Mllun—10 Southampton street.” John gave the address to the man, and they started off. They were blocked in a stream of traffic almost as soon as they reached Hyde Park Cor ner. John leaned forward all the time, immensely interested in the stream of passers-by. “Your interest in your fellow crea tures.” she murmured demurely, “is wonderful, hut couldn’t you concen trate it just a little?” He turned quickly around. She was smiling at him most alluringly. Un consciously ho found himself smiling hack again. A wonderful light-hearted ness seemed to have come to him dur 1 ing the lust few hours. “I suppose I am a perfect Idiot,” he i admitted. “I cannot help It. I am used | to seeing, at Hie most, three or four people together at a time. I can’t un derstand these crowds. Where are | they all going? Fancy every one of ' them having a home, every one of them struggling In some form or an other toward happiness!” “Do you know," she pronounced se verely. “for a young man of your age you are much too serious? I am quite sure you could he nice If you wanted to," she continued. “How much are you in love with Louise?" “How much am I what?” “In love with Louise?” she repeated. “All the men are. It is a perfect cult with them. And here am I, her humble MmtMinlnn nnH frlpnrt whRollltPlv npp "I don't believe you are neglected at all.” he replied. “You are much too—” lie turned his head to look at her. She was so close to him that their hats collided. He was profuse in his apolo gies. “Too what?” she whispered. "Too attractive,” he ventured. “It’s nice to hear you say so,” she sighed. She was unlike, any girl John had ever known. Her hair was almost golden, her eyes a distinct blue, j-et some trick of the mouth saved iter face from any suggestion of insipidity. She was looking straight into his eyes, and her lips were curled most invitingly. “I wish I knew more about certain things,” he said. “Oh. why didn’t you come before?” she exclaimed. “Fancy Louise ne'er telling me about you. I hope you’ll ask me to lunch some time.” “I’ll have a luncheon party tomor row. if you like—that is. If Louise will' come.” She looked up at hint quickly. “Isn’t Louise going to Paris?” she asked. “Paris? I didn’t hear her say any thing about It.” "Perhaps it is my mistake, then.” Sophy went on hastily. “I only fancied that I heard her say so.” There was a moment’s silence. John bad opened his lips to ask a question, but quickly closed them again. It was a question, he suddenly decided, which he had better nsk of Louise herself. “If Louise goes to Paris.” Sophy whispered disconsolately, “I suppose there will be no luncheon-party?” For a single moment he hesitated. She was very alluring, ami the chal lenge In her eyes was unmistakable. “I think.” he said quietly, “that if Miss Maurel goes to Paris, I shall re turn to Cumberland tomorrow.” For a time there was a significant silence. Then Sophy raised her veil once more and looked toward John. “Mr. Strangewey,” she began, “you won’t mind if I give you just a little word of advice? You are such a big. strong person, but you are ruther a child, you know, in some things.” "Ibis placeboes make me feel igno rant,” he admitted. i>on i idealize Jinyone here/* she begged. “Don’t concentrate all your hopes upon one object. Love is won derful and life is'wonderful, but there is only one life, and there are many loves before one reaches the end. Peo ple do such silly things sometimes,” she wound up, “just because of a little disappointment. There are many dis appointments to be met with here.” He took her hand in his. "Little girl," he said, “you are very good to me, mid I think you under stand. Are you going to let me feel that I have found a friend on my first evening in London?” “If you want me.” she answered sim ply. “I like you. and I want you to be happy here; and because I want you to be happy. I want you to come down from the clouds and remember that you have left your hills behind and that we walk on the pavements here.” “Thank you,” he whispered, “and thank you for what you have not said. If I am to find sorrow here instead of joy.” he added, a little grimly, “it Is better for me to stumble into the knowledge of it by myself." “Tour hills have taught you just that much of life, then?” Sophy murmured. The prince of Seyre handed his hat and stick to the parlor maid and seated himself upon the divan. “I should he very sorry,” he said po litely. as the maid left the room, “if my coming has hastened the departure of your visitors." “Not in the least." Louise assured him. “They were leaving when you were announced. Sophy and I are tak ing Mr. Strangewey to a Bohemian res taurant and a music hall afterward." “Fortunate Mr. Strangewey!" the prince sighed. “But, forgive me, why not a more dignified form of entertain ment for his first evening?” “The poor man has no clothes," Lou ise explained. “He came to Loudon quite unexpectedly." “No clothes?" the prince repeated. “It is a long Journey to take in such a fashion. A matter of urgent business, perhaps?” Louise had risen to her feet and was busy rearranging some roses in the bowl by her side. She crushed one of the roses to pieces suddenly In her hands and shook the petals from her long, nervous fingers. “Today,” she said, “this afternoon— now—you have come to me with some thing in your mind, something you wish to say, something you are not sure how to say. That is. you see, what Henri Graillot calls my intuition. Even you, who keep all your feelings under a mask, con conceal very little from me.” “My present feelings,” the prince de clared, “I do not wish to conceal. I would like you to know them. But as words are sometimes clumsy, I would like, if it were possible, to let you see into my heart.” She came over and seated herself by his side on the divan. She even laid her hand upon his arm. "Eugene,” she expostulated, “we are t-w old friends to talk always in veiled phrases. There is something you have to say to me. You are displeased be cause I have changed my mind—be cause I feel that I cannot take that lit tle journey of ours?” “You mean that you cannot now, or that you cannot at any time?” “I do not know,” she answered. “You ask me more than I can tell you. Some times life seems so stable, a thing one can make a little chart of and hang up on the wall, and put one’s finger here nnd there—‘Todny I will do this, tomorrow I will feel that’—and the ! in the fire. I wish I understood rny j self a little better, Eugene 1” “I believe that I understand you bet ! ter. fur better, than you understand | yourself,” he declared.* “That is why I also believe that I am necessary to you. I can prevent your making mis takes.” "Then prevent me,” she begged. “Something lias happened, and the ■ chart is in the fire today.” "You have only.” he said, “to give me this little hand, and I will draw out a fresh one which shall direct to the place in life which is best for you. It is not too late.” She rose from beside him and walked toward the fireplace, as if to touch the bell. He watched her with steady eyes but expressionless face. There was something curious about her walk. The spring had gone from her feet, her shoulders were a little hunched. It was the walk of a woman who goes toward < the things she fears. “Stop.'” he bade her. She turned and faced him. quickly, almost eagerly. There was a look in her face of the prisoner who finds re spite. “Leave the bell alone,” he directed. “My own plans are changed. I do not wish to leave London this week.” Her face was suddenly brilliant, her eyes shone. Something electric seemed to quiver through her frame. She al most danced hack to her place by his side. “How foolish 1” she murmured. “Why didn’t you say so at once?” “Because,” he replied, “they hnve only been changed during the last few seconds. I wanted to discover sorae ’ thing which I have discovered.” “To discover something?” “That my time has not yet come.” She turned away from him. She was oppressed with a sense almost of fear, a feeling that he was able to read the very thoughts forming in her brain; to understand, as no one else In the world could understand, the things that lived In her heart. “I must not keep you,” he remarked, glnnolng at the clock. “It was very late for me to call, and you will be wanting to join your friends." “They are coming here for me,” she explained. “There Is really no hurry at all. We are not changing anything. It is to be quite a simple evening. Sometimes I wish that you cared about things of that sort. Eugene.” He blew through his lips a little cloud of smoke from the cigarette which he had just lit. “I am not of the people," he said, “and I have no sympathy with them. I detest the bourgeoisie of every country in the world—my own more particu larly." If you only knew how strangely that sounds!” she murmured. “Does It?" he answered. “You should read my family history, read of the men and women of my race who were butchered at the hands of that drunk en. lustful mob whom lying historians have glorified. I ain one of those who do not forget injuries. My estates are administered more severely than any others in France. No penny of my money has ever been spent in charity. I neither forget nor forgive.” She laughed a little nervously. “What an unsympathetic person you can be. Eugene 1" “And for that very reason." he re plied. “I can be sympathetic. Because I hate some people. I have the power of loving others. Because it pleases me to deal severely with my enemies, it gives me joy to deal generously with my friends. That is my conception of life. May I wish you a pleasant eve ning?” “You are going now?” she asked, a iltrle surprised. “When shall I see you again?” “A telephone message from your maid, a line written with your own fin gers.” he said, “will bring me to you within a few minutes. If I hear noth ing. I may come uninvited, but it will be when the fancy takes me. Once more, Louise, a pleasant evening!" He passed out of the door, which the parlor maid was holding open for him. Crossing to the window, Louise watched him leave the house and enter his waiting automobile. He gave no sign of haste or disappointment. He lit another cigarette deliberately upon the pavement and gave his orders to the chauffeur with some care. As the car drove off without his hav ing once glanced up at the window, she 1- " T,I I ^ l “Eugene," She Expostulated, "We Are Too Old Friends to Talk Always in Veiled Phrases." shivered a little. There was a silence which, it seemed to her, could he more minatory even than accusation. CHAPTER VIII. The little room was gaudily decorat ed and redolent with the lingering odors of many dinners. Yet Louise, who had dined on the preceding eve ning at the Uitz and been bored, whose taste in food und environment was al most hypercritical, was perfectly happy. She found the cuisine und the Chianti excellent. “We are outstaying everyone else.” she declared; “and I don't even mind their awful legacy of tobacco smoke. I Do vou see that the waiter has brought fur a shock. It is fortunate that you are a millionaire!” John laughed as he paid the bill and ludicrously overtipped the wniter. “You are so convincing!” Sophy mur mured. “But remember that your fu ture entertainment is in the hands of two women, one of whom is a deserv ing but struggling young artist without the means of gratifying her expensive tastes.” “My children,” said Louise, rising, “we must remember that we are going to the Palace. It is quite time we started.” They made their way down two flights of narrow stairs into the street. The commissionnnire raised his whis tle to his lips, but Louise stopped him. “We will walk,” she suggested. “This way, Mr. Strangewey!” They passed down the long, narrow street, with its dingy foreign cafes and shops, scarcely one of which seemed to he English. The people who thronged the pavement were of a new race to John, swarthy, a little furtive, a class of foreigner seldom seen except in alien lands. Men and women in all stages of disliubille were leaning out of the windows or standing on the door steps. The girls whom they met occa sionally—young women of all ages, walking arm in arm, with shawls on their heads in place of hats—luughed openly in John's face. “Conquests everywhere he goes!” Louise sighed. “We shall never keep him. Sophy!” “We have him for this evening, at any rate,” Sophy replied contentedly; “and he hasn’t spent all his fortune yet. I am not at all sure that I shall not hint at supper when we cofue out of the Palace.” “A pity he fell into bad hands so quickly.” Louise laughed. “Here we are! Stalls, please, Mr. Millionaire. I wouldn’t be seen tonight in the seats of the mighty.” John risked a reproof, however, and was fortunate enough to find a disen gaged box. They devoted their atten tion to the show, Louise and Sophy at first with only a moderate amount of interest. John with the real enthusiasm of one to whom everything is new. His laughter was so hearty, his apprecia tion so sincere, that his companions found it infectious, and began to ap plaud everything. “The bioscope." Louise at last de cided firmly, "I refuse to have anything to do with. You have had all the en tertainment you are going to have this evening, Mr. Countryman." “Now for supper, then,” he proposed. “Luigi’s,” Sophy declared firmly. “The only place in London.” They drove toward the Strand. John looked around him with interest as they entered the restaurant. Luigi, who came forward to welcome Sophy, escorted them to one of the best tables. "You must be very nice to this gen tleman. Luigi.” she said. “He is a very great friend of mine. Just arrived in London. He has come up on purpose to see me, and we shall probably de cide to make this our favorite restau rant.” “I shall be valry happy,” Luigi de clared, with a bow. “I am beginning to regret. Mr. Strangewey, that I ever Introduced you to Sophy,” Louise remarked, as she sank back into her chair. “You won't believe that all my friends are as frivolous as this, will you?” "They aren't,” Sophy proclaimed con fidently. “I am the one person who succeeds in keeping Louise witli her feet upon the earth. She has never had supper here before. Dry biscuits, hot milk, and a volume of poems are her relaxation after the theater. She takes herself too seriously." - “I wonder if I do!” Louise mur mured, as she helped herself to caviar. She was suddenly pensive. Her eyes seemed to be looking out of the res taurant. Sophy was exchanging ameni- : ties with a little party of friends at the next table. “One must sometimes be serious.” John remarked, “or life would have no poise at all.” "I have a friend who scolds me,” she confided. “Sometimes he almost loses j patience with me. He declares that i my attitude toward life is too analyti- . cal. When happiness comes my way, I > shrink back. I keep my emotions in the background, while my brain works, dissecting, wondering, speculating. Per haps what he says is true. I believe that If one gets Into the habit of an alyzing too much, one loses all elas- j ticity of emotion, the capacity to recog- ; nlze and embrace the great things ; when they come.” “I think you have been right,” John j declared earnestly. “If the great things j come as they should come, ti. y are overwhelming, they will carry o you think it would contribute to the gnyety of tlie evening if I were to Join in the chorus of ‘You Made Me Love You,’ and Mr. Strangewey were to imitate the young gentleman at the next table and throw a roll, say. at the portly old gentleman with the highly polished shirt-front?” “You ought to be thankful all yout life that you have met me and that 1 am disposed to take an interest in you,” Sophy remarked, as she moved het chair a little nearer to John's. “I am quite sure that in a very short time you would have become—well, almost a prig. Providence has selected me tc work out your salvation." “Providence has been very kind, then,” John told her. “I hope you mean it,” she returned. “You ought to, if you only understood the importance of llght-heartedness.” John finds himself in love with the actress and discovers that he has a powerful rival in the prince of Seyre. (TO BE CONTINUED.) MON’S EFFECTS NOT KNOWN May Be Key to Sleep Walking and Kindred Disorders, Declares Writer in Medical Journal. All persons in all times have seen in intimate connection between the noon nnd fruitfulness, both animal md vegetable. “Even now,” says the New York Medical Journal, “the onions which 'ome to our city market owe their ex ■cllenee to the farmer’s caTeful con junction of planting time with the phases of the moon.” Such ideas have been so universal that man's unconscious mind still pre serves them, though his judgment may scorn them as absurd. Doctor Sadger of Vienna cites cases if somnambulists who “under the influ ence of moonlight are recalled to times md scenes of active childish wishes, rhe moon calls them in deep sleep to lot out dream wishes.” The Medical Journal suggests that the key to sleep walking nnd other kindred disorders of childhood and late life may be fotinJ In moon-lore. New Antirabies Vaccine. A vaccine against hydrophobia that ■teems to have many advantages over those of Pasteur, Calmette, Babes and nthers has been invented by Prof. Claudio Fermi, superintendent of the Institute of Hygiene. University of Sassaro, Italy, and has been adopted extensively in India. The London Lancet describes this serum-vaccine nnd says Prof. Fermi has had only one per cent of his patients die during treatment, and every one of those who completed the treatment was cured. Of the mad dogs he Inoculated all were National Waste. Five years of drumming into the public the tremendous wastes of fire carelessness has apparently had little effect. It probably will take a war such as the one into which the country is now plunged, with its measures of national economy, to correct wasteful ness which has cost millions in money and countless lives. The extent of this waste is presented graphically by the actuarial bureau of the National Board of Fire Underwriters, which has just completed an investigation of 500.000 fires in the United States. The report lays 21.4 per cent of the blazes to strictly preventable causes, 37.0 pet cent to partially preventable causes and 40.7 per cent to unknown causes, largely preventable. It is another il lustration of the notorious fact that America saves at the spigot and wastes at the bung. Fire prevention and food economy iu these days of na tional saving should go hand in hand —Exchange. Flagler's Dream Coming True. The announcement that n contract has been signed by the P. & O. 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Everything about the Inii*er*:il valley seems to have the drat* a tic quality; its story would make a g* l moving picture. In 1900 it was a Mi tering desert where a buzzard e*>u!d scarcely live. And then th*> govern ment harnessed the Colorado river anti the desert was veined with irrigating canals, and plowed and planted, and for the first time since the primordial floods subsided, a tint of green ami growing tilings spread over the val ley. Cotton arrived in 1906. It came in the shape of a box of seed under the seat of a farm wagon driven by a Texas homesteader. He asked they didn't raise cotton thereub and they said because it wouldn't - And so. being from Texas, wh. ' ■* something like Missouri, he plant*"! * little store of cottonseed, and ir up and opened its snowy bell® ’ ;>'e wonderment of all beholder*- ! urther more, the next year it ''am*‘ ul' anfl bore again without another planting. The Texan’s little cotton field spread like a drop of buffer on a hot pun. 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