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## "The Business . . . Is Undramatic"

MUCH as I like Mr. Roosevelt, I am glad he is not to raise an army.

He would unquestionably put thrill and glamour and picturesqueness into the war: but thrill and glamour and picturesqueness are just the qualities that I want to see taken away from war.

"The business in hand," said the President, in refusing the Roosevelt division, "is undramatic."

Never before has war had that word applied to it.

Always peoples have entered on war with bands playing, and red fire, and fervid speeches, and cries of "Remember the Maine," or "Fifty-four Forty or Fight," or "On to Canada," or "On to Paris."

They have been thrilled by the spectacle of heroes leaping to their nation's call.

This war, so far as possible, is to be divested of heroics. Men will not leap to arms; they will be assigned to arms. Troops will be sent quietly away in the night. We shall see nothing of the fabled glory of war: only the somberness of war—the hard, drab, unpleasant necessity.

We shall fight efficiently, but it will be the fight of men who do a bitter duty with solemn hearts.

And, going into war in this spirit, we shall have struck a blow against war.

It is the reproach of historians [says John Richard Green] that they have often turned history into a mere record of butchery of men by their fellow men.

If that is true,—if the wars of the nations have been allowed to overshadow everything else in history,—it is because men have been taught to believe that war is glorious, and the achievements of peace prosaic.

To this war we are assigning men as if they were assigned to jury service or to mending the State highways. We are reducing glamour to a minimum. It is a business undramatic.

I have read many of the books that have been written in extenuation of war.

I have read John Ruskin, who says:

The common notion that peace and the virtues of civil life flourish together I have found to be wholly untenable. Peace and the vices of civil life only flourish together.

And again:

All healthy men like fighting and like the sense of danger. All brave women like to hear of their fighting and of their facing danger.

And still again:

No great art ever rose on earth but among a nation of soldiers.

We shall doubtless hear much talk of this kind in the months to come: I mean to oppose such talk at every opportunity.

I believe the present war was forced upon us; and that, being in, it, is our duty to push it, with every ounce of energy in us, to a speedy and successful end.

But that war itself is either beneficial or glorious I deny.

I agree with Seeley that "the Roman Empire perished for lack of men."

Marius and Cinna had slain the aristocrats: Sulla had slain the democrats. And when there were none left but cowards and slaves to breed sons for Rome, the barbarians overwhelmed and destroyed them.

I believe that one reason England has grown so great is because she has managed to avoid serious losses of men in most of the wars of the Continent. While Europe was bleeding, her people were busy attending to their business at home.

The Civil War spread its hateful shadow over our public life for a quarter of a century. No man could run for office unless he wore a uniform: there was no argument but the bloody shirt.

We want no such after-math following this war.

We shall do our greatest service to America and to civilization if we fight, so far as possible, without hate. If, while bending every energy to winning this war, we keep alive in our hearts a horror of all wars.

If we do not allow ourselves to forget for a single instant that, through the undramatic business of war, we are fighting for the glories and the blessings of universal peace.

Bruce Barton, Editor.

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## WHY MONOGAMY IS STILL POPULAR

THIS page of pictures explains many things. Why monogamy, as an institution, is still going strong. Why each man sees his own wife as the most beautiful woman in the world. Why all men do not fall in love with the same woman.

For, behold, Laurette Taylor went forth to the studios of six famous artists. The first one looked at her and drew her picture: the second—looking at the same girl—saw a different girl, and changed the picture. The third likewise, and the fourth, and the fifth, and the sixth.

Here—on the right—is the finished portrait of Miss Taylor, representing the combined work of all the six. Look at it. But first look at the five smaller portraits below: see how each of the trained pairs of eyes caught a little different charm. To each one of them she looked different from any other girl in the world: yet no two of them saw her alike.

Never remark again that you "can't understand what Jones ever saw in his wife." You never will understand. It's one of the blessed provisions of nature, that each man must see the world—and the women of it—through his own pair of eyes.

[illustration]

Here, then, is Laurette as Alonzo Kimball saw her—charming, a bit illusive, perhaps a trifle reserved.

[illustration]

Howard Chandler Christy took the pencil next; and, behold, it is the same Laurette, yet with a touch that marks always the Christy girl.

[illustration]

Then Penrhyn Stanlaws. And there's an expression in the eyes that wasn't there before. The same girl—but—

[illustration]

And C. Allan Gilbert saw her thus—with her hair all fluffy. It's Laurette all right, but compare her with Alonzo's Laurette.

[illustration]

Clarence Underwood began rubbing out the picture when it reached his hands. His eyes saw the girl above.

[illustration]

And here she is, with the final touch of Everett Shinn. The composite girl whom Alonzo Kimball and Howard Chandler Christy and Penrhyn Stanlaws, and C. Allan Gilbert and Clarence Underwood and Everett Shinn all saw—yet different from the girl seen by any one of them.

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## TIME TO GO TO NEWPORT

By FREDERICK ORIN BARTLETT

Illustrations by George E. Wolfe

THERE were, in the life of Carl Wetmore Carroll, many matters of fact which as prosaic truths he would not have attempted to deny, but which played such a remote and unimportant part in his consciousness that he had no especial reason for recognizing them. For instance, he would not have disputed with any one the bald statement that New York as a city continued to exist during the summer months,—indeed, he had the evidence forced upon him by the necessity of occasionally addressing letters there to his lawyers,—but he could also maintain that he had no first-hand information on the subject, because he had never been in town later than June. He always departed before then for Newport.

He held the same mental attitude toward Newport in winter. He left it each year in October, and found it when he came back the following June, and so presumed that it remained where it was during the cold months, although if called upon to testify under oath he would have been obliged to refuse to commit himself.

He understood, of course, that various unfortunate persons remained in both places out of season, just as he understood. whenever he crossed the ocean that various persons remained down in the hold, busy with the job of making the ship goó although, as far as he personally was concerned, the ship just went of its own accord.

When, therefore, Carroll, on the eighth day of July, found himself in town, it was something in the nature of a mild adventure—like a visit to a foreign city. It was, in fact, the culmination of a series of mild adventures which had had their beginning shortly after the holidays of the preceding winter. It had been an unusually gay season for both him and his wife, though more particularly for his wife; and doubtless the reaction that followed was altogether normal, although it may be stretching the point somewhat to class Courtney Benton as merely a psychological consequence. He was rather too big and good-looking. Still, it was at about this time that he began to make himself manifest.

Carroll himself did not care a great deal about auction and thé dansants and formal dinners. Considering the fact that he had been handicapped all his life with too much money, he was a peculiarly quiet fellow—quiet and wonderfully decent. It is no weakling's task to use the income from ten millions and reach the age of twenty- four with a clean record. But this much he had accomplished, if he had not accomplished much else. He was slight and wiry, with an earnest face and direct black eyes. He played a good game of golf, and at his clubs sat around with the older men. After his marriage he took quite an extraordinary interest in his home on West Sixtieth Street, which he remodeled for his bride along his own and her ideas.

RETURNING to the house late one night in January and finding his wife still out, Carroll, instead of retiring to his room as was his custom, proceeded to the library and settled down before the open fire to wait for her. He knew she had gone to a dance at the Rantouls', and that in all probability Benton would escort her home. There was nothing unusual about this. Perhaps that was the trouble. And yet, he could in no way blame her. He was not blaming her. He was blaming himself unreservedly. Only—the thing could not go on. He had been overhearing some ugly stories lately that were not fair to any one concerned. So, quietly and by himself, as he always did, he made his decision.

At half past two he heard a machine

[illustration]

"Beneath the overhead light the red in her brown hair came out. Her cheeks were slightly flushed and her mouth a trifle tense as she came toward her husband."

stop in front of the house, and soon after caught, in spite of himself, the low murmur of voices in the hall below. Five minutes passed, and then she came upstairs, Annette gliding from some hidden corner to greet her mistress.

At this point Carroll rose and came to the door.

"Can't you come in a moment?" he asked.

She looked very beautiful as she leaned against the dark oak banister, with her evening cloak slipping from one bare shoulder. Beneath the overhead light the red in her brown hair came out, and her dark brows and lashes appeared still darker. Her cheeks were slightly flushed and her fine mouth a trifle tense.

I'm very tired, Carl," she answered.

"I won't keep you long."

As she stepped forward toward the library, Annette reached for her cape; but Madame shook her head.

"It seems cold here. I'll keep it on."

Carroll drew a chair close to the flames for her, and she sank down, leaning her head on her hand. She really did look tired.

He stood just the other side of the fire, feeling a good deal of a brute for his insistence. But he was not sure when he might be able to see her alone again; her days were very full.

When finally he spoke, it was with deliberation and an evident desire not to worry her any more than was necessary.

"Helen," he said, "I'm rather afraid I'm getting on your nerves."

She thought a moment, and answered:

"What makes you think so, Carl?"

"Because, under the circumstances, it seems to me inevitable that I should."

She raised her brows.

"Under the circumstances?" she repeated.

"We may as well be frank," he continued—"especially as no one in particular is to blame. Let's see—we've been married a little over two years, haven't we?"

She was able to be more precise.

"Two years the fifteenth of last month," she nodded.

"From your point of view, has the venture been a success?" he asked.

She sat up a little at that, studied his face for a moment, and then leaned forward, holding out her hands to the flames.

"At least, we haven't made a mess of it," she ventured.

"You mean—"

"I mean no more than I say," he cut in quickly. "I want very much not to mean any more than I say. That's why I thought we ought to talk it over right now."

"If you're referring to Courtney—" she began.

"There isn't any need of mentioning names, is there?" he interrupted. "After all, the concrete facts are nothing but symptoms of the deeper trouble."

"And that is?"

He hesitated a second before the beauty of her eyes, and then went through with it.

"We ought never to have married."

If, in the privacy of her own room, she had been anticipating any such scene as this,—as of late she sometimes had,—she would have drawn a sigh of relief at this point. He was telling her a truth she already confessed to herself, and he was telling it, gently and sweetly. He was helping her over a situation she had been dreading. And yet, instead of relief, she felt something like a sharp pain. Perhaps it was just because, in doing this, he was at his best. It took her back to those days of two years ago.

But, somehow, she found she had not come home, after all—though while they were planning the house she had never been happier in her life. Instead of going away they had spent their honeymoon in it. Then she had been caught in the whirlpool of social life; and, though for a while she had eddied about in it with him, somehow he seemed to have been swung more and more toward the outer rim while she was drawn toward the center. She was popular—rightly and deservedly so—and in consequence her time became fully occupied.

This last winter she had scarcely seen Carroll for a week at a time; but Courtney—well, he was always around. That honestly was all there was to it: he was always around. Of late, to be sure—her

cheeks grew suddenly crimson. She rose to her feet.

"I'm very tired, Carl," she pleaded once more.

"Your eyes show it," he nodded. "But if you can hang on a few minutes longer—"

She sat down again.

"As you said," he resumed, "we haven't made a mess of it yet, and there is no need of that—if we stop in time."

"If Courtney troubles you, I won't see him again," she murmured.

"I don't understand very well how you can help it," he replied. "Besides, it isn't the man himself I object to, but what, as the doctors would say, he indicates. There wouldn't be any especial danger if things could stand still where they are. But things don't stand still, do they?"

"I suppose not," she answered wearily.

"So the only way open is for us to go back to where we started, while there is time."

"Back to—before we were married?"

"That's it," he nodded in relief.

He did not notice that her head was bending over so little lower, that she was breathing rapidly. That was because he did not dare look at her. Lighting a cigarette, he stared across the room.

"Very well, Carl," she said quietly.

"You understand that I don't blame you any?"

"It is very nice of you to say that."

"It's—it's just due to circumstances over which we had no control," he assured her.

It was so she herself had reasoned; but at just this moment she wondered if that were altogether true. But what was the use of wondering any more about it now?

"So there isn't any reason why we shouldn't remain good friends, is there?" he asked.

She smiled—the old smile with her eyes and lips.

"Perhaps this will help us to be better friends," she answered.

She was on her feet again—and how amazingly beautiful she looked! The cape slipped from her shoulders to the floor, and he hastened to pick it up. She took it, but did not put it on.

"Of course you will remain here," he ran on rapidly.

"No, Carl; I shall not remain here."

"I did not mean to dictate," he apologized.

"I know it. Perhaps you will remain here yourself."

"Wentworth has suggested a hunting trip to Africa; I may join him."

"You'll be very careful?"

She spoke without thinking. She tried to laugh, but it wasn't much of a success.

"I don't suppose I have any right to ask even that of you now."

"I'm not very important," he replied. "I guess I never was. But you—I'd like to think you'll always feel free to call on me for anything it's possible for me to do."

"Then," she said, "I shall ask you to be careful."

Here the conversation had ended. He extended his hand, and she took it.

"Good night and good luck," she said.

For the fraction of a second his head swam. He took a quick grip on himself.

THAT was the last of January. He actually went to Africa with Wentworth, shot a rhinoceros and some other things, and then one day suddenly took a notion to come back.

He landed in New York in July, and from the boat made his way to one of his clubs, where he sat around for a day, replying with friendly nods to the servants, who seemed glad to see him. There was hardly any one else about, but the big rooms were quiet and cool—cooler than he would have thought it possible for New York to be at this time of year.

Most of the day he sat looking from a window, marveling at the number of people who passed—people he did not know.

All this while, as in the long days and nights at sea, as in the long days and nights. in the jungle, Carroll quite conscientiously tried to keep her—meaning no one else but Helen—out of his thoughts. He felt this to be no more than fair. His lawyers had informed him that a certain interval must elapse—and it was fast elapsing—during, which he must live quite apart from her. The only safe plan, then, was not to think about her; because, when he did so far forget himself, immediately he became the victim of all sorts of impulsive promptings.

Toward the middle of the afternoon some of the younger members of the club came in, glanced indifferently in his direction, ordered drinks, and looked over the afternoon papers. It made him feel fifty years old. Picking up his hat and Avenue. So he came to Sixtieth Street. The next thing he knew, he was standing before his house—which, with all the shades drawn, was as a dead thing. He had never seen it like this before. It had always been waiting for himóflowers in the windows, smoke curling from the chimneys, John at the open door, Annette and the others in line behind him. Now it was like a blinded thing which could not recognize him. It depressed him.

Turning quickly, he hurried to the nearest telephone and summoned a taxi. He drove to the office of his agent, secured a key, and came back. Dismissing the cab, he went up the steps, fitted the key in the lock, and entered.

UNDER ordinary circumstances it would have seemed a cheerless enough place, but, standing there in the darkened hall, he could have sworn he caught the gentle aroma that always followed in the wake of Helen. Once he even thought he heard the rustle of her skirts. He was not much given to fancies of this sort, either.

And yet, as he went on, he rather clung to that illusion. It was a pleasing thought that the ghost of her old self still played about the house to which he had brought her as a bride. It was something to be here alone with even that much of her.

They had never been much alone. In his own home with her that had not been possible. Almost always there was a servant somewhere about. As far as he knew, that was inevitable. Through his whole life and her whole life always there had been servants about.

The first time he himself had ever known the luxury of being utterly and completely alone was less than three months before. He and Wentworth, with half a hundred natives, were beating a mountain-side in German East Africa one afternoon in search of lions, when somehow he became detached from the party. Rather thoughtlessly he went on until, toward dusk, he awoke to the fact that he was lost.

The discovery, instead of paralyzing him, roused him. In itself the situation was exceedingly dangerous. It left him in the unfortunate position of being the hunted instead of the hunter. Climbing a tree, he sat through the night, with his rifle across his knees, listening to their ominous, if distant, roars. But above him the stars were shining and he was alone. Something big filled him, as in those who commune in secret places with God. He sensed a certain kinship with elemental things. He thought of her, and so thinking could have met his death calmly, had that been his fate.

Carroll went on into the library—the room where she had stood before him that night and bade him God-speed. It was getting dark behind the shaded windows, but, rather than let in the setting sun and with it the outside world, he hunted around for candles and lighted them. Then, although it was warm enough, he touched a match to the fire ready for kindling. The room was as she had left it.

IT was clear that he was still moved by the illusion which had mastered him when he entered. The faint rustle, as of her skirts, still reached his ears. Sitting before the flames, he was twice roused by this sound. Once it brought him to his stick, he went out for a walk up the feet. He went as far as the door, and stared down the empty hall—the hall that led to her room.

His cheeks actually crimsoned at a new impulse. He wished he might look' in there. He did not know how many of her things she had removed, but if nothing were left but the naked walls there would still be much of her left.

He hurried back to the library and seized a candle.. With his heart pounding at an absurd pace, he went to the door and opened it. He caught his breath; for there, prone upon the bed, lay his wife.

He saw her spring to her feet as the light met her astonished gaze.

"Helen!" he cried.

She did not answer at once, but passed her trembling fingers over her temples to put back into place some straggling curls. She had on a traveling dress. Her hat lay on a chair beside the bed.

He started away.

"I'm sorry," he apologized. "I—I didn't know you were here."

"And you," she gasped. "I—thought you were in Africa."

"I was," he hastened to assure her.

Still she seemed so shocked that the only suggestion he could think of was the rather extravagant offer:

"I only landed yesterday, but—I'll go back right away."

As he turned, she found her breath long enough to exclaim:

"I don't want you to. If—if you'll only go back to the library, that will be—quite sufficient."

He did not delay a moment—though, once there, he did not know what to do next. He paced the floor, uncertain whether he should pick up his hat and stick and leave without further ceremony, or whether he should remain long enough to make further apologies. It was rather a cruel joke fate had played on him, to lead him half around the world to blunder into such a situation as this.

It seemed to Carroll that her eyes had grown deeper and more tender than when he last saw her. Because of that they were going to be all the harder to forget. And her hair with its straggling ends had made her look more girlish—which carried his thoughts back to the days when he had first met her. As she raised her head from the bed she had seemed for all the world like just Helen—just herself. She was detached from all the little world that had swallowed her up.

For a second she had seemed just like his wife. Perhaps the quiet, empty house helped; perhaps the fact that they two were there alone helped. He had come upon her as upon a desert island, and something in him primeval had leaped to greet herósomething he sensed below his stuttering confusion. Staring into the flames, he tried to make it out. Then he heard her voice again.

"I'm sorry to have disturbed you like this, Carl," she was saying.

She was in the doorway. She had her hat on now, dressed to go out. He hurried across the room so impulsively that she swayed a little and put one hand against the door-frame for support.

"Can't—you come in a moment?" he asked.

It was so he had asked before. Curious that she should have remembered such trivial words. She hesitated.

"I haven't seen you for almost six months," he reminded her.

"I know, Carl, but—"

"Come in just long enough to warm your hands," he urged.

She laughed at that.

"Why, Carl, it's July. Have you forgotten that it's the middle of summer?"

She entered and stood before the flames.

"It's very quiet here."

"That's because we have the whole place to ourselves."

She started at that.

"There is no one upstairs or downstairs," he assured her. "There isn't even any one in town. I've been here a whole day without meeting any one I know."

"So have I," she said.

"You're here alone?"

"Without even Annette. I sent her ahead."

"To Newport?"

"To the Rantouls'. I'm to visit there a few weeks. And you?"

"I haven't made any plans," he replied. "I—I may stay right here."

It was an impromptu idea on his part, but no sooner had he voiced it than it took hold of his imagination. It was so cool and quiet and restful in these rooms.

"I might camp out here," he laughed. "I could cook my own meals: bacon and eggs for breakfast; and as for fish—I can catch all I want in the market."

"How absurd!" she answered. Then, with half closed eyes, she added: "And yet, it's perfectly possible."

"Possible? Of course it is. Here's our camp all ready, and as far as we're concerned it might be a thousand miles from anywhere. No one comes to town in July. Why, we'd have the whole city to ourselves!"

He was using the first person plural quite unconsciously—until he saw her straighten and her eyes grow big in wonder. Then he caught his breath.

"I forgot," he apologized.

SHE smiled a little then—a wan, trembly sort of smile. Up to that point she had been forgetting also. It was easy here with him alone. And restful—so very restful after the ache of the last few months. For that ache was what, if the truth were known, had brought her back here—an attempt to ease somewhat the biting hunger with which he had left her. Six months ago she would have laughed had any one suggested that she could ever feel like that. She must laugh at it now. At any rate, she must not dwell upon it.

She rose abruptly.

"I wish you luck in your fishing," she said lightly.

"You're going now?"

"It's getting late."

He glanced at his watch.

"Too late to make Newport comfortably to-night," he suggested.

"Oh, I sha'n't try. I shall go back to the hotel."

"And dine alone?"

"Yes," she said steadily, and met his eyes as she said it.

He hesitated a moment, and then ventured:

"When lone travelers meet in the woods toward sundown, they stop and take potluck together."

Her cheeks crimsoned slightly.

His eyes were upon her—the eyes of the man to whom she had once before said yes.

She reached up and removed the pins from her hat.

## NEXT WEEK—"The Abandoned Room"

[photograph]

WADSWORTH CAMP has done it again. Almost before we were through shivering over his last mystery serial story—you remember the one where all the action took place in that cold old theater—here he comes with another one. It's called "The Abandoned Room," and it's a story—well, it's a story with a thrill and a shiver in every instalment. Some story, as your newsboy will remark to you. Look for it next week, right on the front page.

There was no one in the whole house but them—no one upstairs, no one downstairs. And there was no one in the other houses on that street. The windows of the other houses were sealed with wooden shutters. They were like blinded things. It was July.

A little beyond, in the main thoroughfares, there was life, but it was a life foreign to them. They could have walked the familiar streets for hours without meeting any one they knew. Her friends and his friends were all away : some of them in Newport, some of them in the mountains. One might have run across them almost anywhere except in New York.

It was July, and those who remained behind were those who make the ship go—far down in the hold. The upper decks were clear.

BOTH Carroll and his wife sensed this. They were alone with, each other for the first time in their lives. They were alone in their own home—the house which until now had remained scarcely more than a mass of stone and mortar.

As Helen removed her hat, tossed it on the library table, and sat down again before the fire, she gave a little sigh of content. The journey from the West had been long and tiresome and dusty. She had hurried to a hotel, but she had found it unbearable there. So she had come on up here. She had her own key and had entered quite unafraid.

She had gone direct to her own room, and there she had felt shut away from all the rest of the world. For a little while she had found the surcease she craved, and prone on the bed had rested. Then, bit by bit, the past began to creep upon her—the past, which had so dramatically merged into the present when Carl opened the door. It was small wonder that she had jumped up, dazed and frightened.

But now that seemed long, long ago; for, here alone with Carl, it was as if there were no past. Because there was no one from the past in the whole house; no one in the neighboring houses, which were blind; no one upon the streets filled with strangers, who glanced indifferently at her. It was almost as if she had died and gone somewhere else, finding Carl there.

The next second she smiled at the analogy. It was a bit far-fetched, especially in connection with the question he asked:

"What are we going to do about dinner?"

"Isn't there anything at all in camp?"

"I don't know," he answered. "We might see. Do you know the way to the kitchen?"

She had never been there more than twice in her life, but she knew it was downstairs.

"I think I can find it," she replied.

"Then come on," he said.

He took a candle and led the way. Carroll opened one or two wrong doors, but in the end they came into the big room, which in its appointments resembled a hotel kitchen. They were confronted by a large coal range, but next to that there was a small electric range; only the electricity was not on.

"I'll have to go out and telephone the electric company," he decided. "But—I'm afraid, after it's on; bacon and eggs and flap-jacks is my limit."

"I can cook almost anything," she said simply.

"You?" he exclaimed.

"Yes, Carl."

"Jove, I didn't know that! Then we're all right."

He looked at her proudly.

She was investigating the larder. Most of the essential provisions were in stock. The only things lacking were milk, eggs, and butter.

"There must be some way of getting

[illustratoin]

"'Yes, it would be like that,' he said. 'It would be like killing love.'"

those," he declared. "If I go out and get a taxi, will you come marketing with me?"

She flushed a little.

It was necessary to seek the advice of the taxi driver as to where to go, but they accomplished their mission within an hour, and brought back with them in a second car a man to turn on the water, and an electrician who in less than ten minutes had the house illuminated like a Christmas tree. As soon as he departed they turned out all the lights except those in the kitchen.

And there, before Carroll's face and eyes, Helen proceeded to broil chops and toast bread and brew coffee, so that half an hour later he sat down with her—right there in the kitchen, for convenience—to as fine a meal as ever Jacques at the club served him. To him it was little short of a miracle. The only objection he could find was that all too soon the dinner came to an end. But she insisted upon leaving the room tidy after that. So he removed his coat and washed dishes for her to wipe.

She was magnificent at the task. Had Carroll gone to an artist and suggested her portrait in such a pose, he had no doubt but what he would be laughed to scorn. The utmost that any respectable artist would have conceded in a pose symbolic of domesticity would have been to allow her to arrange roses in a vase. But, at that, Carroll had the evidence here of his two eyes, and she was nothing short of magnificent. She held her head well up and smiled at her work as he rambled on about his adventures in Africa.

"I'd like to have seen you in that tree!" she laughed.

"It was one of the best nights I spent on the trip," he declared.

IN the orderly course of events, everything must end; but it was after nine before they were back again in the library. Then she was entitled, after her efforts, to a brief rest, and so sat down before the dying camp fire for half an hour. It was a calm, restful half hour that sank into her very soul. In a chair on the other side of the hearth, Carl smoked. They talked but little, for the silence was welcome to them both. They talked but little—and the only light in the room was that from the embers.

They were alone in the house. There was no one upstairs or downstairs. He talked but little. Slowly her eyes closed.

When she awoke with a start, he was still sitting beside the hearth.

"Do you know the time?" he asked.

She shook her head, only half awake.

"It is half past one in the morning," he informed her.

He crossed the room, lighted a candle, and handed it to her as she stood up.

"It is too late for you to go to the hotel," he said. "You'll have to stay here."

She took the candle.

"Good night," he said.

THE next morning each awoke to a fresher and keener realization that there was no one else in the house but them; no one upstairs, no one downstairs. When she came into the library at eight, she found him waiting for her before a freshly kindled fire that took away all the dampness. She was conscious of the color in her cheeks.

"Did you sleep well?" he asked.

"Yes, Carl. And you?"

He crossed the room, threw up the windows, and, unfastening the outside shutters, swung them back, letting in a flood of sunshine. He did this with a certain air of proprietorship. The daylight revealed dust here, there, and everywhere. She placed a finger on the big table, and held the smutted tip up for him to see.

"I must find a cloth and clean here right after breakfast," she said.

He had forgotten that breakfast was still to be prepared. For a moment he had expected to go downstairs and find it awaiting him—John standing at attention. It brought a new thrill of joy to him.

"I'd better put on water to boil," he suggested.

"I'll go with you," she said.

On the way down, he stopped at every window and let in the morning light. He was no longer afraid of what lay outside. The windows of the houses opposite him were like blinded things with patches over their eyes. He laughed, calling her attention to them.

"Don't they look stupid?' he said.

"Stupid—but rather pathetic too, Carl," she answered.

"That's because they can't see," he returned.

But he was too happy himself to be very sorry for any one else., As each room came to light, he stared about as if he were seeing it for the first time. In the end his eyes always came back to her, and it was then as if she let in still another flood of light, so that he must examine the room again in that new light.

Even the kitchen, when they entered it, seemed no longer like a hotel kitchen. All the memories of last night were there to greet him. The room was very tidy, as she had left it. But he also had had his part in that. He remembered how he had hung up the dish towels at her direction. They were still there, ready for his use again. It was weird how anything as commonplace, as negative as a dish towel, could acquire a certain identity merely from association with her.

They had a simple repast of toast and eggs and coffee. They left the kitchen tidy again, and went back into the main house, lingering a moment in the big dining-room and the reception-room, which they had planned together. The silver and glass were put away and the furniture covered with slips. The chairs looked like fat women and slim women in linen dusters. One could not tell to what period they belonged. They were just commonplace women. It was July.

Back in the library, Helen busied herself with dusting, and he looked on. As fast as she touched anything with the dust-cloth, it became hers—became theirs. The table and the chairs and the books took on identity.

"We must get some flowers for the windows," he said. "We ought to go downtown this morning and order them."

She looked up from her work with troubled eyes.

"Have you forgotten, Carl, that I must take the afternoon train?"

"For where?" he exclaimed.

"For Newport."

"Newport? But you can't go to Newport this time of year!"

He spoke so earnestly, so emphatically, that she smiled. But there was a hurt in her throat as she smiled.

He was striding toward her, and she shrank back a little, with the dust-cloth in her hand. But he came straight on—his shoulders back, his eyes burning.

"You can't go to Newport at this time of year," he was saying. "You can't leave home! Why, you wouldn't make a poor blind thing of this house so soon after giving it sight, would you?"

"I—I don't understand," she faltered.

"Why, it's clear as the light of day," he ran on. "You'll have to wire the Rantouls—we'll have to wire them when we go downtown for the flowers. To close the shutters again would be like killing something just born."

"Carl!" she cried, trembling.

"Yes, it would be like that," he went on with growing confidence. "It would be like killing love and all that comes of love."

He was reaching for her.

"We're here alone, my wife," he said.

She swayed a moment, and then his arms were around her. He kissed her on the lips, while she looked steadily into his eyes. And he saw the miracle of the shutters of her soul open wide—open wide.

ONE day in October she received a card from the Rantouls. She handed it to him.

"They are back again," she said.

He smiled.

"Now," he said—"now it is time to go to Newport."

Page 8

## THE MELTING POT

### THE BEST DRESSED WOMAN IN THE WORLD

[photograph]

THE favorite model of Lady Duff-Gordon (Mme. Lucile) and one of the most beautiful women in the world! She has to be, to hold her job, for when queens and princesses and mere duchesses, dancers, and actresses come to the Hanover Street establishment with their pin-money in silver mesh bags, this unknown girl walks languidly to and fro, trailing Lady Duff-Gordon's own designs. Her name and address are not for publication. All that Mme. Lucile will tell about her is that her food is culled and prepared with exquisite care, and that she must have nine hours' sleep.

### WILL THERE BE AN AMAZON-PACIFIC RAILWAY?

PERU has always wanted a railroad. It is necessary to the future of the country. Lima,—if you will get out your map,—the capital of Peru, lies near the west coast; and eight miles from Lima is the city of Callao, a port with a good harbor.

The next most important port of Peru is the city of Iquitos, across the Andes, on the Amazon River.

It takes forty-five days to go from Lima to Iquitos—either crossing the Andes on donkeys, or making a long, roundabout voyage by sea. Either way, it takes less time to go from Lima to England than it does from Lima to the principal town of Peru.

"The proposed railroad will pass through three distinct zones of country," says a writer in the New York Times. "The first, facing the Pacific Ocean, is a long, dry strip, which would, at first sight, seem devoid of value. There is no richer soil in the world than this when it is irrigated.

"In the spring the rivers come down to the sea, and for several months the natives irrigate the land from the rivers.

"When the river is sighted coming down the slopes, it is heralded to the towns below by riders, who go ahead to announce the good news to the people. The villages turn out for a holiday. There are usually many marriages coincident with this event.

"If the river is delayed in any way, the conditions are announced below and the priests pray for its arrival.

"The second zone crosses the first line of mountains. Cotton and sugar are raised in this district—some of the finest in the world. It can be seen growing on plants ten and fifteen feet high. Some of the cotton is of a dark-brown color.

"The third zone represents the heart of tropical South America. Enough rubber to supply the world for an indefinite time could be found there. Cocoa grows in this district, and the ivory bean, which is the size of an egg, is a substitute for ivory."

Senator Enrique Zegarro has recently been in New York arranging for the financing of the railroad. After twenty years, a whole life-time of patience and disappointments, he will again ask the Peruvian Congress, when it meets in the summer, to make the necessary concessions.

### SOMETIMES ENEMIES ARE POLITE

A GERMAN air-pilot had been killed by a British aviator. The Teuton giant, evidently a man of wealth, lay dead in his fur coat and diamond rings.

"A little to my surprise," says a witness of the battle, in Tit-Bits, "the British airman proceeded to strip the dead man of his coat, and then to remove his rings and other jewelry; which he packed into a sort of tin canister. To my further surprise, he put the tin canister on his machine, and flew straight over the German lines, waving his handkerchief as he went. When he was over the Huns, he dropped the canister, then wheeled and flew slowly back, while a German party ran out to pick up the utensil."

This courtesy is said always to follow the bringing down of a pilot on either side.

### HOW TO TELL A POISONOUS SNAKE

THERE are three groups of venomous snakes scattered through North America. These are the coral snakes, the moccasins, and the rattlesnakes. The coral snakes, says Raymond L. Ditmars, curator of reptiles in the New York Zoölogical Park, in Poisonous Snakes of the United States (Elwin R. Sanborn), are beautiful gaudy reptiles of the Southwest, covered with broad alternating rinks of red and black, bordered with narrow rings of yellow. They are "mimicked" by harmless relatives who display the same colors arranged in rings. But, while on the poisonous corals yellow borders the black rings, on the harmless snakes black borders the yellow rings.

The rattlesnake group is, of course, easily recognized by that unique and prominent organ, the rattle. Any snake possessing a rattle is dangerous.

The moccasins or copperheads have on each side, of the head, between the eye and the nostril, a deep pit. Harmless snakes have a round eye; moccasins have an elliptical pupil, like a cat. Moccasins are dull olive, with wide black bands. Copperheads are pale brown, crossed with rich reddish bands, and tinged with copper on top of the head.

A poisonous snake does not jump from the ground, says the curator, and seldom strikes more than a third of its length. It never chases an enemy. It is not necessary for a rattlesnake to coil before striking. It can strike from a crawling position, provided it can double its neck into an S-shaped loop to lurch the head forward. It is impossible, he says, to render a venomous snake permanently harmless by extracting the fangs, as a number of auxiliary fangs are ready to take their place.

### From Punch

[illustration]

RECTOR'S DAUGHTER: How splendid of Joe Jarvis's son to volunteer for that very dangerous job! I'm so glad he got the Military Medal.

MRS. MULLINS (not to be outdone): Yes Miss. And my boy could have got it too if he'd cared to have taken the risk.

### FARMERS ARE SATISFIED

[photograph]

Photograph by Brown Brothers.

Not the Rock of Gibraltar, but alfalfa, the crop that not only feeds cattle but gives nitrogen to the soil, so that grain will really grow the next year. That's why the farmer isn't one to groan about the high cost of living.

THE rise in the price of food and everything else has taken place all over the country; and yet, not every one groans about rare and costly cabbages, onions, and potatoes.

The Independent recently asked its readers "what the high cost of living means to you?" and scores of confidential letters came in.

"What struck us most, on opening the letters, was the very large proportion who were well satisfied with the present situation. This shows the danger of forming a conclusion on any public question from what appears in print.

"The dissatisfied are vocal; the satisfied are silent."

Here are some of the letters:

I am glad the American farmer is getting a good price for his grain and milk. It is the first time such a thing has happened in half a century. He is the hardest worked citizen under the flag, and until recently the poorest paid.

His sons have been the staff upon which the nation leaned in former stress, and will be its dependence in future peril.

I would rejoice if the poultryman was realizing fair profits on fresh eggs, but he is not. Boycotts have reduced the price below cost of production.

The temporary high price of a few items of food has, not disturbed my economic equilibrium in the least.

SEDRO-WOOLEY, Washington.

It is my opinion that most all farmers believe in the high cost of living. They believe in shoes selling for four, five, and six dollars a ,pair; for this would make cattle worth more.

The farmers rejoice when flour is selling at three dollars a sack, for they know they will get a better price for their wheat. The farm-wives are glad when eggs sell for fifty cents a dozen and butter for fifty cents a pound.

It is a mighty poor farmer who doesn't sell more than he buys.

These society women go around wearing one dollar hose, and kick on paying their butter woman fifty cents a pound for her butter.

They will pay twenty-five dollars for a feather to put on their hat, and organize clubs to reduce the price of eggs.

They will go into a cream parlor and pay fifteen cents for a soda-fountain drink, and object to paying the milkman eight cents a quart for his milk that has ten times the food value in it that that soda-fountain drink had.

Since the farmer is the one that makes a little money when the food prices arc high, and there are more of them than any one else, why not let "the thigh cost of living" go on?

WEATHERFORD, Oklahoma.

But listen to the salaried man:

### Demand Facts, Not Promises

INVESTORS must learn to look for realities rather than promises. Any time in the last few years it has been possible, by applying to reliable brokers, to secure the names of dozens of automobile stocks paying large dividends. But thousands of people have bought shares in merely projected companies, solely on the basis of rosy promises and generalities. Of course, the purchasers were not quite so unreasonable—from their own point of view, at least—as might appear at first sight. What they really thought was that by going into something entirely new, merely projected, they might make huge fortunes; whereas the established motor stacks would merely pay moderate or at the most large dividends.

The chances are 999 out of 1000 that the organizers of an industry headed toward fortune will keep the stock to themselves. Honest promoters, organizers, managers, bankers, and brokers often sell good stock to pay reasonable dividends; and dishonest promoters sell worthless stock that pays nothing. But no class of men, whether honest or dishonest, ever sell the fortune-making kind of stock to the public—not if they know what they are about.

### Free Booklets You May Have for the Asking

Arrangements have been made by which any reader mentioning, this magazine may have any or all of the following booklets on request.

War Tax Opportunities, a special circular dealing with investment issues which have been forced out of strong boxes on account of war income taxes, has been issued by John Muir & Co. Copies may be had on application to the offices of the firm, 61 Broadway, New York.

Public utilities share immediately in general prosperity and remain stable in times of stress. The companies organized, financed, and managed by H. M. Byllesby & Company serve upwards of 350,000 customers in 327 virile communities in 16 States. Investment literature "E" will be sent by addressing the firm at 218 So. La Salle Street, Chicago, or 1219 Trinity Building, New York.

Any one interested in the security market should send to L. R. Latrobe & Co., No. 111 Broadway, New York, for their statistical books on Copper Stocks, Motor Stocks, Standard Oil Stocks, Investor's Guide (270 pages), or Weekly Market Letter. This firm will mail you any one of these books free on request. Partial-Payment Plan.

It is unusual for a financial periodical to interest every-day business people. The Bache Review is full of sound common sense, describes the situation clearly and graphically, thereby making the subject of finance interesting to everybody. Issued- weekly by J. S. Bache & Co., 42 Broadway, New York. Sent free on request.

The demand for farm loan investments is steadily increasing, according to reports from Phelps-Eastman Company, McKnight Building, Minneapolis, Minnesota, who specialize in high-grade 6 per cent. arm loans. The Company will be pleased to furnish booklet and full detailed information on request.

The Odd Lot Review, edited by P. M. Whelan, is a weekly financial publication which avoids technical financial terms or explains them when they are used. Copies may be had on application to the offices of the publication, 61 Broadway, New York City.

The Citizens Savings & Trust Co. of Cleveland, Ohio, will furnish to our readers, upon request, Booklet P, which contains some very interesting information on banking by mail.

First farm mortgages and real estate bonds are not subject to fluctuations in value in these uncertain times. E. J. Lander & Co., Grand Forks, North Dakota, will send a booklet free to those who are interested in farm mortgages. Ask for booklet "R."