Finally Stand, To See All About Him An Ice Prisoned Land, White, Beautiful, Useless. Some Women Are Chaste, Like The Snows Which Envelop The Bleak Arid Waste Of The Desert; Once Melted, Alas! What Remains But The Poor, Unproductive, Dry Soil Of The Plains? The Flora Of Cupid Will Never Be Found, However He Toil There, To Thrive In Such Ground. Mabel Montrose Was Held In The Highest Esteem By Her Neighbors; I Think Neighbors Everywhere Deem Such Women To Be All That's Noble. They Sighed When They Spoke Of Her Husband; They Told How She Tried To Convert Him, And How They Had Thought For A Season His Mind Was Bent Christ-Ward; And Then, With No Reason, He Seemed To Drift Back To The World, And Grew Jealous Of Mabel, And Thought Her Too Faithful And Zealous In Duty To Others. The Death Of His Child Only Hardened His Heart Against God. He Grew Wild, Took To Drink; Spent A Week At A Time In The City, Neglecting His Saint Of A Wife -Such A Pity. It Was True. Our Friends Keep A Sharp Eye On Our Deeds But The Fine Interlining Of Causes -Who Heeds? The Long List Of Heartaches Which Lead To Rash Acts Would Bring Pity, Not Blame, If The World Knew The Facts. There Are Women So Terribly Free From All Evil, They Discourage A Man, And He Goes To The Devil. There Are People Whose Virtues Result In Appalling, And They Prove A Great Aid To His Majesty'S Calling. Roger'S Wife Rendered Goodness So Dreary And Cold, His Tendril-Like Will Lost Its Poor Little Hold On The New Better Life He Was Longing To Reach, And Slipped Back To The Dust. Oh! To Love, Not To Preach. Is A Woman'S True Method Of Helping Mankind. The Sinner Is Won Through His Heart, Not His Mind. As The Sun Loves The Seed Up To Life Through The Sod, So The Patience Of Love Brings A Soul To Its God. But When Love Is Lacking, The Devil Is Sure To Stand In The Pathway With Some Sort Of Lure. Roger Turned To The World For Distraction. The World Smiled A Welcome, And Then Like An Octopus Curled All Its Tentacles 'Round Him, And Dragged Him Away Into Deep, Troubled Waters. One Late Summer Day He Awoke With A Headache, Which Will Not Surprise, When You Know That His Bedtime Had Been At Sunrise, And That Gay Narraganset, The World Renowned "Pier," Was The Scene. Through The Lace Curtained Window The Clear Yellow Rays Of The Hot August Sun Touched His Bed And Proclaimed It Was Mid-Day. He Rose, And His Head Seemed As Large And As Light As An Air Filled Balloon While His Limbs Were Like Lead. In The Glare Of The Noon, The Follies Of Night Show Their Makeup, And Seem Like Hideous Monsters Evoked By Some Dream. The Sea Called To Roger: "Come, Lie On My Breast And Forget The Dull World. My Unrest Shall Give Rest To Your Turbulent Feelings; The Dregs Of The Wine On Your Lips Shall Be Lost In The Salt Touch Of Mine. Come Away, Come Away. Ah! The Jubilant Mirth Of The Sea Is Not Known By The Stupid Old Earth." The Beach Swarmed With Bathers -To Be More Exact, Swarmed With People In Costumes Of Bathers. In Fact, Many Beautiful Women Bathed But In The Light Of Men'S Eyes; And Their Costumes Were Made For The Sight, Not The Sea. From The Sea'S Lusty Outreaching Arms They Escaped With Shrill Shrieks, While The Men Viewed Their Charms And Made Mental Notes Of Them. Yet, At This Hour, The Waves, Too, Were Swelling Sea Meadows, A-Flower With Faces Of Swimmers. All Dressed For His Bath, Roger Paused In Confusion, Because In His Path Surged A Crowd Of The Curious; All Eyes Were Bent On The Form Of A Woman Who Leisurely Went From Her Bathing House Down To The Beach. "There She Goes," Roger Heard A Dame Cry, As She Stepped On His Toes With Her Whole Ample Weight. "What, The One With Red Hair? Why, She Isn't As Pretty As Maude, I Declare." A Man Passing By With His Comrade, Cried: "Ned, Look! There Is La Travers, The One With The Red Braid Of Hair To Her Knees. SHe's A Mystery Here, And At Present The Topic Of Talk At The Pier." Roger Followed Their Glances In Time To Behold For A Second A Head Crowned With Braids Of Bright Gold, And A Form Like A Venus, All Costumed In White. Then She Plunged Through A Billow And Vanished From Sight. It Was Half An Hour Afterward, Possibly More, As Roger Swam Farther And Farther From Shore, With New Life In His Limbs And New Force In His Brain, That He Heard, Just Behind Him, A Sharp Cry Of Pain. Ten Strokes In The Rear On The Crest Of A Wave Shone A Woman'S White Face. "Keep Your Courage; Be Brave; I Am Coming," He Shouted. "Turn Over And Float." His Strong Shoulder Plunged Like The Prow Of A Boat Through The Billows. Six Overhand Strokes Brought Him Close To The Woman, Who Lay Like A Wilted White Rose On The Waves. "Now, Be Careful," He Cried; "Lay Your Hand Well Up On My Shoulder; My Arms, Understand, Must Be Free; Do Not Touch Them --Please Follow My Wishes, Unless You Are Anxious To Fatten The Fishes." The Woman Obeyed Him. "You Need Not Fear Me," She Replied, "I Am Wholly At Home In The Sea. I Knew All The Arts Of The Swimmer, I Thought, But Confess I Was Frightened When Suddenly Caught With A Cramp In My Knee At This Distance From Shore." With Slow Even Breast Strokes The Strong Swimmer Bore His Fair Burden Landward. She Lay On The Billows As Lightly As If She Were Resting On Pillows Of Down. She Relinquished Herself To The Sea And The Man, And Was Saved; Though God Knows Both Can Be False And Fickle Enough; Yet Resistance Or Strife, On Occasions Like This, Means The Forfeit Of Life. The Throng Of The Bathers Had Scattered Before Roger Carried His Burden Safe Into The Shore And Saw Her Emerge From The Water, A Place Where Most Women Lose Every Vestige Of Grace Or Of Charm. But This Mermaid Seemed Fairer Than When She Had Challenged The Glances Of Women And Men As She Went To Her Bath. Now Her Clinging Silk Suit Revealed Every Line, From The Throat To The Foot, Of Her Beautiful Form. Her Arms, In Their Splendor, Gleamed White Like Wet Marble. The Round Waist Was Slender, And Yet Not Too Small. From The Twin Perfect Crests And The Virginlike Grace Of Her Beautiful Breasts To The Exquisite Limbs And The Curve Of Her Thigh, And The Arch Of Her Proud Little Instep, The Eye Drank In Beauty. Her Face Was Not Beautiful; Yet The Gaze Lingered On It, For Eros Had Set His Seal On Her Features. The Mouth Full And Weak, The Blue Shadow Drooping From Eyelid To Cheek Like A Stain Of Crushed Grapes, And The Pale, Ardent Skin, All Spoke Of Volcanic Emotions Within. By Her Tip Tilted Nose And Low Brow, It Was Plain To Read How Her Impulses Ruled O'Er Her Brain. She Had Given The Chief Role Of Life To Her Heart, And Her Intellect Played But A Small Minor Part. Her Eyes Were The Color The Sunlight Reveals When It Pierces The Soft, Furry Coat Of Young Seals. The Thickly Fringed Lids Seemed Unwilling To Rise, But Drooped, Half Concealing Them; Wonderful Eyes, Full Of Secrets And Bodings Of Sorrow. As Coarse And As Thick As The Mane Of A Finely Groomed Horse Was Her Bright Mass Of Hair. The Sea, With Rough Hands, Had Made Free With The Braids, And Unloosened The Strands Till They Hung In Great Clusters Of Curls To Her Knees. Her Voice, When She Spoke, Held The Breadth And The Breeze Of The West In Its Tones; And The Use Of The R Made The Listener Certain Her Home Had Been Far From New England. Long After She Vanished From View The Eye And The Ear Seemed To Sense Her Anew. There Was That In Her Voice And Her Presence Which Hung In The Air Like A Strain Of A Song Which Is Sung By A Singer, And Then Sings Itself The Whole Day, And Will Hot Be Silenced. As Birds Flock Away From Meadow To Tree Branch, Now There And Now Here, So, From Beach To Casino, Each Day At The Pier Flock The Gay Pleasure Seekers. The Balconies Glow With Beauty And Color. The Belle And The Beau Promenade In The Sunlight, Or Sit Tete-A-Tete, While The Chaperons Gossip Together. Bands Play, Glasses Clink; And 'Neath Sheltering Lace Parasols There Are Plans Made For Meeting At Drives Or At Balls. Roger Gat At A Table Alone, With His Glass Of Mint Julep Before Him, And Watched The Crowd Pass. There Were All Sorts Of People From All Sorts Of Places. He Thought He Liked Best The Fair Baltimore Faces. The South Was The Land Of Fair Women, He Mused, Because They Were Indolent. Women Who Used Mind Or Body Too Freely. Changed Curves Into Angles, For Beauty Forever With Intellect Wrangles. The Trend Of The Fair Sex To-Day Must Alarm Every Lover Of Feminine Beauty And Charm. As He Mused Roger Watched With A Keen Interest For A Sight Of His Undine. "All Coiffured And Drest, With Her Wonderful Body Concealed, And Her Hair Knotted Up, Well, I Doubt If She Seem Even Fair," He Soliloquized. "Ah!" The Word Burst From His Lips, For He Saw Her Approaching. She Walked From The Hips With An Undulous Motion. As Graceful And Free From All Effort As Waves Swinging In From The Sea Were Her Movements. Her Full Molded Figure Seemed Slight In Its Close Fitting Gown Of Black Cloth; And The White Of Her Cheek Seemed Still Whiter By Contrast. Her Clothes Were Tasteful And Quiet; Yet Roger Montrose Knew In Some Subtle Manner He Could Not Express ('Tis An Instinct Men Have In The Matters Of Dress) That They Never Were Made In New York. By Her Hat One Can Oft Read A Woman'S Whole Character. That Which Our Fair Undine Wore Was A Thing Of Rich Lace, Flowers And Ribbons Like Others One Saw In The Place. Yet The Width Of The Brim, Or The Twist Of Its Bows, Or The Way It Was Worn Made It Different From Those. As It Drooped O'Er The Eyes Full Of Mystery There, It Seemed, All At Once, Both A Menace And Dare; A Menace To Women, A Dare To The Men. She Bowed As She Passed Roger'S Table; And Then Took A Chair Opposite, Spread Her Shade Of Red Silk, Called A Waiter And Ordered A Cup Of Hot Milk, Which She Leisurely Sipped. She Seemed Unaware Of The Curious Eyes She Attracted. Her Air Was Of One Quite At Home, And Entirely At Ease With Herself, The Sole Person She Studied To Please. She Had Been For Three Weeks At The Pier, And Alone, Without Maid Or Escort, And Nothing Was Known Of Her There, Save The Name Which The Register Bore, "Mrs. Travers, New York." Men Were Mad To Learn More But The Women Were Distant. One Can'T, At Such Places, Accept As Credentials Good Figures Or Faces. There Was An Unnameable Something About Mrs. Travers Which Filled Other Women With Doubt And All Men With Interest. Roger, Blas?, Disillusioned With Life As He Was, Felt The Sway Of Her Strong Personality, There As She Sat Looking Out 'Neath The Rim Of Her Coquettish Hat With Dark Eyes On The Sea. Few People Had Power To Draw His Gray Thoughts From Himself For An Hour As This Woman Had Done; She Was Food For His Mind, And He Sought By His Inner Perceptions To Find In What Class She Belonged. "An Adventuress? No, Though I Fancy Three-Fourths Of The Women Think So And One-Half Of The Men; But That Role Leaves A Trace, An Expression, I Fail To Detect In Her Face. Her Past Is Not Shadowed; My Judgment Would Say That Her Sins Lie Before Her, And Not Far Away. SHe's A Puzzle, I Think, To Herself; And Grim Fate Will Aid Her In Solving The Riddle Too Late. Her Soul Dreams Of Happiness; But In Her Eyes The Sensuous Foe To All Happiness Lies. As The Rain Is Drawn Up By Some Moods Of The Sun, Some Natures Draw Trouble From Life; Her'S Is One." She Rose And Passed By Him Again, And Her Gown Brushed His Knee. A Light Tremor Went Shivering Down His Whole Body. She Left On The Air As She Went A Subtle Suggestion Of Perfume; The Scent Which Steals Out Of Some Fans, Or Old Laces, And Seems Full Of Soft Fragrant Fancies And Languorous Dreams. She Haunted The Mind, Though She Passed From The Sight. When Roger Montrose Sought His Pillow That Night, 'Twas To Dream Of La Travers. He Thought She Became A Burning Red Rose, With Each Leaf Like A Flame. He Stooped Down And Plucked It, And Woke With A Start, As It Turned To An Adder And Struck At His Heart. The Dream Left Its Impress, As Certain Dreams Should, For, As Warnings Of Evil, Precursors Of Good, They Are Sent To Our Souls O'Er A Mystical Line, Night Messages, Couched In A Cipher Divine. Roger Knew Much Of Life, Much Of Women, And Knew Even More Of Himself And His Weaknesses. Few Of Us Mortals Look Inward; Our Gaze Is Turned Out To Watch What The Rest Of The World Is About, While The Rest Of The World Watches Us. Roger'S Reason And Logic Were Clear. But His Will Played Him Treason. If You Looked At His Hand, You Would See It. Hands Speak More Than Faces. His Thumb (The First Phalanx) Was Weak, Undeveloped; The Second, Firm Jointed And Long, Which Showed That The Reasoning Powers Were Strong, But The Will, From Disuse, Had Grown Feeble. That Morning He Looked On His Dream In The Light Of A Warning And Made Sudden Plans For Departure. "To Go Is To Fly From Some Folly," He Said, "For I Know What Salt Air And Dry Wine, And The Soft Siren Eyes Of A Woman, Can Do Under Midsummer Skies With A Man Who Is Wretched As I Am. Unrest Is A Tramp, Who Goes Picking The Locks On One'S Breast That A Whole Gang Of Vices May Enter. A Thirst For Strong Drink And Chance Games, Those Twin Comrades Accursed, Are Already Admitted. Oh Mabel, My Wife, Reach, Reach Out Your Arms, Draw Me Into The Life That Alone Is Worth Living. I Need You To-Day, Have Pity, And Love Me, Oh Love Me, I Pray. I Will Turn Once Again From The Bad World To You. Though False To Myself, To My Vows I Am True." When A Soul Strives To Pull Itself Up Out Of Sin The Devil Tries Harder To Push It Back In. And The Man Who Attempts To Retrace The Wrong Track Needs His God And His Will To Stand Close At His Back. Through What Are Called Accidents, Roger Was Late At The Train. Are Not Accidents Servants Of Fate? The First Coach Was Filled; He Passed On To The Second. That, Too, Seemed Complete, But A Gentleman Beckoned And Said, "There'S A Seat, Sir; The Third From The Last On Your Left." Roger Thanked Him And Leisurely Passed Down The Aisle, With His Coat On His Arm, To The Place Indicated. The Seat Held A Lady, Whose Face Was Turned To The Window. "Pray Pardon Me, Miss" (For He Judged By Her Back She Was Youthful), "Is This Seat Engaged?" As He Spoke, The Face Turned In Surprise, And Roger Looked Into The Long, Languid Eyes Of La Travers. She Smiled, Moved Her Wraps From The Seat, And He Sat Down Beside Her. The Same Subtle, Sweet Breath Of Perfume Exhaled From Her Presence, And Made The Place Seem A Boudoir. The Deep Winey Shade 'Neath Her Eyes Had Grown Larger, As If She Had Wept Or A Late, Lonely Vigil With Memory Kept. A Man Who Has Rescued A Woman From Danger Or Death, Does Not Seem To Her Wholly A Stranger When Next She Encounters Him; Yet Both Essayed To Be Formal And Proper; And Each Of Them Made The Effort A Failure. The Jar Of A Train At Times Holds A Mesmeric Spell For The Brain And A Tense Excitation For Nerves; And The Shriek Of The Engine Compels One To Lean Near To Speak Or To List To His Neighbor. Formality Flies With The Smoke Of The Train And Floats Off To The Skies. Roger Led His Companion To Talk; And The Theme Which He Chose, Was Herself, Her Life Story. The Dream Of The Previous Night Was Forgotten. The Charm Of The Woman Outweighed Superstitious Alarm. When The Sunlight Began To Play Peek-A-Boo Through The Tunnels, Which Told Them The Journey Was Through, Roger Looked At His Time-Piece; The Train For Bay Bend Left In Just Twenty Minutes; But What A Rude End To The Day'S Pleasant Comradeship -Rushing Away With A Hurried Good-Bye! He Decided To Stay Over Night In The City. He Was Not Expected At Home. Mrs. Travers Was Quite Unprotected, And Almost A Stranger In Gotham. He Ought To See Her Safe Into Her Doorway, He Thought. At The Doorway She Gave Him Her Hand, With A Smile; "I Have Known You," She Said, "Such A Brief Little While, Yet You Seem Like A Friend Of Long Standing; I Say Good-Bye With Reluctance." "Perhaps, Then, I May Call And See You To-Morrow?" The Words Seemed To Fall Of Themselves From His Lips; Words He Longed To Recall When Once Uttered, For Deep In His Conscience He Knew That The One Word For Him To Speak Now, Was Adieu. The Lady'S Soft, Cushion-Like Hand Rested Still In His Own, And The Contact Was Pleasant. A Thrill From The Finger Tips Quickened His Pulses. "You May Call To-Morrow At Four." The Soft Hand Slipped Away And Left His Palm Lonely. "The Call Must Be Brief," He Said To Himself, With A Sense Of Relief, As He Ran Down The Steps, "For At Five My Train Goes." Yet The Five O'Clock Train Bore No Roger Montrose From New York. Mrs. Travers Had Asked Him To Dine. A Tete-A-Tete Dinner With Beauty And Wine, To Stir The Man'S Senses And Deaden His Brain. (The Devil Keeps Always Good Chefs In His Train.) It Was Ten When He Rose For Departure. The Room Seemed A Garden Of Midsummer Fragrance And Bloom. The Lights With Their Soft Rosy Coverings Made A Glow Like Late Sunsets, In Some Tropic Glade. The World Seemed Afar, With Its Dullness And Duty, And Life Was A Rapture Of Love And Of Beauty. God Knows How It Happened; They Never Knew How. He Turned With A Formal Conventional Bow, And Some Well Chosen Words Of Politeness, To Go. Her Mouth Was A Rose Love Had Dropped In The Snow Of Her Face. It Smiled Up To Him, Luscious And Sweet. In The Tip Of Each Finger He Felt His Heart Beat, Like Five Hearts All In One, As Her Hand Touched His Own. She Murmured "Good-Night," In A Tremulous Tone. White, Intense, Through The Soft Golden Mist Which The Wine Had Cast Over His Vision, He Saw Her Face Shine. Her Low Lidded Eyes Held A Lion-Like Glow. You Have Seen Sudden Storms Lash The Ocean? You Know How The Cyclone, Unheralded, Rises In Wrath, And Leaves Devastation And Death In Its Path? So Swift, Sudden Passion May Rise In Its Power, And Ruin And Blight A Whole Life In An Hour. Two Unanchored Souls In Its Maelstrom Were Whirled, Drawn Down By Love'S Undertow, Lost To The World. The Dark, Solemn Billows Of Night Shut Them In. Like Corpses Afloat On The Ocean Of Sin They Must Seem To Their True, Better Selves, When Again The Tide Drifts Them Back To The Notice Of Men. Forget Me, Dear; Forget And Cease To Love Me, I Am Not Worth One Memory, Kind Or True, Let Silent, Pale Oblivion Spread Above Me Her Winding Sheet, For I Am Dead To You. Forget, Forget. Sin Has Resumed Its Interrupted Story; I Am Enslaved, Who Dreamed Of Being Free. Say For My Soul, In Life'S Dark Purgatory, One Little Prayer, Then Cease To Think Of Me. Forget, Forget. I Ask You Not To Pity Or To Pardon; I Ask You To Forget Me. Tear My Name From Out Your Heart; The Wound Will Heal And Harden. Death Does Not Dig So Deep A Grave As Shame. Forget, Forget. Viii. Roger'S Letter To Mabel. Farewell! I Shall Never Again Seek Your Side; I Will Stay With My Sins And Leave You With Your Pride. Let The Swift Flame Of Scorn Dry The Tears Of Regret, Shut Me Out Of Your Life, Lock The Door And Forget. I Shall Pass From Your Skies As A Vagabond Star Passes Out Of The Great Solar System Afar Into Blackness And Gloom; While The Heavens Smile On, Scarce Knowing The Poor Erring Creature Is Gone. Say A Prayer For The Soul Sunk In Sinning; I Die To You, And To All Who Have Known Me. Good-Bye. Mabel'S Letter To Maurice. I Break Through The Silence Of Years, My Old Friend, To Beg For A Favor; Oh, Grant It! I Send Roger'S Letter In Confidence To You, And Ask, In The Name Of Our Sweet Early Friendship, A Task, Which, However Painful, I Pray You Perform. Poor Roger! His Bark Is Adrift In The Storm. He Has Veered From The Course; With No Compass Of Faith To Point To The Harbor, He Goes To His Death. You Are Giving Your Talents And Time, I Am Told, To Aiding The Poor; Let This Victim Of Gold Be Included. His Life Has Not Learned Self-Control, And Luxury Stunted The Growth Of His Soul. In Blindness Of Spirit He Took The Wrong Track, But He Sees His Great Error And Longs To Come Back. Oh, Help Me To Reach Him And Save Him, Maurice. My Heart Yearns To Show Him The Infinite Peace Found But In God'S Love. Let Us Pity, Forgive And Help Him, Dear Friend, To Seek Christ And To Live In The Light Of His Mercy. I Know You Will Do What I Ask, You Were Ever So Loyal And True. Maurice To Mabel. Though Bitter The Task (Why, Your Heart Must Well Know), Your Wish Shall Be Ever My Pleasure. I Go On The Search For The Prodigal. Not For His Sake, But Because You Have Asked Me, I Willingly Make This Effort To Find Him. Sometimes, I Contend, It Is Kinder To Let A Soul Speed To The End Of Its Swift Downward Course Than To Check It To-Day, But To See It To-Morrow Pursue The Same Way. The Man Who Could Wantonly Stray From Your Side Into Folly And Sin Has Abandoned All Pride. There Is Little To Hope From Him. Yet, Since His Name Is The Name You Now Bear, I Will Save Him From Shame, God Permitting. To Serve And Obey You Is Still Held An Honor, Madame, By Maurice Somerville. Maurice To Mabel Ten Days Later. The Search For Your Husband Is Finished. Oh, Pray Tear All Love And All Hope From Your Heart Ere I Say What I Must Say. The Man Has Insulted Your Trust; He Has Dragged The Most Sacred Of Ties In The Dust, And Ruined The Fame Of A Woman Who Wore, Until Now, A Good Name. He Has Gone. Close The Door Of Your Heart In His Face If He Seeks To Come Back. The Sleuth Hounds Of Justice Were Put On His Track, And His Life Since He Left You Lies Bare To My Gaze. He Sailed Yesterday On The "Paris." For Days Preceding The Journey He Lived As The Guest Of One Mrs. Zoe Travers, Who Comes From The West! A Widow, Young, Fair, Well-Connected. I Hear He Followed Her Back To New York From The Pier, And Now He Has Taken The Woman Abroad. My Letter Sounds Brutal And Harsh. Would To God I Might Soften The Facts In Some Measure; But No, In Matters Like This The One Thing Is To Know The Whole Truth, And At Once. Though The Pain Be Intense It Pulls Less On The Soul Than The Pangs Of Suspense. Like A Surgeon Of Fate, With My Pen For A Knife, I Cut Out False Hopes Which Endanger Your Life. Let The Law, Like A Nurse, Cleanse The Wound -There Is Shame And Disgrace For You Now In The Man'S Very Name. Though Justice Is Blindfolded, Yet She Can Hear When The Chink Of Gold Dollars Sounds Close In Her Ear. One Needs But To Give Her This Musical Hint To Save You The Sight Of Your Sorrows In Print. Closed Doors, Private Hearing; A Sentence Or Two In The Journals; Then Dignified Freedom For You. When Love, Truth And Loyalty Vanish, The Tie Which Binds Man To Woman Is Only A Lie. Undo It! Remember At All Times I Stand As A Friend To Rely On -A Serf To Command. * * * * * Some Women There Are Who Would Willingly Barter A Queen'S Diadem For The Crown Of A Martyr. They Want To Be Pitied, Not Envied. To Know That The World Feels Compassion Makes Joy Of Their Woe; And The Keenest Delight In Their Misery Lies, If Only Their Friends Will Look On With Wet Eyes. In Fact, 'Tis The Prevalent Weakness, I Find, Of The Sex. As A Mass, Women Seem Disinclined To Be Thought Of As Happy; They Like You To Feel That Their Bright Smiling Faces Are Masks Which Conceal A Dead Hope In Their Hearts. The Strange Fancy Clings To The Mind Of The World That The Rarest Of Things - Contentment -Is Commonplace; And, That To Shine As Something Superior, One Must Repine, Or Seem To Be Hiding An Ache In The Breast. Yet The Commonest Thing In The World Is Unrest, If You Want To Be Really Unique, Go Along And Act As If Fate Had Not Done You A Wrong, And Declare You Have Had Your Deserts In This Life. The Part Of The Patient, Neglected Young Wife Contained Its Attractions For Mabel Montrose. She Was One Of The Women Who Live But To Pose In The Eyes Of Their Friends; And She So Loved Her Art That She Really Believed She Was Living The Part. The Suffering Martyr Who Makes No Complaint Was A Role More Important, By Far, Than The Saint Or Reformer. As First Leading Lady In Grief, Her Pride In Herself Found A Certain Relief. The Ardent And Love-Selfish Husband Had Not Been So Dear To Her Heart, Or So Close To Her Thought, As This Weak, Reckless Sinner, Who Woke In Her Soul Its Dominant Wish -To Reform And Control. (How Often, Alas, The Reformers Of Earth, If They Studied Their Purpose, Would Find It Had Birth In This Thirst To Control; In The Poor Human Passion The Minds And The Manners Of Others To Fashion! We Sigh O'Er The Heathen, We Weep O'Er His Woes, While Forcing Him Into Our Creeds And Our Clothes. If He Adds Our Diseases And Vices As Well, Still, At Least We Have Guided Him Into Our Hell And Away From His Own Heathen Hades. The Pleasure Derived From That Thought But Reformers Can Measure.) The Thing Mabel Montrose Loved Best On This Earth Was A Sinner, And Roger But Doubled His Worth In Her Eyes When He Wrote Her That Letter. And Still When The Last Message Came From Maurice Somerville And The Bald, Ugly Facts, Unsuspected, Unguessed, Lay Before Her, The Woman Awoke In Her Breast, And The Patient Reformer Gave Way To The Wife, Who Was Torn With Resentment And Jealousy'S Strife. Ah, Jealousy! Vain Is The Effort To Prove Your Right In The World As The Offspring Of Love; For Oftener Far, You Are Spawned By A Heart Where Cupid Has Never Implanted A Dart. Love Knows You, Indeed, For You Serve In His Train, But Crowned Like A Monarch You Royally Reign Over Souls Wherein Love Is A Stranger. No Thought Came To Mabel Montrose That Her Own Life Was Not Free From Blame. (How Few Women, Indeed, Think Of This When They Grieve O'Er The Ruin Of Marital Bliss!) She Was Shocked And Indignant. Pain Gave Her A New Role To Play Without Study; She Missed In Her Cue And Played Badly At First, Was Resentful And Cried Against Fate For The Blow It Had Dealt To Her Pride (Though She Called It Her Love), And Declared Her Life Blighted. It Is One Thing, Of Course, For A Wife To Be Slighted For The Average Folly The World Calls A Sin, Such As Races, Clubs, Games; When A Woman Steps In The Matter Assumes A New Color, And Mabel, Who Dearly Loved Sinners, At First Seemed Unable To Pardon, Or Ask God To Pardon, The Crime Of Her Husband; An Angry Disgust For A Time Drove All Charity Out Of Her Heart. For A Thief, For A Forger, A Murderer, Even, Her Grief Had Been Mingled With Pity And Pardon; The One Thing She Could Not Forgive Was The Thing He Had Done. It Was Wicked, Indecent, And So Unrefined. To The Lure Of The Senses Her Nature Was Blind, And Her Mantle Of Charity Never Had Been Wide Enough To Quite Cover That One Vulgar Sin. In The Letter She Sent To Maurice, Though She Said Little More Than Her Thanks For His Kindness, He Read All Her Tense Nervous Feelings Between Its Few Lines. Though We Study Our Words, The Keen Reader Divines What We Thought While We Penned Them; Thought Odors Reveal What Words Not Infrequently Seek To Conceal. Maurice Read The Grief, The Resentment, The Shame Which Mabel'S Heart Held; To His Own Bosom Came Stealing Back, Masked Demurely As Friendly Regard, The Hope Of A Lover -That Hope Long Debarred. His Letters Grew Frequent; Their Tone, Dignified, Unselfish, And Manly, Appealed To Her Pride. Sweet Sympathy Mingled With Praise In Each Line (As A Gentle Narcotic Is Stirred Into Wine), Soothed Pain, Stimulated Self Love, And Restored Her The Pleasure Of Knowing The Man Still Adored Her. Understand, Mabel Montrose Was Not A Coquette, She Lacked All The Arts Of The Temptress; And Yet She Was Young, She Was Feminine; Love To Her Mind Was Extreme Admiration; It Pleased Her To Find She Was Still, To Maurice, An Ideal. A Woman Must Be Quite Unselfish, Almost Superhuman, And Full Of Strong Sympathy, Who, In Her Soul, Feels No Wrench When She Knows She Has Lost All Control O'Er The Heart Of A Man Who Once Loved Her. Months Passed, And Mabel Accepted Her Burden At Last And Went Back To Her World And Its Duties. Her Eyes, Seemed To Say When She Looked At You, "Please Sympathize, On The Slight Graceful Form Or The Beautiful Face. Twas A Sorrow Of Mind, Not A Sorrow Of Heart, And The Two Play A Wholly Dissimilar Part In The Life Of A Woman. Maurice Somerville Kept His Place As Good Friend Through Sheer Force Of His Will But His Heart Was In Tumult; He Longed For The Time When, Free Once Again From The Legalized Crime Of Her Ties, She Might Listen To All He Would Say. There Was Anguish, And Doubt, And Suspense In Delay, Yet Mabel Spoke Never Of Freedom. At Length He Wrote Her, "My Will Has Exhausted Its Strength. Read The Song I Enclose; Though My Lips Must Be Mute, The Muse May At Least Improvise To Her Lute." Song. There Was A Bird As Blithe As Free, (Summer And Sun And Song) She Sang By The Shores Of A Laughing Sea, And Oh, But The World Seemed Fair To Me, And The Days Were Sweet And Long. There Was A Hunter, A Hunter Bold, (Autumn And Storm And Sea) And He Prisoned The Bird In A Cage Of Gold, And Oh, But The World Grew Dark And Cold, And The Days Were Sad To Me. The Hunter Has Gone; Ah, What Cares He? (Winter And Wind And Rain) And The Caged Bird Pines For The Air And The Sea, And I Long For The Right To Set Her Free To Sing In The Sun Again. The Hunter Has Gone With A Sneer At Fate, (Spring And The Sea And The Sun) Let The Bird Fly Free To Find Her Mate, Ere The Year Of Love Grow Sere And Late. Sweet Ladye, My Song Is Done. Mabel'S Letter To Maurice. To The Song Of Your Muse I Have Listened. Oh, Cease To Think Of Me But As A Friend, Dear Maurice. Once A Wife, A Wife Alway. I Vowed From My Heart, "For Better, For Worse, Until Death Do Us Part." No Mention Was Made In The Service That Day Of Breaking My Fetters If Joy Flew Away. "For Better, For Worse," A Vow Lightly Spoken, When Fate Brings The "Worse," How Lightly 'Tis Broken! The "Worse," In My Case, Is The Worst Fate Can Give. Tho' I Shrank From The Blow, I Must Bear It And Live, Not For Self, But For Duty; Nor Strive To Evade Fulfilling The Promise I Willingly Made. While Roger Has Sinned, And His Sinning Would Be, In The Eyes Of The Law, Proof To Render Me Free, It Was God Heard My Vows And The Church Sealed The Bond. Until One Of Us Passes To Death'S Dim Beyond, Though Seas And Though Sins May Divide Us For Life, We Are Bound To Each Other As Husband And Wife. In God'S Court Of Justice Divorce Is A Word Which Falls Without Import Or Meaning When Heard; And The Women Who Cast Off Old Fetters That Way, To Give Place To The New, On The Great Judgment Day Must Find, In The Last Summing Up, That They Stand Side By Side, In God'S Eyes, With The Magdalene Band. Dear Maurice, Be My Brother, My Counselor, Friend. We Are Lonely Without You And Ruth, At Bay Bend. Come Sometimes And Brighten Our Lives; Put Away The Thoughts Which Are Making You Restless To-Day And Give Me Your Strong Noble Friendship; Indeed 'Tis A Friend That I Crave, Not A Lover I Need. Maurice To Mabel. You Write Like A Woman, And One, It Is Plain, Whose Sentiment Hangs Like A Cloud O'Er Her Brain. You Gaze Through A Sort Of Traditional Mist, And Behold A Mirage Of God'S Laws Which Exist But In Fancy. God Made But One Law -It Is Love. A Law For The Earth, And The Kingdoms Above, A Law For The Woman, A Law For The Man, The Base And The Spire Of His Intricate Plan Of Existence. All Evils The World Ever Saw Had Birth In Man'S Breaking Away From This Law. God Cancels A Marriage When Love Flies Away. "Till Death Do Us Part" Should Be Altered To Say, "Till Disgust Or Indifference Part Us." I Know You Never Loved Roger, My Heart Tells Me So. He Won You, I Claim, Through A Mesmeric Spell; You Dreamed Of An Eden, And Wakened In Hell. You Pitied His Weakness, You Struggled To Save Him, He Paid With A Crime The Devotion You Gave Him. And The Blackest Of Insults Relentlessly Hurled At Your Poor Patient Heart In The Gaze Of The World. In God'S Mighty Ledger The Stroke Of A Pen Has Been Drawn Through Your Record Of Marriage. Though Men Call You Wedded I Hold You Are Widowed. Why Cling To The Poor, Empty, Meaningless Form Of A Thing - To The Letter, Devoid Of All Spirit? God Never Intended A Woman To Hopelessly Sever Herself From All Possible Joy, Or To Make True Faithfulness Suffer For Faithlessness' Sake. When I Think Of Your Wrongs, When I Think Of My Woes, That Black Word Divorce Like A Bright Planet Glows In The Skies Of The Future. Oh, Mabel, Be Fair To Yourself And To Me. For The Years Of Despair I Have Suffered You Owe Me Some Recompense, Surely. The Heart That Has Worshipped So Long And So Purely Ought Not To Be Slighted For Mere Sentiment. We Must Live As Our Century Bids Us. Its Bent Is Away From The Worn Ruts Of Thought. Where Of Old The Life Of A Woman Was Run In The Mold Of Man'S Wishes And Passions, To-Day She Is Free; Free To Think And To Act; Free To Do And To Be What She Pleases. The Poor, Pining Victim Of Fate And Man'S Cruelty, Long Ago Went Out Of Date. In The Mansion Of Life There Were Some Things Askew, Which The Strong Hand Of Progress Has Righted. Th