Act I, Scene IV. _Enter Jack and Elsie with fairy flask and taper.

_Elsie._ Is this the room, Mr. Jack o' Lantern?

_Jack._ Yes, Elsie, this is the room where the King told me to take you and await his presence. What a pity it is the Prince--[_Stops_].

_Elsie._ Prince! what Prince?

_Jack._ Sh! walls have ears, Elsie, and, indeed, I forgot that the King had forbidden us ever to speak of him again. But I must be off to dance attendance on the Queen. Her majesty, be it said with all due reverence, is not over-sweet when her loyal subjects are slow to obey her commands. [_Exit, but immediately puts his head in the door._] Don't forget the magical water, Elsie. [_Exit._]

_Elsie._ That's so; I had forgotten that I must drink this. [_Looks at flask in her hand._] Jack says that it keeps anybody from growing old so fast; but if you get it from the fairies on Christmas eve, the way I did, you won't ever grow old. Oh dear! I don't want to be young forever. I want to grow up, and be sixteen. Then I'd wear my hair high, and have a long train. [_Struts up and down, but stops suddenly._] Well, I don't care, you couldn't play hop-scotch in a train. [_Looking about her._] I don't think this room's pretty, a bit. [_Catches sight of something shining on the wall._] Oh my! what's that shiny thing? Wouldn't it be fun if there were a secret door there, just like a story book! I'm going to see what it is. [_Stops._] Dear me! I forgot that horrid flask! [_Brightening up._] Maybe it'll make me nice and old, though. I'll take the old spring water first, anyhow, and then I'll see what that thing is over there. I wonder what will happen. [_Drinks._]

Curtain.

CRITTENDEN MARRIOTT

Crittenden Marriott, novelist, was born at Baltimore, March 20, 1867, the great grandson of Kentucky's famous statesman, John J. Crittenden, the grandson of Mrs. Chapman Coleman, who wrote her father's biography, and the son of Cornelia Coleman, who was born at Louisville, Kentucky, and lived there until her marriage. Mr. Marriott's mother, grandmother, and aunts translated several of Miss Muhlbach's novels and a volume of French fairy tales. The future novelist first saw Kentucky when he was nine years old, and for the two years following he lived at Louisville and attended a public school. From 1878 to 1882 he was at school in Virginia, but he spent two of the vacations in Louisville. In 1883 he was appointed to the Naval Academy at Annapolis, but two years later he was compelled to resign on account of deficient eyesight. He returned to Louisville where he clerked in an insurance office, the American Mutual Aid Society, which position he held until 1887, when he resigned and removed to Baltimore as an architectural draughtsman. He subsequently went to Washington, and from there to California. In 1890 Mr. Marriott joined the staff of the San Francisco _Chronicle_, and acted as representative of the Associated Press. Two years later he went to South Africa as a correspondent, tramping sixteen hundred miles in the interior, mostly alone. After this strenuous journey he returned to his aunt's home at Louisville, spending some of the time in Shelby county, Kentucky. He shortly afterwards went to New York as ship news reporter for _The Tribune_, which he held for six months. In 1893 Mr. Marriott went to Brazil for the Associated Press on the dynamite cruiser _Nictheroy_. The fall of 1894 found him again in Shelby county, this time meeting his future wife, a Louisville girl, whom he married in June, 1895. At the time of his wedding he was a newspaper correspondent in Washington. Mr. Marriott's health broke shortly afterwards, and from January to September, 1896, he was ill at Louisville. In 1897 he went to Cuba for the Chicago _Record_. When the now defunct Louisville _Dispatch_ was established, Mr. Marriott became telegraph editor, which position he held for six months in 1898. Although he has resided in Washington since leaving the _Dispatch_, he regards Louisville as his real home, and he has visited there several times within the last few years, his most recent visit being late in 1912, when he came for his sister's wedding. Since 1904 Mr. Marriott has been one of the assistant editors of the publications of the United States Geological Survey. At the present time he is planning to surrender his post and establish a permanent home at Louisville. Mr. Marriott's first book, _Uncle Sam's Business_ (New York, 1908), was an excellent study of our government at work, "told for young Americans." It was followed by a thrilling, wildly improbable tale of the Sargasso Sea, _The Isle of Dead Ships_ (Philadelphia, 1909), the scene of which he saw several times on his various journeys around the world. _How Americans Are Governed in Nation, State, and City_ (New York, 1910), was an adultiazation and elaboration of his first book, fitting it for institutions of learning and for the general reader. Mr. Marriott's second novel, _Out of Russia_ (Philadelphia, 1911), a story of adventure and intrigue, was somewhat saner than _The Isle of Dead Ships_. From June to October, 1912, his _Sally Castleton, Southerner_, a Civil War story, ran in _Everybody's Magazine_, and it will be issued by the Lippincott's in January, 1913. The love story of a Virginia girl, daughter of a Confederate general, and a Kentuckian, who is a Northern spy, it is far and away the finest thing Mr. Marriott has done--one of the best of the recent war novels. In the past five years he has sold more than one hundred short-stories, some fifteen serials, and his fifth book is now in press, which is certainly a most creditable record. He has published two Kentucky stories, one for _Gunter's Magazine_, the other for _The Pocket Magazine_ (which periodical was swallowed up by _Leslie's Weekly_); and he has recently finished a third Kentucky romance, which he calls _One Night in Kentucky_, and which will appear in _The Red Book Magazine_ sometime in 1913.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. Letters from Mr. Marriott to the Author; _Who's Who in America_, (1912-1913).

THE ARRIVAL OF THE ENEMY[53]

[From _Sally Castleton, Southerner_ (_Everybody's Magazine_, June, 1912)]

With her heart beating so that she could not speak, she opened the door. She knew that she must be calm, must not show too great terror, must not try to deny the enemy the freedom of the house. She clung to the door, half fainting, while the world spun round her.

Slowly the haze cleared. Dully, as from afar off, she heard some one addressing her and realized that a boy was standing on the porch steps holding his horse's bridle--a boy, short, rotund, friendly looking, with gilt and yellow braid upon his dusty blue uniform; just a boy--not an enemy.

"Well, sir?" she faltered.

The boy snatched off his slouch hat with its yellow cord. He stood swinging it in his hand, staring admiringly at the girls. "General Haverhill's compliments," he said. "He regrets to cause inconvenience, but he must occupy this house as headquarters for a few hours. He will be here immediately." He gestured toward a little knot of horsemen, who had paused at the foot of the lawn and were staring down the valley with field-glasses.

Sally managed to bow with some degree of calmness. "The house is at General Haverhill's disposal," she answered steadily. "I am sorry that I have only one aged servant and therefore cannot serve him as I should."

The boy smiled. He seemed unable to take his eyes from her face. "Oh, that's all right," he exclaimed cheerfully. "We are used to looking out for ourselves. Don't trouble yourself a bit. The general only wants a place to rest for a few hours."

"He may have that," Miss Castleton smiled faintly. After all, there were pleasant people among the Yankees. Besides, it was just as well to conciliate while she could. "In fact, he can have more. Uncle Claban is a famous cook and our pantry is not quite empty. May I offer supper to him and his staff?"

Her tones were quite natural. She felt surprised at her lack of fear; now that the shock of the meeting was over, the danger seemed somehow less.

The subaltern's white teeth flashed. "Really, truly supper at a table, with a table-cloth! It's too good to be true. I'll tell the general." He turned toward the horsemen, who were coming toward the steps.

Sally waited, watching curiously. She felt 'Genie's convulsive grasp on her hand and squeezed back reassuringly. "Don't be afraid, dear!" she murmured. "They're only men, after all. Try to forget that they are Yankees, and everything will come right." She turned once more to meet her guests.

On all sides of the house the busy scene was rapidly changing. The dusty cavalrymen, saddle-weary after a hard ride, were taking advantage of a few hours' halt. The troopers, gaunt, sun-burned, unshaven, covered with mud and dust, moved about this way and that. Company lines were formed, and long strings of picketed horses munched the clover, while other strings of horses, with a trooper riding bare-back, half a dozen bridles in his hands, clattered toward the creek. Stacked arms glittered in the sunlight. Men with red crosses on their sleeves established a tiny hospital tent and looked to the slightly wounded who had accompanied the flying column. Some of the Castleton fences went for farrier's fires, and his hammer clanked noisily.

The troops were too thoroughly seasoned campaigners to get out of hand, but the officers were as tired as the men, and there was no little foraging. The clusters of cherries, the yellow June apples, and the welcome "garden truck" were temptations not to be wholly resisted.

It was all new and strange to Sally and, hard as it was to see the Castleton acres trampled and overrun, she watched the busy scene with unconscious interest.

The voice of the young officer recalled her to herself. "General Haverhill," he was saying, in deference to a half-forgotten convention. "General Haverhill--Miss--?" He paused interrogatively.

The girl bowed. "I'm Miss Castleton," she said.

"Miss Castleton." The general swept off his slouch hat. "I suppose Lieutenant Rigby here has told you that we must use your house?"

"Yes, general. Will you come in?"

The subaltern interposed. "Miss Castleton has offered us supper, general," he said.

The general smiled. He was a powerful-looking man of forty; the scar of a saber gash across his face gave it a sinister aspect, but his smile was pleasant. "You are--loyal?" he questioned doubtfully. The question seemed unnecessary.

"Yes--to Virginia!" Sally met his eyes steadily.

"Oh! I see!" Quizzically he contemplated the girl from under his bushy brows. "And this is--" he turned toward the younger girl.

"My sister, Miss Eugenia Castleton."

"Ah!" The general bowed. "I suppose you, too, are loyal--to Virginia, Miss Eugenia?" he said.

Perhaps it was the patronizing note in the question that touched 'Genie on the raw. Perhaps it was sheer terror. Whatever the cause, she flashed up, suddenly furious. "Oh!" she cried, stamping her small foot. "Oh! I wish I were a man! I wish I were a man!"

The grizzled Federal looked at her steadily, and not without admiration. "Perhaps it's lucky for me you're not," he answered, smiling.

Bowing, he stood aside to let the girls pass at the door, then clanked after them into the cool, wide hall with its broad center-table, its chairs and lounge--the lounge on which Philip Byrd had so lately lain--and the big black stove. To save their lives neither Sally nor her sister could help glancing at that stove.

It was Sally's part to play hostess, and she did it valiantly. "Please sit down, general," she invited. "If you will excuse me, I will see about supper." With a smile she rustled from the room, 'Genie following rather sullenly.

In the wide kitchen she dropped into a chair, trembling. Had she acted her part well, she wondered, or had she overdone it? Was it suspicion that she had seen in the general's eyes as she left him? Would he search--and find? How long would he stay? Philip was wounded, suffering, probably hungry and thirsty. If the Yankees stayed very long, he might have to surrender. What would they do to him? Would they consider him a spy and--and----

A hand clutched her and she looked up. 'Genie was on her knees beside her, flushed, tear-stained face uplifted.

"Oh, Sally, Sally!" she wailed. "Did I do wrong? Did I make him suspect? Oh, if anything happens to Philip through my fault, I'll die!"

Sally laid her hand on the bright hair of the girl beside her. "You didn't harm Philip," she comforted. "It wouldn't do for us to be too friendly. That would be the surest way to make them suspicious."

"But--but--he'll starve!"

"Oh, no he won't! I don't think they'll stay long. 'For a few hours,' that young officer said. But come!" Sally jumped up. "Come. Let's get supper for them. That'll give us something to do, and will keep them occupied--when it's ready. Men will always eat. Come!"

'Genie rose obediently, if not submissively. "Supper!" she flashed. "Supper! And we've got to feed those tyrants, with poor Philip starving right under their noses."

The elder sister smiled. "I'm sorry," she said gently; "but there are worse things than missing a meal or two. Perhaps it may be better for him, after all; for he must have some fever after that wound and that ride. Anyhow, we've got to feed these Yankees, so let's do it with a good grace. Men are easiest managed when they've eaten. If we've got to feed the brutes, let's do it."

FOOTNOTE:

[53] Copyright, 1912, by the Ridgway Company.

ABBIE CARTER GOODLOE

Miss Abbie Carter Goodloe, novelist and short-story writer, was born at Versailles, Kentucky, in 1867. In 1883 she was graduated from the Girls' High School, Louisville; and in 1889 she received the degree of Bachelor of Science from Wellesley College. The next two years were spent in studying and traveling in Europe. On her return to the United States Miss Goodloe made her home at Louisville, of which city she has been a resident ever since. Her first book, _Antinous_ (Philadelphia, 1891), a blank verse tragedy, was followed by _College Girls_ (New York, 1895), an entertaining collection of short stories of college life. Miss Goodloe's first novel, _Calvert of Strathore_ (New York, 1903), was set, for the most part, in the sunny land of France. _At the Foot of the Rockies_ (New York, 1905), a group of short stories, is Miss Goodloe's best work so far. Several of the tales are of great merit and interest, one enthusiastic critic comparing them to Kipling's finest work. The author spent one glorious summer in Alberta, Canada, surrounded by the Northwest Mounted Police, Indians, Englishmen, Americans, and the romance of it all quite possessed her. These were the backgrounds for the eight stories which have won her wider fame than any of her other writings. A winter in Mexico furnished materials for her latest novel, _The Star-Gazers_ (New York, 1910). The reader is presented to the late president of that revolutionary-ridden republic, Porfirio Diaz, together with the other celebrities of his country. The epistolary form of narration is adopted, and the result is not especially noteworthy. In no way does this work rank with _At the Foot of the Rockies_. The short-story is certainly Miss Goodloe's greatest gift, and in that field she should go far.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. Anna Blanche McGill's excellent study in the _Library of Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, 1909, v. v); _Scribner's Magazine_ (January, April, 1910; July, 1911).

A COUNTESS OF THE WEST[54]

[From _At the Foot of the Rockies_ (New York, 1905)]

She looked at the Honorable Arthur, abashed and weakly unhappy, and a wave of disgust swept over her. He was so big and stupid and irresolute. She would have liked him better if he had told her with brutal frankness that he no longer cared for her and wouldn't marry her. She had thought him grateful at least, and he wasn't even that. The affection he had inspired in her fell from her like a discarded garment. Suddenly she unfastened a button of her shirtwaist and drew from around her neck a little blue ribbon on which hung a seal ring. With a jerk she snapped the ribbon and slipped off the ring. She held it out to him.

"There," she said, cooly, "take it back to Rigby Park and give it to some fine English girl whom your father happens to know! I hope you'll enjoy your England. Montana's good enough for me!"

As she swept the Honorable Arthur with a scornful glance, she suddenly saw his jaw drop and a curious look spring into his eyes. Following the direction of his gaze she beheld two riders approaching at a hand gallop, a Mounted Police officer from Fort Macleod, whom she knew, and following briskly in his wake, a handsome Englishman of middle age. The hair about his temples was heavily tinged with white, but his complexion was as fresh and pink and white as a baby's, and he was most immaculately got up in riding things.

"It's the governor," she heard the Honorable Arthur whisper incredulously to himself.

The meeting between the two was cold and formal, after the fashion of the Anglo-Saxon male. Miss Ogden looked on in fascinated silence. The Earl of Rigby put up a single eyeglass and surveyed his son.

"By gad, my boy, I'm glad to see you again. You aren't looking any too fit, you know."

"Thanks, father--yes, I know it. When did you get here?"

"Just stepped off the train at Macleod two hours ago. Beastly train."

"Yes, isn't it? Howd'y do, Nevin?"

"Howd'y do, St. John? Howd'y do, Miss Ogden? Haven't seen you for a long while. May--may I--the Earl of Rigby, Miss Ogden."

The Earl of Rigby screwed his glass in again--it had fallen out when he had shaken his son's hand--and stared at the young woman before him.

"Awfully glad to meet you, I'm sure," he said, affably. "I--I had always understood that this country was an Eveless paradise. I'm glad to see I'm mistaken."

Miss Lily Ogden surveyed the Earl of Rigby imperturbably. Not one of the thrills which an hour before she would have supposed necessarily attendant on an introduction to a noble earl now disturbed her composure. Even his exaggeratedly polite compliment left her perfectly cool. He simply seemed to her an extremely handsome man, a good deal cleverer and stronger-looking than his son.

"This country wouldn't be a paradise at all without Miss Ogden," said Nevin, gallantly. "She's the best horsewoman in Port Highwood and she'll help St. John show you the country, my lord."

"Thanks, Captain Nevin." She smiled on him sweetly, showing the white, even teeth between the scarlet lips, and then she turned to the Earl of Rigby. "I shall be delighted to show you the country--specially as Mr. St. John is obliged to go away in two or three days."

"I should like nothing better," said the earl, with conviction.

"Have to go on the round-up," murmured the Honorable Arthur.

"That's hard luck," said Nevin, sympathetically. "Two weeks, I suppose."

"Yes--father'll have to stop for a bit at the Highwood House. I fancy he'll wish he were back in England!"

"Not if Miss Ogden will ride with me," observed the earl.

A curious light came into the girl's gray eyes.

"I could show your lordship a new trail every day for the two weeks, and at the end of the time I am sure you could not decide which to call the prettiest," she asserted.

"I dare say," assented the earl, eagerly; "but I would like to try."

"Oh, Miss Ogden will take good care of you," said Nevin. "And now, as you have two guides, if you will excuse me, I think I won't go on into Highwood. Your lordship's things will be sent over early in the morning. His lordship was so anxious to see you, St. John, that we couldn't even persuade him to mess with us to-night," he remarked, jocularly, to the Honorable Arthur. "And now I will turn back, I think. Good-bye!" He waved a gauntleted hand, and wheeling his horse set off at an easy canter for the fort.

A somewhat awkward constraint fell upon the three so left, which Miss Ogden dispelled by turning her horse toward Highwood, and riding on slightly ahead of the Honorable Arthur and his father. The earl gazed admiringly at her slim back.

"By gad, she's a beauty, Arthur, my deah boy, and she sits her horse perfectly."

"She's an American," remarked the young man, aggressively.

"She's beautiful enough to be English," retorted the earl, warmly. He spurred forward and rode at her right hand. The Honorable Arthur rather sulkily closed up on the left.

"I was just saying to Arthur, Miss Ogden, that he could go on the round-up and jolly welcome as long as you have promised to show me the country. I am most deeply interested in our Canadian possessions, you know," said the earl.

She shot him a glance from under the black lashes of her gray eyes which made the Earl of Rigby fairly gasp.

"I shall try my best to keep your lordship from being bored while Mr. St. John is away," she said, sweetly.

It was two weeks later, or to be perfectly exact, two weeks and four days later, that a half-breed was sent down to the Morgan round-up, twenty-five miles west of Calgary, with a telegram for St. John. The Honorable Arthur was so dirty, tired, dusty, and sunburnt that the half-breed had difficulty in picking him out from the rest of the dirty, tired, dusty, and sunburnt round-up crew.

The sight of the telegram filled the young man with an indefinable fear, and the paper fluttered in his trembling hand like a withered leaf on a windshaken bough.

"Meet the 2:40 from Macleod at Calgary. Will be on train. Most important.

RIGBY."

His swollen tongue and parched lips got drier, his cracked and tanned skin paled as he read and reread the message. Suddenly a joyous thought came to him. "The old boy's relented sure, and wants me to go back with him," he told himself over and over. He thrust his few things into the one portmanteau he had brought with him and made such good time going the twenty-five miles into Calgary that he had been pacing up and down the station platform for ten minutes when the train pulled in.

The Earl of Rigby, who had been hanging over the vestibule rail of the observation car, swung himself lightly down and cordially grasped his son's hand. The Honorable Arthur was struck afresh by the good looks and youthfulness of his aristocratic father.

"By Jove, Arthur, I'm glad to see you got my telegram, and I'm glad you got here in time. What? No, you won't need your portmanteau. The truth is," he gave an infectious laugh, "the Countess of Rigby--she was Miss Lily Ogden until last night, my deah boy--and I are on our way to England, and we couldn't leave the country without seeing you again. Won't you step into the coach and speak to her?"

FOOTNOTE:

[54] Copyright, 1905, by Charles Scribner's Sons.

GEORGE LEE BURTON

George Lee Burton, magazinest, was born at Danville, Kentucky, April 17, 1868. He was fitted at the Louisville Rugby School for the University of Virginia, from which he was graduated, after which he returned to Louisville, and studied law in the University of Louisville. Upon his graduation from that institution he was admitted to the bar, and he has since practiced his profession at Louisville with success. Mr. Burton began to write some years ago, contributing short-stories and sketches to the eastern periodicals. _The Century_ published his clever story, _As Seen By His Bride_; and _Ainslee's Magazine_ printed his _The Training of the Groom_, _The Deferred Proposal_, _Cupid's Impromptu_, and several other stories. His work for _The Saturday Evening Post_, however, has been his most noteworthy performance. For that great weekly he has written: _Getting a Start at Sixty_ (published anonymously); _The Making of a Small Capitalist_, _A Fresh Grip_, _A Rebuilt Life_, and _Tackling Matrimony_, the last of which titles appeared in two parts in _The Post_ for November 23 and November 30, 1912, was exceedingly well done. He has recently re-written _Tackling Matrimony_, greatly developing the story-part, and more than doubling its length, for the Harper's, who will issue it in book form early in the spring of 1913. Mr. Burton is a bachelor who has won wide reputation as a writer upon various phases of matrimonial mixups. He also has a certain sympathy with those who waste their youth in riotous living, but who win their true positions in the world after all seems lost.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. Letters from Mr. Burton to the Author; _Outing_ (May, 1900).

AFTER PRISON--HOME[55]

[From _A Rebuilt Life_ (_Saturday Evening Post_, March 23, 1912)]

"Well, sir, when I got out I was shipped back to my own town, or rather the town from which I had been sent up. I was born five hundred miles from there; but my people had died when I was young and I had drifted in there when I was only sixteen years old--I guess that makes it my town after all. Now, at thirty-five I was back there from the pen and I stayed there.

"Maybe that was a mistake. I guess it was harder for me; but I had that much fight left in me. I wanted to show people that there was still some man in me, even if I had spent ten years in the pen that I deserved to spend there. Besides, I wouldn't like to start off fresh in a new place and build up a little, and just as I got to going have somebody from my home town come along and tell everybody that respected me that I was a murderer and an ex-convict and a lowdown sort of nobody.

"I believe after all I'd rather start in as I did, back where they thought that about me to begin with, and build up fresh from that. I wanted to live down the killing and those ten years--and I believe I've sorter done it. It may sound foolish, but--though I don't excuse all that, remember--I have got to sorter respect myself again, and I tell you it feels good!

"They didn't have prison reform in that state then, with an employment officer and a job all ready to help a poor devil start out again when he got back to freedom. They gave me a suit of clothes and five dollars and shipped me back to the town I came from, then turned me loose as an ex-convict to hump for myself like the other "exes," branded by those years of living in there.

"It certainly seemed strange to see the place again. There had been many changes in those years. I put up at one of these twenty-five-cents-a-night men's hotels, and took fifteen-cent meals--skipping one every day to make my five dollars last longer; and I commenced looking for a job.

"There didn't seem any need of more help anywhere. I tried many of my old acquaintances to see if I could get a place--I did not seem to have any friends left! I found ten years in the pen seemed to wipe out the claim of being even an acquaintance with most of them. They all looked at me curiously, as if I was a different brand of man--a cannibal, or Eskimo, or something.

"I'd rather they wouldn't have showed so plain they thought me dangerous or worse; yet I'd have swallowed that if they had only given me work. They didn't though; some of them weren't as cold with me as others, but none of them had anything for me.

"Of course I tackled all sorts of strangers, too, for work; but usually they didn't have any--and when they had they wanted references. I couldn't blame them; I guess I had a sort of pasty face and hangdog look.

"They had such a habit of asking: 'Where did you work last?'

"'I've been away a long time--have not worked here for several years,' I would say.

"'Where did you work while you were away?' came next.

"'I worked at broom-making part of the time,' I got to answering.

"Then, like as not, the boss would look at me suspiciously and say: 'No, I don't believe I need you just now; if I do I will let you know. Where do you live?"

"When I gave the number of the bum lodging house he would look as if that settled it; he had known all along I wasn't any good. And I felt so shamed and low down all the time I looked like he was right.

"Five dollars don't last very long, even with two meals a day. I got work one day on a wrecker's force, tearing down an old building; but the foreman drove his men hard and I wasn't used to real work anyway. I couldn't stand up to it, and--I'm ashamed to tell it even now--I fainted about four o'clock that afternoon.

"Another day I got a place with the gang working repairs on the street-railroad tracks; but the man in charge said I was too slow and not strong enough--had better get some different kind of work. As if I hadn't tried everything I could! He didn't pay me for a full day either--said I wasn't worth it; and the worst was that I knew he was right. I was about at the end of my rope when my money gave out, and I was looking so weak and shamefaced that I didn't stand any sort of a chance. I got to feeling desperate.

"I remember that about this time I went in to answer an ad--'Man wanted as porter in well-established wholesale drug house.' The head of the place was a mild-mannered old man, who sat in the back office, but who always looked over the new men before they were employed. He began as usual:

"'Where did you work last?'

"'With the street-railroad gang,' I answered.

"'U-um! How long?'

"'One day,' I told him.

"'Ah!' he said, as if he had discovered something--'and before that?'

"'With a house-wrecking gang on Flint Street.'

"'Yes--how long there?'

"'Part of a day,' I said. 'I couldn't stand up to the work.'

"I thought he looked a little sympathetic then, but was not sure until he sniffed and asked the next question in a hard, thin voice:

"'And where before that?'

"I hesitated a moment; he looked at me more closely and said in that same tone:

"'Where?'

"I had been looked at and questioned so much that way and had got so raw about it that now I almost shouted: 'In the penitentiary!'

"'Why, bless my soul!' the mild little man gasped. 'No, I don't need you. Good day! Good day!'

"He looked so shocked and I felt so desperate that I could not help adding, while I looked at him hard:

"'I was put in for manslaughter too--voluntary manslaughter!'

"There wasn't any clerk in the room at the time.

"Oh, oh, indeed!' he gulped out, rising and backing away, big-eyed and trembly. He almost got to the back window before I turned and left.

"Maybe I didn't feel bitter and like 'what's the use--what's the use of anything!' I don't know what would have happened--I guess I'd have starved to death or worse--if it hadn't been for the hoboes' hotel--Welcome Hall--'Headquarters for the Unemployed,' as it's advertised.

"You don't know about the place? Well, sir, it's a dandy!--at least, that's the way I think about it--and a good many others do too. The worst of the hoboes won't go there if they can help it--they'd rather bum a dime and get a bed for the night in one of those ten-cent places.

"This Welcome Hall is a sort of industrial kindling-splitting joint. You blow in there and saw and split kindling for a bed and meals--you give them six hours' work.

"You see, in that way you can live off six hours' work a day and have some time left to look for a job. It's a good thing, and it's been a moneymaker too; it's the only charity I know of that's not a charity but a moneymaking concern. Of course people had to give it a place and start it; but it more than pays expenses, and at the same time helps to build up a man instead of making him a pauper or a deadbeat bum.

"I certainly was glad to find some place where I could at least earn my lodging and meals. I rested up some there and was glad I could just stay somewhere. Though I looked about for work a little, nearly every day, I lived along there for three weeks on my six hours a day of work--still out of a job. At last I guess my fighting blood got up again, I determined I would get a job of some kind, even if it was cleaning vaults. I decided no honest work was beneath me when it all seemed so far above me as to be out of reach.

"'If I keep my eyes open and am not too choosy I must find something to do,' I said to myself, and set out to look for it in earnest. It was Saturday morning, I remember, for I thought of the next day being Sunday, when I could not even hunt for work. I had walked a good way and asked for work at a lot of places without getting anything to do, when I saw an old negro man sweeping leaves off the sidewalk and washing off the front steps of a plain two-story house with a bucket of water and a cloth.

"'I may not be much account but I sure can do that,' I thought, and asked him how much he got for it.

"'For dese here, boss, I gits ten cents; but when I wuks all de way roun' to de back do' I gits some dinner th'owed in,' he said with a grin.

"That wasn't so bad; and 'boss'!--how good that sounded! I went on down the street feeling almost like a man again and not a down-and-out ex-convict.

"About a square away I began to ask at every house if they didn't want the leaves swept off and the front steps washed. Maybe I looked too much like a tramp or too much above one with that 'boss' still ringing in my ears--the first time I had been spoken to that way for more than ten years! Anyway I got turned down at first.

"At the tenth place, however, a two-story-and-attic red brick, they gave me a job. The woman asked me in a sharp voice, as if she were defending herself from being overcharged:

"'How much?'

"'Ten cents,' I answered, as meekly as I could.

"She seemed to think that was reasonable; and after waiting a minute, as if she wanted the work done and couldn't find any excuse for not letting me do it, she handed me a bucket and mop and broom and set me at it.

"I finished the job in about an hour; and I tell you I enjoyed that work! Beneath me? Why, it couldn't get beneath me--I was that low down in mind and living and even hope. I was just about all in, you understand; and I wasn't a plumb out-and-out fool.

"I have got that dime yet; see here," he said, holding out a brightly polished dime surrounded by a narrow gold band, which he wore as a charm on his watch-chain; "whenever I begin to feel ashamed of my work I look at that and get thankful, and remember how proud and happy I felt when that sharp-looking woman handed it to me. I had done a little extra work in cleaning up the yard, and she said as she gave it to me:

"'That looks a whole lot better! You certainly earned that dime.'

"I wouldn't have spent that money if I had had to go without food for two days! It seemed to put springs in my feet and I went down the street hustling for another job of the same kind. I found it before dinner; it was another ten cent job with twenty cents' worth of work; but I sure was glad to get it.

"I felt that, so long as Welcome Hall was making money, I was earning my way by those six hours of work a day, and I stayed on there for some time longer."

FOOTNOTE:

[55] Copyright, 1912, by the Curtis Publishing Company.

JAMES TANDY ELLIS

James Tandy Ellis, "Shawn's" father, was born at Ghent, Kentucky, June 9, 1868. He spent his boyhood days in one of the most romantically beautiful sections of Kentucky, on the Ohio river between Cincinnati and Louisville. He was educated at Ghent College and the State College of Kentucky at Lexington. Mr. Ellis has always been a great lover of Nature and his leisure-hours are usually spent with dog and gun or in angling. He engaged in newspaper work in Louisville and his character sketches soon made him well-known throughout the State. His first book, _Poems by Ellis_ (Louisville, Kentucky, 1898), contained some very clever verse. _Sprigs o' Mint_ (New York, 1906), was an attractive little volume of pastels in prose and verse. Mr. Ellis next issued three pamphlets: _Peebles_ (Carrollton, Kentucky, 1908); _Awhile in the Mountains_ (Lexington, Kentucky, 1909); and _Kentucky Stories_ (Lexington, 1909). His latest book, entitled _Shawn of Skarrow_ (Boston, 1911), is a novelette of river life in northern Kentucky, and the simple, direct manner of the little tale was found "refreshing" by the "jaded" reviewers. Colonel Ellis is now assistant Adjutant-General of Kentucky, and he resides at Frankfort, the capitol of the Commonwealth.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. Letters from Mr. Ellis to the Author; _Lexington Leader_ (December 24, 1911).

YOUTHFUL LOVERS[56]

[From _Shawn of Skarrow_ (Boston, 1911)]

The winter had passed away. Shawn had been working hard in school, and under the encouragement of Mrs. Alden, was making fair progress, but Sunday afternoons found him in his rowboat, wandering about the stream and generally pulling his boat out on the beach at Old Meadows, for Lallite was there to greet him, and already they had told each other of their love. What a dream of happiness, to wander together along the pebbled beach, or through the upland woods, tell each other the little incidents of their daily life, and to pledge eternal fidelity. Oh, dearest days, when the rose of love first blooms in youthful hearts, when lips breathe the tenderest promises, fraught with such transports of delight; when each lingering word grows sweeter under the spell of love-lit eyes. Oh, blissful elysium of love's young dream!

They stood together in the deepening twilight, when the sun's last bars of gold were reflected in the stream.

"Oh, Shawn, it was a glad day when you first came with Doctor Hissong to hunt."

"Yes," said Shawn, as he took her hand, "and it was a hunt where I came upon unexpected game, but how could you ever feel any love for a poor river-rat?"

"I don't know," said Lallite, "but maybe, it is that kind that some girls want to fall in love with, especially if they have beautiful teeth, and black eyes and hair, and can be unselfish enough to kill a bag of game for two old men, and let them think they did the shooting."

"Lally, when they have love plays on the show-boats, they have all sorts of quarrels and they lie and cuss and tear up things generally."

"Well, Shawn, there's all sorts of love, I suppose, but mine is not the show-boat kind."

"Thank the Lord," said Shawn.

He drew out a little paste-board box. Nestling in a wad of cotton, was the pearl given to him by Burney.

"Lally, this is the only thing I have ever owned in the way of jewelry, and it's not much, but will you take it and wear it for my sake?"

"It will always be a perfect pearl to me," said the blushing girl.

FOOTNOTE:

[56] Copyright, 1911, by the C. M. Clark Company.

GEORGE HORACE LORIMER

George Horace Lorimer, editor and novelist, was born at Louisville, Kentucky, October 6, 1868, the son of Dr. George C. Lorimer (1838-1904), the distinguished Baptist clergyman and author, who held pastorates at Harrodsburg (where he married a wife), Paducah, and Louisville, but who won his widest reputation in Tremont Temple, Boston. His son was educated at Colby College and at Yale. Since Saint Patrick's Day of 1899, Mr. Lorimer has been editor-in-chief of _The Saturday Evening Post_. He resides with his family at Wyncote, Pennsylvania, but he may be more often found near the top of the magnificent new building of the Curtis Publishing Company in Independence Square. As an author Mr. Lorimer is known for his popular _Letters from a Self-Made Merchant to His Son_ (Boston, 1902), which was one of the "six best sellers" for a long time. It was actually translated into Japanese. Its sequel, _Old Gorgon Graham_ (New York, 1904), was more letters from the same to the same. The original of _Old Gorgon Graham_ was none other than Philip Danforth Armour, the Chicago packer, under whom Mr. Lorimer worked for several years. Both of the books made a powerful appeal to men, but it is doubtful if many women cared for either of them. _The False Gods_ (New York, 1906), is a newspaper story in which "the false gods" are the faithless _flares_ which lead a "cub" reporter into many mixups, only to have everything turn out happily in the end. Mr. Lorimer's latest story, _Jack Spurlock--Prodigal_ (New York, 1908), an adventurous young fellow who is expelled from Harvard, defies his father, and finds himself in the maw of a cold and uncongenial world, is deliciously funny--for the reader! All of Mr. Lorimer's books are full of the _Poor Richard_ brand of worldly-wise philosophy, which he is in the habit of "serving up" weekly for the readers of _The Post_. That he is certainly an editor of very great ability, and that he has exerted wide influence in his field, no one will gainsay. The men who help him make his paper call him "the greatest editor in America;" and he is undoubtedly the highest salaried one in this country to-day. _The Post_, which was nothing before he assumed control of it, is one of the foremost weeklies in the English-reading world at the present time; and its success is due to the longheadedness and hard common sense of its editor, George Horace Lorimer.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Critic_ (June, 1903); _The Bookman_ (October, November, 1904); _Little Pilgrimages Among the Men Who Have Written Famous Books_, by E. F. Harkins (Boston, 1903, Second Series).

HIS SON'S SWEETHEART[57]

[From _Letters from a Self-Made Merchant to His Son_ (Boston, 1902)]

NEW YORK, November 4, 189-.

_Dear Pierrepont_: Who is this Helen Heath, and what are your intentions there? She knows a heap more about you than she ought to know if they're not serious, and I know a heap less about her than I ought to know if they are. Hadn't got out of sight of land before we'd become acquainted somehow, and she's been treating me like a father clear across the Atlantic. She's a mighty pretty girl, and a mighty nice girl, and a mighty sensible girl--in fact she's so exactly the sort of girl I'd like to see you marry that I'm afraid there's nothing in it.

Of course, your salary isn't a large one yet, but you can buy a whole lot of happiness with fifty dollars a week when you have the right sort of a woman for your purchasing agent. And while I don't go much on love in a cottage, love in a flat, with fifty a week as a starter, is just about right, if the girl is just about right. If she isn't, it doesn't make any special difference how you start out, you're going to end up all wrong.

Money ought never to be _the_ consideration in marriage, but it ought always to be _a_ consideration. When a boy and a girl don't think enough about money before the ceremony, they're going to have to think altogether too much about it after; and when a man's doing sums at home evenings, it comes kind of awkward for him to try to hold his wife on his lap.

There's nothing in this talk that two can live cheaper than one. A good wife doubles a man's expenses and doubles his happiness, and that's a pretty good investment if a fellow's got the money to invest. I have met women who had cut their husbands' expenses in half, but they needed the money because they had doubled their own. I might add, too, that I've met a good many husbands who had cut their wives' expenses in half, and they fit naturally into any discussion of our business, because they are hogs. There's a point where economy becomes a vice, and that's when a man leaves its practice to his wife.

An unmarried man is a good deal like a piece of unimproved real estate--he may be worth a whole lot of money, but he isn't of any particular use except to build on. The great trouble with a lot of these fellows is that they're "made land," and if you dig down a few feet you strike ooze and booze under the layer of dollars that their daddies dumped in on top. Of course, the only way to deal with a proposition of that sort is to drive forty-foot piles clear down to solid rock and then to lay railroad iron and cement till you've got something to build on. But a lot of women will go right ahead without any preliminaries and wonder what's the matter when the walls begin to crack and tumble about their ears.

FOOTNOTE:

[57] Copyright, 1902, by Small, Maynard and Company.

SISTER IMELDA

Sister Imelda ("Estelle Marie Gerard"), poet, was born at Jackson, Tennessee, January 17, 1869, the daughter of Charles Brady, a native of Ireland, and soldier in the Confederate army. After the war he went to Jackson, Tennessee, and married Miss Ann Sharpe, a kinswoman of Senator John Sharp Williams of Mississippi. Their second child was Helen Estelle Brady, the future poet. She was educated by the Dominican sisters at Jackson and, at the age of eighteen years, entered the sisterhood, taking the name of "Sister Imelda." For the next twenty-three years she lived in Kentucky, teaching music in Roman Catholic institutions at Louisville and Springfield, but she is now connected with the Sacred Heart Institute, Watertown, Massachusetts. Sister Imelda's booklet of poems has been highly praised by competent critics. It was entitled _Heart Whispers_ (1905), and issued under her pen-name of "Estelle Marie Gerard." Many of these poems were first published in _The Midland Review_, a Louisville magazine edited by the late Charles J. O'Malley, the poet and critic. Sister Imelda is a woman of rare culture and a real singer, but her strict religious life has hampered her literary labors to an unusual degree.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Hesperian Tree_ (Columbus, Ohio, 1903); letters from Sister Imelda to the Author.

A JUNE IDYL[58]

[From _Heart Whispers_ (1905)]

Every glade sings now of summer-- Songs as sweet as violets' breath; And the glad, warm heart of nature Thrills and gently answereth.

Answers through the lily-lyrics And the rosebud's joyous song, Faintly o'er the valley stealing, As the June days speed along.

And we, pausing, fondly listen To their tuneful minstrelsy, Floating far beyond the wildwood To the ever restless sea.

Till the echoes, softly, lowly, Trembling on the twilight air-- Tells us that each rose and lily Bows its scented head in prayer.

HEART MEMORIES

[From the same]

In fancy's golden barque at eventide My spirit floateth to the Far Away, And dreamland faces come as fades the day. They lean upon my heart. We gently glide Adown the magic shores of long ago, While memories, like silver lily bells, Are tinkling in my heart's fair woodland dells And breathing songs full sweetly soft and low.

When eventide has slowly winged its flight, And moonbeams clothe the flowers with radiant light, Ah, then there swiftly come again to me, Like echoes of some song-bird melody, Borne on the breeze from far-off mountain height, Fond thoughts of home, and Mother dear, of Thee.

A NUN'S PRAYER

[From the same]

When lilies swing their voiceless silver bells, And twilight's kiss doth linger on the sea, I wander silently o'er the scented lea By brooks that murmur through the sleeping dells, And rippling onward, chant the funeral knells Of leaves they bear upon their breasts. On Thee, Dear Lord, I lean! The grandest destiny Of life is mine. Within my heart there wells For thee a deep love, and sweetest peace Doth glimmer star-like on the wavelet's crest. Grant, Thou, O Christ, its gleaming ne'er may cease, Until Death's angel makes the melody That calls my pinioned spirit home to Thee, Then only will it know eternal rest.

FOOTNOTE:

[58] Copyright, 1905, by the Author.

HARRISON CONRARD

Harrison Conrard, poet, was born at Dodsonville, Ohio, September 21, 1869. He was educated at St. Xavier's College, Cincinnati. From 1892 until the spring of 1899 Mr. Conrard lived at Ludlow, Kentucky, when he removed to Arizona to engage in the lumber business at Flagstaff, his present home. While living at Ludlow he published his first book of poems, entitled _Idle Songs and Idle Sonnets_ (1898), which is now out of print. Mr. Conrard's second and best known volume of verse, called _Quivira_ (Boston, 1907), contained a group of singing lyrics of almost entrancing beauty. These are the only books he has so far published. "Some day," the poet once wrote, "I shall roll up my bedding, take my fishing rod and wander back east, and Kentucky will be good enough for me." He has, however, never come back. A new volume of his verse is to be issued shortly.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. Letters from Mr. Conrard to the Author; _Poet-Lore_ (Boston, Fall Issue, 1907).

IN OLD TUCSON[59]

[From _Quivira_ (Boston, 1907)]

In old Tucson, in old Tucson, What cared I how the days ran on? A brown hand trailing the viol-strings, Hair as black as the raven's wing, Lips that laughed and a voice that clung To the sweet old airs of the Spanish tongue Had drenched my soul with a mellow rime Till all life shone, in that golden clime, With the tender glow of the morning-time. In old Tucson, in old Tucson, How swift the merry days ran on!

In old Tucson, in old Tucson, How soon the parting day came on! But I oft turn back in my hallowed dreams, And the low adobe a palace seems, Where her sad heart sighs and her sweet voice sings To the notes that throb from her viol-strings. Oh, those tear-dimmed eyes and that soft brown hand! And a soul that glows like the desert sand-- The golden fruit of a golden land! In old Tucson, in old Tucson, The long, lone days, O Time, speed on!

A KENTUCKY SUNRISE

[From the same]

Faint streaks of light; soft murmurs; sweet Meadow-breaths; low winds; the deep gray Yielding to crimson; a lamb's bleat; Soft-tinted hills; a mockbird's lay: And the red Sun brings forth the Day.

A KENTUCKY SUNSET

[From the same]

The great Sun dies in the west; gold And scarlet fill the skies; the white Daisies nod in repose; the fold Welcomes the lamb; larks sink from sight: The long shadows come, and then--Night.

FOOTNOTE:

[59] Copyright, 1907, by Richard G. Badger.

ALICE HEGAN RICE

Mrs. Alice Hegan Rice, creator of "Mrs. Wiggs," was born at Shelbyville, Kentucky, January 11, 1870. She was educated at Hampton College, Louisville. On December 18, 1902, she was married to Mr. Cale Young Rice, the Louisville poetic dramatist. Mrs. Rice is a member of several clubs, and to this work she has devoted considerable attention. Her first book, published under her maiden name of Alice Caldwell Hegan, the redoubtable _Mrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch_ (New York, 1901), is an epic of optimism, "David Harum's Widow," to its admirers; and a platitudinous production, to its non-admirers. At any rate, it achieved the success it was written to achieve: one of the "six best sellers" for more than a year, and now in its forty-seventh edition! That, surely, is glory--and money--enough for the most exacting. The love episode running through the little tale did not greatly add to its merit, and when the old woman of the many trials and tribulations is absent, it drags itself endlessly along. _Lovey Mary_ (New York, 1903), was a weakish sequel, partly redeemed by the one readable chapter upon the old Kentucky woman of Martinsville, Indiana, and her _Denominational Garden_. That chapter and _The 'Christmas Lady'_ from _Mrs. Wiggs_, were reprinted in London as very slight volumes. _Sandy_ (New York, 1905), was the story of a little Scotch stowaway in Kentucky; _Captain June_ (New York, 1907), related the experiences of an American lad in Japan; _Mr. Opp_ (New York, 1909), was a rather unpleasant tale of an eccentric Kentucky journalist, yet quite the strongest thing she has done. Mrs. Gusty, Jimmy Fallows, Cove City, _The Opp Eagle_, its editor, D. Webster Opp, his half-crazed sister, Kippy, are very real and very pathetic. Mrs. Rice's latest story, _A Romance of Billy-Goat Hill_ (New York, 1912), was heralded as a "delightful blend of Cabbage Patch philosophy and high romance;" and it was said to have been the result of a suggestion made to the author by the late editor and poet, Richard Watson Gilder, that she should paint upon a larger canvas--which suggestion was both good and timely. That the "Cabbage Patch philosophy" is present no one will deny; but the "high romance" is reached at the top of Billy-Goat Hill which is, after all, not a very dizzy altitude. It was, of course, one of the "six best sellers" for several months. Indeed, more than a million copies of her books have been sold; and nearly as many people have seen the dramatization of _Mr. Opp_ and _Mrs. Wiggs_.[60]

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Outlook_ (December 6, 1902); _The Bookman_ (May, 1903); _The Critic_ (June, 1904).

THE OPPRESSED MR. OPP DECIDES[61]

[From _Mr. Opp_ (New York, 1909)]

Half an hour later Mr. Opp dragged himself up the hill to his home. All the unfairness and injustice of the universe seemed pressing upon his heart. Every muscle in his body quivered in remembrance of what he had been through, and an iron band seemed tightening about his throat. His town had refused to believe his story! It had laughed in his face!

With a sudden mad desire for sympathy and for love, he began calling Kippy. He stumbled across the porch, and, opening the door with his latch-key, stood peering into the gloom of the room.

The draft from an open window blew a curtain toward him, a white, spectral, beckoning thing, but no sound broke from the stillness.

"Kippy!" he called again, his voice sharp with anxiety.

From one room to another he ran, searching in nooks and corners, peering under the beds and behind the doors, calling in a voice that was sometimes a command, but oftener a plea: "Kippy! Kippy!"

At last he came back to the dining-room and lighted the lamp with shaking hands. On the hearth were the remains of a small bonfire, with papers scattered about. He dropped on his knees and seized a bit of charred cardboard. It was a corner of the hand-painted frame that had incased the picture of Guinevere Gusty! Near it lay loose sheets of paper, parts of that treasured package of letters she had written him from Coreyville.

As Mr. Opp gazed helplessly about the room, his eyes fell upon something white pinned to the red table-cloth. He held it to the light. It was a portion of one of Guinevere's letters, written in the girl's clear, round hand:

Mother says I can never marry you until Miss Kippy goes to the asylum.

Mr. Opp got to his feet. "She's read the letter," he cried wildly; "she's learned out about herself! Maybe she's in the woods now, or down on the bank!" He rushed to the porch. "Kippy!" he shouted. "Don't be afraid! Brother D.'s coming to get you! Don't run away, Kippy! Wait for me! Wait!" and leaving the old house open to the night, he plunged into the darkness, beating through the woods and up and down the road, calling in vain for Kippy, who lay cowering in the bottom of a leaking skiff that was drifting down the river at the mercy of the current.

Two days later, Mr. Opp sat in the office of the Coreyville Asylum for the Insane and heard the story of his sister's wanderings. Her boat had evidently been washed ashore at a point fifteen miles above the town, for people living along the river had reported a strange little woman, without hat or coat, who came to their doors crying and saying her name was "Oxety," and that she was crazy, and begging them to show her the way to the asylum. On the second day she had been found unconscious on the steps of the institution, and since then, the doctor said, she had been wild and unmanageable.

"Considering all things," he concluded, "it is much wiser for you not to see her. She came of her own accord, evidently felt the attack coming on, and wanted to be taken care of."

He was a large, smooth-faced man, with the conciliatory manner of one who regards all his fellow-men as patients in varying degrees of insanity.

"But I'm in the regular habit of taking care of her," protested Mr. Opp. "This is just a temporary excitement for the time being that won't ever, probably, occur again. Why, she's been improving all winter; I've learnt her to read and write a little, and to pick out a number of cities on the geographical atlas."

"All wrong," exclaimed the doctor; "mistaken kindness. She can never be any better, but she may be a great deal worse. Her mind should never be stimulated or excited in any way. Here, of course, we understand all these things and treat the patient accordingly."

"Then I must just go back to treating her like a child again?" asked Mr. Opp, "not endeavoring to improve her intellect, or help her grow up in any way?"

The doctor laid a kindly hand on his shoulder.

"You leave her to us," he said. "The State provides this excellent institution for just such cases as hers. You do yourself and your family, if you have one, an injustice by keeping her at home. Let her stay here for six months or so, and you will see what a relief it will be."

Mr. Opp sat with his elbow on the desk and his head propped in his hand and stared miserably at the floor. He had not had his clothes off for two nights, and he had scarcely taken time from his search to eat anything. His face looked old and wizened and haunted from the strain. Yet here and now he was called upon to make his great decision. On the one hand lay the old, helpless life with Kippy, and on the other a future of dazzling possibility with Guinevere. All of his submerged self suddenly rose and demanded happiness. He was ready to snatch it, at any cost, regardless of everything and everybody--of Kippy; of Guinevere, who, he knew, did not love him, but would keep her promise; of Hinton, whose secret he had long ago guessed. And, as a running accompaniment to his thoughts, was the quiet, professional voice of the doctor urging him to the course that his heart prompted. For a moment the personal forces involved trembled in equilibrium.

After a long time he unknotted his fingers, and drew his handkerchief across his brow.

"I guess I'll go up and see her now," he said, with the gasping breath of a man who has been under water.

In vain the doctor protested. Mr. Opp was determined.

As the door to the long ward was being unlocked, he leaned for a moment dizzily against the wall.

"You'd better let me give you a swallow of whiskey," suggested the doctor, who had noted his exhaustion.

Mr. Opp raised his hand deprecatingly, with a touch of his old professional pride. "I don't know as I've had occasion to mention," he said, "that I am the editor and sole proprietor of 'The Opp Eagle'; and that bird," he added, with a forced smile, "is, as everybody knows, a complete teetotaler."

At the end of the crowded ward, with her face to the wall, was a slight, familiar figure. Mr. Opp started forward; then he turned fiercely upon the attendant.

"Her hands are tied! Who dared to tie her up like that?"

"It's just a soft handkerchief," replied the matronly woman, reassuringly. "We were afraid she would pull her hair out. She wants it fixed a certain way; but she's afraid for any of us to touch her. She has been crying about it ever since she came."

In an instant Mr. Opp was on his knees beside her. "Kippy, Kippy darling, here's brother D.; he'll fix it for you! You want it parted on the side, don't you, tied with a bow, and all the rest hanging down? Don't cry so, Kippy. I'm here now; brother D.'ll take care of you."

She flung her loosened arms around him and clung to him in a passion of relief. Her sobs shook them both, and his face and neck were wet with her tears.

As soon as they could get her sufficiently quiet, they took her into her little bedroom.

"You let the lady get you ready," urged Mr. Opp, still holding her hand, "and I'll take you back home, and Aunt Tish will have a nice, hot supper all waiting for us."

But she would let nobody else touch her, and even then she broke forth into piteous sobs and protests. Once she pushed him from her and looked about wildly. "No, no," she cried, "I mustn't go; I am crazy!" But he told her about the three little kittens that had been born under the kitchen steps, and in an instant she was a-tremble with eagerness to go home to see them.

An hour later Mr. Opp and his charge sat on the river-bank and waited for the little launch that was to take them back to the Cove. A curious crowd had gathered at a short distance, for their story had gone the rounds.

Mr. Opp sat under the fire of curious glances, gazing straight in front of him, and only his flushed face showed what he was suffering. Miss Kippy, in her strange clothes and with her pale hair flying about her shoulders, sat close by him, her hand in his.

"D.," she said once in a high, insistent voice, "when will I be grown up enough to marry Mr. Hinton?"

Mr. Opp for a moment forgot the crowd. "Kippy," he said, with all the gentle earnestness that was in him, "you ain't never going to grow up at all. You are just always going to be brother D.'s little girl. You see, Mr. Hinton's too old for you, just like--" he paused, then finished it bravely--"just like I am too old for Miss Guin-never. I wouldn't be surprised if they got married with each other some day. You and me will just have to take care of each other."

She looked at him with the quick suspicion of the insane, but he was ready for her with a smile.

"Oh, D.," she cried, in a sudden rapture, "we are glad, ain't we?"

FOOTNOTES:

[60] _Mr. Opp_ was dramatized by Douglas Z. Doty, a New York editor, and presented at Macaulay's Theatre, in Louisville, but it was shortly sent to the store-house. _Mrs. Wiggs_ was put into play-form by Mrs. Anne (Laziere) Crawford Flexner, in 1904, with Madge Carr Cook in the title-role. Mrs. Flexner was born at Georgetown, Kentucky; educated at Vassar; married Abraham Flexner of Louisville, June 23, 1898; lived at Louisville until June, 1905, since which time she has spent a year in Cambridge, Mass., and a year abroad; now residing in New York City. She has written two original plays: _A Man's Woman_, in four acts; and _A Lucky Star_, the fount of inspiration being a novel by C. N. and A. M. Williamson, entitled _The Motor Chaperon_, which was produced by Charles Frohman, with Willie Collier in the steller part, at the Hudson Theatre, New York, in 1910. She also dramatized A. E. W. Mason's story, _Miranda of the Balcony_ (London, 1899), which was produced in New York by Mrs. Fiske in 1901. Mrs. Flexner is the only successful woman playwright Kentucky has produced; and it is a real pity that none of her plays have been published. _Mrs. Wiggs_ has held the "boards" for eight year; and it seems destined to go on forever.

[61] Copyright, 1909, by the Century Company.

RICHARD H. WILSON

Richard Henry Wilson ("Richard Fisguill"), novelist and educator, was born near Hopkinsville, Kentucky, March 6, 1870. He received the degrees of B. A. and M. A. from South Kentucky College, and Ph. D. from Johns Hopkins in 1898. Dr. Wilson spent ten years in Europe studying at universities in France, Germany, Italy, and Spain; and he married a Frenchwoman. He has been a great "globe-trotter," and he speaks a dozen languages fluently. Since 1899 Dr. Wilson has been professor of Romantic languages at the University of Virginia. All the appointments of his home are in the French style, and French is the language of the family. Professor Wilson is a good Kentuckian, nevertheless, and he knows the land and the people well. He is to the University of Virginia what Professor Charles T. Copeland is to Harvard. His first book, _The Preposition A_, is now out of print. His novel, _Mazel_ (New York, 1902), takes rather the form of a satire upon life at the University of Virginia. Professor Wilson's next story, _The Venus of Cadiz_ (New York, 1905), is a rollicking extravaganza of cave and country life at Cadiz, Kentucky. Both of his novels have been issued under his pen-name of "Richard Fisguill"--"Fisguill" being bastard French for "Wilson." Professor Wilson contributes much to the magazines. Four of his short-stories were printed in _Harper's Weekly_ between April and October of 1912, under the following titles, and in the order of their appearance: _Orphanage_, _The Nymph_, _Seven Slumbers_, and _The Princess of Is_. Another story, _The Waitress at the Phoenix_, was published in _Collier's_ for September 7, 1912. A collection of his short-stories may be issued in 1913.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Library of Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, 1910, v. xv); _Who's Who in America_ (1912-1913).

SUSAN--THE VENUS OF CADIZ[62]

[From _The Venus of Cadiz_ (New York, 1905)]

Colonel Norris was as laconic as usual, not even giving his address. He had written four letters in twelve years.

"The Colonel means a million francs," explained Captain Malepeste. "His letter was addressed to me, and he knows I always count in francs."

"The Colonel means a million marks," replied Captain Bisherig. "He began his letter: 'Dear Malepeste and Bisherig,' and I don't believe Colonel Norris would think in francs when he had me in mind."

"But the Colonel is an American," observed Gertrude. "Don't you think it would be more natural for him to count and think in dollars--a million dollars?"

"No, I do not," replied Doctor Alvin. "I believe all of you are wrong. The Colonel is in Australia. His business relations are doubtless with English houses. And in my opinion he means pounds, English money--a million pounds sterling."

"Why, that would make five million dollars!" exclaimed Gertrude.

"Twenty million marks!" ejaculated Captain Bisherig.

"Twenty-five million francs!" echoed Captain Malepeste.

"That is what it would be," assented Doctor Alvin, "and that is what the Colonel means, I feel sure. Nor am I surprised. Norris is a man of remarkable business instincts. He is as cool and collected on the floor of a stock exchange as he was on the field of battle. Then he had every incentive to make a fortune. And he has made one, take my word for it."

"Nom d'une pipe!" exclaimed Captain Malepeste. "We will all go to Paris, and buy a hôtel on the Champs-Elysees!"

"We will do no such thing," objected Captain Bisherig. "Your modern Babylon is no place for respectable folks to live in."

Captain Malepeste retorted:

"Well, if you think we should be willing to put up with more than one 'Dutchman,' and live in Germany--God forbid!"

Captain Bisherig and Captain Malepeste retired to the Music Room that they might settle with swords the question of the respective merits of Germany and France. Gertrude followed in the capacity of second and surgeon to both men. Susan and Doctor Alvin remained alone. Catherine had retired to her bedroom.

"So papa is coming back with a fortune," observed Dr. Alvin, affectionately. "And ... and what is our Susie going to do--give a ball, and invite the Governor of Kentucky?"

"If father comes back with a million, I am going somewhere to study art," replied Susan.

The reply came so quickly that Dr. Alvin was startled.

Susan had fought out her battles alone. Unperceived she had crossed the threshold of womanhood.

"Study art ... be an artist, when a girl is as pretty as you are, and heiress to five million dollars!" cried Doctor Alvin, laying aside the mask he had worn so long.

It was Susan's turn to be astonished. She looked at her guardian fixedly, expressing pain in her look.

At length, in a low voice, she said:

"I do not see why."

"Susan!" began Doctor Alvin.

Then he hesitated, as if in doubt as to whether he should continue.

"I do not see why," repeated Susan, in the same low voice.

Doctor Alvin passed his hand over his forehead. He resumed:

"Susan, your father is coming back shortly. My guardianship is ended. Your father made me swear on Julia's coffin, that I would discourage in you all thoughts of marriage until he returned. He was afraid you might follow in Julia's footsteps. I was to represent sentiment as sentimentality, substitute art for love, and prevent your fancy crystallizing into some man-inspired desire. I have kept my promise. Your father will find you fancy-free, will he not?"

"Yes."

"But, Susan--" and Doctor Alvin's voice again expressed excitement. "But--"

Doctor Alvin's voice trembled so that he was obliged to start over again:

"Susan, you do not know what you are. You--you--are a beautiful woman. You are more beautiful than Julia was at the height of her beauty. You are more beautiful than your mother was--"

Doctor Alvin's voice echoed mournfully as if he were calling upon the dead.

"Susan, you have only to look upon men to conquer them. You can achieve with a gesture what artists accomplish with a masterpiece. What can artists do, other than quicken the pulse of sluggard humanity? But, Susan--God guide your power--you will make blood boil, heads reel, hearts throb until they burst, if so you will it. Art--artists! There is no need of you studying art. Artists will study you. Have you never looked at yourself in the glass, child? Have you never, when--when--You have studied art with Malepeste, and you know what lines are. Have you never thought of studying your own lines? None of the great statues or paintings, of which Malepeste has the photographs, is so harmoniously perfect as you. Art!--You are the genius of art. I have influenced you into taking up various lines of work, that I might keep you from the pitfalls of love, until the proper time. But, now, my guardianship is ended. I have played a part. I must lay aside my mask. Susan, I have been deceiving you. Love is by all odds the greatest thing in the world. You must love. And you must let some one love you--some one of the many who will be ready to lay down their lives for you--"

FOOTNOTES:

[62] Copyright, 1905, by Henry Holt and Company.

LUCY FURMAN

Miss Lucy Furman, short-story writer, was born at Henderson, Kentucky, in 1870, the daughter of a physician. Her parents died when she was quite young, and she was brought up by her aunt. Miss Furman attended public and private schools at Henderson, and at the age of sixteen years, graduated from Sayre Institute at Lexington, Kentucky. The three years following her graduation were spent at Henderson and at Shreveport, Louisiana, the home of her grandparents, in both of which places she was a social leader. At the age of nineteen, it became necessary for her to make her own way in the world, and for about four years she was court stenographer at Evansville, Indiana. Miss Furman's earliest literary work was done at Evansville. The first stories she ever wrote were accepted by _The Century Magazine_ when she was but twenty-three years of age. These were some of the _Stories of a Sanctified Town_ (New York, 1896), one of the most charming books yet written by a Kentucky woman. At the age of twenty-five, when her prospects were exceedingly bright, Miss Furman's health failed entirely, and during the next ten years she was an invalid, seeking health in Florida, southern Texas, on the Jersey coast, and elsewhere, but without much success, and being always too feeble to do any writing. In 1907 she went up into the mountains of her native State to become a teacher in the W. C. T. U. Settlement School at Hindman, Knott county, Kentucky. She did very little at first, but gradually her strength came back, and for the last two years she has been writing stories and sketches of the Kentucky mountains for _The Century Magazine_. In 1911 _The Century_ published a series of stories under the title of _Mothering on Perilous_, which will be brought out in book form. In 1912 Miss Furman had several stories in the same magazine, one of the best of which was _Hard-Hearted Barbary Allen_. Her lack of physical strength has compelled her to work very slowly, and it is only by living out-of-doors at least half the time that she can live at all. "I have charge of the gardening and outdoor work at the Settlement School," Miss Furman wrote recently, "but the happiest part of my life is my residence at the small boys' cottage, about which I have told in the 'Perilous' stories, and in which I find endless pleasure and entertainment. Here I hope to spend the remainder of my days." Very pathetic, reader, and very heroic!

BIBLIOGRAPHY. Letters from Miss Furman to the Author; _The Century Magazine_ (July, August, November, December, 1912).

A MOUNTAIN COQUETTE[63]

[From _Hard-Hearted Barbary Allen_ (_The Century Magazine_, March, 1912)]

Beneath the musket, on the "fire-board," lay a spindle-shaped, wooden object, black with age. "A dulcimer," Aunt Polly Ann explained. "My man made it, too, always-ago. Dulcimers used to be all the music there was in this country, but banjos is coming in now."

Miss Loring knew that the dulcimer was an ancient musical instrument very popular in England three centuries ago. She gazed upon the interesting survival with reverence, and expressed a wish to hear it played.

"Beldory she'll pick and sing for you gladly when she gets the dishes done," promised Aunt Polly Ann. "Picking and singing is her strong p'ints, and she knows any amount of song-ballads."

At last Beldora came out on the porch and seated herself on a low stool near the loom. Laying the dulcimer across her knees, she began striking the strings with two quills, using both shapely hands. The music was weird, but attractive; the tune she played, minor, long-drawn, and haunting. Miss Loring received the second shock of the day when she caught the opening words of the song:

All in the merry month of May, When the green buds they were swelling, Young Jemmy Grove on his death-bed lay, For the love of Barbary Allen.

Often had she read and heard of the old English ballad "Barbara Allen"; never had she thought to encounter it in the flesh. As she listened to the old song, long since forgotten by the rest of the world, but here a warm household possession; as she gazed at Beldora, so young, so fair against the background of ancient loom and gray log wall, she felt as one may to whom the curtain of the past is for an instant lifted, and a vision of dead-and-gone generations vouchsafed.

* * * * *

Beldora went off to fetch the nag, and Aunt Polly Ann accompanied the guest to the horse-block, laying an anxious hand on her arm.

"You heared the song-ballad Beldory sung to you. She knows dozens, but that's always her first pick. It's her favor_rite_, and why? Because it's similar to her own manoeuvers. Light and cruel and leading poor boys on to destruction is her joy and pastime, same as Barbary's. Did you mind her eyes when she sung them words about

As she were walking through the streets, She heard them death-bells knelling, And every stroke it seemed to say, "Hard-hearted Barbary Allen!"

like it was something to take pride in, instead of sorrow for? Yes, woman, them words, 'Hard-hearted Barbary Allen,' is her living description, and will be to the end of time."

Ten days later the shocking news reached the school that Robert and Adriance Towles had fought on the summit of Devon Mountain for Beldora Wyant's sake, and Robert had fallen dead, with five bullets in him, Adriance being wounded, though not fatally. It was said that Beldora, pressed to choose between the two, had told them she would marry the best man; that thereupon, with their bosom friends, they had ridden to the top of Devon, measured off paces, and fired. Adriance had fled, but word came the next day that, weak from loss of blood, he had been captured and was on the way to jail in the county-seat near the school.

In the weeks until court sat and the trial came off there was much excitement. Sympathy for Adriance and blame for Beldora were everywhere felt. Most of the county and all of the school-women attended the trial, and interest was divided between the haggard, harassed young face of Adriance and the calm, opulent loveliness of Beldora. When she took the stand, people scarcely breathed. Yes, she had told the Towles boys she would marry the best man of them. She had had to tell them something,--they were pestering her to death,--and the law didn't allow her to marry both. She had had no notion they would be such fools as to try to kill each other. Miss Loring and the other women watched anxiously for some sign of pity or remorse in her, but there was not so much as a quiver of the lips or a tremor in her voice. As she sat there in the lone splendor of her beauty, somewhat scornfully enjoying the gaze of every eye in the court-room, one phrase of her "favor_rite_" song rang ceaselessly through Miss Loring's head--"Hard-hearted Barbary Allen." Her lack of feeling intensified the sympathy for Adriance, and, to everybody's joy, the light verdict of only one year in the penitentiary was brought in.

Half an hour later, Aunt Polly Ann, tragic in face and air, and with Beldora on the nag behind her, drew rein before the settlement school.

"Women," she said with sad solemnity on entering, "for four year' you have been bidding Beldory come and set down and partake of your feast of learning and knowledge; for four year' she has spurned your invite. At last she is minded to come. Here she is. Take her, and see what you can accomplish on her. My raising of her has requited me naught but tenfold tribulation. In vain have I watched and warned and denounced and prophesied; her inordinate light-mindedness and perfidity has now brung one pore boy to a' ontimely grave and another to Frankfort. Take her, women, and see if you can learn her some little demeanor and civility. Keep her under your beneficent and God-fearing roof, and direct her mind off of her outward and on to her inward disabilities! Women, I now wash my hands."

Receiving Beldora into the school was felt to be a somewhat hazardous undertaking, but affection and sympathy for Aunt Polly Ann moved the heads to do it. To the general surprise, Beldora settled down very adaptably to the new life, being capable enough about the industries, and passably so about books. But it was in music that she excelled. Miss Loring gave her piano lessons, and rarely had teacher a more gifted pupil.

Needless to say, when Beldora picked the dulcimer and sang song-ballads at the Friday night parties, all the children and grown-ups sat entranced. For three or four weeks, on these occasions, she had the grace to choose other ballads than "Barbara Allen"; but one night in early November, after singing "Turkish Lady" and "The Brown Girl," she suddenly struck into the haunting melody and tragic words of "Barbara Allen." A thrill and a shock went through all her hearers. Miss Loring saw Howard Cleves start forward in his chair with a look of horror, almost repulsion, on his fine, intelligent face.

Howard was the most remarkable boy in the school. Five years before, when not quite fifteen, he had walked over, barefoot, from his home on Millstone, forty miles distant, and presented himself to "the women" with this plea: "I hear you women run a school where boys and girls can work their way through. I am the workingest boy on Millstone, and have hoed corn, cleared new-ground, and snaked logs since I turned my fifth year. I have heard tell, over yander on Millstone, that there is a sizable world outside these mountains, full of strange, foreign folk and wonderly things. I crave to know about it. I can't set in darkness any longer. My hunger for learning ha'nts me day and night, and burns me like a fever. I'll pine to death if I don't get it. Women, give me a chance. Hunt up the hardest job on your place, and watch me toss it off."

They gave him the chance; and never had they done anything that more richly rewarded them. Not only were his powers of work prodigious, but his eager, brilliant mind opened amazingly day by day, progressing by leaps and bounds. The women set their chief hopes upon Howard, believing that in him they would give a great man to the nation. Promise of a scholarship in the law school of a well-known university had already been obtained for him, and in one more year, such was his astonishing progress, he would be able to enter it, if all went well. Miss Loring had observed that, in common with every other boy, big or little, in the school, Howard had been at first much taken with Beldora's looks, and it was with relief that she beheld his expression of repulsion at Beldora's complacent singing of "Barbara Allen."

The first real warning came at the Thanksgiving party. During a game of forfeits, Beldora was ordered to "claim the one you like the best." Miss Loring saw her first approach Howard with a dazzling and tender look in her splendid eyes, and even put out a hand to him; then suddenly, with a wicked little smile, she turned and gave both hands to Spalding Drake, a young man from the village. A deep flush sprang to Howard's face, his jaws clenched, his eyes blazed tigerishly. It might have been only chagrin at the public slight; still, it made Miss Loring anxious enough to have a long talk with Beldora next day and explain to her the hopes and plans for Howard's future and the tragedy and cruelty of interfering with them in any way.

One morning, three days before Christmas, Beldora's bed had not been slept in at all, and under the front door was a note in Howard's handwriting, as follows:

DEAR FRIENDS:

Beldora told me last week she aimed to marry Spalding Drake Christmas. Though he is a nice boy and I like him, I knew, if she did, I would kill him on the spot. Rather than do this, it is better for me to marry her myself beforehand. I have hired a nag, and we will ride to Tazewell by moonlight for a license and preacher.

I know a man is a fool that throws away his future for a woman, that Beldora is not worth it, and that I am doing what I will never cease to regret. It is like death to me to know I will never accomplish the things you set before me, and be the man you wanted me to be. I wish I had never laid eyes on Beldora. I have agonized and battled and tried to give her up; but she is too strong for me. I can fight no longer with fate. It would be better if women like Beldora never was created. She has cost the life of one boy, the liberty of another, and now my future. But it had to be.

Respectfully yours,

HOWARD.

FOOTNOTE:

[63] Copyright, 1912, by the Century Company.

BERT FINCK

Edward Bertrand Finck ("Bert Finck"), prose pastelist and closet dramatist, was born at Louisville, Kentucky, October 16, 1870, the son of a German father and American mother. His parents were fond of traveling and much of his earlier life was spent in various parts of this country and abroad. He was educated in the private schools of his native city, finishing his academic training at Professor M. B. Allmond's institution. Mr. Finck began to write at an early age, and he has published four books: _Pebbles_ (Louisville, 1898), a little volume of epigrams; _Webs_ (Louisville, 1900), being reveries and essays in miniature; _Plays_ (Louisville, 1902), a group of allegorical dramas; and _Musings and Pastels_ (Louisville, 1905). All of these small books are composed of poetic and philosophical prose, many passages possessing great truth and beauty. In 1906 Mr. Finck was admitted to the bar of Louisville, and he has since practiced there with success. He seemingly took Blackstonian leave of letters some years ago, but the gossips of literary Louisville have been telling, of late, of a new book of prose pastels that he has recently finished and will bring out in the late autumn of 1913.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. Mr. Finck's letters to the Author; _Who's Who in America_ (1912-1913).

BEHIND THE SCENES[64]

[From _Webs_ (Louisville, 1900)]

Could we but lift the countenance which pleases or repels, what seems so sweet might thrust away, and what is repugnant charm or win our sympathy and aid. Is not indifference often a net to catch or to conceal? Modesty, diplomatic egotism? Wit, brilliant misery? Contentment, wallowing despair? Langor, shrewd energy? Frivolity, woe burlesquely masked by unselfishness or pride? Is not philosophy, at times, resignation in delirium? The enthusiastic are ridiculed as being self-conceited; the patient condemned for having no heart. We stigmatize them as idle whose natures are toiling the noblest toil of all, for not rarely do thought-gods drift through a spell of idleness; a butterfly-fancy may breed a spirit that turns the way of an age's career; there are sleeps that are awakenings; awakenings, sleeps; none so worthless as many who are busy all the time. Smiles are sometimes selfish triumphs; peace, the swine-heart's well-filled trough. Cheeks rich with the fire of fever are envied as glow of health; steps, eager to escape from a spectre, we laudingly call enthusiasm in work; and the brain's desperate efforts to stifle bitter thoughts sharpen tongues that fascinate with their brilliant gayety--the world dances to the music of its sighs.

FOOTNOTE:

[64] Copyright, 1900, by the Author.

OLIVE TILFORD DARGAN

Mrs. Olive Tilford Dargan, poet and dramatist, was born at Tilfordsville, near Leitchfield, Kentucky, in 1870. She attended the public schools, in which her parents were teachers, until she was ten years of age, when they left Kentucky and established a school at Donophan, Missouri. Three years later she was ready for college, but her mother's health broke, and the family settled in the Ozark Mountains, near Warm Springs, Arkansas, where another school was conducted, this time with the daughter as her father's assistant. For the following five years she taught the young idea of backwoods Arkansas how to shoot; and during these years she herself was always hoping and planning for a college education, which hopes and plans seemed to crumble beneath her feet when her mother died, in 1888, and she returned to Kentucky with her invalid father. She had purposed in her heart, however, and finally obtained a Peabody scholarship, which took her to the University of Nashville, Tennessee, from which institution she was graduated two years later. Miss Tilford then accepted a position to teach in Missouri, but the climate so affected her health that she was forced to resign and repair to Houston, Texas, to recuperate. She shortly afterwards took a course in a business college and, for a brief period, held a position in a bank. Teaching again called her and for two years she taught in the schools of San Antonio, Texas. In 1894 Miss Tilford did work in English and philosophy at Radcliffe College, Cambridge, Massachusetts; and a year later she turned again to teaching, holding a position in Acadia Seminary, Wolfville, Nova Scotia. This was followed by a year spent in reading in the libraries of Boston, in which city she also worked as a stenographer. Several of her articles were accepted by the magazines about this time, which decided her to settle upon literature as her life work. She worked too hard at the outset, however, her health gave way, and she spent some months in the mountains of Georgia in order to regain her strength. Miss Tilford was married, in 1898, to Mr. Pegram Dargan, of Darlington, South Carolina, a Harvard man, whom she had met while at Radcliffe. Not long after she went to New York, and there resumed her literary labors with a high and serious purpose. Mrs. Dargan's first volume of dramas, _Semiramis and Other Plays_, was published by Brentano's in 1904, and taken over by the Scribner's in 1909. Besides the title-play, _Semiramis_, founded on the life of the famous Persian queen, this book contained _Carlotta_, a drama of Mexico in the days of Maximilian, and _The Poet_, which is Edgar Allan Poe's life dramatized. Mrs. Dargan's second volume of plays bore the attractive title of _Lords and Lovers and Other Dramas_ (New York, 1906), the second edition of which appeared in 1908. This also contains three plays, the second being _The Shepherd_, with the setting in Russia, and the third, _The Siege_, a Sicilian play, the scene of which is laid in Syracuse, three hundred and fifty-six years before Christ. Mrs. Dargan's _Lords and Lovers_, set against an English background, is generally regarded as the best work she has done hitherto. Mr. Hamilton Wright Mabie has praised this play highly, placing the author beside Percy MacKaye and Josephine Preston Peabody Marks. Mrs. Dargan is Kentucky's foremost poetic dramatist, and the work she has so far accomplished may be considered but an earnest of what she will ultimately produce. Her beautiful masque, _The Woods of Ida_, appeared in _The Century Magazine_ for August, 1907, and it has taken its place with the finest English work in that branch of the drama. She has had lyrics in _Scribner's_, _McClure's_, _The Century_, and _The Atlantic Monthly_, her most recent poem, "In the Blue Ridge," having appeared in _Scribner's_ for May, 1911. Mrs. Dargan's home is in Boston, but for the last three years she has traveled abroad, spending much time in England, the background of her greatest work. Her third and latest volume contains three dramas, entitled _The Mortal Gods and Other Plays_ (New York, 1912). This was awaited with impatience by her admirers on both sides of the Atlantic and read with delight by them.

"Mrs. Dargan has so recently achieved fame that it may seem premature to pronounce a critical judgment on her work," wrote Dr. George A. Wauchope, professor of English in the University of South Carolina, in claiming her for his State. "It is certain, however," he continued, "that it marks the high tide of dramatic poetry in this country, and is, indeed, not unworthy of comparison with all but the greatest in English literature. One is equally impressed by the creative inspiration and the mastery of technique displayed by the author. Each of her plays reveals a dramatic power and a poetic beauty of thought and diction that are surprising. The numerous songs, also, with which her plays are interspersed, yield a rich and haunting melody that is redolent of the charming Elizabethan lyrics. The dramas as a whole are audacious in plot and vigorous in characterization. In the handling of the blank verse, in the witty scenes of the sub-plots, in the splendor of the phrasing, in the strong undercurrent of reflection, and, above all, in their spiritual uplift and noble emotion, these dramas give evidence of a remarkably gifted playwright who not only possesses a deep feeling for art at its highest and best, but who also has command of all the varied resources of dramatic expression."

It would be difficult for a critic to say more in praise of an author, would it not?

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The University of Virginia Magazine_ (January, 1909), containing Wm. Kavanaugh Doty's review of Mrs. Dargan's _The Poet_; _Library of Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, 1909, v. iii); _The Writers of South Carolina_, by G. A. Wauchope (Columbia, S. C., 1910).

NEAR THE COTTAGE IN GREENOT WOODS[65]

[From _Lords and Lovers_ (New York, 1906)]