" When a Girt "
By ANN I-ISIJS
A New, Romantic Serial Dealing With the Absorbing
Problems of a Girl Wife '
"I have rather monopolized Mrs.
Harrison," agreed Anthony Norreys
amiably when Jim came to challenge
him as we sat talking after Vir
ginia's dinner. "But for the matter
of that I rather monopolize you, lad.
I'm an old hulk that needs fine
young craft to convoy it. You do
that for my work. Your wife has
just promised to do it for my char
ity. She's going to let me establish
an endowment fund at the Canteen
we're going to dole out banana
splits' and cake and pudding.
"I'm not sure Anne will continue
canteening." replied Jim darkly and
ungraciously. "It's fine work but
don't see that my wife is essential
to it. It went on without her for a
number of years "
Terry broke in, and as is always
the case where he is concerned, Jim
at once became peaceable and good
natured.
"Your dope's all wrong, Jim. ane
Idea is to relieve the veterans who
have stood the strain for years by
having the reserves come in. Every
time Mrs. Jimmie has to serve at the
dinner hour you count oh me to
share your lonely repast. I don t see
why that didn't occur to you on your
own —old chap."
Jim flushed and stirred uneasily—
glancing at me almost in embar
rassment at Terry's words. And
that told me that what he'd done on
the one evening I was on canteen
duty was by no means so innocent
as spending the time with Terry. 1
wondered if Terry knew —and was at
ono and the same time trying to se
cure my freedom for me and to make
Bure that Jim didn't take too lavish
a portion of freedom for himself.
As I look back on the evening, I
wonder why I wasn't overwhelmed
by the burning jealousy that usually
jvertakes me when I And myself
questioning whether Jim is making
ase of his great fascination and
charm for women. Was the faith in
myself that Anthony Norreys had
driven me great enough to tide me
aver this situation?
Phoebe broke in as suddenly as
Terry had done.
"I want to work at a canteen, too.
I've nothing to do with myself and
.he days are so long."
"A worthy motive!" commented
Virginia drily.
"I don't care if it is or not. I'm
onesome. I guess the boys are, too
—so far from home and with the ex
citement of fighting all over. I'd like
:o meet 'em—and make a few
friends. I don't know anyone in
s'ew York."
"That's gracious of you, Phoebe,"
iaid Virginia— still in the dry, dead
one so different from her usual
:urt decisiveness. "My friends
Fim's friends will appreciate being
counted as nobody."
"Won't anyone understand?"
Phoebe's voice broke and rasped.
'You're all busy—and older than I
—and you know where you're going
—what you're going to do with your
ives. I can't stand this drifting
iround aimlessly and having to take
>rders and always being t ie young
est —and not betng vital to anyone."
So that explained Neal and his
lold over Phoebe. The child's lone
ineßs had driven her to accept his
ove. She needed him, rather than
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FRIDAY EVENING.
cared for him. In that moment I
t decided Virginia had been wise to
send his ring back to my brother
Neal.
"I think, dear —that you've made
out the case against your taking on
canteen work very well," said Vir
ginia. "It needs responsible women
—not girls looking for—larks and
excitement."
"You'll never let me do a thing I
want—l'll show you—l'l show you
—I won't stand this!" cried Phoebe
passionately.
Virginia took this very calmly, too
—she seemed entrenched in a pas
sive indifference from which noth
ing could stir her.
"I'll let you do one thing you've
been saying you wanted to—and
that's run along to your own room,
dear." she said smoothly.
Phoebe's little heurt-shaped face
crimsoned and flashed.
"So you send me to bed like a
baby. You humiliate me before
every one. You wait, Virginia Dal
ton —you wait!"
Then, with the curtest of good
nights, she fled from the room.
Jim turned with a word of apol
ogy.
. "I can't think what has taken pos
session of the child. She doesn't act
like herself. I apologize for Phoebe,
and I apologize to Virginia for the
way her dinner has been turned in
to a debating society."
I winced. %Vas that for Phoebe
or me?"
Sheldon, silent so long, had
crossed to Virginia's side. Now he
was leaning over her with every
show of devotion, and. strangely
enough, Virginia didn't seem to re
sent it.
But it was Anthony Norreys who
saved the day.
"The child is lonesome. Some
how, we hardly see her, Mrs. Dal
ton, when you're around. Of course,
she can't canteen, because they
aren't taking on green hands. But
maybe you'd let her help me a bit.
I'm thinking of sending Doris West
to our Boston oftlee."
"Oh, don't deprive me of little
Miss West!" protested Jim. "I'd
never get on with my sister as as
sistant. I'd tyrannize over her
shamelessly. I'm—used to Miss
West."
"Miss West—that's the pretty,
Oriental little creature out at your
place, isn't it?" I asked thought
lessly.
But as Jim and Terry turned
quickly to study me a memory
came back to assail me—Jims words
the day I told him I was on for the
dinner hour at the canteen —"In
case I do console myself by taking
a beautiful lady out to dinner"
Was Jim interested in his secre
tary, and was Mr. Norreys, in
friendship for me, going to put
temptation out of my husband's
way?
v To be Continued.
Col. House Expects to
Leave His Bed Today
Paris, Jan. 17. —Colonel E. M.
House, who has been ill for several
days past, was greatly improved in
condition vesterday. He was sitting
up in bed and it is expected he .will
be able to leave his bed to-day.
Bringing Up Father - Copyright, 1918, International News Service -*- '- *- By' McT T anus
i| 1 BET SHE IS I VELL-WILL-raO i I Ml* ■ OAO - I've"'
£• cTS5 R r wouo Sr?: T H s A^KH ER to2ET
*VSZ
'' ■ a • i :
L —r 4Ljyfe 1 —=l! /->r-M^-
THE HEART BREAKER
A REAL AMERICAN LOVE STORY
By VIRGINIA TERIIUNE VAN DE WATER
CHAPTER XXVIII
"Thank Heaven that's over!"
The exclamation was Mildred's.
"Yes, I am thankful the day Is
over," Honora agreed. "I dreaded
it. In spite"—with a loving pressure
of her sister's arm—"of your sug
gestion lust night that I looked upon
the trip as a diversion."
"Oh Honey," Mildred protested. "I
did not mean that! But I hated to
come to-day—and things had gone
wrong with me."
"I felt we had to come on Mrs.
Higgins" account," Honora ex
plained.
The two girls were in the Hart
ford station wasting for the 7
o'clock train to Fairlands. They
had attended the services at church
and cemetery and were weary from
the strain of the depressing exper
ience. On the way # to the station
they had stopped at a' restaurant for
sandwiches and coffee and had been
measurably refreshed thereby.
"The day has been hard even
though the weather has been clear,"
Mildred commented. "If It had
rained as it did yesterday it would
have been unbearable. When does
Mrs. Higgins feturn?"
"About the middle of the week, I
told her to stay here long enough
to settle various affairs that de
mand her attention. She says she is
actually homesick to get back to
us."
"I'm going to try to be pice to
Iter when she comes." Mildred re
solved. "Ah, here com.es our train!"
As is often the case on Sunday
nights, the cars were very full.
Two elderly men sitting together
gave up their seats to the girls.
"Oh. thank you so much!" Mildred
echoed her sister's expressions of
gratitude in a voice so gentle that
the nien, both fathers of daugh
ters, smiled kindly at her.
Honora's heart warmed toward
her little sister when she was in
such a mood as was hers to-night.
All day the child had been very
quiet, but now that the painful duty
that had brought them to Hartford
had been discharged she was like
her best self—the self that Honora
wanted to believe was the true Mil
dred."
HAJRpiSBURO TZ-LEGILAPBC '
"It's nipe our being together like
this, in spite of all this crowd,"
Honora remarked after awhile as
the train stopped at Windsor to
take on more passengers. "What are
you looking at, dear? Do you see
someone you know?"
For Mildred had leaned far to one
side to gaze after a couple who had
just passed through the aisle to a
seat near the forward door.
"No—but at first I thought that
man walked like Tom Chandler,"
Mildred said quickly. "But, of
course, it couldn't be he—with that
sort of a girl, and with his hat
pulled down over his ears like that."
Honora gazed in the direction in
dicated. The man referred to wore
a soft hat, which he had, as Mildred
had observed, pulled l|own upon his
head, with the brim J bent so low
that his face was in slradow. Except
that he was of the same height as
Tom Chandler, Honora could see no
point of resemblance between the
two men.
"What made you think that could
be Tom?" she asked. "It doesn't look
a bit like him, to my way of think
ing." 1
"Nor to mine, now," the younger,
girl said. "But Just as he went past
us I thought he carried his head as
Tom does. Then I saw in a moment
that it wasn't he. Imagine Tom
with his swellness, wearing his hat
like that. And fancy his traveling
with a -girl of that type."
The appearance of the man's com
panion certainly justified Mildred's
critical speech. She wore a bright
red toque over hair that was puffed
out in immense bunches each side
of her head, and covered her ears in
huge loops that spread a quarter of
the way over her unnaturally bril
liant cheeks.
Talking of Other Tilings
This much Honora saw before the
pair took their seats. Then they
passed from her mind and she and
Mildred talked of other matters.
Nor did the couple attract their
notice again until just before the
train reached Fairlands. By this
time many passengers had alighted
at various stations, and the man and
girl near the forward end of the
car were in full view of the pas
sengers in the rear.
The two elderly men who had re
signed their seats to the Brent sis
ters were now seated directly behind
them. It was one of these whose
speech reached Mildred and Hon
ora.
"It's disgraceful—that's what it
is!" he exclaimed. "If young peo
ple must make love in that way, it's
a great pity that they must inflict
themselves upon the public!"
He did not know that his words
were audible to the two girls in front
of him. But, instinctiv#y, they
both looked down the aisle.
The fellow in the slouch hat had
his arm about his companion's
waist, and her head rested upon
his shoulder. The bright red toque
had slipped to one side, and he
kissed her again and again.
As Honora and Mildred gazed—
disgusted and shocked, yet curious
also—the girl laughed, put up her
hand suddenly, and jerked off the
man's hat. As he turned his head
to snatch it from her hand, his side
face was revcalved.
The man was Tom Chandler.
Honora felt her sister's fingers
close convulsively upon her arm,
and heard the quick intake of
breath that was almost a gasp.
"It's —it's—Tom!" Mildred whis
pered hoarsely.
The train was drawing into the
Fairlands station, and the rumble
of wheels drowned the exclama
tion to all but Honora.
"Here we are at home, dearr," the
older sister announced practically.
"Suppose we get off at this end of
the car and avoid 'the crowd that
may bo at the other end.".
"Very well," Mildred muttered.
Honora arose and started toward
tho door, and 'Mildred followed her
without another word.
(To be continued)
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You can get mulsified cocoanut oil
at any pharmacy, it's very cheap, and
a few ounces will supply overy mem
ber of the family for months.—Adv.
Little Talks by
Beatrice Fairfax
It was a very blind world that
used to take it for granted that mid
dle-aged women have outgrown ro
mantic love.
Love? —an afTair of the twenties.
And ever afterward, home and lire
side and housekeeping, the cook
book and the sewing machine.
Whether a woman was married or
single, whether she had known love
or had only dreamed of it, the llres
of romance were supposed punctu
ally to die in her at thirty.
Then, two or three years ago, a
European writer set the world gos
siping by publishing a book called
"The Dangerous Age." Dangerous,
that is, because of Its romantic sus
ceptibility. Dangerous because while
it is particularly hungry for roman
tic love, romantic love isn't always
within its reach. You see, we're not
speaking of eighteen and nineteen,
the time when romance promptly
answers to romance. No, the "dang
erous age" is—forty.
Eighteen and nineteen don't un
derstand this idea in the least.
They are incredulous and derisive.
Everybody's safely married at forty,
they protest. Everybody has a hus
band and a houseful of children.
Isn't it only a little short of scan
dalous for a woman at that time of
life to talk of romance?
The Rebirth of Love
But the truth is. of course, that
there are plenty of women in the
world who arrive at middle age
with hearts unsatisfied. There are
widows who have known a brief j
season of love, then a long period of!
loifeliness, and who at forty, still 1
young, and with a keen zest for life, I
fee! within themselves such possi- .
bilities of romance as twenty only |
gets a glimpse of.
There are unmarried women who i
have lost their lovers. There are'
others who never found the love j
ideal that their fastidious youth de- j
manded. At forty life has taught'
these women a good deal. They feel ]
that above all other things they
have learned how to love. And their j
lonely natures do cry out for an ob-1
ject to spend this love on.
Isn't it entirely natural and rea- j
sonable?
A deeply interesting instance of j
this has just come to light in the!
love-letters written by the brilliant
English woman, Anne Gilchrist, to;
our groat American poet. Walt I
Whitman. t j
Mrs. Gilchrist was a widow. ' She
hadn't cared deeply for her hus-'
band. He hadn't in the least typi- ;
fled romance to her. She was the :
affectionate mother of four children, j
She had a wide circle of friends, in- '
eluding the foremost writers and ar- j
tists of England. She cared greatly '
for books and poetry. And she was
a little more than forty. That is,
she was at the very height of the |
dangerous age.
Then Walt Whitman became fa-1
mous the world over by publishing
his wonderful book of poems called ;
"Leaves of Grass." The poems :
showed how deeply he understood!
the realities of life and love. To
the lonely English woman, they j
were like a personal voice crying,
loudly and directly to her hungry |
heart.
With perfect simplicity and nat
uralness, she answered the cry.
Love letters to a I'oet
She wrote Whi.tmun a long letter, '
indeed a series of letters, telling him !
of the profound personal love that ,
his poems had awakened in her, and ;
taking it for granted that he, too,
would be ready to love her and
claim her as his wife.
It was magnificently romantic.]
And tho letters themselves were the'
very breath of romance.
"My love rises up out of the ;
weary depths of grief and tramples
upon despair." she wrote him. "1
can wait—any time —a lifetime, any .
lifetimes—l can suffer, I can dare,
I can learn, grow, toil, but nothing
In life or death can tear out of my
heart tho passionate belief that one
day I shull hear thut voice."
It was tragic that Whitman
couldn't answer her In her own
language, the language of passion- •
ale love. Instead lio wrote her
kindly, •gently, briefly and therefore
dlscouniglngly. Yet after a few
years still undlscouraged, Mrs. Gil
christ came to this country with her
children and cume to know Waltt
Whitman as a friend,
Two years later, when she went I
hack tq England, she who wanted'
so much more, hud learned tho hard
lesson of accepting the poet's mere
friendship, Since Whitman oould ■
not meet hei> love with love, she ■
found a way to quiet that tumultu- ,
(PUB heart or hers, And her danger-'
ous ago was over,
But her letters alone, as eloquent"
perhaps and as ardent as any love-]
letters ever written, would of them-1
selves disprove tne old-fashioned
notion that twenty is the supremo'
and only age of romance.
No twenty-year-old girl could love j
with the sustained fervor that Anne
Gilchrist did during the five un- I
nourished years that she addressed
continual outpourings to that poet
across the seas whose face she had
never seen, whose voice she had
never heard.
Mature Love Unrewarded
A woman must live considerably
beyond twenty before she thorough
ly understands the capacities of her
own heart and gets near to the real
meanings of life.
But the unhappy truth has to be
faced that by the time she has
learned to love in the most thor
ough and big-hearted way the
chances are considerable against her
finding a heart that can answer to
her own.
It's like coming too late to a
dance." Everybody's card is tilled.
Everybody has his partner. No
matter how gayly and deliciously
one can dance, there's nothing for
it but to be a wallflower.
That, of course, is the real tragedy
of the dangerous age. The list of
possible congenial lovers becomes so
appallingly reduced by the time one
is forty. There were hordes of
them at twenty—when it didn't
seem to matter and one couldn't
seem to care and one could never
quite make up one's capricious
mind.
But now, at forty, where are
they? They're married to women
whom you think are not quite
worthy of them. Or they're gone
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v i 9
JANUARY 1 7, 1919,
to South America. Or they've
changed their aspect altogether and
become fat and florid and uninter
esting. And here are you, not Yet
begun to feel the least bit old or
weary, but lonely, unloved, shoved
aside by a hurrying eager feet of a
younger generation.
1 wonder if women who, a little
too late, perhaps, have awoke to a
WHEN DO WE DIE?
NO LONGER A MYSTERY
Practically speaking, many people
actually begin to die years before
they cease to live. Many times you
tee a comparatively young person
with shrunken features and pallor
that you might expect to find in a
hospital ward. That unfortunat Ar
son is suffering from impovci cd
blood and every vital organ of the
body begins to die the moment the
blood becomes impoverished.
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consciousness of their own naming
hearts, really envy the > average'
happily married woman, the woman
tvho has comfortably settled down
to domestic tranquility and flresldo
love.
Do they cherish their own unre
warded emotion? Or would they
change places with the woman who
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9