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 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign Alternates 
 
 https://archive.org/details/queerdilemmaotheOOmerr 
 

A Queer Dilemma 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES, 
 
 ♦ 
 
 —BY— 
 
 EFFIE W. MERRIMAN, 
 
 * Editor “The Housekeeper.” 
 
 Illustrated by H. B. WILEY. 
 
 Copyrighted by Effie W. Merriman, 1898. 
 
 MINNEAPOLIS. 
 
 THE FRANKLIN TAYLOR PUB. CO., 
 
 1898. 
 
The Housekeeper Corporation, 
 Printers, 
 
 Minneapolis, Minn. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 I, The Author, being in full possession of all my fac- 
 ulties, do hereby solemnly declare that not one of the 
 characters in the following pages, man, woman or child 
 is intended as a study of myself"! Neither have I attempt- 
 ed a portrayal of any relative, enemy or friend. I wish 
 V- to state, furthermore, that the reader is not expected to 
 Relieve a word of any story in this book. If he does he 
 must assume the entire responsibility. These stories are 
 > the nonsensical creations of a mind which cannot be al- 
 
 serious without danger of dislocation ! I have had 
 
 4 lots of fun writing them, and I earnestly hope that an 
 > exceedingly large number of persons may have as much 
 fun reading them. 
 
 * 
 
 * 
 
 X 
 
 x 
 
 Q 
 
 E. W. M. 
 
 I 09285C 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 A Queer Dilemma 1-57 
 
 A Twentieth Century Romance 58-106 
 
 The Tax on Bachelors 107-147 
 
 A Scientific Courtship 148-166 
 
 Mr. Dillingham’s Correspondent 167-188 
 
A QUEER DILEMMA 
 
 It was not that I had grown tired of my wife. I am 
 certain that there has not been one moment since the day 
 of our wedding when I have wished either that I had 
 never met her, or that we might honorably sever our 
 tie of relationship. There has not been a time when I 
 would willingly have caused her a moment’s unhappiness. 
 But one can not eat constantly of his favorite dish, or in- 
 hale the fragrance of his favorite flower, or read his 
 favorite book, or hear his favorite opera, without long- 
 ing for a change. And he does not like the favorite less 
 because of the change. It was not that I wished to see 
 less of Angeline, but that I might see more of one who 
 was her exact opposite, that led me to renew my ac- 
 quaintance with Helen, an old school friend, who had 
 married my chum, and was living with him in a state of 
 happiness not often witnessed in these days of matri- 
 monial infelicities. There was no doubt in my mind that 
 Helen loved her husband; but, like myself, she had 
 grown somewhat weary with the monotony always to be 
 experienced in a state of bliss too nearly perfect to be 
 disturbed by even a disagreement. 
 
 Helen and I became companions in a surprisingly 
 short space of time, and Angeline and Helen’s husband 
 
2 
 
 A QUEER DILEMMA. 
 
 looked on and smiled approval. Sometimes they good- 
 naturedly styled us cranks, because we delighted to con- 
 verse on subjects that had no interest for them ; but they 
 were really a little proud of what they chose to consider 
 our peculiarities. It was their perfect confidence in us 
 that set us to devising some scheme whereby we might 
 enjoy each other's society undisturbed by the presence of 
 third and fourth parties — their confidence in us, and their 
 too fond interest in the outcome of our discussions. 
 They liked to listen to us, not because they were in the 
 least interested in what we were talking about, but be- 
 cause they were each eager to have their own particular 
 property say something that would be found quite un- 
 answerable. I have known Angeline to become quite 
 irritable because Helen had advanced some theory that 
 had never occurred to me, and I had admitted it. 
 Naturally, we each tried to be a little brighter than the 
 other, for the sake of the audience, and our conversation 
 became tiresome in consequence, and lost much of the 
 charm it had had during the first weeks of our acquain- 
 tance. 
 
 I can not remember which of us was first to discover 
 the fact that ours was a friendship too ideal to be spoiled 
 in any such way. It may have occurred to us both at 
 the same moment, as many of our most beautiful 
 thoughts did ; but, with the discovery came the knowl- 
 edge that something must be done about it immediately. 
 The next thought was that, whatever was done, we must 
 manage to avoid any undesirable attentions from Dame 
 Gossip. That would have caused suffering not only to 
 ourselves, but to our companions, and may be set down 
 as proof that, at no time, did we wish to wound them. 
 
A QUEER DILEMMA. 
 
 5 
 
 Have I said that Heleh and I were considered very in- 
 tellectual? Well, it will bear repeating. The bond between 
 us was entirely different from that which bound her to 
 her husband, or me to Angeline. I have already ex- 
 plained that our companionship carried us to a realm of 
 thought that they could not enter, but their presence 
 caused us one other little annoyance that has not yet 
 been mentioned. It was exceedingly trying, at times, 
 to be obliged to descend from the delectable heights of 
 our fascinating speculations, simply that we might ad- 
 dress some commonplace remark to our companions in 
 wedlock, in order to prevent them from fancying them- 
 selves neglected. The annoyance grew upon us. Every 
 repetition served to show us how much more ad- 
 vanced we were, mentally, than the life partners we had 
 chosen. A very real danger was before us, and we con- 
 gratulated ourselves that we were enabled to see it in 
 time to avert it. We must be safe from interruption dur- 
 ing such periods as it seemed good and proper for us to 
 be together. 
 
 We had gone deep into some branches of the occult 
 sciences. We had had some practical experience in 
 hypnotism ; we understood telepathy fairly well, and were 
 thoroughly familiar with the latest discoveries in the 
 methods of astralization. When the thought occurred to 
 us, that, by astralizing ourselves, we might enjoy com- 
 panionship uninterrupted by the commonplace, we were 
 raised to the seventh heaven of delight, speaking meta- 
 phorically, of course. At that time we had not known 
 that there was a heaven of that sort. 
 
 Helen’s husband had taken Angeline into another 
 room to see a picture which he had just purchased, and 
 
4 
 
 A QUEER DILEMMA. 
 
 we were alone together. We did not put our new thought 
 into words, for each knew that it had been read by the 
 other. The limited time at our disposal must be given 
 to a discussion of its merits. 
 
 “Astralized bodies may go where they will,” I began, 
 as soon as the door closed after the retreating couple. 
 
 “And Dame Gossip can not follow/’ replied Helen, un- 
 wonted animation in her dark eyes. The fear of what 
 people might say had a restraining influence upon Helen 
 of which I never quite approved. It seemed to me to 
 make her a little too practical, and thus to dwarf an other- 
 wise ideal nature. 
 
 “Think of seeing all the places of which we have 
 dreamed — just we two !” I murmured. 
 
 “And at so little expense !” added Helen. 
 
 “We can stand on the summits of the highest moun- 
 tains and drink in the beauties around us, knowing that 
 we shall not be brought to the earth by a question as to 
 the height of the mountain in feet and inches. We can 
 bathe in the rays of the setting sun and no one will dis- 
 turb our revery by asking if those clouds do not look like 
 rain.” 
 
 “And no one can accuse us of anything improper.” 
 
 “Of course not. There will be nothing improper.” 
 “Shall we mention it to the others?” 
 
 “Better not. .They would not understand. It might 
 make them uneasy. They might imagine things that 
 have no foundation in truth. Whatever we do, we do 
 not want them to be unhappy for a moment.” 
 
 “Of course not,” replied Helen, who always appreciat- 
 ed my lofty motives most thoroughly. 
 
 “Should we endeavor to secure undisturbed compan- 
 
A QUEER DILEMMA. 
 
 5 
 
 ionship in this life, both your husband and my wife might 
 fancy themselves slighted/’ 
 
 “They would without doubt,” said Helen, “for it would 
 be hard for them to- understand how it is possible for us 
 to love them better than anyone else, and still long for 
 the companionship of another. They do not really care 
 to be with anyone but us.” 
 
 “And yet they know nothing of the delights of true 
 companionship. Fancy them trying to tell why they 
 liked being with us ! Poor things ! How short have 
 been their voyages into the realm of thought.” 
 
 Helen sighed, but made no reply. I knew I had 
 voiced her thought. 
 
 “Shall we agree to make the attempt?” I asked. 
 
 “You mean the attempt to astralize ourselves?” re- 
 turned Helen. “I cannot see what harm it would do.” 
 “When shall we make it?” 
 
 “It must be at night when everyone is asleep.” 
 
 “It is said that first sleep is usually the soundest. It 
 would be awkward to have one of them try to awaken 
 us. At what hour does you husband retire?” 
 
 “At eleven. He is, as a rule, fast asleep by twelve.” 
 “So is Angeline. Shall we make it to-night at 
 twelve?” 
 
 Helen agreed, and at that moment we were joined by 
 Angeline and Col. Saunders. 
 
 It is, perhaps, needless to say that the remainder of that 
 day was spent in a state of feverish excitement. I had 
 never astralized miyself, but I knew so well how it was 
 done that I did not doubt that I should be able to do so 
 successfully, and how great should be my reward for 
 making the attempt ! That is, if Helen were also sue- 
 
6 
 
 A QUEER DILEMMA. 
 
 cessful. I am sure I should never have cared to make the 
 experiment, even to demonstrate a scientific truth, had 
 it not been for my desire to be alone with Helen. That 
 thought was entrancing. Yet I did not love her, and I 
 did love Angeline. It will be hard for anyone, not hav- 
 ing had experience, to follow me in my reasoning on this 
 subject, and I should not advise anyone to attempt to gain 
 experience in this line, for there is as much danger of its 
 leading him to the divorce court as there is that wine- 
 tasting will lead to the drunkard’s grave. One can never 
 be sure beforehand how much of such experience he can 
 bear unharmed. 
 
 That night, when there was not the slightest doubt that 
 Angeline slept, I turned myself on my right side, straight- 
 ened my limbs, threw back my head until there was not 
 a curve in my spinal column, closed my eyes, and — but 
 there ! I must not tell what I did next, or all the world 
 will be astralizing itself, and that would be a pity. I 
 speak the word advisedly, for I am quite sure, now, that 
 astralization is not a safe hobby to ride ; that it will, event- 
 ually, bring to the rider more, a very great deal more, of 
 unhappiness than pleasure. 
 
 I was successful in this, my first attempt, as I had felt 
 confident that I should be. No one, who has not experi- 
 enced it, can tell what a delicious sense of freedom comes 
 with the laying aside of the body. All know how relieved 
 one feels after divesting himself of cumbersome clothing, 
 and they who can fancy that feeling intensified a million 
 times may have some idea of the rapture that filled my 
 soul as I stood beside my bed and looked down at my 
 body, to all appearances wrapped in the deep sleep of 
 perfect health. 
 
A QUEER DILEMMA., 
 
 7 
 
 My joy was made perfect when I learned that Helen’s 
 efforts had also been crowned with success. We met at 
 her door and resolved to start at once for Italy, where 
 the climate is more conducive to enjoyment in out-of- 
 door life in the middle of December than it is here in 
 Wisconsin. 
 
 But a few moments elapsed between the resolution 
 and its realization. The trip was delightful, our only re- 
 gret being that the speed with which we darted through 
 the air prevented our seeing any of the beauties over and 
 through which we must have passed. We were utterly 
 unconscious of everything save the presence of each other 
 and of the heavy grey mist which enveloped us like a 
 cloud, until we found ourselves sitting side by side on the 
 shore of a beautiful lake in Italy. The exquisite joy of 
 that moment can never be expressed. We were free with 
 a freedom that a soul bound to an unresponsive body can 
 never comprehend. We were filled with an elation that 
 cannot be expressed by any of the clumsy devices by 
 which humanity attempts to make its thought under- 
 stood. We were enabled to appreciate the beauties of 
 nature as we had never done when we saw them through 
 the eyes of the body ; for now even in the humblest weed 
 we saw beauties that we had never before dreamed of its 
 possessing. No words passed between us. We had no 
 need of words, for each read the thought of the other, 
 and thus, in the most blissful silence imaginable, our 
 souls communed together undisturbed by the cares of our 
 everyday existence. 
 
 How long we sat there neither knew. We might never 
 have cared, had we not suddenly been brought to a con- 
 sideration of the present by seeing an Italian peasant ca- 
 
8 
 
 The Flight to Italy. 
 
A QUEER DILEMMA. 
 
 9 
 
 ressing his smiling wife. Instantly we both realized that 
 we had ties which bound us to earth. I submit this state- 
 ment in proof that our affection for the partners of our 
 life was every bit as consistent as any reasonable person 
 could ask. Imagine what we were leaving simply to be 
 with them — freedom from everything but the purest men- 
 tal happiness — and the proof will be sufficient. 
 
 We immediately started on our return trip. I left 
 Helen at her door, a half hour later. I waited until she 
 had disappeared through it (she had no need to go to 
 the trouble of opening it) and then betook myself to my 
 own room. My body was just as I had left it, except 
 that it had grown quite cold, and Angeline, half awake, 
 was peevishly asking why I had not warmed my feet 
 before coming to bed. I smiled, thinking how surprised 
 she would be, should she awaken enough to realize that 
 it was four o'clock in the morning. 
 
 It was with considerable effort, and not without pain, 
 that I finally took possession of my body again, and be- 
 fore I closed my eyes in sleep, I resolved that I should 
 not again remain away so long a time, unless I could 
 manage in some way to keep my body warm during my 
 absence. 
 
 Our experiment had been so entirely delightful, that it 
 is not surprising that Helen and I resolved to repeat it 
 at an early date. We were rejoiced beyond measure on 
 the next day, to find that we could recall all our ex- 
 periences, and we had great difficulty in keeping our- 
 selves from referring to them, when conversing together 
 in the presence of Angeline and Col. Saunders. But even 
 that difficulty served to add spice to an existence that we 
 had found monotonous, and to draw us closer in the 
 
10 
 
 A QUEER DILEMMA. 
 
 bonds of a friendship that, in the opinion of ourselves, 
 was more platonic than anything ever conceived by Plato. 
 
 I had never been more indulgent to Angeline than I 
 was that day. I even applauded some of her little speech- 
 es as if they had contained quite as much beauty and 
 wisdom as my own. I told myself that I loved her better 
 than I ever had before, and gave as a reason that my short 
 visit in a world where she was not had relieved me of 
 the slight nervousness caused by her continual presence, 
 and enabled me to appreciate her worth at its true value. 
 What better proof could I need that I was really doing 
 a kindly act towards Angeline when I allowed my astral 
 to visit other lands with Helen? 
 
 In less than a week Helen and I started on our second 
 trip through the atmosphere. A stiff gale was blowing, 
 that we found far from comfortable, and we decided to 
 rise above it, and, hundreds of miles from the surface of 
 the earth, look for a place where our souls could com- 
 mune together in a state of bliss unbroken by annoying 
 conditions of any sort. 
 
 As we had no' means of measuring time or distance, I 
 cannot say how long we had traveled when we became 
 aware of voices in our immediate vicinity. 
 
 “We are not alone,” said Helen, floating closer to me. 
 
 “Can Angeline and Col. Saunders be following us?” I 
 asked, a sudden fear assailing me. 
 
 “Impossible! They would never be able to astralize 
 themselves. They are entirely too material.” 
 
 “Oh, to be sure!” I replied, in a tone of the deepest 
 assurance. But I was not quite at rest in the matter. 
 Experience had taught me that, on several occasions, 
 Angeline had proven herself to be possessed of charac- 
 
A QUEER DILEMMA. 
 
 11 
 
 teristics that I had never suspected, and there was no 
 telling what she might do, should her suspicions become 
 aroused. She might even become an astral. She might 
 teach Col. Saunders how to become one. A woman can 
 teach almost anything to a man who loves her, and I 
 suddenly remembered that Angeline and Col. Saunders 
 had been left alone together many times when Helen and 
 I were deeply interested in some book that they did not 
 care to read, and that Angeline was considered fascinat- 
 ing. I became electric with rage at the thought. I did 
 not want Angeline to be flying over creation with Col. 
 Saunders, or any other man. She could not entertain 
 a platonic affection for anyone, and even if she could, I 
 did not want her to! Was I jealous? Oh, no! I simply 
 knew men better than she could possibly know them. 
 I knew, very well, that there was not a man in the uni- 
 verse, except myself, capable of entertaining a simple 
 platonic affection. 
 
 What Helen was thinking all this time I do not know. 
 I might have known, had I not been so absorbed in my 
 own thoughts, and I am sure that she, too, was too deeply 
 buried in contemplation to care what I was thinking. 
 Before we were ready to resume our conversation we 
 found ourselves in a large company of astrals, most of 
 whom were too deeply engaged in their own affairs to 
 know or care that two newcomers had joined them. A 
 glance was sufficient to tell that they were from every 
 country in the world. It seemed to me as if I could hear 
 their voices, and could even recognize the tones of some 
 of them, but of this I can not be sure. My books on the 
 subject of astralization had led me to believe that an astral 
 had no need of voice, since he always converses with 
 
12 
 
 A QUEER DILEMMA. 
 
 companions by means of telepathy. If that is a fact, I 
 can add one item to the sum of human knowledge on 
 that subject, and that is, that the effect of the tones of 
 the voice are also conveyed telepathically. I am con- 
 fident that I heard the voices of some of those new ac- 
 quaintances. What struck me as still more remarkable, 
 I could understand what any one of them said, although, 
 at the same time I was fully aware that many spoke in 
 a language which I had never learned. I glanced at 
 Helen and saw that she was passing through the same 
 sort of experience, and that she was no less astonished 
 than myself. 
 
 “Where are we?” I asked of a man who stood near me, 
 surveying the crowd with the far-reaching look of a phi- 
 losopher. He was evidently a native of Thibet, and you 
 may imagine my surprise when he replied by speaking 
 one word which I cannot reproduce here, but which I 
 at once knew signified a sort of clearing house, where 
 they who are divorced or unhappily married may meet 
 to settle or arrange their matrimonial difficulties. What 
 could a native of Thibet know of the difficulties which 
 civilization has bound upon the back of matrimony so se- 
 curely that one cannot accept the latter without taking 
 the former also? I had read that, in no country on dearth 
 was the marriage relation held in greater contempt than 
 it was in Thibet. If this man were not suited with his 
 spouse, why did he not get another and be forever happy? 
 I asked the Thibetan why he was in such a place as this. 
 
 “My friend,” he replied, “I have learned that you have 
 a joy which we do not know. I am here to try to com- 
 prehend it, that I may return to my body, and teach it 
 to my fellows.” 
 
A QUEER DILEMMA. 
 
 13 
 
 “Judging by the countenances of those whom we see 
 around us,” I said, “it seems to me that you have come 
 to a poor place to study joy. What is the sensation to 
 which you refer?” 
 
 “In part, that which you now experience,” he said, 
 looking me full in the eyes with an expression that I did 
 not like. He appeared to know me better than I knew 
 myself, and that is never pleasant. 
 
 “I do not understand you,” I said, coldly, moving 
 away from him. 
 
 “My friend,” he replied, keeping close beside me, “why 
 have you and this lady astralized yourselves? Simply 
 that you may enjoy each other's society without having 
 disagreeable remarks made about you. In my country 
 there would be no talk, and none of the consequent pleas- 
 ure found in outwitting the talkers. You enjoy a mental 
 exhilaration in running away with another man's wife that 
 I can never experience, unless I can first succeed in con- 
 vincing my countrymen that such things are wrong.” 
 
 “You misunderstand us entirely,” began Helen coldly, 
 when she was interrupted by a gesture of despair from 
 our strange acquaintance. 
 
 “I know I do! I know I do!” he exclaimed; “but I 
 am trying to understand. If I could only experience the 
 feeling that caused that remark — 'you misunderstand us 
 entirely!' They all say it! Everyone here has been mis- 
 understood entirely! Everyone says it of himself, and 
 no one believes it of his neighbor, and it seems such a 
 necessary part of the enjoyment! Oh, if I could only 
 comprehend it! You have moral laws made by your- 
 selves which you do not believe in to the extent of obey- 
 ing, but which you seem to wish others to think you do 
 
14 
 
 A QUEER DILEMMA. 
 
 obey. If I could once catch and comprehend the spirit 
 that prompts obedience and disobedience in the same 
 breath, my problem would be solved, and then I could 
 have the honor of giving to my countrymen a new form 
 of gratification. Then we in Thibet could have marriages 
 and divorces and elopements and scandals and murders, 
 and life would forever cease to be monotonous; ” 
 
 “See here, sir,” said I, thoroughly nettled, “I want 
 you to understand that we are not of these people — ” 
 “Sir,” he interrupted, “everyone here has told me pre- 
 cisely the same thing about himself. I have listened to 
 explanation after explanation, but I can see no very great 
 difference. I have reached the conclusion that self-delu- 
 sion must be a part of the enjoyment, but why? And is 
 it a real delusion? Can't you see that no one believes of 
 you what you believe of yourself, and what you would 
 not believe of another in the same conditions? If it is 
 a real delusion, how do you acquire it? If it is not, what 
 pleasure do you find in it? I should be very glad of a 
 little practical help out of this difficulty.” 
 
 Helen and I were disgusted. We turned abruptly, and 
 left our obtuse acquaintance. Time was too precious to 
 be wasted on an individual who> would not accept us at 
 our own valuation. But we had, for some reason, lost 
 all inclination for each other's society, and made our 
 way homeward at once, arriving two hours earlier than 
 we had done on our previous trip. 
 
 How rejoiced I was to find Angeline sleeping as sweet- 
 ly as when I had left her! I touched her feet and hands 
 and brow. They were warm and slightly moist, like those 
 of a sleeping baby. I knew she had not astralized herself, 
 for she could not so quickly have warmed her body. 
 
A y (JEER DILEMMA. 
 
 15 
 
 Several days elapsed before Helen and I repeated our 
 experiment. They were days passed in the simple de- 
 lights of home life. We did not see each other. She was 
 content with Col. Saunders and I with Angeline. But 
 one evening we chanced to meet at the house of a friend, 
 and the conversation turned upon a new club that had 
 lately been formed for the purpose of attempting to apply 
 scientific principles to occult studies. Helen was bril- 
 liant that evening, and I flatter myself that my conversa- 
 tion was not found uninteresting. It was a pleasure to 
 us both to know what a wealth of experience we might 
 reveal if it were only advisable ! We looked at each other 
 and smiled, and without a word having been spoken I 
 knew that Helen would astralize herself that night, and 
 that I should meet her as before. From that moment we 
 became almost reckless, indulging in the delights of as- 
 tralization sometimes as often as two or three times in 
 one week. I wonder, now, that our companions in wed- 
 lock remained unsuspicious as long as they did. 
 
 It was through my own stupidity that Angeline first 
 began to suspect that all was not right with me. I was 
 so eager to astralize myself that I did not always wait 
 until she was too sleepy to talk. I know, now, that she 
 asked questions that I did not hear and that she became 
 vexed because I did not reply, and that her vexation 
 finally led to suspicion. If I could only have guessed 
 the state of her mind, before I met my astral foe ! 
 
 It happened this way: Helen and I had planned to be 
 away longer than usual one night, thinking it would be 
 pleasant to attend a meeting at the astral clearing house, 
 where we enjoyed witnessing the struggles of the poor 
 souls who could not, like ourselves, be content with pla- 
 
16 
 
 A QUEER DILEMMA. 
 
 tonic friendship. We had, on several occasions, remained 
 away until my body became so cold and stiff that it was 
 extremely unpleasant climbing into it. I dreaded the 
 pain, and on this night induced another astral, with whom 
 I had become acquainted, to take possession of my body, 
 and keep it warm for me during my absence. Helen has 
 since accused me of being less devoted in my friendship 
 than herself, and with justice ; for she never tried to shirk 
 the pain of climbing into a cold body. I must admit that 
 women are more heroic than men about some things. 
 
 We had met a number of astrals on our journeys to 
 different parts of the world ; but this one we had met 
 most frequently, and I had remarked the wonderful like- 
 ness in form between him and myself. I was quite sure 
 that he would not have the slightest difficulty in taking 
 possession of my body, and I felt no hesitation in asking 
 him to do so because he had told me that he had astral- 
 ized himself so often that his body had become quite 
 accustomed to doing without him, and would remain 
 warm for many hours. Not only that, but it would warm 
 up almost as soon as he had got into it. I felt that my 
 only source of annoyance would be removed when my 
 body should have become similarly accommodating. 
 
 Well, he agreed to my proposition, and I showed him 
 into my body. Helen and I went to the astral clearing 
 house, as we had planned, and had a most entertaining 
 time. Our Thibetan friend did not happen to be present 
 to ask us disagreeable questions, and everyone else was 
 so busy with personal troubles that we were left entirely 
 alone, to our great delight. We really did not care to 
 associate with people who had come here only to plan 
 ways for evading the laws of their country, or to find 
 
A QUEER DILEMMA. 
 
 17 
 
 some way to compel their friends on earth to regard them 
 with the same measure of respect that had been granted 
 them before it was known that they had not been keep- 
 ing the laws in as good faith as they Had seemed to. We 
 left that meeting with the best sort of an opinion of our- 
 selves. Why could not those other people be more like 
 us ! 
 
 We returned at the very hour upon which we had 
 agreed. My body was delightfully warm and sleeping 
 soundly. I aroused it by stretching myself across it and 
 causing a cold wave of air to pass into one ear. When 
 my astral friend peeped out, I intimated to him that I 
 was now ready to relieve him. He crept part way out, 
 leaned his astral elbows on my physical head, and to my 
 intense astonishment and supreme indignation, refused 
 to be relieved. Deliberately, fiendishly and decidedly, 
 refused to be relieved ! 
 
 “Go, get into my body,” he said; “I have told you 
 where to find it.” 
 
 “But I don't want your body.” 
 
 “So? Well, I do want yours.. It is built with a more 
 prepossessing face than mine. It will do you good to 
 learn from experience what it is to go through life with an 
 ugly countenance.” 
 
 It was in vain that I pleaded with him. He had pos- 
 session of my body, and I could not get him out. He 
 would not even listen to my entreaties, but darted back 
 in, knowing full well that an astral has no means of com- 
 munication with ordinary humanity. Again and again I 
 sent cold air into his, or rather my own, ears, hoping 
 once more to provoke him into showing himself ; but he 
 deliberately arose, found a box of cotton that I kept 
 
18 
 
 A QUEER DILEMMA. 
 
 on my dressing-table beside my box of corn-cure, and 
 stuffed both ears so full that not a breath of air could 
 reach him. Then he returned to bed, and was soon in a 
 deep sleep. 
 
 I cursed myself for my stupidity with all the vehemence 
 at my command. Fool that I was not to have thought 
 of the difficulties that I might be called upon to encoun- 
 ter, before asking a strange astral to keep my body warm ! 
 Once, when a boy, I had asked a stranger to hold my 
 watch while I threshed another boy. When I recovered 
 from the threshing that followed, the stranger with the 
 watch was nowhere to be seen. It taught me a lesson, 
 just as this experience did. I never saw the watch again. 
 It looked very much as if I should never again inhabit 
 my beautiful body. All through life my trouble has lain 
 in locking the barn door just after the horse was stolen. 
 
 I finally realized that my efforts to regain possession 
 of my own body were worse than wasted, and that it 
 would be wiser to take possession of that belonging to 
 my enemy, before it became dead, than to run the risk 
 of having no body at all. I consoled myself with the 
 thought that the passion of astralization would soon 
 overcome him, and that, by watching my opportunity, I 
 could slip into my own body during his absence. He 
 had told me where to find his body, and I went to it 
 without further delay. 
 
 I found it without difficulty. I looked at it with a 
 growing repulsion that nearly drove me to insanity. As 
 I have said, it was about the size of my own, but, oh ! 
 such a face! It made me ache just to think of wearing 
 it. There was not a hair on the crown of the dirty head, 
 and only seven teeth in the repulsive mouth. For sev- 
 
A QUEER DILEMMA. 
 
 19 
 
 eral minutes I stood there beside that caricature of hu- 
 manity, trying to summon courage to step inside. I had 
 almost decided that eternal astralization would be pref- 
 erable, when thoughts of my beloved wife caused me to 
 change my mind. I felt sure that my enemy would never 
 give up my body if I allowed his to die, and of course 
 he would watch the papers for news of it. When I 
 thought of him occupying my home, I was so filled with 
 wrath that I could hardly restrain myself from going 
 back at once and trying to do him some harm. I was 
 only prevented from taking that most unwise step by the 
 thought that I might make my own body so unpresent- 
 able that I could never like it again, or worse still, I 
 might be the means of causing my enemy to reside in 
 it for the remainder of his life, just to spite me. An- 
 other restraining influence lay in the remembrance that 
 his body was in England, while mine was in Wisconsin, 
 and that I could not take his body across the ocean, be* 
 cause it had no money in its pockets, and I did not 
 know where to find any. 
 
 I had hardly adjusted myself to my new quarters, when 
 I was aroused by the entrance of two women into the 
 dingy little room where I was lying. One of them was 
 weeping bitterly. She was a thin woman of most unpre- 
 possessing appearance, untidy, unfed, uncherished, unde- 
 cided, unloved, unnecessary. I could see it all at the 
 first glance through my stubby eye-lashes. She came 
 to the bed and stood looking at me while her companion 
 placed her hand over my heart — I mean, over the other 
 fellow’s heart, which my personality had set in motion. 
 
 “Why, no, Liz !” exclaimed the other woman, in sur- 
 
20 
 
 A QUEER DILEMMA. 
 
 prised displeasure, “Jack ain’t dead. There hain’t no 
 sech good luck as that for you this time.” 
 
 The woman used the pronunciation of the uncultured 
 English ; but, as I have not heard it since my terrible 
 experience, and had never heard it before, I must be 
 excused from trying to reproduce it here. The above at- 
 tempt ought to convince you, as it does me, that I can’t 
 do it. I promise you that, in all other respects, my story 
 shall be properly realistic. 
 
 The woman who wept, Liz by name, was evidently the 
 wife of my enemy. She threw herself upon me with 
 such force that I gasped for breath, and then, oh, horror ! 
 she began covering my face with kisses. For the first 
 time I rejoiced that I wore the face of another. To be 
 kissed by that woman — then I remembered the appear- 
 ance of the face she was kissing, and remained passive. 
 If she wanted to do it, she certainly ought to have the 
 privilege ! It surely could be no worse for one than for 
 the other. 
 
 All this time I had kept my eyes nearly closed. I knew 
 they thought me unconscious, and I was thus enabled to 
 gain time in which to try to collect my thoughts, and 
 decide on a course of action. 
 
 Soon a doctor came into the room, and the woman 
 exclaimed to him that Jack was not dead after all. The 
 one who was not Liz added, “More’s the pity,” and won 
 a measure of my respect by so doing. The doctor asked 
 Liz some questions, and so I ascertained that I had often 
 had these queer spells and that I sometimes lay for hours 
 at a time like one dead. This information filled me with 
 joy. I now felt sure that my enemy was a confirmed as- 
 tralization toper, and I believed that it would not be long 
 
A QUEER DILEMMA. 
 
 21 
 
 before he would leave my body for another trip through 
 the atmosphere. 
 
 “How does he appear when he becomes conscious ?” 
 asked the doctor. 
 
 “Just as ugly as ever,” replied the woman who was, 
 evidently, a sister to Liz. “He’ll look like a dead man 
 one minute,” she continued, “and I’ll begin to have some 
 hope that Liz is going to have a chance for her life ; but 
 the next minute he’ll sit up and begin to swear, and, like 
 as not, he’ll knock her over the head with a boot-jack.” 
 
 Liz wept silently. It was disgusting enough to think 
 of her kissing such a face as I wore ; but to have her 
 weep for me when I had knocked her over the head with 
 a boot-jack was simply unendurable. I despised her from 
 that moment, and longed to tell her so. Then I thought 
 of Angeline. Suppose that brute, who had possession 
 of my body, should awaken and knock Angeline over 
 the head with my boot-jack ! Suppose he should swear 
 at her ! She had never heard me swear. Indeed, I had 
 never spoken to her unkindly but once in my life, and 
 that was when she had used my razor to chip dried beef. 
 Then I told her, calmly but firmly, that if she ever did 
 such a thing again I would finish dulling the razor by 
 hacking her poodle into inch bits. I was sorry for it after- 
 ward, however, and bought some ribbon which I tied in 
 as pretty a bow as I could make on the handle of the 
 razor; then I gave it to Angeline to keep purposely to 
 chip dried beef with. I bought a fine new razor for my- 
 self, which I kept under lock and key. 
 
 Now, as I lay there in that miserable English cabin, 
 with those two miserable women near me, I thought of 
 Angeline, and wished I had not said a word about the 
 
22 
 
 A QUEER DILEMMA. 
 
 razor, and that I had left the new one where she could 
 find it in case the other was lost or dulled. I did not 
 open my eyes. Tears from the eyes of the affectionate 
 Liz made my borrowed face uncomfortably damp, but it 
 was better than to open my eyes to a situation that would 
 very likely be worse than anything I had yet experienced. 
 Oh, how I wished I had never astralized myself. I even 
 went so far as to wish that I had never seen Helen. If 
 it had not been for her, I meditated, I should never have 
 been made to suffer as I was suffering now. What right 
 had she to lead me into temptation ! Angeline and I were 
 as happy as turtle doves until she came between us. I 
 had never loved her, and never gave her any opportunity 
 to think I did, and none but an unwomanly woman, a 
 very unwomanly woman, would accept such attentions 
 as I had offered. I was sure that nothing would ever 
 have induced Angeline to go sailing through the atmos- 
 phere with any astral but mine ; but Helen was absolutely 
 devoid of delicacy. It was so easy for nice men like 
 myself to be taken in by a designing woman ! We were 
 not expecting such things. How I did wish that I had 
 not been quite so innocent! 
 
 I wished a great many things, as I lay there, and it may 
 be that the tenor of my thoughts was not as it would 
 have been had my mind had its own brain to work with. 
 I gradually discovered that my strongest wish was that 
 Liz would use a pocket handkerchief when she wept, or 
 else stop kissing me. 
 
 “Don’t take on like that,” said the doctor kindly. “I 
 think he’ll be himself again in a little while. He has only 
 been a little drunker than usual.” 
 
 “Indeed, indeed, sir,” said Liz, with pathetic earnest- 
 
A QUEER DILEMMA. 
 
 23 
 
 ness, “he was not drunk this time. He never has these 
 spells when he has plenty of money to spend in whiskey. 
 I’ve seen him drunk many and many a time, and I know 
 these spells are different.” 
 
 The doctor smiled, and said something to the sister 
 which I did not catch. It was evident that he was very 
 sure that Jack was drunk, and I presume he would have 
 been just as sure had I opened my eyes and given him 
 a truthful account of what had happened. When you 
 want to study a class of humanity more non-progressive, 
 according to its opportunities, than any other class ex- 
 cept preachers, find a specimen of the ordinary doctor. 
 It won’t take a very large microscope to cover him, and 
 you’ll find him amusing. 
 
 “Liz puts me out of all patience,” said the sister. “I 
 can’t imagine how she can be fool enough to care for a 
 man who treats her as Jack has done. I’d have killed 
 him long ago and fed him to the hogs !” 
 
 How I did wish that she, instead of Liz, had been his 
 wife. In all probability she would never have allowed him 
 to live long enough to learn how to become an astral, 
 for she certainly looked capable of carrying out any threat 
 she might chance to make. 
 
 “I really believe you would,” replied the doctor, with 
 a little laugh of amusement. “Well, there does not seem 
 to be much that can be done to arouse him, so I may as 
 well go home. I think he will behave himself before 
 long. If he becomes worse, however, send for me.” 
 
 Send for him, indeed! What could he do? 
 
 When the doctor had left, the sister, whose name was 
 Jane, persuaded Liz to go out and have a cup of tea, and 
 I was alone. I arose, immediately, and began to dress, 
 
24 
 
 A QUEER DILEMMA. 
 
 I had no idea as to where those women had gone for their 
 tea, or how long they would be gone ; but of one thing I 
 was very sure: I must get away from them just as quick 
 as the Lord would let me. I felt that I would be a failure 
 should I try to personate Jack, except in personal ap- 
 pearance, and there was no telling what might result 
 should it be discovered that my nature was not what it 
 had been. It might work Liz up to a height of affection 
 that would induce me to kill her ! I could not beat her 
 over the head with a boot-jack, as I knew I should be ex- 
 pected to do, or swear at her, or drag her around the 
 room by her little wisp of uncombed hair, or do any of the 
 other things which Jane had enumerated as being among 
 my favorite methods of diversion. Had I known just 
 how Liz would have regarded my conversion to a better 
 life, I might not have felt so uneasy. But if I should be 
 the means of leading her to renewed efforts in the art of 
 weeping — should she fall on my neck and weep, or hold 
 my head on her bosom while she wept into my face, or 
 let her tears drop steadily on my bald crown, or attempt 
 any of the styles described in books that discuss such 
 topics — Oh, heavens ! the very thought lent speed to my 
 movements. I had had more than enough of the damp 
 Elizabeth. 
 
 I cautiously made my exit through a back window, 
 and went out from the smoky, foggy town, after having 
 taken the precaution to inquire what was the number of 
 the house I had just left, and the name of the man who 
 occupied it. 
 
 I learned that I was wearing the body of one Jack 
 Walsh, as useless a piece of humanity as ever cumbered 
 the earth. My informant also told me that I looked 
 
A QUEER DILEMMA. 
 
 25 
 
 enough like him to be his twin brother, and that he 
 should have taken me for Jack, himself, if I had not been 
 so much more civil spoken. He even went so far as to 
 dare me to bet the treats that I was not a relative. I 
 thought of the poverty of my pockets, and declined with 
 thanks, and he went to tell his comrades how he had dis- 
 covered a brother of the worthless Jack Walsh. 
 
 I went out into the country and threw myself under a 
 tree, where 1 felt quite sure I should be free from in- 
 truders. I had decided to astralize myself again and en- 
 deavor to discover what was going on at home. I could 
 think of no better way in which to spend my time while 
 waiting for my own body to be vacated. All I would 
 need to do would be to keep my borrowed body alive, 
 and finally leave it where I found it, that, in case its 
 rightful owner wished to claim it, he would have no ex- 
 cuse for troubling me further. 
 
 When my astral body entered my pleasant Wisconsin 
 home, the clock on the mantel pointed to twenty minutes 
 to twelve o'clock a. m. I went directly to the room where 
 my wife and I slept. It was darkened and Angeline lay 
 stretched on the bed. A nurse, a doctor, and several 
 weeping relatives stood over her. I saw Helen enter the 
 room. She, too, had been weeping. I looked for my 
 enemy, but, to my great relief, he was not present. 
 
 “How is she?" asked Helen, bending over Angeline. 
 
 “I think she will live," replied the doctor gravely ; “but 
 it will be a long time before she fully recovers. It was 
 not the blow that prostrated her, so much as the thought 
 that her husband could strike her." 
 
 Then that villain had used my boot-jack on Angeline! 
 I was wild with indignation, but what could I do? Sim- 
 
26 
 
 A QUEER DILEMMA. 
 
 ply nothing. I was far more powerless than the gentle 
 breeze that fanned the pure brow, across which were the 
 ugly blue traces of the boot-jack. 
 
 “Mr. Scranton is not himself/' said Helen. “I have 
 just had a talk with him, and I know he is not himself/’ 
 
 “He says he is sorry he did it,” said Angeline’s sister 
 Miriam, “but he does not seem to feel one bit as I should 
 imagine a man would feel who had nearly killed his wife 
 — that is, if he cares for her at all. I have sometimes had 
 my doubts about that, however.” 
 
 Oh, how vindictive these sisters-in-law can be on oc- 
 casion I 
 
 “I, too, have noticed his apparent indifference,” said 
 the nurse. “It strikes me that he does not care, and I 
 have seen enough of human nature to be able to judge 
 fairly well.” 
 
 Have you ever noticed that when a nurse has passed 
 her thirty-fifth year she is always sure that she has seen 
 enough of human nature to be able to judge anything? 
 Evidently this one was no exception. “I should not be 
 at all surprised,” she added, with cast-iron assurance, “if 
 there were another woman in the case.” 
 
 Helen looked daggers at the woman, but she was not 
 in the least discomposed. 
 
 “What right have you to insinuate that anyone could 
 supplant Angeline in her husband’s affections?” demand- 
 ed Miriam. “He may not have loved her as she deserved, 
 but he certainly could not have cared for anyone else after 
 having seen her.” 
 
 “When you have seen as much of the world as I have,” 
 replied the nurse, “you will learn to expect anything, and 
 be surprised at nothing. If you are wise and wish to 
 
A QUEER DILEMMA. 
 
 27 
 
 avenge your sister, you will quietly begin searching for 
 particulars concerning Mr. Scranton’s most intimate lady 
 friend. Employ a detective.” 
 
 My most intimate lady friend ! I thought of Helen at 
 once, and wished for the power to gag that evil-minded 
 nurse with her own detestable wig. With the prophetic 
 vision of an astral I could see dire complications before 
 unthought of. Nothing could have been purer than the 
 feeling Helen and I had entertained for each other; yet, 
 with a few infernal hints, I knew that hag could blacken 
 us in the eyes of the world forever. While I might be 
 able to endure such unjust and undeserved punishment, 
 I did not want the peerless Helen to suffer also. It will 
 be observed how differently I thought of her as an astral 
 than when using the brain of my enemy. 
 
 If I could only have made my presence in the room 
 felt by some of them ! I exerted myself until it seemed 
 as if my soul was about to leave its astral covering; but 
 every attempt was in vain. I bent over Angeline and 
 pressed kisses on her lips and cheeks and eye-lids, and on 
 the cruel bruise across her brow. I felt so intensely, that 
 it seemed impossible that she should not feel my influ- 
 ence, and I tried to make her know that it was not I who 
 was in possession of my good-looking exterior; but, so 
 far as I could discover, I made not the slightest impres- 
 sion upon her. She finally regained consciousness, only 
 to break into a violent fit of weeping, which, in spite of 
 the efforts of the doctor and attendants, ended in another 
 period of unconsciousness. I knew that she had heard 
 the nurse’s remark, and that her first thought had been 
 of Helen, as the particular friend under discussion. I 
 felt that Helen knew it, too, and that her heart was 
 
A QUEER DILEMMA. 
 
 nearly broken. She had meant no harm. She had really 
 believed that ours was a friendship that could have no 
 disastrous consequences. The awakening was horrible. 
 She left the room without a word, and I followed her. I 
 could not stay longer where I must be a helpless witness 
 of Angeline’s sufferings. 
 
 Helen went into the library, where my enemy was sit- 
 ting in my body. 
 
 “My dear friend,” she said, “tell me why you have so 
 changed. Have I anything to do about it? It would 
 kill me to think that I had come between you and your 
 wife. I thought you understood that my friendship for 
 you was purely platonic. Was yours for me not the 
 same? Oh, tell me that it was. Tell me that I have not 
 been mistaken in you. There have been such friendships 
 —ours was platonic — ” 
 
 “Platonic fiddlesticks!” replied my lips, with a rough 
 oath and a rude laugh. “You and I know better than 
 that, my dear. Any man might be proud to love a woman 
 like you. What should he care for friendship?” 
 
 For a moment I thought Helen would faint, she be- 
 came so deathly pale. She felt her way to the window, 
 as if she had been blind, and leaned for a moment against 
 the casement. I stood beside her and tried to whisper in 
 her ear. It seemed to me that she who had so long made 
 a study of the science which had brought all this trouble 
 upon us might b*e influenced by me to guess the true 
 state of affairs ; but whether I made any impression upon 
 her or not, I could not tell. She turned once again 
 toward my form. 
 
 “Mr. Scranton,” she said with a meaning look toward 
 the box of cigars and the bottle of brandy on my study 
 
A QUEER DILEMMA. 
 
 29 
 
 table, “will you kindly tell me how long it has been since 
 you began to smoke and drink ?” 
 
 “Egad!” exclaimed my lips, with a repetition of the 
 brutal laugh, “I should think it had been some time since 
 I left off, judging by the difficulty I had in finding any- 
 thing to drink or smoke, and the beastly state my stom- 
 ach is in.” 
 
 Although Jack’s borrowed stomach had not craved 
 whiskey or tobacco, the degraded mind he had lent the 
 brain was accustomed to considering it the highest form 
 of enjoyment, and he had ordered a fine supply immedi- 
 ately upon awakening. The poor stomach was rebelling, 
 and Jack was not so happy in his new surroundings as 
 he might otherwise have been. 
 
 Helen left the room without another word. I could 
 not accompany her, for I knew that I must return to that 
 detestable body which I had left under the trees in that 
 miserable English wood and warm it up enough to keep 
 it alive. I was nearly crazed with apprehension. It was 
 clear to me that it had been a long time since my enemy 
 had had money with which to buy brandy and tobacco in 
 sufficient quantities to satisfy him, and I dreaded the 
 effect of his indulgence on my poor body, almost as much 
 as I worried over the damage he would do my reputa- 
 tion. And would he ever again astralize himself? Might 
 he not find his present life so much to his liking that the 
 joys of astralization would be weak in comparison? I 
 believe that no one deliberately astralizes himself who 
 does not hope to enjoy some pleasure that would not oth- 
 erwise be his, and which seems greater than anything yet 
 experienced. What could astralization give to such a 
 man as Jack Walsh that he would find preferable to the 
 
30 
 
 A QUEER DILEMMA. 
 
 life I had led? I had never so fully realized the extreme 
 desirability of my lot in life, as I did now that I seemed 
 to be shut out from it forever. 
 
 Had hope entirely deserted me, however, I should never 
 have returned to my enemy’s body. I mean I should 
 never have gone in search of it ; for, when I arrived at 
 the place where I had left it, it was gone. Not a trace 
 of it was to be seen. What had become of it? My astral 
 grew stiff with the agony of terror. It was horrible to 
 be obliged to warm such a body into life, but it was more 
 horrible to be deprived of the privilege of so doing. Had 
 it been eaten by wild beasts? Was there in England any 
 wild beast hungry enough to touch it? Was it in the 
 hands of medical students? That seemed more likeiy. 
 Medical students are certainly less fastidious titan any 
 wild beast of which I had ever read. Should I begin my 
 search in the morgue? I knew so little of the life of 
 such men as Jack Walsh that I could not at once decide 
 upon a proper course to pursue, and I felt that I had 
 little time to lose, for that pesky body could not live 
 forever, and I had already been away from it for many 
 hours. 
 
 I finally decided to go back to Liz and her sister, trust- 
 ing to gather from their conversation some news of the 
 whereabouts of Jack’s body. As good luck would have 
 it, it was being carried up the steps in a long black box 
 just as I arrived. 
 
 Jane opened the door. 
 
 “Well,” she said, in a tone of extreme satisfaction, “I 
 fancy he’s dead enough this time ! I hope so, at any 
 rate.” 
 
A QUEER DILEMMA. 
 
 31 
 
 “Dead as a door nail,” replied one of the men who car- 
 ried the box. 
 
 I almost collapsed from discouragement. I had not 
 thought that I could feel so badly at the mere suggestion 
 that I might nevermore be able to climb into that un- 
 pleasant body. 
 
 “It will be hard on his wife, won't it?” asked another 
 of the men. 
 
 “I presume it will, just at first,” replied Jane; “but 
 she'll get over it, when she knows he is dead for sure. 
 It is the luckiest thing that ever happened to her, I can 
 tell you that.” 
 
 “Shall we leave the body in this box?” 
 
 “Is it the cheapest box you have?” 
 
 “No.” 
 
 “Take it out and bring a cheaper one. He doesn’t 
 deserve any at all. If it were not for Liz I would sell 
 him to a medical college, and try to get back a part of 
 the money he owes me.” 
 
 The men took the body from the box, greatly to my 
 relief, laid it on a board, and left it. 
 
 Liz came in and threw herself upon it, and began to 
 weep into its face and press moist kisses upon it with 
 her ugly lips. I looked on, and hesitated. Could I en- 
 dure that? It was bad enough just to see it done, when 
 the face had no feeling. But to have it animated by my 
 personality — faugh ! it made me sick. However, it was 
 my one hope of ever again enjoying Angeline's compan- 
 ionship on earth. That thought decided me, and, without 
 further hesitation, I climbed into the body. It was so 
 stiff and unyielding that I feared I should never be able 
 to adjust myself to it. It seemed to me that long hours 
 
A QUEER DILEMMA, 
 
 passed before I was enabled to warm any portion of it 
 into life, and I looked with horror upon the preparations 
 that were being made for its burial. I even began to long 
 for the presence of Liz, when she was away from me; 
 for I felt that she would be most likely to detect signs 
 of returning life. As for Jane, I was equally certain that, 
 should she detect such signs, she would only hasten the 
 funeral ceremonies. 
 
 It may seem a paradox when I tell you that it was a 
 joyous moment for me when Liz pressed her lips against 
 Jack's cheek (I will not call it mine even for the sake of 
 perspicuity), felt that it was warm, kissed it again, and, 
 with a wild shriek, fainted away upon Jack's bosom. I 
 felt that I should die of collapsed anatomy if I did not 
 get her off, for I had allowed Jack's body to go so long 
 without food that it would not stand everything. I made 
 a superhuman effort, gave a convulsive twitch, and sent 
 Liz flying to the floor. At this moment Jane entered the 
 room and Liz revived. 
 
 “Oh," exclaimed Liz joyfully, “Jack is not dead! My 
 poor, dear Jack is not dead! He knocked me down, 
 Jane ; as sure as you live, he has knocked me down once 
 more !" 
 
 “And you rejoice !" exclaimed Jane, contemptuously. 
 
 “Why, why, Jane," faltered the poor thing, “it was 
 awful to have Jack dead !" 
 
 I sat up, ready to defend myself in case the belligerent 
 Jane attacked me. There is no safety for a man like Jack 
 in the presence of a sister-in-law like Jane, except that 
 afforded by her love for her sister or the strength afforded 
 by a superior physique. 
 
 “You miserable reprobate!" she said sternly. 
 
A QUEER DILEMMA. 
 
 33 
 
 To be entirely truthful, I must say that her words 
 were not quite as classic as those I have used, but mine 
 look better in print. Her attitude was enough to make 
 even the alphabet sound threatening from her lips. 
 
 “Why couldn’t you have died, when you had so good 
 a start?” she asked. 
 
 “It may be,” I replied, with a sarcasm that must have 
 been ludicrous under the circumstances, “it may be that 
 it is because you showed too much anxiety on the sub- 
 ject.” 
 
 Jane stared in astonishment. 
 
 “Well,” said I, as roughly as I could, “what are you 
 staring at? Am I more beautiful than usual?” 
 
 Jane still stared, and I began to fear that I had not 
 been entirely successful in my attempt to personate Jack. 
 I longed to do it well, for something told me that Liz 
 would never dare kiss Jack unless she believed him to be 
 unconscious. I must not hesitate, but essay still greater 
 coarseness. 
 
 “See here, my beauty,” I continued bravely, “I want 
 you to trot to the kitchen, without loss of time, and get 
 me something to eat. D’ye hear me! Get it quick!” 
 
 “Oh, Jack,” wailed Liz, “you are not yourself, after 
 all ! Oh, my pretty Jack, are you going to die and leave 
 me?” 
 
 And this after I had tried my best to be a brute ! Liz 
 threw herself into my arms, and her huge tears rolled 
 down my neck. It made me mad, and I threw her from 
 me again, with such force that she staggered. 
 
 “Stop that infernal nonsense,” I thundered, “and bring 
 me something to eat.” 
 
34 
 
 A QUEER DILEMMA. 
 
 “I have no money,” wailed Liz. “You know you 
 have done no work for months.” 
 
 “Where do you get food?” 
 
 “Jane gives it to me.” 
 
 “Then Jane must bring some to me.” 
 
 “Never!” exclaimed Jane, with fierce determination. 
 “I would rather see you starve.” 
 
 “You shall be paid for it, you fool! Do you think I 
 want to beg — Keep off! Keep off, both of you, or IT1 
 kill you deader than smelts.” 
 
 Evidently Jack had not been in the habit of suggesting 
 that he might pay for food, and so, notwithstanding my 
 resolution not to do so, I had represented him as a con- 
 vert to a better life. Both women showed unmistakable 
 signs of an intention to rush into my arms and weep on 
 my neck, and I only saved myself by springing to my 
 feet and assuming the attitude of a prize fighter. 
 
 To my intense joy the food was brought without fur- 
 ther parley. It consisted of a bowl of oatmeal porridge 
 and a slice of black bread without butter. It did not 
 look at all tempting, but I recollected that Jack's body 
 was in need of nourishment, and was, in all probability, 
 used to nothing better. 
 
 “Will you tell me,” I said, swallowing the broth as 1 
 would swallow medicine, “what sort of work a man like 
 me can get to do?” 
 
 Liz made a rush for me when I asked the question, 
 and I backed against the wall and held the bread as if I 
 would hurl it at her. 
 
 “Keep off, Liz!” I shouted. “If your dripping face 
 comes within five feet of mine, I'll mash it flat.” 
 
 It was harsh language to use to a woman, and one of 
 
A QUEER DILEMMA. 
 
 35 
 
 the most steadfast of her sex at that, but I was des- 
 perate. 
 
 “Let him alone, Liz,” said Jane. “If he is thinking of 
 going to work, for pity’s sake don’t distract his mind.” 
 Then Jane turned to me. 
 
 “I know of several warehouses that need sweeping,” 
 she said. “I’ll get the work, you may do it, and I’ll take 
 in the cash.” 
 
 “Indeed! Why can’t I handle my own cash?” 
 
 “Yours! You have a number of debts to pay before 
 anything could be yours by right. If you get one penny 
 of it you’ll never pay me a cent for what I have done for 
 you and Liz. I’ll let you know that I was not put into 
 this world just to keep you from starving.” 
 
 I finally consented to Jane’s arrangement, greatly to 
 her surprise, and spent that day in sweeping warehouses. 
 I felt that I could not be under obligations to a woman 
 for food, even though it was not my own body that I was 
 trying to keep alive, and I had no idea where a man like 
 Jack would find work. I could do no better, until I be- 
 came used to my strange surroundings, than to let Jane 
 run me. She softened perceptibly, when she saw how 
 faithfully I applied myself, and fed me well. That was 
 what I wanted. I had decided to get Jack’s body in 
 good working order, and, if I could not obtain possession 
 of my own body, I meant to work my passage to my old 
 home, and choke the last spark of life out of it, 
 and then cut Jack’s throat. By so doing, I should 
 relieve Angeline of the presence of my enemy, and do no 
 harm to Liz. I realized that such a deed would hasten 
 my departure iiltO the next world, but I believed that I 
 
36 
 
 A QUEER DILEMMA. 
 
 could not be forever punished for an honest attempt to 
 right a wrong. 
 
 That night, after eating a hearty supper, I slipped out 
 of the house, unobserved, and again started for the 
 country. I could not make up my mind to share a room 
 with Liz, even though I intended to leave Jack’s body 
 as soon as possible. I hid myself under an overhanging 
 rock beside the sea, and freed my astral body from its 
 detested covering as speedily as possible. 
 
 I went straight to my own dear home. It was closed 
 and dark. I searched every room. All were empty 
 save one, which was occupied by the housekeeper. I 
 went to the barn. The horses were there, and the coach- 
 man slept soundly in his snug room overhead. I went 
 back to the house and tried to find some scrap of paper 
 that should tell me what had' happened, but in vain. 
 I next went to the house occupied by Angeline’s father. 
 There, in the room in which she had slept when a girl, I 
 saw my wife. The lamp burned dimly, and*a nurse sat 
 beside the bed. I breathed a prayer of thankfulness that 
 Angeline had been removed from the presence of my 
 enemy, even though I realized that I might find it difficult 
 to win her back again. It was evident that, woman-like, 
 she had resented the treatment of her supposed husband, 
 and gone home to mother. 
 
 But what had become of my body? I went to Helen’s 
 room. She lay quietly beside her husband, who had 
 raised himself upon his elbow, and was studying her face 
 with great earnestness, and perplexity. He spoke to her, 
 but she made no reply. He shook her, but she did not 
 awaken. I saw, at once, that she had astralized herself, 
 and that Col. Saunders had discovered that she was in 
 
A QUEER DILEMMA. 
 
 37 
 
 an abnormal condition. Although exceedingly anxious 
 to know what he would do next, I felt that I could not 
 remain longer where I was. 
 
 I did not doubt that Helen had made an appointment 
 with my enemy. Perhaps she was with him, now. In 
 all probability the passion of astralization had become 
 so strong that she could not overcome it, even though she 
 had learned to hate her old friend and companion. If 
 I could only know how long she had been astralized, and 
 in which direction she had gone. I did not like to think 
 of her as being with my enemy, still I could not be quite 
 sorry, for of course she would at once understand the true 
 condition of affairs, and she might help me out of my 
 fearful predicament. What next? What next? Oh, if 
 I could only know what next to do ! Should I try to 
 find Helen, or would it be better for me to remain where 
 I was, and await her return? It was agony to believe 
 that my body was somewhere, untenanted, and I did not 
 know where. Oh, if I could only know its whereabouts ! 
 How soon would I try to straighten out this tangled web 
 that threatened to strangle earthly happiness forever, so 
 far as I was concerned ! 
 
 I decided to leave Col. Saunders, and go to our most 
 dearly loved haunts, hoping to find Helen. I had gone 
 but a little distance from her house, when I came face to 
 face with the astral of my enemy. 
 
 “Where have you left my body?” I asked fiercely. 
 
 “I will tell you that when I am ready to give it up,” 
 was his insolent reply. 
 
 I have since thought that the worst part of being with- 
 out a body, is one’s inability to stand up to a good square 
 fight, and that is my only objection to being an angel. 
 
38 
 
 A QUEER DILEMMA. 
 
 Should I meet Jack Walsh in heaven, I know I should 
 ache to thresh him. 
 
 “Bye-bye, Sonny/’ he said, with a leer. “Kiss Liz, for 
 me, and mind you keep my body in good repair.” 
 
 He floated off, and I decided to follow him, and take 
 my chances as to getting into my body first. I have 
 always been noted for quickness of motion, and I felt sure 
 that, with any show at all, I could beat Jack in a race 
 through the atmosphere. If I failed, I should at least 
 have the satisfaction of seeing my beloved body, and 
 knowing where to look for it another time. But Jack 
 divined my thought, and immediately turned to me. 
 
 “Old fellow,” he said, “you’ll be sorry if you attempt 
 that. I shall not go near your body as long as you fol- 
 low me. If it dies I don’t care. You have probably in- 
 habited mine long enough to know that it can make little 
 difference to me whether I ever see it again, or not. I 
 might as well be an astral for the rest of my life anyhow.” 
 
 He had me in his power, and knew it. I turned awa\, 
 without another word, unwilling to do aught that would 
 imperil my precious body. Without doubt the life of 
 an astral was preferable to that led by Jack Walsh, but 
 it was not more desirable than that to which I had been 
 accustomed. 
 
 I searched for Helen as long as I dared leave Jack’s 
 body, but in vain. I returned to the spot where I had 
 hidden the body. This time it had not been molested, 
 and I crept into it, warmed it up, and wearily dragged it 
 to the poverty stricken home of Jack Walsh. The sun 
 was just rising, when I entered the room, but the brisk 
 Jane was already about her work. 
 
 “Good morning,” said I. 
 
A QUEER DILEMMA. 
 
 39 
 
 “Humph !” was her reply. “Well, you certainly have 
 not been on a spree this time, for, thanks to my good 
 sense, you had no money. Do you mean to work to- 
 day ?” 
 
 “Yes,” I replied, knowing that it was the only chance 
 I had to keep my borrowed body alive. It seemed to 
 me that it required more food than three such bodies 
 ought to need. 
 
 “Liz is in the next room. She sat up all night waiting 
 for you, and has only just dropped asleep.” 
 
 “Let her sleep. I’ll work, and you may give her all 1 
 earn except just what is needed to buy food enough to 
 keep me from starving, but I’ll be blest if I ever want to 
 see her again.” 
 
 “Jack, what has got hold of you?” 
 
 “That is none of your business. Come, let’s have 
 breakfast, and be off as soon as possible.” 
 
 “There were men here to see you last night. Did 
 you expect them?” 
 
 “No.” 
 
 “One was short and — ” 
 
 “I don’t care anything about them. Are you ever 
 going to get ready?” 
 
 “I fancy they meant you no good. Have you been 
 getting yourself into trouble?” 
 
 “Not in any way that you can understand.” 
 
 “Well, here’s your breakfast. I have engaged sweep- 
 ing enough to keep you busy all day.” 
 
 I ate my breakfast, and went to work. I was glad to 
 work. Do you know, I have since reached the con- 
 clusion that there are many idle people who would be glad 
 to make themselves useful, if they were not afraid of soil- 
 
40 
 
 A QUEER DILEMMA. 
 
 in g their precious bodies, or of making them crooked, 
 or otherwise unpresentable. I had always hesitated 
 about doing anything that would harden my hands or 
 make them rough, but I did not care a penny for Jack 
 Walsh's hands. In fact, I gloried in the knowledge 
 that they were getting some quite unaccustomed blisters 
 on them, and proving themselves of greater use than 
 anyone had ever suspected they could be. I proved 
 to be a source of greatest surprise to* anyone who had 
 ever known Jack Walsh. Jane collected my earnings 
 as before. At noon she offered me a pint of ale, but I 
 refused it. Then she went to a shop, and bought a 
 really good dinner for me. She said she was almost 
 ready to believe that Liz had known me best after all, 
 and in many ways she showed that her opinion of me was 
 rising. But she did not trust me with one penny of the 
 money I had earned. 
 
 About the middle of the afternoon, a sheriff and posse 
 called upon me. 
 
 “Are you Jack Walsh?” asked the sheriff. 
 
 “I am supposed to be.” 
 
 “That does not answer my question. Are you Jack 
 Walsh? Yes or no.” 
 
 “Yes.” 
 
 I did not like to say it, but what else could I have 
 said? 
 
 “I believe you lie.” 
 
 I agreed with him, but did not say so. 
 
 “This is* the same fellow who asked me where Jack 
 Walsh lived,” said a man in the crowd, whom I recogniz- 
 ed as the one who had dared me to bet the treats that 
 I was not a relative of Jack Walsh. 
 
A QUEER DILEMMA. 
 
 41 
 
 “Oh, Jack, Jack, what have you been doing now?” 
 
 Liz pushed her way through the crowd that had rapid- 
 ly collected around me, and attempted to throw herself 
 into my arms. She was weeping, and her lips were 
 puckered ready for kissing. 
 
 “Get out of here!” I shouted. “If you touch me Fll 
 kill you !” 
 
 “For shame !” said the sheriff. 
 
 “Kiss her yourself, if you think it is any fun,” I re- 
 torted. 
 
 “That is not Jack Walsh,” said a voice in the crowd. 
 “He was mean enough, the Lord knows, but he never 
 refused to let his wife kiss him.” 
 
 “How long has he been like this?” asked the sheriff 
 of Jane. 
 
 “Since early yesterday morning.” 
 
 “Not once allowed Mrs. Walsh to kiss him?” ^ 
 
 “Not if he could help it.” 
 
 “My man,” he said, turning to me, “I guess you have 
 not lived with Mrs. Walsh long enough to know her 
 many good qualities. You may come with me.” 
 
 He spoke with an air of complacency that made me 
 long to knock him down ; but something told me that 
 I might as well go quietly, for I certainly could not be in 
 a much worse position than I was. 
 
 I was taken before a judge and examined, and it was 
 proven beyond the possibility of doubt that I was not 
 Jack Walsh. I could not answer the simplest questions 
 about the former life of that individual. I did not know 
 how many little Walshes I was responsible for, how 
 many had died, how many were boys, nor which ones be- 
 longed to my first wife. Neither could I tell whether that 
 
42 
 
 A QUEER DILEMMA. 
 
 wife had been separated from me by death, or divorce. 
 It was plain that I was not Jack Walsh ; then who was I? 
 That was the question which my tormentors tried to 
 answer. I looked like him, they said, but that proved 
 nothing. Jane and Liz had never heard him mention a 
 brother; but Jane said that she should not be in the least 
 surprised to learn that I, and twenty others just as mean, 
 were related to Jack Walsh. Jack was quite despicable 
 enough to have any number of disreputable relatives, and 
 nothing could be worse than she had all along suspected. 
 
 I was arrested for murdering two women in White- 
 chapel. I was supposed to be Jack the Ripper, and there 
 was every reason to believe that I should be hung. The 
 problem that now presented itself was this: Could 
 
 Jack's physical body be hung without rendering my 
 astral body useless? It did not seem possible. I was 
 loath to have my soul separated from my astral body, not 
 only because of a strong personal desire to spend a few 
 more years on earth, but because of poor Angeline. My 
 poor, poor Angeline ! She had thought she did so well 
 in marrying me, and how cruelly Jack Walsh was disap- 
 pointing her ! Would she ever again learn to trust me 
 implicitly? What would life be if she were never to give 
 me her confidence again? I could not deny that I had 
 not always deserved it. I knew she would never have 
 given her consent to my going anywhere alone with 
 Helen, even in astral form, yet I had gone. I had meant 
 so well that I had not seen things in their true light. 
 Besides, how was I to know that my little escapade would 
 end so disastrously? All I had thought about it was 
 that no one could possibly know anything about it. 
 
 Thoughts of Angeline were curiously mixed with my 
 
A QUEER DILEMMA. 
 
 43 
 
 anxious plans for escape, all during that day. What 
 should I do? It would be useless to astralize myself, just 
 before execution, for they would not hang an inanimate 
 body. They would try to restore me to consciousness, 
 hang me if successful, and bury me if unsuccessful. 
 News travels fast, if it be at all sensational, and I saw that 
 I could not hope, now, that Jack would deliberately re- 
 turn to England to take possession of a body that was 
 soon to be hung, when he* could just as well occupy a 
 more desirable one in Wisconsin. The situation was, 
 indeed, most desperate. 
 
 Gradually the crowd of curious faces began to grow 
 less dense, and finally I was left alone in my cell. With- 
 out loss of time, I stretched Jack’s tired body on the iron 
 pallet, and allowed my astral to escape and speed its 
 way homeward. I had not gone half the distance, when I 
 again met Jack. 
 
 “Do you want your body, now?” he asked, abruptly. 
 
 “May I have it?” I replied, breathing a prayer that I 
 might be prevented from saying anything that would be 
 likely to arouse his opposition, and cause him to change 
 his mind, if he really meant to return my body. 
 
 “You may have it. I don’t want it any longer. Con- 
 found such a family as yours, anyhow! You have not 
 taught your women to treat men with the respect due 
 their superiors, and there is no living with them in any 
 sort of comfort. My old woman is better trained. Well, 
 good-by. I presume I shall find my body at the same old 
 place, shall 1 1 not?” 
 
 I was tempted to say yes. Then I thought how it 
 would be should he fail to find it until too late, and con- 
 clude to have vengeance by becoming my evil spirit. 
 
44 
 
 A QUEER DILEMMA. 
 
 I had no doubt that he could easily make life a burden 
 to me. This thought brought my better self to the front, 
 and I speedily became too honorable to allow him to leave 
 me under a wrong impression. Never in my life did I 
 fight such a battle against temptation. I trust that that 
 one victory has been considered great enough to wipe 
 out a large number of my sins of omission. 
 
 “No, Jack/’ I replied, feebly, “I have not been able to 
 leave your body just where I fQund it ; but I hope you will 
 believe that I did my best to care for it properly.” 
 
 “Where is it?” 
 
 For several minutes I could not speak. So many con- 
 flicting thoughts were struggling for mastery in my mind, 
 that Jack could read none of them. I finally summoned 
 courage to tell him that he would find his body in jail, 
 and then silently waited for the words which should tell 
 me that he declined to accept it until it was returned to 
 the place where he had left it. But, to my surprise, he 
 looked eagerly curious, instead of angry. 
 
 “Why is it in jail?” he asked. 
 
 I told him. 
 
 “Good!” he exclaimed. “Old fellow, you have done 
 well ! that is something I have always longed for, but I 
 couldn’t be a high-class villain to save my life.” 
 
 “Do you mean,” I gasped, “that you are willing to be 
 hanged?” 
 
 “Of course not, simpleton ; but, for a time, I am quite 
 willing to be thought a notorious murderer. Gad, what 
 good times are in store for me ! Think of the crowds 
 of visitors I shall have ! Think of the fruit and flowers 
 and books and photographs and confectionery that will 
 be showered upon me ! Think of the sympathetic ladies 
 
% 
 
 A QUEER DILEMMA. 45 
 
 who will write me sweet-scented notes of condolence ! 
 Think of those who will fall in love with me, and long to 
 marry me before I am hung! And all the while I shall 
 be well housed and well fed and comfortably dressed, and 
 Liz will have no hold upon me whatsoever.” 
 
 “But it can not last forever,” I said, made reckless by 
 my longing to know more of this strange character. 
 “Sooner or later there will come the hanging — ” 
 
 “Oh, no danger of that! As soon as it begins to look 
 risky I shall prove that I am myself, not Jack the Ripper. 
 It will be*a case for the doctors to study, for it will be 
 proven that, for a time, I forgot every incident of my 
 former life. After I’ve passed through that stage, I may 
 sue for damages for false imprisonment. Oh, I have ex- 
 citement enough in store to last a life time. Trust me 
 for getting out of a little scrape like that. Ta, ta, old fel- 
 low ! Whenever you want some one to keep your body 
 warm, don’t hesitate to let me know.” 
 
 I was so dazed with my good fortune and the fellow’s 
 insolence that he had been gone for several minutes be- 
 fore I remembered that he had not told me where to find 
 my body. It was a fearful thought. I realized that it 
 would be useless, as well as dangerous, to try and over- 
 take him, for there was no knowing that he would not 
 change his mind as to the desirability of occupying a 
 body that was in danger of being hanged. When I 
 thought that I might be obliged to hunt for hours for my 
 body, and remembered that it was not one that could live 
 long without the presence of a soul, I was plunged into 
 a state of unhappiness no less hard to bear than that from 
 which I had just escaped. I could think of no better 
 
46 
 
 A QUEER DILEMMA. 
 
 course to pursue than to go home at once. It was barely 
 possible that I might find my body there. 
 
 It was not there. The house was dark, empty, silent 
 as before. Not a clue did it contain as to the where- 
 abouts of my body. 
 
 Heavy-hearted, I visited my wife. She lay on the bed 
 where I had last seen her. She seemed to be sleeping 
 soundly, but there were "traces of tears on her cheek. In 
 her hand was a copy of the evening paper. I glanced at 
 the words which she had evidently been reading, when 
 she fell asleep. 
 
 “SCANDAL IN HIGH LIFE! ! !” 
 
 Those were the words that I saw, in the most insolent 
 of bold-face type that could possibly have been pro- 
 cured. I read the article through to the end. It told 
 how I, David Scranton, had cruelly beaten my wife, An- 
 geline, with my boot-jack, in the presence of witnesses, 
 and how she had taken the advice of her family and 
 friends and instituted proceedings for a divorce. It 
 hinted that I had long been addicted to the use of liquor, 
 although I had been very successful in disguising the 
 fact, and ended by promising its readers that if they 
 would visit the court house at a certain hour of a certain 
 day they would be regaled with other bits of juicy news 
 concerning the Scranton family, and a certain other 
 family, well known in social circles.. 
 
 I do not attempt to quote, but simply to give a synopsis 
 of an article that, without doubt, made me the maddest 
 astral in the universe. 
 
 I could gain nothing by staying where I was, so I de- 
 cided to go- to Helen’s house. Perhaps I might learn 
 something there about myself. If I could only have 
 
47 
 
 I glanced at the words she had been reading. 
 
48 
 
 A QUEER DILEMMA. 
 
 known how long a time had elapsed since my body had 
 been vacated, I might not have been so worried. It was 
 terrible to think that I might even now be dying. But 
 why should I want to live when Angeline was going to 
 get a divorce? What would life be worth, if it must be 
 lived without her? I had never believed in divorces, and 
 now I was more than ever against a country where the 
 laws made them possible. Why could not Angeline have 
 had more faith in me? So far as she could know, she had 
 had no cause to doubt me. Why could not her love for me 
 have told her that I could not strike her, and be myself? 
 Of course, if she could have known of my atmospherical 
 journeys with Helen, that would, undoubtedly, have 
 caused her to lose faith in me, but how could she know of 
 them? Even if she were told, her limited knowledge of 
 such things would have moved her to say that such a 
 thing was not possible, and I should be saved. I did not 
 want Angeline to obtain a divorce. I believed that if I 
 could obtain possession of my own body, send for her, 
 and let her see that I was my own lovable self, I could 
 easily win her back again, and all would be well for- 
 ever after. 
 
 My first glance at Helen, on reaching her room, told 
 me that she had again astralized herself. I turned to 
 leave the room, and caught sight of a card which she had 
 put in a conspicuous place beside the clock on her dress- 
 ing-table. It contained the words, '‘Beside the little lake 
 in Italy.” 
 
 Like a flash these words illumined my mind. Helen 
 had discovered the fact that a strange astral had posses- 
 sion of my body. She believed that, in my consequent 
 unhappiness, I might visit her, and she had written thesp 
 
A QUEER DILEMMA. 
 
 49 
 
 words hoping that I might see them, and join her on the 
 shore of the beautiful lak£ which our astral bodies had 
 first visited. 
 
 My surmises were entirely correct. In less time than it 
 takes to write it, I was floating rapidly through the air, 
 en route' to Italy. Very soon, thereafter, I was sitting 
 beside my friend, and we were rapidly exchanging con- 
 fidences. 
 
 “The whiskey and tobacco on your library table first 
 aroused my suspicions,” she said, “and I determined to 
 verify them ; but I can never make clear to you all that it 
 has cost me.” 
 
 “All it has cost you !” I exclaimed. “If you imagine 
 you have cause for complaint, think of me. No astral has 
 taken possession of your body.” 
 
 “But things have happened that are very dreadful.” 
 
 “What can you mean?” 
 
 “My husband has discovered that there are times when 
 I sleep too soundly to be aroused. He talked with med- 
 ical experts about me, and when last I was astralized. he 
 had them in to examine me.” 
 
 “Well,” I said, “and what good did that do them?” 
 
 “It gives them an opportunity to display their surgical 
 skill. They have decided that my brain is inflamed from 
 pressure on a certain portion of it, and that I am a fit sub- 
 ject for trepanning.” 
 
 “The dev — The wretches ! But of course you will not 
 submit.” 
 
 “Not if I can prevent it ; but no one believes my protes- 
 tations that I am all right. Even now, while I am astral- 
 ized, they may have my body on the operating table.” 
 
 It was too horrible to think of. I told Helen that she 
 
50 
 
 A QUEER DILEMMA. 
 
 must return to her precious body at once, never to leave 
 it again. 
 
 “Yes,” she replied, “but first I want to see you safely 
 into your own body, else I shall fear that I have run this 
 risk in vain.” 
 
 “Do you know where my body is?” 
 
 “Yes ; do not you?” 
 
 “No.” 
 
 “It has been sent up to the workhouse for ninety days 
 for drunkenness.” 
 
 “It — it has — what!” 
 
 “Workhouse — rock heap — drunkenness — ninety 
 days !” explained Helen, most lucidly. 
 
 “And that is why that astral villain was willing to give 
 it up ! Oh, if I were but in the flesh, and Jiad him in my 
 power !” 
 
 “You left his body in jail, my dear friend,” said Helen, 
 gently, and my wrath evaporated. 
 
 “Eighty-nine days left in which to pound rocks! It 
 was not a pleasant prospect, more especially to one un- 
 used to manual labor ; but I had to face it. I was allowed 
 a day off, when the time came for me to meet Angeline 
 in the divorce court. Oh, the shame of that moment! 
 My hands, which had been soft and white, when last they 
 clasped hers, were now rough and bleeding, and the dirt 
 was worn into them so deeply that it would not wash off. 
 A bit of flying stone had hit me on one cheek, closing one 
 eye entirely. My clothing hung in tatters. I might have 
 had another suit, by sending to my home for it, but I 
 was too proud to do that. I meant to have wife, home, 
 everything, or — nothing. 
 
 The courtroom wa*s orowded. It was proven beyond a 
 
A QUEER DILEMMA. 
 
 51 
 
 doubt that I had struck my wife with a boot-jack; that I 
 had used violent language to her in the presence of wit- 
 nesses ; that I had shown no concern when she lay suffer- 
 ing from my inhumanity ; that I was now serving a term 
 for drunkenness at the workhouse. 
 
 There was absolute silence in the room when I took 
 the stand in my own defense. My plan was to prove an 
 alibi, and make Angeline ashamed of herself for believing 
 me capable of such brutality. 
 
 I told my story in the most straightforward manner 
 imaginable — just as I have written it here, except that I 
 omitted all allusion to Helen. 
 
 It was greeted with a roar of laughter, in which judge 
 and jury joined. 
 
 That was not what I had expected. My soul raged 
 with anger and disappointment. My heart sank with an 
 added load of hopelessness; but what could I do? The 
 smiling court officials requested the giggling spectators to 
 restrain their mirth long enough to listen to the decision. 
 In a few moments Angeline and I were not related in the 
 eyes of the law. 
 
 I was escorted back to the workhouse. 
 
 On the afternoon of the next day I was visited by An- 
 geline and Col. Saunders. 
 
 “You!” I exclaimed to Angeline, “you here with him! 
 Is it for this that Helen is to be trepanned — that I have 
 been divorced?” 
 
 “How do you know that Helen is to be trepanned ? J 
 asked Angeline. 
 
 “She told me so herself — ” I began, and then stopped, 
 embarrassed. It was supposed that I had not seen Helen 
 
 LIBRARY > — 
 
 •'DIVERSITY OF H11N01S 
 
52 
 
 A QUEER DILEMMA. 
 
 since that operation had been decided upon. My em- 
 barrassment was very evident. 
 
 “Go on,” said Col. Saunders. “You might as well. I 
 know more than you think.” 
 
 Then I told them that Helen had accompanied me in 
 my atmospheric journeyings, being very careful to make 
 them understand that nothing but platonic friendship, 
 and a deep love of scientific questions, had drawn us to- 
 gether. “You have judged me most unkindly,” I added, 
 “but you need not seek further satisfaction in an opera- 
 tion that may cost Helen her life. I suppose, however, it 
 will simplify matters so far as you two are concerned, if 
 she should die under the operation.” 
 
 “Mr. Scranton,” said Angeline, coldly, “do you im- 
 agine platonic friendship impossible to anyone except 
 yourself and Helen?” 
 
 I saw the point, at once, and said no more ; but jealousy 
 burned within me. I had heard of the friendship existing 
 between Col. Saunders and Angeline, and I am free to 
 say that it did not please me to know that she had not 
 found my companionship all-sufficient. I ought to have 
 been glad that he was able to afford her comfort, during 
 the dark days that followed the possession of my body 
 by that astral fiend, but I was not. It seemed to me 
 that her relatives could have afforded her all the com- 
 fort she ought to have required. 
 
 “Mr. Scranton,” said Col. Saunders, “we are here to 
 ask you how much truth there is in that ridiculous story 
 you told yesterday.” 
 
 “You did not believe me yesterday, and you will not 
 today,” I answered, sullenly. “Why should I repeat it?” 
 “By doing so, you may enable me to reach a conclusion 
 
A QUEER DILEMMA. 
 
 53 
 
 concerning my poor wife. She tells a story very sim- 
 ilar to yours, in which she mentions a family — " 
 
 “In England ?" I interrupted. 
 
 “Yes. She called them — ” 
 
 “Jack Walsh ; Liz, his wife ; Jane, his sister-in-law/' 
 
 “Exactly. Why did you not mention those names in 
 the court room? 
 
 “How in the world could I in the face of that grinning 
 mob ! I talked as long as anyone would listen." 
 
 “That is quite true, my dear friend," said Angeline to 
 Col. Saunders. “He was stopped by the laughter." 
 
 As it began to look as if my story might be believed, 
 and I might stand before the world as one more sinned 
 against than sinning, I began to lose the air of one 
 crushed by circumstances, and to assume that of proud 
 consciousness of my own worth. I was not slow to per- 
 ceive that Angeline loved me still, and I was not as sorry 
 as I might otherwise have been to see that she was suffer- 
 ing intensely. I quickly decided that she must make the 
 advances, not I, and I looked forward with considerable 
 satisfaction to the day when I should take her in my arms 
 and tell her that she was forgiven for having shown so lit- 
 tle faith in me. I fully realized that my punishment had 
 already been greater than my folly deserved. But I 
 should find some compensation in reducing Angeline to 
 a satisfactory state of penitence for having doubted me for 
 a moment. 
 
 Col. Saunders and Angeline left me without making 
 any comment on the story I had repeated, and I went 
 back to the rock heap with hope singing gaily in my 
 bosom. That steps would be taken to procure my im- 
 mediate release, I had not the slightest doubt. That I 
 
54 
 
 A QUEER DILEMMA. 
 
 should again be united to my beloved Angeline I was 
 equally sure, and that we should live happily forever 
 afterward was, of course, only a natural conclusion. 
 
 I had the somewhat doubtful satisfaction of seeing a 
 part of my story given in the evening paper, with com- 
 ments by some scientific gentleman who had become in- 
 terested in it, and a great deal of senseless raillery added 
 by the editor, who was more impressed by the fact that I 
 had gone on my queer journey with a woman who was 
 not my wife, and with whom I had the assurance to pre- 
 tend I was not in love, than with the scientific aspect of 
 the affair. How did the reporter get hold of that part of 
 it ! If there is one class of things on the face of the earth 
 more despicable than every other class, it is known by 
 the name of newspaper reporters. At least, such is my 
 opinion. It will receive the hearty support of every 
 man whose private affairs have been ferreted out and 
 given to the public without his knowledge or consent. 
 
 What most interested me was the added intelligence 
 that an expected cablegram would soon prove the re- 
 liability of my story, or, at least, that part of it relating 
 to the family in England. 
 
 On the next day but one I was visited by Angeline’s 
 father, who told me that I was free to leave the work- 
 house. My story had been verified, and it had been de- 
 cided that I ought not to be punished for what another 
 had done. 
 
 “My daughter wished me to say,” continued the old 
 gentleman, “that what communications you have to make 
 regarding your personal effects, now at her house, may be 
 made through the lawyer who procured her divorce.” 
 
 “Her divorce !” I managed to stammer. “Sir, that di- 
 
A QUEER DILEMMA. 
 
 55 
 
 vorce is not legal. It was procured on false evidence. It 
 was not I who used the boot-jack — ” 
 
 “My daughter intends to abide by the decision rendered 
 in the divorce court,” interrupted Angeline's father, with 
 great firmness. “The fact that you did not find her 
 companionship sufficient, that you willfully deceived her, 
 that you did what you would not have been willing she 
 should do, that you abused her confidence in you, that, 
 worst of all, you ran away with another man's wife, and 
 her friend — but why enumerate ! You can easily see that 
 you have done much that a self-respecting woman would 
 find hard to forgive.” 
 
 “But the fact that we went as astrals ought to con- 
 vince her that she has not good grounds for her jeal- 
 ousy — ” I began. 
 
 “Nonsense!” interrupted the father. “You know as 
 well as I do that you did not want your wife to accompany 
 you, even as astrals. It was not what you did, but what 
 prompted you to do it, that makes her believe that it is 
 better for both of you never to see each other again. 1 
 bid you good afternoon, sir.” 
 
 And this was the end of my castle in the air ! This was 
 the way Angeline begged for forgiveness ! This was the 
 way I was compensated for having been unduly punish- 
 ed! Verily that man is a fool, who, believing he under- 
 stands woman, dares predict what she will do or say, and 
 act accordingly. 
 
 It was some time before I allowed my common sense 
 to control my anger, and give my mind a chance to listen 
 to the promptings of my heart. I believed Angeline haa 
 not lost her love for me. She was angry, and I had been 
 wrong; but woman's love overlooks a great deal. Her 
 
56 
 
 A QUEER DILEMMA. 
 
 heart would plead for me. I loved her, loved her de- 
 votedly. I had won her once before, and I would win her 
 again. At least, I would try. 
 
 My first act, after leaving the workhouse, and finding a 
 suitable boarding-place, was to write a long letter to 
 Angeline. I put my whole soul into it. I laid my 
 heart bare before her, and pleaded as I shall never be 
 able to plead again. Scalding tears rolled down my 
 cheeks as I wrote, and dropped, unheeded, on the paper, 
 I allowed them to remain, knowing that it would not be 
 many hours before tears from Angeline’s eyes would join 
 them. 
 
 The letter was mailed. I could hardly control my 
 impatience while waiting its reply. It came by the next 
 mail. I give it entire. 
 
 Dear Mr. Scranton: 
 
 I have just finished reading your letter, and it has but added to 
 the terrible ache in my heart. I think my heart will never ceas-e 
 hurting, now. I wish I could forget everything, and go to you; 
 but, because I can not forget, I* know we should not be able to live 
 happily together. Your love was my world. I cared for nothing 
 else. I was happy, believing that it was mine, alone, and that you 
 were entirely satisfied with what I gave in return. I would give 
 half my life if my beautiful dream had not been taken from me. I 
 would rather have kept my delusion, until my eyes were opened 
 in heaven, where I might have found relief for my heartache. Oh, 
 if I had not believed in you so completely, it would be easier now! 
 It is not that I do not believe you love me more than Helen, but 
 that I know you did not love me as I thought you did. I can 
 not be satisfied with less than I supposed was mine. It hurts tu 
 know that my love was not sufficient. It hurts to know that 
 I was given a divided affection. If you had cared for me as 
 I did for you, you could have had no thought of another. 
 Should we try to live together again, the knowledge that I now 
 have would, sooner or later, be death to our love, and life would 
 become unendurable to us both. I could never again believe im- 
 plicitly in your protestations, because you deceived me once, and 
 I should always have to fight the thought, “he is deceiving me 
 again.” Love can not live where doubt has an abiding-place. 
 My delusion has made me incapable of making the best of the real- 
 
A QUEER DILEMMA. 
 
 57 
 
 ity. My heart is breaking, but life with you, under the changed 
 conditions, would not heal it. It will be better for us both never 
 to meet again, and I should be glad to hear that you had decided 
 to reside at some distance from this place. A man’s heart is not 
 like a woman’s, and I think you will not long remain wholly un- 
 comforted. I hope you will not. If you can make yourself an- 
 other home, I want you to do so. That you might be free to do 
 as you wished in the matter is the reason I applied for a divorce. 
 
 Yours sincerely, 
 
 Angeline. 
 
 And thus it ended. I knew Angeline well enough to 
 believe her entirely in earnest. I knew that I had lost her 
 forever. If I could only have understood her in the first 
 place, as I understood her now, how happy — But this is 
 worse than useless. As I have always done, I attempted 
 to lock the door after the horse was stolen. 
 
5S 
 
 A TWENTIETH CENTURY ROMANCE. 
 
 A Twentieth Century Romance* 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 It had been considered a fine house in 1892 when it was 
 finished ready for occupancy. It was built of brownstone, 
 it was large and commodious, it was strictly modern, and 
 it was surrounded by handsome grounds. It was owned 
 by Harlow Winthrop, the wealthiest man in the city. 
 Winthrop was a man who always desired to be identified 
 with everything new, hoping that it might prove to be the 
 avenue down which his name would travel to posterity. 
 He was not contented simply to be rich. He had a fine 
 wife and as nice a family of children as man need wish for, 
 and one of the children, his firstborn, was said to be as 
 much like his father as a half grown English pea is like 
 the matured specimen. This son was named Harold. 
 
 The family moved into the new house on the third day 
 of October, 1892, and two weeks later a grand house- 
 warming was given by their friends and neighbors. It 
 was at this housewarming that Papa Winthrop decided to 
 entertain his guests by an exhibition of his knowledge of 
 hypnotism, which was at that time a subject beginning to 
 attract attention among ordinary people. 
 
 Winthrop had taken to it with the eagerness and enthu- 
 siasm which he had always shown for speculative topics 
 
A TWENTIETH CENTURY ROMANCE. 
 
 59 
 
 and for weeks had been practicing on every one whom he 
 could coax, hire or command to submit themselves to his 
 powers. His son Harold was proved to be the most satis- 
 factory subject and therefore afforded his father more 
 pleasure than he had since his birth, twenty-three years 
 before the new house was built. On the evening of the 
 housewarming he came forward obediently at the call of 
 his father and seated himself in an armchair in full view 
 of the assembled guests. 
 
 “Now,” said Mr. Winthrop, who was pleased beyond 
 measure to have so large an audience, “now I am going 
 to put Harold to sleep for a certain length of time, at the 
 expiration of which he will awaken without assistance, 
 but previous to that time no one can arouse him.” 
 
 Harold began to stare at the shining stopper of a glass 
 bottle placed between himself and the light, while Mr. 
 Winthrop pressed firmly on a certain spot on the top of 
 his son’s head. 
 
 “How long shall he sleep?” asked Mr. Winthrop when 
 Harold began to appear drowsy. 
 
 “Until eleven o’clock,” suggested the mischievous son 
 of the wealthiest family present. 
 
 Harold stirred as if to protest, but was too sleepy to 
 speak. 
 
 “Yes, make it eleven o’clock,” echoed the mother ©f the 
 mischievous son, not because she cared, but because she 
 always made it a point to insist on the gratification of her 
 son’s wishes so long as they did not conflict with her own. 
 The son knew that Letty Mays must return to her home 
 at half past ten, and that Harold Winthrop expected to 
 accompany her. The recollection of that expectation 
 stirred Harold’s drowsy brain and prevented him from 
 
60 
 
 A TWENTIETH CENTURY ROMANCE. 
 
 submitting to his father's hypnotic power with his usual 
 passivity. It is possible that that is the reason why the 
 exhibition did not terminate according to expectation. 
 There were many reasons given during the years which 
 followed, for at last Mr. Winthrop had succeeded in find- 
 ing the coveted fame. It was said in those days and has 
 been argued since that the operator in hypnotism must 
 have full confidence in his own power in order to be 
 entirely successful, and the elder Winthrop was certainly 
 not lacking in that respect. He had put Harold to sleep 
 too many times to have any doubts as to his awakening 
 at the appointed time. It was afterward decided that in 
 order to have a successful exhibition it was also neces- 
 sary that the one who acted as the subject to be operated 
 upon should be free from troubled thoughts when he sat 
 down. Every one said that such a conclusion was proved 
 by the result of Mr. Winthrop’s experiment and gave so 
 many reasons why this should be thus that any one who 
 dared acknowledge not having thought of it long before 
 the night of the housewarming was looked upon as an 
 ignoramus. The rich young man was severely con- 
 demned for having suggested the hour of eleven as that 
 on which the awakening was to take place, an-d there were 
 many who went so far as to say he hoped thereby to win 
 Letty Mays himself. 
 
 Harold slept well, and the guests amused themselves by 
 trying in various ways to arouse him, but all their efforts 
 were in vain. Pretty Letty Mays, who did not believe he 
 really slept, but thought he had learned to control his 
 features wonderfully well, crept to his side when the atten- 
 tion of the guests was drawn to another part of the room 
 
A TWENTIETH CENTURY ROMANCE. 
 
 61 
 
 and whispered in his ear that it was nearly time for her 
 to go. Harold did not stir. 
 
 “This is nonsense, Harold/’ she then whispered petu- 
 lantly. “I know you are feigning just as well as you 
 know it. If you do not arouse yourself this minute, I 
 shall think it is because you care more for your father’s 
 folly than for my wishes.” 
 
 Harold remained motionless, and Letty hurried into the 
 dressing room, found her wraps, and, disappearing 
 through a side door, went home unattended before any 
 one could guess her intention. 
 
 Before she went to sleep that night she wrote a curt 
 note to Harold, releasing him from their engagement and 
 informing him that a messenger would take to him the 
 next day all the books and trinkets which he had given 
 her. But before the things were packed she learned that 
 Harold had not yet awakened, although he had slept for 
 nearly twenty hours, and that the family physician had 
 been called. The physician tried various remedies, none 
 of which proved useful, said he could have done more 
 had he been called earlier, charged a fee large enough to 
 support his entire family for a month, and went home 
 feeling that no man could have acted with greater credit 
 to himself or with greater profit, either, for that matter. 
 
 Hours lengthened into days, days became weeks and 
 weeks months, yet Harold Winthrop slept. The elder 
 Winthrop grew thin and white with worry; Mrs. Win- 
 throp became silently accusing and refused to kiss her 
 husband until their son should be himself again ; the 
 younger members of the family lost the joy of youth in 
 the heavy cloud which hung over the household ; the 
 
62 
 
 A TWENTIETH CENTURY ROMANCE. 
 
 servants would not pass at night the door of the silent 
 room where their young master slept. 
 
 Five years from the date of the housewarming Mr. 
 Winthrop died, leaving a will so drawn that the bulk of 
 his fortune should be held in trust for Harold, the interest 
 to be enjoyed by those who had the care of him. 
 
 After the death of Mrs. Winthrop Harold was given 
 into the care of James, the second son. Thirty-five years 
 later James died, and the fine old home passed into the 
 hands of Henry, who agreed to care for his Uncle Harold 
 to the best of his ability. 
 
 Harold still slept. As he needed little more care than 
 the furniture in an unused room, Henry felt that it was as 
 easy a way of earning a livelihood as he should be likely 
 to find. He was forced to own, however, after a few 
 years’ experience, that they were wiser who preferred life 
 away from the shadow cast by an uncle who, although not 
 dead, might better have been. , 
 
 No servant who had heard of the “sleeper” — usually 
 spoken in a whisper by that class — could be induced to 
 enter the house, and they who had not heard of him re- 
 ceived information soon after their arrival and left with- 
 out the customary warning. Young ladies did not care 
 to give themselves to a young man who, for all they knew 
 to the contrary, might suddenly fall into a sleep such as 
 his uncle was enjoying, and Henry might never have 
 married had he not availed himself of the privileges of a 
 matrimonial bureau and done his courting by corres- 
 pondence. 
 
 Henry died in the year 1972, just forty years after 
 assuming the care of his uncle, and his eldest son, James, 
 undertook to fill his place. 
 
A TWENTIETH CENTURY ROMANCE. 
 
 63 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 Twenty years later, in October, 1992, Harold Winthrop 
 awoke, after a refreshing nap of just one hundred years 
 in length. Mrs. James Winthrop had gone into his room 
 that morning with a feather duster, with which she pro- 
 posed to brush the dust from his face and hands. It was 
 a task which she attended to about once in six weeks. 
 She found Harold sitting up in bed, trying to rub his eyes 
 open. When she entered, he stared at her in undisguised 
 astonishment. So far as he was aware, he was not accus- 
 tomed to receive lady visitors in that way, especially when 
 they came unannounced. Mrs. James let the feather 
 duster fall to the floor. She opened her pretty mouth, 
 gave one shriek and staggered out into the hall. The 
 servants who heard the shriek sent at once for medical 
 assistance with the beautiful presence of mind which was 
 characteristic of that age. There were some among them 
 who had never before heard a woman scream, and who 
 knew no more about a fainting fit than Harold Winthrop 
 knew about the man in the moon. 
 
 James Winthrop, Jr., knew that there must be some 
 good cause for his wife’s strange behavior and rushed up 
 the broad staircase. His wife still leaned against the wall. 
 He looked at her inquiringly, and she pointed to the room 
 where Harold had slept, with a manner that seemed to say 
 that poor James was very much to blame about some- 
 thing. Mr. James Winthrop stepped into the room, took 
 one look at his great-uncle and fell in a dead faint to the 
 floor. 
 
 “Poor fellow !” exclaimed his wife, stooping over him. 
 
64 
 
 A TWENTIETH CENTURY ROMANCE. 
 
 “I should have thought how delicate he is.” The servants 
 offered assistance, but she waved them away, and tenderly 
 lifting her little husband into her strong arms bore him 
 to his own room and laid him upon the bed. 
 
 Harold had sprung from his bed when he saw her lift 
 her husband. He was not used to seeing a woman do a 
 thing like that, and his first thought was to offer assist- 
 ance, but his threadbare nightgown fell away from him 
 in shreds, and he quickly crept under the bedding again. 
 
 Mrs. Winthrop returned as soon as her husband gave 
 signs of returning consciousness and graciously inquired 
 how she might make herself useful to Harold. 
 
 “I should like my clothes, if you please,” he replied. 
 “I cannot seem to find them. I thought I left them on 
 that chair.” 
 
 “Perhaps you did,” said Mrs. Winthrop, “but did you 
 suppose they could stay there forever?” 
 
 “Have I slept so very late?” asked Harold, who had 
 often made the family and servants extra work by so 
 doing. He thought the lady before him was the new 
 housekeeper whom his mother had talked of engaging and 
 mentally styled her an unusually fine specimen of woman- 
 hood. 
 
 “Have you slept so very late?” repeated Mrs. Winthrop. 
 “Is it possible that you do not know that you have slept 
 a hundred years?” 
 
 “A hundred years ! Oh, land o’ Goshen !” Harold 
 laughed heartily, then suddenly became serious, believing 
 that his mother’s new housekeeper was crazy. “You poor 
 thing!” he said. “Don’t mind my laughing. I always 
 did laugh easily. Won’t you tell me your name?” 
 
 “My name, sir, is Mrs. James Winthrop. I am the wife 
 
A TWENTIETH CENTURY ROMANCE. 
 
 65 
 
 of your nephew’s son. I do not wonder at your surprise. 
 It must be strange to be suddenly confronted with those 
 who were born and have grown up while you slept. We, 
 however, are no less surprised. We had grown to believe 
 that you would never awaken.” 
 
 “Great thunder !” exclaimed Harold, who was begin- 
 ning to be out of patience. “Bring my clothes, madam, 
 or I’ll know the reason why! Do you suppose I am 
 going to lie here all day listening to your crazy talk?” 
 
 “I shall not compel you to listen to me unless you 
 like,” replied Mrs. Winthrop calmly, “but I really do not 
 see but that you must lie here until a tailor can take 
 your measurements and make you some clothes. You 
 have nothing to put on which will hold together. The 
 appearance of your nightgown should be enough to con- 
 vince you that I am not telling you an untruth.” 
 
 When Harold stopped to think of it, he was obliged to 
 admit that it was proof that he must have slept longer 
 than he had thought, or that he was the victim of a joke 
 over which he had no control. He concluded to humor 
 the lady and see if he might not find a key to the solution. 
 
 “Could you not,” he said, “send out and buy me a 
 ready-made suit?” 
 
 “It would be impossible to find anything large enough,” 
 replied Mrs. Winthrop. “We have no men so large as 
 you. Really you will have to be patient a little while. 
 I have sent for a tailor, who will be here very soon.” 
 
 A little more conversation followed, which te'nded to 
 mystify Harold more and more. Then Mrs. Winthrop 
 left the room, and soon afterward her husband appeared 
 in the doorway. Harold recognized him at once as the 
 man who had fainted. He was yet pale, but the excite- 
 
66 
 
 A TWENTIETH CENTURY ROMANCE. 
 
 ment of beholding the man who had awakened after a nap 
 of a hundred years had brought a faint color to his lips 
 and a becoming brightness to his eyes. 
 
 “He is a dear little thing/' thought Harold, “but how 
 much more attractive he would be in skirts !" 
 
 The little man came slowly into the room, looking as it 
 he were doubtful as to the wisdom of such a procedure, 
 and Harold hoped that he might prove to be more helpful 
 than his crazy wife had keen. 
 
 “Good morning, sir," he said pleasantly. “Can you tell 
 me how long I have slept?" 
 
 “One hundred years to-day," was the unexpected and 
 highly exasperating reply. 
 
 “Another lunatic !’’ groaned Harold. “What can 
 mother be thinking of?" 
 
 “How do you feel?" inquired the little man. “Are you 
 stifif? Will your joints work? My, but you have slept! 
 The scientific world has made you a study for genera- 
 tions." 
 
 “Much obliged, I’m sure," replied Harold in default of 
 a more brilliant reply. It was somewhat amusing to a 
 man who knew himself to be just twenty-three years of 
 age to be told that he had been an object of curiosity for 
 generations. 
 
 “What has the scientific world thought to do about 
 you?" it suddenly occurred to him to inquire. 
 
 “They say this is man’s century," replied the little fel- 
 low, “but I don’t know that I understand the meaning o f 
 that. There are many men who are dissatisfied with 
 things in general, but I don’t know why they should, be, 
 I’m sure. I’m comfortable enough, and I don’t believe 
 a change would make things an # y better." 
 
67 
 
 How much more attractive he would be in skirts. 
 
68 
 
 A TWENTIETH CENTURY ROMANCE. 
 
 This was all Greek to Harold, and when he was in 
 college he declined to study Greek. 
 
 “I wonder if you are really a man?” he asked. “You 
 are pretty enough for a doll.” 
 
 “Do you think me pretty?” The little man blushed 
 beautifully. “Wife says I am,” he added. “She is awfully 
 jealous, don’t you know. But you are a man, too. She 
 doesn’t like to have another woman look at me, but she 
 ought not to mind because a man thinks me pretty, ought 
 she?” 
 
 Harold was disgusted. He wanted to take the little 
 fellow between his thumb and finger and crush him, but 
 restrained himself with the thought that the man was a 
 lunatic. 
 
 “You — get — my — clothes,” he said, with great stern- 
 ness. He hoped to frighten his guest into obedience. 
 “Get them this minute or I’ll” — 
 
 “But, sir,” faltered the little man, “your clothes were 
 moth eaten years ago.” 
 
 “Oh, heavens ! See here, you chattering monkey, if 
 you don’t do as I tell you I’ll drop you out of the window.” 
 
 Harold arose as if to execute his threat, and the little 
 man fled, screaming, into the hall. Harold wrapped his 
 tattered bedding about him and followed, determined to 
 find something to wear. He was just in time to see Mrs. 
 Winthrop caressing her little husband and to hear her tell- 
 ing him not to be afraid, for nothing should hurt him as 
 long as she lived to protect him. 
 
 “Go back to your room,” she said sternly when she saw 
 Harold. It is exactly what he would have been most 
 anxious to do under ordinary circumstances, but now he 
 felt that he was in a place where desperate measures must 
 
A TWENTIETH CENTURY ROMANCE. 
 
 69 
 
 be employed. He was convinced that his garments had 
 been taken from his own room by some one whose inten- 
 tions were not of the friendliest, and he determined to go 
 down stairs and find some member of his family, even 
 though he must appear in tattered nightgown and bed- 
 ding much the worse from wear. So when Mrs. Winthrop 
 ordered him back to his room he simply told her to go to 
 thunder, nor did he feel at all ashamed for speaking so 
 rudely to a lady, as he would have done had she seemed 
 to him less like a man and more like a woman. 
 
 Mrs. Winthrop gently pushed her husband toward a 
 door leading to another room. 
 
 “Go in there, dear,” she said, “and do not be afraid, 
 ril get him back to bed in a moment.” 
 
 “I don’t want to strike a lady,” Harold remarked, with 
 great earnestness, “but if you touch me you’ll be sorry.” 
 
 Mrs. Winthrop showed no nervousness. 
 
 “Will you walk back to your room,” she asked, “or 
 must I carry you?” 
 
 Harold made no reply. He thought it scarcely worth 
 while. He started to pass her that he might go down 
 stairs, when he suddenly felt her arms around his waist. 
 He endeavored to free himself, but could not. 
 
 “If you don’t release me, I’ll knock you down!” he 
 thundered. The little man screamed in terror and begged 
 his wife to let him go for help, but she commanded him 
 to keep quiet. Mrs. Winthrop was perfectly self-pos- 
 sessed. Harold felt that he was being lifted from his feet. 
 He fought desperately, but when one has slept for a 
 hundred years one’s strength becomes exhausted. Har- 
 old was no match for the powerful woman, and almost 
 before he knew it he was held firmly on his bed by Mrs. 
 
70 
 
 A TWENTIETH CENTURY ROMANCE. 
 
 Winthrop, who called to her husband to bring fresh bed- 
 ding 'to be used in place of that which he had destroyed. 
 
 “Now, sir,” she said when Harold no longer offered 
 resistance, “I want to have no more trouble with you. 
 You have lain here a hundred years, and it won’t hurt 
 you to keep quiet a day or two longer. You must stay 
 until the tailor comes to make your suit.” 
 
 She turned to leave the room again, and Harold called 
 after her to remain. 
 
 “Stop!” he implored. “Where is my father?” 
 
 “No one knows, sir. He died about five years after he 
 had put you into that hypnotic sleep, so I am told. He 
 had expected to awaken you in a few hours, and when he 
 failed to do it his heart broke. It is quite a wonderful 
 historical fact, sir. Should you like to see a school his- 
 tory?” 
 
 “No, I think not,” replied Harold faintly. A sudden 
 remembrance had illumined his mind. He recalled the 
 housewarming and his opposition to being made to sleep 
 past the hour when he wished to walk home with Letty 
 Mays. He looked at his hands. They had been brown 
 from boating when he went to sleep. He had spent many 
 hours in trying to get them as deeply sunburned as those 
 of the leaders in the athletic club to which he belonged. 
 Now they were as white and soft as a baby’s. He knew 
 that they could not have been bleached in one night. He 
 looked around his room. It had been painfully new when 
 he went to sleep ; now much of the woodwork was moth 
 eaten. Instead of a smell of varnish there was a smell of 
 decay. The more he thought of it the more convinced 
 he became that the woman and her husband had spoken 
 the truth, and that he had slept many years. He tried 
 
A TWENTIETH CENTURY ROMANCE. 
 
 71 
 
 to realize his position. It was far from being desirable, 
 as may be imagined. None of his near relatives was 
 living. There was not one soul whom he knew to con- 
 gratulate him on having awakened. He neither felt nor 
 looked a day older than when he had gone to sleep, and 
 he told himself that he could not hope to die for many 
 years. Yet life looked to him to be hardly worth living. 
 He had always dreaded change. He disliked making new 
 acquaintances, but now he faced the necessity of becom- 
 ing acquainted with persons of whom he had never so 
 much as heard and of trying to accustom himself to a 
 world one hundred and twenty-three years older than that 
 into which he had been born. 
 
 His reverie was disturbed by the entrance of the tailor, 
 who was no larger than the man who had fainted. 
 
 ‘'Truly/’ said the tailor, surveying Harold with aston- 
 ishment, “truly there were giants in those days! Were 
 there many men as large as you?” 
 
 “I was not considered very large,” replied Harold. 
 “My father was taller and heavier.” It was hard for Har- 
 old to use the past tense, but he now thought it to be a 
 necessity, and he did not believe in fighting the inevitable. 
 
 “My, my,” exclaimed the tailor, “how very large you 
 are ! I have been obliged to get my own living ever since 
 my wife died. I was a tailor before she married me and 
 have been a tailor ever since her death, but I never before 
 took measurements like these. I’m not sure, sir, that I 
 can find a piece of cloth large enough for a whole suit.” 
 “Then make it of five or six pieces,” replied Harold 
 impatiently. “Bring me anything that will hide my naked- 
 ness. I am tired of lying here.” 
 
72 
 
 A TWENTIETH CENTURY ROMANCE. 
 
 “1 should think you would be,” replied the tailor feel- 
 ingly. 
 
 “Can you tell me anything about a girl of the name of 
 Letty Mays?” asked Harold as the tailor was about to 
 leave. 
 
 “Letty Mays !” repeated the tailor. “I never heard the 
 name. It is not in the histories — oh, yes, it is, too ! She 
 was the girl to whom you were betrothed. She was a 
 rattle brained — ” 
 
 “Look out!” thundered Harold, raising himself in bed. 
 He looked fierce enough to frighten a man of his own 
 size, and the tailor rushed from the room, his face white 
 with fear. 
 
 Mrs. Winthrop came in at that moment to bring a his- 
 tory for Harold, and for fully two minutes they looked at 
 each other without flinching. 
 
 “You are very strong for a man,” said she at last. 
 
 “You are as strong as a man,” replied Harold. 
 
 “Strong as a man !” Mrs. Winthrop smiled contempt- 
 uously. “We will not pursue that subject,” she said. “I 
 simply want to say that unless you show yourself a little 
 more tractable I shall be obliged to have you examined 
 for insanity.” 
 
 With that remark she left the room, and Harold spent 
 the time in which his suit was being made in reading of 
 the events of his day as recorded in the history and in 
 alternately laughing and swearing at the untruthfulness 
 of the pictures presented. He finished the book, con- 
 vinced that he had really slept a hundred years. 
 
A TWENTIETH CENTURY ROMANCE. 
 
 73 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 When Harold’s suit at last arrived, his first thought as 
 he surveyed himself before the glass was that now he could 
 go down into the dining room and have a good square 
 meal. What that thought was to him can only be imag- 
 ined by the hungry man to whom the delights of the table 
 are supreme. Since Harold’s awakening he had been 
 served with what he called broth, accompanied with nuts 
 and fruit of different varieties. He supposed it was served 
 according to the orders of a physician, who might imagine 
 that it was necessary for his stomach to get used to work 
 by degrees after so long a period of idleness. If that were 
 so, the broth and fruit might seem reasonable enough as 
 a diet, but how about the nuts? 
 
 “Mrs. Winthrop,” he said, going down to the porch, 
 where that lady was taking her morning exercise, “what 
 is your dinner hour? And is the room that my mother 
 selected still used for the dining room?” , 
 
 “Dining room ! What can you mean?” For a moment 
 Mrs. Winthrop looked puzzled ; then her brow suddenly 
 cleared as she exclaimed: “Oh, I remember now ! I was 
 reading only the other day that people used to sit around 
 large tables and watch one another eat all manner of queer 
 stuff that they called food. They must have resembled 
 pigs gathered around a trough.” 
 
 “May I ask,” said Harold, striving to control his wrath, 
 “how you manage the matter of eating at the present 
 time?” 
 
 “To be sure. You have been nourished since your 
 awakening, have you not?” 
 
74 
 
 A TWENTIETH CENTURY ROMANCE. 
 
 “I have been given a little broth.” 
 
 '‘Have you not felt sufficiently nourished ?” 
 
 "I have not suffered with hunger/’ admitted Harold, 
 who suddenly realized that he had not felt hunger at all, 
 but was simply uneasy because he had not sat at a table 
 and filled himself with food as he had done in the good 
 old days which were to him but as yesterday. He began 
 to have an awful fear that he had slept beyond the pleas- 
 ures of eating at a loaded table in company with congenial 
 friends. Mrs. Winthrop’s next words confirmed this fear. 
 
 "In this day,” she said, "no one thinks of supplying his 
 system with necessary fuel in public. Each takes such 
 nourishment as his system requires whenever it is most 
 needed, but he would no more think of allowing his neigh- 
 bor to see him take it than he would think of changing his 
 linen in public.” 
 
 "I fear I have much to learn,” said Harold, "before I 
 shall be able to live in this da — ahem, beautiful world.” 
 
 "I am afraid you have, sir,” replied Mrs. Winthrop se- 
 verely. "There is an old woman living not far from here 
 who might help you. It is said that she is nearly a hun- 
 dred years of age, and that she has a fine memory. She 
 might be able to teach you the difference between your 
 yesterday and our to-day and so save you and us a great 
 deal of embarrassment.” 
 
 Harold thought the idea a good one and decided to 
 go to this old woman at once. It was barely possible that 
 she had not given up the good old customs for the out- 
 rageous new ones, and that she might ask him to stay to 
 dinner. In an incredibly short space of time he had 
 placed himself before her. 
 
 "So you are the sleeper?” she exclaimed. "My, my, 
 
A TWENTIETH CENTURY ROMANCE. 
 
 75 
 
 how young you look ! It would be hard for any one to 
 believe that you are thirty years older than 1 am.” 
 
 Harold looked at the thin figure, the wrinkled face and 
 the toothless mouth, then recalled the handsome young 
 fellow he had seen in the glass only that morning and 
 decided that it would be hard indeed. 
 
 “Well,” she said when he had made known his errand, 
 “what do you most want to know?” , 
 
 “How do people manage to eat?” he asked. “I’m get- 
 ting deucedly hungry. Don’t you know of a nice place 
 where a fellow can get roast beef, and mince pie, and 
 cranberry jelly, and a good cup of coffee, and a few such 
 trifles?” Harold’s mouth watered as he asked the ques- 
 tion. He felt he had a great deal to do to make up for 
 all the good things of life which he had lost while 
 sleeping. 
 
 “My dear sir,” exclaimed the old lady, placing a re- 
 straining hand on his arm, “I beg you will not mention 
 such things again. It makes me quite faint. Remember 
 I am not so young as I once was.” 
 
 “Are you hungry?” asked Harold kindly. He could 
 think of no other reason why any one should become 
 faint from hearing such things as roast beef and **dnce 
 pie talked about. “Is there a restaurant near?” 
 
 “A restaurant !” The old lady burst into a peal of 
 laughter. “Oh,” she gasped, “you take me back to the 
 days of my childhood ! Oh, it is so funny ! Mary, Mary, 
 come here a moment !” 
 
 A young woman entered the room and stood beside the 
 old lady’s chair. She was fully six feet tall and must have 
 weighed two hundred pounds, yet she was not fleshy. 
 Harold thought she must be a female prize fighter and 
 
76 
 
 It is hard to believe that you are thirty years older than I am. 
 
A TWENTIETH CENTURY ROMANCE. 
 
 77 
 
 wondered if the old lady had sent for her for protection . 
 
 ‘‘What is it, grandma?" she asked pleasantly. 
 
 “This young man wishes to be directed to a restaurant. 
 Now, are you willing to believe that such things existed 
 in my day?" , 
 
 “Oh, sir," said Mary, turning to Harold, “did you ever 
 eat before any one?" 
 
 “I did," replied Harold, “and I should like to do it 
 again. I hoped I might at least get a cup of coffee 
 here." 
 
 “I used to eat such things seventy or eighty years ago," 
 said the old lady, “but I shudder now to think of it. You 
 will, too, when you become used to the new way." 
 
 “I shudder now to think of life without eating," replied 
 Harold, with a feeble smile. “I think," he added, “that 
 I shall not be successful in an attempt to live on air and 
 water." 
 
 “You must go to a physician as soon as possible," said 
 the old lady. “He will make an examination and tell you 
 what chemical elements are necessary to keep your system 
 in good working order. He will also tell you how much 
 of each should be taken and how often. On every corner 
 you will see shops where these foods are for sale. Every 
 one prepares them for one's self, and no one thinks of 
 taking his neighbor into his confidence as to his system’s 
 demands. Oh, Mary, think how folks would laugh to 
 hear me make these explanations !" 
 
 The old lady burst into another peal of laughter, which 
 Harold found extremely irritating. He did not smile. 
 Neither did Mary, and for a moment he felt grateful to 
 her, but only for a moment. 
 
 “I think such innocence is charming," he heard Mary 
 
78 
 
 A TWENTIETH CENTURY ROMANCE. 
 
 say in an undertone to the old lady. “Such a beautiful 
 boy should not be allowed to take care of himself. It 
 isn't safe. I propose to take care of him. It isn’t con- 
 ventional, I know, but hang conventionalities !” 
 
 “She uses slang like a man,” thought Harold. “What 
 next, I wonder?” 
 
 Harold began to be somewhat alarmed. Did this 
 amazon propose to send him to a lunatic asylum? He 
 wondered if he could outrun her should she pursue him. 
 Before he had decided as to what he had better do Mary 
 came to his side and took his hand in hers. 
 
 “My dear,” she said tenderly, “I know that what I am 
 about to say may seem a little premature, but I am ani- 
 mated by thoughts of your welfare as well as my own 
 gratification. Love is not measured by hours, but by 
 heart throbs. Should I know you a hundred years I 
 could not love you more sincerely. Will you be mine? 
 I promise to care for you most tenderly.” 
 
 “You promise to — good Lord, deliver us! What is 
 the woman talking about?” 
 
 “I know this must seem sudden to you. You have 
 not yet learned to know your heart, but you are so young 
 and inexperienced — at least so inexperienced. Don’t you 
 think it would be better for you to trust your happiness 
 in my keeping? Don’t mind grandma. Indeed her 
 presence should assure you as to the purity of my 
 motives.” 
 
 “It’s a proposal !” thought Harold. “As sure as I live 
 it is a proposal.” 
 
 He could with difficulty restrain his laughter, but he 
 remembered that she was a woman, and although 
 ridiculously eccentric not to be laughed at. He wished 
 
A TWENTIETH CENTURY ROMANCE. 
 
 79 
 
 he might think of some easy way of putting her off, be- 
 lieving that one so weakminded would not long remem- 
 ber having mentioned such a subject. 
 
 “Madam,” he said, “suppose you try to forget” — 
 “Does that mean you cannot accept my love?” asked 
 Mary, who was quite infatuated with him. 
 
 “I am afraid it does,” replied Harold, struggling with 
 his mirth. In all his life he had never had so funny an 
 experience. 
 
 “And you can laugh !” exclaimed Mary reproachfully. 
 “You are heartless, absolutely heartless.” She turned 
 and left the room without another word, and Harold in- 
 dulged in unrestrained laughter until suddenly made 
 aware that the old lady was regarding him with great 
 seriousness. 
 
 “It would have been better,” she said, “if you had been 
 a little more manly. You might at least have offered to 
 be a brother to her. You have hurt a very warm heart 
 and lost a good chance to marry. Mary could have re- 
 lieved you of many vexations.” 
 
 The old lady’s seriousness irritated Harold. The idea 
 of any one taking such a proposal seriously was too 
 preposterous to be entertained for a moment. He con- 
 cluded that his call had been quite long enough, and that 
 he should take his departure as soon as he had made sure 
 that she could tell him nothing more about dining. 
 
 “Did I understand you to say,” he asked, “that no one 
 eats anything but broth and — ah, air?” 
 
 “I said nothing about eating air. There are nuts and 
 fruits. They are produced in great quantities, and grow- 
 ers vie with each other in starting new varieties. And, 
 by the way, I must warn you not to present a basket of 
 
80 
 
 A TWENTIETH CENTURY ROMANCE. 
 
 fruit to any one. I mention it, remembering that in your 
 day it was done as a mark of friendship and even of love. 
 How dreadfully coarse it was ! In this day it would be 
 considered as insulting as the presentation of a beef roast 
 would have been a hundred years ago.” 
 
 “May I ask,” said Harold, smiling at the thought, 
 “what young men do offer the ladies of their affections?” 
 “What do young men — oh, now I see why you laughed 
 at Mary! No. In these days, my dear sir, young men 
 offer nothing. It would be considered a mark of im- 
 modesty. They do ,not seek ladies in marriage. It 
 would be highly improper for them to show any affection 
 until the lady has offered them some encouragement.” 
 “Am I to understand that women now do the love- 
 making?” 
 
 “Why, to be sure !” 
 
 “And the men wait to be courted?” 
 
 “How else could there be marriages?” 
 
 Harold stared at the old lady for fully five minutes be- 
 fore replying. Such a state of affairs was quite beyond 
 his comprehension. It was too serious to be laughable. 
 
 “It used to be different, I know,” added the old lady, 
 “but it was no more satisfactory.” 
 
 “Wasn't it, though !” exclaimed Harold. “Permit me 
 to say that I do not agree with you. But let us not 
 quarrel on that subject. At present I am more interested 
 in the food question than in the fact that women have a 
 corner on the business of lovemaking. Can you tell me 
 why the change was made in regard to the habit of 
 dining?” 
 
 “Because women could not use their precious time in 
 cooking, setting tables^ washing dishes, hemming table 
 
A TWENTIETH CENTURY ROMANCE. 
 
 81 
 
 linen and doing the thousand and one other tasks which 
 the old habit of dining made necessary.” 
 
 “But how do women employ themselves ?” 
 
 “Keep your eyes open for one week, my dear sir, and 
 you will not need to ask. Although the character of the 
 work has changed, there is still plenty to do, and, as you 
 can see, men amount to little in these days. That is my 
 opinion at least, and I think it will be yours, but women 
 do not seem to agree with me. They consider me very 
 odd for not attaching myself to one of these little speci- 
 mens of humanity. Ah, they did not live in the days 
 when there were men like you !” 
 
 “Why are all the men so small?” asked Harold hastily. 
 He feared another proposal. 
 
 “It is a natural result of generations of dissipation. 
 I have been told that in 1892 there were many miniature 
 specimens of masculinity to be seen on the streets, but 
 the people did not seem to realize or even to recognize the 
 danger which they heralded. There was an occasional 
 prophet who spoke of the dangers of cigarette smoking, 
 for instance, but, notwithstanding, two-thirds of the boys 
 smoked cigarettes and wondered why they did not grow 
 to be as large as their fathers. Were you as large as your 
 father?” 
 
 Harold admitted that he had not been, and that it had 
 been a source of regret to him. 
 
 “Had you not gone to sleep,” continued the old lady, 
 “I presume you would not have been so good or so much 
 of a man in any way as your father. Men indulged in 
 all sorts of dissipations, which had their effect both men- 
 tally and morally. As they became less manly women 
 became more so. Women took ug all sorts of self culture 
 
A TWENTIETH CENTURY ROMANCE. 
 
 and became man's superior in every way long before 
 even they or the men recognized the fact. When the 
 awakening came, there was a revolution. I think in your 
 day there was considerable dissatisfaction among women, 
 but I am not sure. Of late years I have been a little 
 doubtful as to the dates." 
 
 “I think you are right," replied Harold, who was very 
 much interested in the old lady's talk. “We had the 
 woman suffragists and an organization called the W. C. 
 T. U. and several smaller organizations which were for 
 the purpose of training men to know right from wrong." 
 
 “How did men regard them?" 
 
 “They laughed at first, I believe. Later they became 
 more indulgent." 
 
 . “But they never read the sign by the wayside even then. 
 Well, these societies increased. Women became more 
 and more self supporting and in every way independent. 
 Men were gradually forced to the wall in the labor market. 
 In 1925 no man dared to ask a woman to marry him 
 unless he knew that she could help support the family, 
 and no girl would have thought of marrying without 
 having first learned a trade, for they placed no faith in 
 man's ability to care for women. Indeed there were few 
 marriages, for women did not respect men, and men felt 
 under no obligations to stay with a wife when they 
 thought they could live easier away from her. Women 
 refused to be governed by those whom they considered 
 inferior to themselves, and finally there came the war of 
 the revolution between the sexes. Men should have seen 
 from the first what must have been the result of the war. 
 They had become weakened by generations of self in- 
 dulgence. Women had grown more powerful, and theirs 
 
A TWENTIETH CENTURY ROMANCE. 
 
 83 
 
 was not a difficult victory. After the war men found 
 themselves obliged to sue for woman’s favor as women 
 had once sued for theirs. Women had little respect for 
 them, and for a long time man’s position was not much 
 superior to that of slavery. They rapidly lost what little 
 power of independent thought they had kept through 
 their years of dissipation and soon became what you see 
 them now — worse, in fact, for of late years there seems to 
 be an uneasiness among a few of them, corresponding to 
 the uneasiness shown by a few women in your day.” 
 
 “Did you know Letty Mays?” asked Harold, who was 
 reminded of his old love by the mention of the women of 
 his day. 
 
 “Oh, yes. She was a middle aged woman when I was 
 a little girl. I went with her several times to see you as 
 you slept, and she told me a great deal about you. She 
 did not marry until quite late in life. She left one son. 
 His name was Harold Winthrop Everett. He married 
 a young woman when he was past 60 years of age and 
 left a daughter, whom he named Letty Mays, after her 
 grandmother. Letty lives alone in the house where you 
 used to court her grandmother. She is twenty-six years 
 old now and is considered rather peculiar, I believe. For 
 my part, I like her.” 
 
 “In what way does she show her peculiarity?” asked 
 Harold. 
 
 “Oh, she doesn’t like men very well. She never takes 
 a man anywhere. She declares that she will not marry 
 until she finds a man as smart as herself, and she talks so 
 much about equality between the sexes that she is making 
 many men quite uneasy. She has quite a following 
 among the men whose wives do not treat them well. Once 
 
84 
 
 A TWENTIETH CENTURY ROMANCE. 
 
 she said that she was waiting for Harold Winthrop to 
 awaken that she might propose to him. Of course, sir, 
 you will understand that she was joking, not believing 
 that you would ever awaken.” 
 
 “I understand,” replied Harold, “but let me tell you 
 this: When I marry, it will not be to a woman who 
 
 makes love to me. I reserve the little pleasure of popping 
 the question as my exclusive right.” 
 
 “Oh, nonsense !” replied the old lady playfully. “I’ve 
 heard young men talk before. When the right girl asks 
 you to marry her, you’ll assent without a word of pro- 
 test.” 
 
 Somewhat tired with his long conversation with the old 
 lady, Harold decided to rest himself by calling on Miss 
 Letty Mays Everett. He hoped that he might find a 
 little pleasure such as he used to enjoy, in getting up a 
 mild flirtation with the granddaughter of his old love. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Miss Letty Mays Everett had read many charming ro- 
 mances of that period of the world’s existence when man 
 was physically if not mentally and morally woman’s su- 
 perior. They had made a strong impression on her 
 mind. She told herself that it would be quite possible 
 to propose to such a man as that — some one who could 
 fight for her, work for her or die for her if necessary. She 
 could not quite understand how any man could be so 
 venturesome as to make the proposal himself, as in the 
 romances he was represented as doing, unless he were 
 
A TWENTIETH CENTURY ROMANCE. 
 
 85 
 
 quite devoid of the finer sensibilities. So she constructed 
 her ideal hero on a plan quite as impossible as such per- 
 sonages are usually constructed. He was nineteenth cen- 
 tury in all that had appealed to her imagination and twen- 
 tieth century in everything else. 
 
 The romances that Letty enjoyed so much were consid- 
 ered quite too improbable by the scholars of her day to be 
 classed with the healthful literature. They were piled 
 side by side in the public libraries with rusty mythologies 
 and with histories of the earlier centuries, where the dust 
 settled thickly upon them. They were owned by a very 
 few, who were not even so much as envied their posses- 
 sion. Many of the volumes which Letty had read had 
 been handed down since the days of her grandmother’s 
 father. 
 
 Letty’s friends strongly disapproved of her reading 
 such stuff. They said she might have been quite a sens- 
 ible woman had it not been for her books. They also dis- 
 approved of her frequent visits to- the old woman, the 
 “Liveforever,” as she was called. They knew that Letty 
 went to her simply to hear the stories she had to tell of 
 the days before the revolution of the sexes. No one else 
 believed so implicitly in the stories of men as the old 
 woman told them, and every one thought Letty might 
 better spend her time in trying to solve the problems of 
 the day as they were presented before her. 
 
 Something — it might have been the reading; it might 
 have been an inheritance from an oversentimental grand- 
 mother, whose heart had been divided between her hus- 
 band and her sleeping lover — something had made Letty 
 very different from the women of her day. She wanted a 
 husband who would be a companion, not a pretty little 
 
86 
 
 A TWENTIETH CENTURY ROMANCE. 
 
 fellow whom she could caress and indulge and dress 
 prettily and boast of when at her club with other women. 
 It seemed to her that it ought not to be unreasonable 
 to expect a man to be as intelligent as herself. 
 
 Her friends were alarmed when they heard her make 
 such statements. They said that if her ideas obtained so- 
 ciety would be overturned and the home life destroyed ; 
 that men would become unsexed; that women would be 
 crowded out of the labor market and could no longer sup- 
 port themselves and their families ; that, in fact, they could 
 not take time to have families, for wages would be so low 
 that they would be obliged to work throughout the year. 
 Some of the objectors went so far as to teach that if men 
 were allowed equal suffrage there would be a revival of 
 the whisky trade which flourished in the nineteenth cen- 
 tury, and that families could no longer be regulated as to 
 number by a woman's ability to provide for her children. 
 The well read offered as proof of their arguments the his- 
 torical fact that many charitable institutions had been 
 organized during the days of man's supremacy to care for 
 the children who came into the world when there were no 
 means for their support, and that every county had a place 
 of detention called a jail, where they were cared for who 
 should never have been born, but who had grown to man- 
 hood as best they could in a world where they were worse 
 than parasites. There were few intelligent women in the 
 twentieth century who could be made to believe that men 
 were capable of exercising the moral self control sug- 
 gested by Malthus as a needful check to meet the growing 
 danger of overpopulation, and for that reason more than 
 for any other the doctrine of man’s suffrage made little 
 headway. It might have died had it not been for Miss 
 
A TWENTIETH CENTURY ROMANCE. 
 
 87 
 
 Letty’s curious desire to find a husband who should also 
 be a companion, and for her belief, formed from much 
 thought on the subject, that only in perfect equality could 
 be found the relation which the Omnipotent meant should 
 exist between the sexes. 
 
 “Such talk is wild,” said her friends. “There can be no 
 such thing as perfect equality between the sexes. The 
 world is used to the existing order of things ; we are com- 
 fortable ; men are happy or ought to be, for we do every- 
 thing to make them so — let well enough alone.” 
 
 But still Letty clung to her ideals, and every year the 
 number of men made dissatisfied by her glowing repre- 
 sentations of a future in which they should stand side by 
 side with women was slowly but steadily increasing. 
 
 It was not difficult for Harold to find the house where 
 Letty lived. How often he had been there in the good 
 old days when Letty’s grandmother was to him the most 
 attractive girl in the world ! The house was small com- 
 pared with the more modern structures which towered 
 beside it ; yet it, like the Winthrop residence, had been 
 considered fine in his day. Now they were looked upon 
 as unsightly nuisances which should have been torn 
 down long ago and would have been had it not been for 
 an untiring sleeper and a sentimental young woman. 
 
 When Harold paused at the gate, he saw a woman 
 sitting on the porch in the very place where his old love 
 had so often waited for him. She glanced up and their 
 eyes met. They were Letty May’s eyes — deep blue, 
 steadfast, tender, beautiful. The mouth and chin were 
 Letty’s, too ; but Letty had been small and sylphlike, 
 while this lady was tall and magnificently proportioned, 
 like most of the women he had seen since awakening. 
 
88 
 
 A TWENTIETH CENTURY ROMANCE. 
 
 Letty’s face had been as dimpled and full of wonder as a 
 baby’s; it had indicated a , spirit of loving dependence 
 which Harold had thought charming. This woman’s 
 face was strong and resolute. She looked like one 
 accustomed to being obeyed, not because she was a 
 woman, but because her commands were reasonable. 
 Harold had never liked such women. A feeling of an- 
 tagonism arose in his heart, which would have driven 
 him past her door had she been any one else, but she 
 was the granddaughter of his old love, and sentiment and 
 loneliness urged him to make her acquaintance. As he 
 opened the gate Miss Everett came forward to meet him. 
 
 “Pardon me,” she said, with a smile, “but am I not 
 speaking to Harold Winthrop?” 
 
 “That is my name,” replied Harold, “and you are Miss 
 Everett, I think.” 
 
 “I am Miss Everett, at your service. We know each 
 other, so why should we not dispense with ceremony and 
 consider ourselves old acquaintances?” 
 
 In her heart Miss Letty was thinking that this young 
 man had in reality very little regard for ceremony to seek 
 her thus without having been encouraged, but she was 
 too much of a lady to wish to subject him to any humilia- 
 tion and so chose to speak as if she were the transgressor, 
 not he. 
 
 Had her words been spoken with the frankness of un- 
 restrained girlhood or the shyness of maidenly modesty 
 Harold would have been charmed, but it was said exactly 
 in the same way in which he had meant to speak to her, 
 and he was disgusted. And the words were accompanied 
 with an expression which, Harold thought, would have 
 made the professional heart smasher among men quite 
 
A TWENTIETH CENTURY ROMANCE. 
 
 89 
 
 green with envy. In his day Harold had prided himself 
 on being something of a lady killer himself, but a man 
 killer was different ! Harold remembered the scene with 
 Mary and wished he had not come. To his mind there 
 was nothing more disagreeable than being made love to 
 by a woman. 
 
 Letty had extended her hand to assist Harold up the 
 steps, as she would have done had he been any other man, 
 but when he, as she thought, quite rudely ignored her 
 proffered assistance her assurance left her to a certain 
 extent, and she was in doubt as to the next best thing to 
 do. She was extremely anxious to propitiate the hand- 
 some guest, who evidently felt himself aggrieved about 
 something. Letty would have given considerable ,to 
 know how she had offended, for her heart was stirred for 
 the first time. She felt that at last she had seen a man 
 who was worth the price of her freedom. 
 
 “Why,” she thought, “he is quite as tall as myself, and 
 he looks as if he might be as strong. If he is as nearly 
 equal in other respects, how companionable he might be !” 
 
 Letty would have been surprised could she have known 
 that his opinion of her was far less flattering. She was 
 used to being made much of by the opposite sex and 
 could count by scores the men who, she was sure, would 
 have been glad to accept the protection which she could 
 give to one whom she loved. 
 
 “I have no good excuse to offer for this intrusion,” 
 began Harold. 
 
 “I beg, sir,” interrupted the lady, “that you will not 
 mention it. I assure you that I feel most honored by 
 your presence in my house.” 
 
 A period of silent awkwardness followed, during which 
 
90 
 
 A TWENTIETH CENTURY ROMANCE. 
 
 each was waiting for the other to be seated, for in that 
 day it was considered a mark of impoliteness for the 
 lady to seat herself while a gentleman remained standing. 
 Harold finally recalled a portion of his conversation with 
 the old woman, who had used this fact to prove that the 
 existing state of affairs had begun in his day and had 
 clinched her argument by reminding him that without 
 doubt he had known many men who declined to give up 
 their seat in a railway or street car when ladies were 
 standing. Harold settled matters by dropping into the 
 proffered chair. He had kept his hat on, remembering 
 that the old lady had said that twentieth century men 
 always wore their hats in the presence of ladies. He re- 
 called the objections made by many men in his day to 
 removing their hats when riding in an elevator with a 
 lady, and he wondered if that, too, could have been con- 
 sidered a sign of approaching effeminacy of men and if 
 it would have made any difference could they have seen 
 into the future a hundred years. 
 
 “Now,” he thought, “I am ready to make a call, 
 twentieth century fashion !” Harold had always prided 
 himself on his ability to adjust himself to circumstances. 
 He made some inconsequential remark about the weather, 
 asked about the latest opera and looked so self satisfied 
 that Letty was quite disgusted. 
 
 “I wonder if all men in his day were so assured of their 
 own winsomeness,” she thought. 
 
 To have pleased her he should have been charming 
 without appearing to know that he was so. Instead of 
 trying to entertain her he should have waited to be enter- 
 tained. Or if he were bent upon being entertaining he 
 should have shown his ability to talk about something of 
 
A TWENTIETH CENTURY ROMANCE. 
 
 91 
 
 interest instead of wearying her with weak, remarks about 
 the weather and the latest opera. The ideal of the perfect 
 man which Letty had in mind was not worked out as to 
 details, and it was not easy for her to say in which of the 
 more common characteristics she would have him differ- 
 ent from the men of her acquaintance. Of one thing she 
 was sure, however, and that was that Harold should have 
 blushed or in some other charming manner have shown 
 his appreciation of the fact that he had overstepped the 
 bounds of conventionality, and that she was better than 
 most women would be not to take advantage of the fact 
 and be a little insulting. Letty believed that a pretty man 
 had no business to have unattractive manners. What else 
 were men good for but to make themselves attractive to 
 women? She concluded that if all the men of his day 
 were like Harold Winthrop she did not wonder that the 
 war of the revolution between the sexes had taken place. 
 She decided to punish him for his brazen effrontery by 
 treating him with no more respect than she would have 
 accorded another woman, and thus it happened that she 
 and Harold were enabled to get on quite comfortably to- 
 gether. Their talk was mostly of the differences which 
 Harold noted in the city during the last hundred years, 
 and he made himself very entertaining by describing the 
 streets as he remembered them. It was not until he arose 
 to leave that the difference in customs was touched upon. 
 Then he precipitated the discussion by asking if he might 
 not call again very soon. 
 
 Letty looked embarrassed. It was not easy for her to 
 tell this handsome young man that he was in danger of 
 getting himself talked about most unpleasantly, but she 
 had almost resolved to ask him to be her husband should 
 
92 
 
 A TWENTIETH CENTURY ROMANCE. 
 
 she succeed in making him a little more conventional, 
 and she did not like the thought that he might become 
 an object of unpleasant comment among other women. 
 It seemed to her that under the circumstances there was 
 but one course for her to pursue. 
 
 “My dear young man/’ she said, with tender gravity, 
 “don’t you know that it will not do for you to call on 
 women in this way? You would be criticised most un- 
 kindly. Tell me instead when you will be at home that 
 I may call upon you — that is, if you will grant me that 
 pleasure.” 
 
 “Grant you the infernal — I beg your pardon, madam! 
 I am not a profane man by nature, but such nonsense 
 would wring an oath from the lips of the Angel Gabriel.” 
 “Such nonsense !” repeated Letty. “Surely, my dear 
 young man, you must have misunderstood” — 
 
 “Did you not propose to call on me at my house?” 
 interrupted Harold, who in his disgust had quite for- 
 gotten that he was not living in the century in which he 
 was born. 
 
 “I did. Is it so distasteful to you” — 
 
 “Distasteful? Why, hang it all, don’t you see that I 
 could not permit you to do a thing like that?” 
 
 “I must admit,” replied Letty stiffly, “that I do not see. 
 I should be pleased to hear your explanation.” 
 
 “Why, there’d be no end of talk among the gossips, and 
 if the fellows should get hold of it I’d be chaffed clean out 
 of my wits. My dear child, believe me, you mustn’t think 
 of doing such a thing,” 
 
A TWENTIETH CENTURY ROMANCE. 
 
 93 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 In all her life Letty had not heard such language as this 
 from the lips of a young man. She was inexpressibly 
 shocked, yet withal she was interested. It was quite de- 
 lightful, she told herself, to meet one so very unconven- 
 tional, but she did not care to be seen in his company by 
 other men whose good opinion she might one day wish to 
 win. Although she had longed all her life to meet a man 
 different from the men of her acquaintance, now that she 
 stood face to face with him she wished him to be properly 
 conventional. 
 
 Harold had not finished speaking when he suddenly 
 realized that this was the twentieth century, and that the 
 world had changed while he slept. 
 
 “Do you mean to say,” he demanded, with a sudden 
 change of tone that was almost ludicrous, "that it is the 
 custom in this enlightened community for ladies to call 
 upon gentlemen?” 
 
 "I most certainly do,” replied Letty. 
 
 "Well,” returned Harold after a little period of silence, 
 "I think if we are to be friends” — - 
 
 "As we should for grandma's sake,” eagerly interposed 
 Letty, who was so anxious to continue the acquaintance 
 that she did not think how her remark might be taken 
 until it had escaped her lips. 
 
 "Oh, my dear fellow,” she added quickly, "I beg your 
 pardon, I’m sure !” 
 
 Letty was consumed with mortification. She had al- 
 ways been careful not to remind any man that he was 
 growing older every year and consequently less attractive, 
 and it was exasperating that she should now have been so 
 
94 
 
 A TWENTIETH CENTURY ROMANCE. 
 
 thoughtless as to remind this beautiful young fellow that 
 he had been the recipient of her grandmother’s loverlike 
 attentions. As will be seen, Letty did not quite under- 
 stand the courtships of the nineteenth century — perhaps 
 because a number of the books which her grandmother 
 had left her had been written by Howells. 
 
 Harold was far from being pleased. It is never 
 pleasant to be reminded, more especially by a handsome 
 young woman, that one belongs to a past century. Letty 
 could not but perceive that he was hurt. 
 
 “What can I say?” she asked, distressed beyond meas- 
 ure at his silence. As she spoke she went to his side and 
 tenderly took his hand in hers. Her touch thrilled him, 
 while it angered him, and he pulled his hand away, quite 
 as a grieved young girl might have done in his day. The 
 action reminded Letty of previous flirtations, and she be- 
 gan to feel more at home with him. She quickly decided 
 that, after all, young men were all very much alike, and 
 that there was none of them who could not be won by the 
 lucky young woman who knew how to work upon their 
 susceptibilities. She was congratulating herself on the 
 pleasure she would have in a flirtation with this coquettish 
 young fellow when her dream was rudely shattered by the 
 look of determination on Harold’s face as he arose and 
 stood before her. 
 
 “Miss Everett,” he said frankly, “I should like to be- 
 come better acquainted with you, but I cannot sacrifice 
 all my ideas of the fitness of things to the absurd customs 
 of this generation.” 
 
 “Are our customs more absurd than yours were?” asked 
 Letty. 
 
 “They seem so to me.” 
 
A TWENTIETH CENTURY ROMANCE. 95 
 
 “May that not be because you are not used to them?” 
 
 “Perhaps so. However, I do not mean to conform to 
 them in any way that seems to me to reflect on my mam 
 hood.” 
 
 “But they are established” — 
 
 “I cannot help that. I assure you I would if I could. 
 As I said just now, I should like to know you better. 
 Can we not strike a compromise that shall enable us to 
 become friends?” 
 
 “We might try. I should feel flattered, Pm sure.” 
 
 “Suppose, then, we agree to meet in the park and dis- 
 pense with calling and a few other of the restrictions of 
 society conventionalities? I will try to forget the customs 
 of the nineteenth century if you’ll ignore those of the 
 twentieth, and we will be as free as the birds.” 
 
 Letty agreed, thinking that if this peculiar young man 
 could afford to run such a risk she certainly could. She 
 comforted her uneasy conscience with the thought that 
 no eligible young woman was severely condemned for 
 sowing a few wild oats unless the results were too rank to 
 be overlooked by a most indulgent public. 
 
 Harold was about to bow himself from Letty’s presence 
 when he caught sight of a woman striding down the 
 street. 
 
 “Why,” he exclaimed, with a merry laugh, “I believe 
 that is my friend Mary. She is an odd specimen of hu- 
 manity, isn’t she?” 
 
 “May I ask what you know about her?” inquired Letty. 
 
 “Only that she proposed to me on sight” — - 
 
 The sentence was never finished. There was a sudden 
 loud report, which seemed to break the world into bits, 
 and a stunning blow which pounded it together again. 
 
96 
 
 A TWENTIETH CENTURY ROMANCE. 
 
 For a moment Harold felt himself to be the embodiment 
 of confusion in a world of darkness lighted only by stars 
 which danced madly before his eyes. There was a sound 
 of excited voices, which seemed to come from the stars. 
 Then came an interval of blessed quiet, when he was 
 conscious of neither light nor darkness — when there was 
 no world and nothing in it. 
 
 Harold was unconscious but a moment. When he re- 
 covered, he found himself lying at full length on the porch, 
 with Letty bending over him. 
 
 “Are you better ?” she asked tenderly. 
 
 “What is the matter? Have I been shot?” 
 
 “You came near being. I saw your danger just in time 
 to knock you down. The bullet passed above you as you 
 fell.” 
 
 “You knocked me down!” 
 
 “I did. I could have saved you in no other way.” 
 
 “I think,” replied Harold, with a smile, “that I might as 
 well have been shot.” 
 
 As he spoke he started to raise himself from his re- 
 cumbent position, but in a moment Letty had lifted him to 
 his feet and placed him in a chair. 
 
 “Why did you do that?” he asked angrily. “I have not 
 yet become so helpless that I must be lifted by a woman.” 
 
 Before Letty could explain that she had only done 
 what custom demanded of a woman Harold’s attention 
 was drawn to Mary, who was struggling to free herself 
 from the hold of several stalwart women, who were en- 
 deavoring to secure her by means of cords. 
 
 “I have had her arrested,” said Letty, following his 
 glance. 
 
A TWENTIETH CENTURY ROMANCE. 
 
 97 
 
 “What are you going to do with her?” asked Harold 
 of the women. 
 
 “We are waiting for the ambulance,” they replied. 
 “She will soon be placed where she can make no more 
 disturbance.” 
 
 “It was she who fired at you,” explained Letty. “Poor 
 Mary ! She has a good heart, but a violent temper.” 
 
 “Let Mary go free,” interrupted Harold. “You need 
 not arrest her on my account. I can take care of myself.” 
 “Ah, my dear sir,” they replied, “you do not know the 
 world as we do.’ y 
 
 “And I don’t want to,” retorted Harold. “Release 
 Mary, I say, or you’ll be sorry!” 
 
 “We might as well do as he requests,” said Letty to the 
 women, much as if he had been a persistent child, too at- 
 tractive to be denied that which he desired. 
 
 Mary was released, and Harold turned abruptly away, 
 wishing that he had never awakened. He hated to live 
 in a world ruled by women, and he wondered if there were 
 any new inventions in the methods of committing suicide 
 which were superior to those of his day. He had not 
 walked far when he was overtaken by Mary. 
 
 “Why did you make them release me?” she asked 
 abruptly. 
 
 “Because I did not want you arrested on my account.” 
 “But I tried to kill you.” 
 
 “I wish you had succeeded.” 
 
 “Are you so very unhappy?” 
 
 “I am hungry and homesick and utterly disgusted.” 
 “Have you been to a physician?” 
 
 “No.” 
 
 “A good one lives here. Hadn’t you better go in?” 
 
98 
 
 A TWENTIETH CENTURY ROMANCE. 
 
 “It is all nonsense. I want food, not medicine.” 
 
 “You will find that it is food. Don’t pass the door. 
 You must go in sooner or later, you know. You will feel 
 better when your system has been replenished.” 
 
 “I presume you are right. Well, I’ll go.” 
 
 Harold turned to go up the steps of a fine house bearing 
 the sign: “E. A. Coburn, M. D. Food prescriptions a 
 specialty.” 
 
 “Over the way,” said Mary, interrupting him, “in that 
 store with the sign ‘System Supplies’ across the front, you 
 will be able to purchase what you want. It is the best 
 place in the city. They do not adulterate their com- 
 pounds.” 
 
 “Thanks,” said Harold. “You are the first one who 
 has given me any practical information.” 
 
 “I hope,” faltered Mary, “that you will not think me 
 unwomanly for mentioning these things.” 
 
 “Unwomanly! Why should I think that?” 
 
 “Most men object to having women speak of such 
 things. They prefer to have us think that they are too 
 angelic to require system supplies.” 
 
 “They must be like some women I used to know,” re- 
 plied Harold, with a laugh. “Well, good night, Mary.” 
 Harold ran lightly up the stone steps, but before he had 
 touched the bell he was again detained by Mary. “Har- 
 old,” she said softly, “did you interfere in my behalf 
 because you have decided to love me a little?” 
 
 “Don’t be so silly!” exclaimed Harold in disgust. “I 
 was just beginning to think you quite a jolly girl. Why 
 must you spoil it all?” 
 
 “I understand,” replied Mary bitterly. “You have 
 given your heart to Letty, but she will never care for you 
 
A TWENTIETH CENTURY ROMANCE. 
 
 99 
 
 half as tenderly as I could. There is no tenderness in her 
 
 nature.” 
 
 Harold had touched the bell, and Mary had not finished 
 speaking when the door opened, and Harold was invited 
 to walk into the doctor's office. On entering he was dis- 
 gusted to find that E. A. Coburn was a lady. 
 
 “I beg pardon,” he said, “but I think there must be 
 some mistake. I expected to find a man doctor.” 
 
 “There are no men practicing medicine in this city,” 
 replied E. A. Coburn. “Indeed I do not know of but one 
 man doctor in the world, and he is a quack. He could 
 not be otherwise, you know, for he was allowed to attend 
 no medical college of any note.” 
 
 “Do you mean to say that women prescribe for men?” 
 “Why not? When a man is sick, he wants the best 
 medical assistance to be obtained. Men are not either 
 mentally or physically strong enough to become doctors. 
 Neither have they the requisite patience. Worse yet, 
 their love of money would lead them to ply their pro- 
 fession with other than humanitarian motives.” 
 
 “Notwithstanding,” replied Harold, “a feeling of 
 delicacy leads me to prefer a man. However, if there is 
 no man to be had, I suppose I must yield to the inevitable 
 as gracefully as may be.” 
 
 Dr. Coburn not only prescribed for Harold, but ad- 
 ministered some of the food which she thought his system 
 demanded most urgently, and when he left the office he 
 felt that life was much better worth living. He had at 
 last found one change in the twentieth century which met 
 with his hearty approval — Dr. Coburn refused to take the 
 fee he offered, saying that it would be considered a bribe, 
 
100 
 
 A TWENTIETH CENTURY ROMANCE. 
 
 and that the salary paid by government was quite re- 
 munerative enough to meet her needs. 
 
 When Harold reached his own door, he chanced to 
 glance back just in time to see two figures, one on either 
 side of the street, disappearing into the shadows. He at 
 once surmised that he had been followed by Mary, who 
 in turn had been followed by Letty. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Several weeks had passed since Harold's proposition 
 to meet Letty in the park had been made and accepted, 
 and the two had become more and more deeply interested 
 in each other. In fact, the time had come when each felt 
 that matters might as well be settled between them at 
 once, and one fine morning each started for the park with 
 the firm determination to make a proposal of marriage 
 that very fine day. Both were strangely excited, for 
 neither felt sure of the sentiments of the other. They had 
 succeeded very well in ignoring customs and convention- 
 alities, and their relationship during these weeks had been 
 much like that which might exist between two men or 
 two women who understood each other, and who were 
 thrown together in a strange land where no one under- 
 stood them. 
 
 It was like that, with one little exception — the differ- 
 ence in the influence which love exerts on two whom 
 nature intended for companions. Indeed convention- 
 alities had been so entirely forgotten that neither Harold 
 nor Letty thought that the other might claim the right 
 
A TWENTIETH CENTURY ROMANCE. 
 
 101 
 
 of proposal, but each acted according to the promptings 
 of the heart. It was not until they attempted to put their 
 thoughts into words that conventional difficulties arose 
 to make trouble between them. 
 
 “My darling,” began Harold as soon as he caught sight 
 of Letty. 
 
 “Little sweetheart,” rapturously exclaimed Letty at the 
 same moment. 
 
 Each heard the other. 
 
 When you remember that it was not a whit more 
 flattering to Letty to be addressed as “darling” than it 
 was to Harold to be called “little,” you will understand 
 why each broke the sentence off at that point and stared 
 at the other in silent disapproval. It was not that each 
 did not want the love of the other, but that each preferred 
 to be in suspense a little while to having love thrown at 
 him or her without the asking. It was too much like 
 being drowned in a barrel of sirup. 
 
 Letty was the first to recover herself. 
 
 “Did you speak?” she asked stiffly. 
 
 Harold thought he might have misunderstood her, and 
 he was sure that if she had understood him she was 
 entitled to further explanation. 
 
 “I was about to say,” he began, his manner showing 
 great embarrassment, “that — that is, I had thought — 
 Letty, the fact is I love you !” 
 
 “Harold,” replied Letty gravely, almost sternly, “why 
 could you not have waited a moment? I was about to 
 make the same declaration.” 
 
 “Then I am glad I did not wait,” declared Harold 
 fervently. “I like a woman better who does not wear her 
 heart on her sleeve.” 
 
102 
 
 A TWENTIETH CENTURY ROMANCE. 
 
 “But, little one,” added Letty tenderly, “can you not see 
 that your manly modesty demands that you keep your 
 sentiments a secret until the one you love has disclosed 
 hers?” 
 
 “I must confess that I cannot,” replied Harold. “It 
 is man’s duty to propose” — 
 
 “Excuse me, sir. It is woman’s privilege.” 
 
 “See here, Letty,” said Harold, with sudden decisive- 
 ness, “there are some little matters which have got to be 
 settled between us, and we might as well discuss them 
 now. We have been willfully blind since we first be- 
 came acquainted.” 
 
 “I am afraid custom has more to do with life than we 
 had imagined,” admitted Letty. 
 
 “We will assume that we are to be married,” continued 
 Harold. “Who is to pay the expenses of the family?” 
 
 “Why, I shall do it, of course,” replied Letty, surprised 
 that he could ask so foolish a question. 
 
 “Indeed you will do nothing of the sort,” said Harold 
 firmly. 
 
 “But, Harold, it has been the custom for” — 
 
 “I don’t care a condemn about the custom,” interrupted 
 Harold. “Wouldn’t I be a fine sort of a man to be de- 
 pendent on a woman?” 
 
 “Can you imagine how I should feel to be dependent on 
 a man?” retorted Letty. 
 
 “But,” argued Harold, “it is according to nature that 
 woman should raise children and man should work for 
 her and them.” 
 
 “Nature!” repeated Letty scornfully. “One can illus- 
 trate any text from nature. Watch the beasts and the 
 
A TWENTIETH CENTURY ROMANCE. 
 
 103 
 
 birds. Does the female bird sit idly by while the male 
 builds the nest?” 
 
 '‘The male certainly is not idle,” replied Harold. “In 
 my mind idleness and inferiority are synonymous, and I 
 refuse to accept such a position.” 
 
 “Yet you would force woman to accept it.” Letty was 
 discovering that things which in romances were quite de- 
 lightful were often not even endurable in real life to one 
 not brought up in the belief that they must be endured. 
 
 “It is different with women,” replied Harold. “They 
 are most charming in a subordinate position”- — 
 
 “That is precisely what we think of men,” returned 
 Letty calmly. 
 
 “Well,” said Harold angrily, “you may as well under- 
 stand once for all that I shall never place myself in a 
 position of dependence. I wouldn’t do it for the best 
 woman living.” 
 
 “Nor I for the best man,” replied Letty, with equal 
 spirit. 
 
 Letty and Harold had reached a point in their walk 
 where the road crossed the park in opposite directions. 
 Without a word of explanation each took a separate path. 
 
 Harold had gone but a few steps when he was met by 
 Mary, 
 
 “Yes,” she said, replying to his look of inquiry, “I over- 
 heard every word. I thought it would come to this.” 
 
 Mary looked as if she would like to add that she was 
 not sorry, but if she thought it she kept her thought to 
 herself. She had made herself very useful to Harold in 
 many ways since the day she shot at him, and the two had 
 become very good friends. Harold believed that Mary 
 had opened her eyes to her own folly, and that he need 
 
104 
 
 A TWENTIETH CENTURY ROMANCE. 
 
 not fear any further confessions of love on her part, and 
 Mary had bravely decided that since she could not win 
 Harold's love she would at least deserve his friendship. 
 They had talked together a great deal about the delights 
 of the nineteenth century. Harold had quite forgotten 
 the annoyances of the day and joined with Mary in won- 
 dering how a condition so perfect could have led to the 
 war of revolution between the sexes. 
 
 Harold had told Mary of his hope to win Letty and 
 now looked to her for the sympathy which she had always 
 shown when he was in distress. 
 
 Mary understood and determined to be equal to his 
 expectations, though her heart broke. 
 
 “I think," she said quietly, “that you have not under- 
 stood Letty. She has always declared that she would 
 not marry until she could find a man whom she would 
 find companionable" — 
 
 “That is precisely the quality which I desired in a wife," 
 interrupted Harold. 
 
 “Yet neither of you treat the other as I should imagine 
 a companion would wish to be treated. Each seems to me 
 to be struggling for the mastery. You are willing that 
 Letty should be twentieth century except where her ideas 
 of the fitness of things come into collision with your own. 
 Letty is delighted with a nineteenth century man except 
 when he would force her to bow to customs which would 
 rob her of her cherished independence. Let me tell you, 
 Harold, that Letty can never be like her grandmother." 
 
 “I have not said that I desire it." 
 
 “You have repeatedly spoken to her of that lady as 
 being everything desirable. History tells us that she was 
 a very ordinary* young woman, rather pretty, but ex- 
 
A TWENTIETH CENTURY ROMANCE. 
 
 105 
 
 tremely sentimental and possessed of very little independ- 
 ence. Letty can never be like that. She is too” — 
 Mary’s estimate of Letty will never be known, for the 
 conversation was interrupted at this point by a noise 
 which sounded to Harold like the threatening growling of 
 an angry beast. “What in time is that?” he interrupted, 
 but before Mary could reply a fearful apparition appeared 
 before his astonished gaze. It was larger than the largest 
 house he had ever seen. At times it appeared to be per- 
 fectly round, and it rolled along the ground with a force 
 that must have crushed even the largest of the huge trees 
 had it not flattened itself so as to avoid them. As it came 
 nearer the sound of growling increased to that of the 
 rumble of heavy thunder, and pent up lightning seemed 
 to shine from its myriad eyes. 
 
 “It is coming this way,” gasped Mary. “Harold, have 
 you ever worked?” , 
 
 “No,” replied Harold. “Why should I? My father’s 
 wealth” — 
 
 “Will not save you,” interrupted Mary. “That” — 
 pointing to the terrible thing swiftly rolling toward them 
 — “that is the 'Colossal Scheme.’ ” 
 
 Even as she spoke she took Harold by the shoulders, 
 and with almost superhuman strength tossed him to one 
 side. The huge creature rolled on, leaving poor Mary 
 crushed to death on the very spot where but a second 
 before she had been so full of life and strength. A crowd 
 of mourners soon gathered about her prostrate form. 
 
 “It is fate,” said the more philosophical among them. 
 “No great Scheme was ever set on foot for the benefit of 
 humanity that did not count its innocent victims by scores 
 before it began to operate successfully.” 
 
106 A TWENTIETH CENTURY ROMANCE. 
 
 “But what is this Scheme?” inquired Harold. 
 
 “It was started,” explained the Liveforever, “for the 
 purpose of annihilating those individuals who are born 
 tired. I presume it was in search of you, who have as yet 
 made yourself needful to no one; but, as you see, our 
 noble Mary has given her life for yours. Young man, 
 you must work for a living, either as housekeeper, shop- 
 boy, chamberman, nurseboy or retailer of system sup- 
 plies.” 
 
 Harold was about to declare himself in favor of the last 
 mentioned alternative when Letty, who had been bending 
 over Mary, came to his side and placed her hand on his 
 arm. , 
 
 “Harold,” she said softly, “should you prefer to have 
 me like my grandmother?” 
 
 “Letty,” he retorted, “should you prefer to have me like 
 my kinsman, Mr. James Winthrop?” 
 
 Then the lovers looked into each other’s eyes and 
 smiled. They realized that each was dependent on the 
 other — made so by a love which was stronger than the 
 prejudices of either — and simultaneously they agreed to 
 strike a compromise. 
 
 “We will spend our lives,” said Harold, “in trying to 
 teach that what one thinks is right because it seems to be 
 in the natural order of things is more often right only 
 because custom has taught us to so regard it.” 
 
 “We will,” added Letty, “look forward to a day when 
 we shall have taught people to consider a condition right 
 because based upon principles of exact and impartial jus- 
 tice.” 
 
THE TAX ON BACHELORS. 
 
 107 
 
 THE TAX ON BACHELORS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 In the year 1932 the tax on bachelors was unusually 
 high, and genial Tom Wainwright was disposed to evade 
 it, if possible. It was due on the first day of the new year, 
 and Miss Alice Griggs had rejected him early in May. 
 It was now the middle of November, and as more than 
 six months had elapsed since that rejection he knew it 
 would not be recognized in the eyes of the law as a suffi- 
 cient reason why he should not be taxed. He had given 
 no other young lady an opportunity to say “No-,” an 
 oversight which he regretted now. 
 
 In the state where he lived there was a law to the effect 
 that every bachelor should be taxed who could not show 
 a written rejection or in other ways give proof that he had 
 prc posed matrimony to some eligible young lady and had 
 been refused within a period of six months. It was deter- 
 mined to resort to every lawful means to break up the 
 unmarried condition which forced so many women to 
 compete with men in the labor market. Taxes were levied 
 in accordance with the eligibility of the bachelor, and the 
 money derived therefrom was used in the support of 
 unprotected women. 
 
 Tom Wainwright, being thirty years of age, handsome, 
 
108 
 
 THE TAX ON BACHELORS. 
 
 prosperous and in every way able to care for a wife, had 
 for five years been obliged to pay a tax which he consid- 
 ered out of all reason. Not only that, but he knew that 
 for the next ten years the tax would be steadily increased. 
 He had on several occasions evaded it by engaging him- 
 self to some attractive maiden, then, when the danger of 
 taxation was past for that year, causing a quarrel which 
 resulted in his dismissal, but the authorities had become 
 suspicious, and Tom had reason to believe that another 
 such event would be closely investigated. Clearly he 
 must find some new and yet plausible way to evade the 
 tax on bachelors this year or deprive himself of many 
 luxuries which he was sure he could not do without. 
 
 Down at his clubhouse his friends were entertaining a 
 guest from abroad, and Tom ought to have shed the light 
 of his cheerful smile on the scene. He knew very well 
 that the fellows never enjoyed themselves quite so well 
 when he was absent, but he felt in no mood for merry- 
 making to-night. He donned dressing gown and slip- 
 pers, set a box of choice cigars on the table, which he 
 pushed close beside the open grate ; then, throwing him- 
 self into his most inviting easy chair, gave himself to the 
 problem which confronted him. He had thought of no 
 feasible solution when, the guest from abroad having been 
 sufficiently entertained, Tom was joined by Sander Ridg- 
 way, his most intimate club friend. 
 
 “What’s up, old fellow?” asked Sander, helping himself 
 to an easy chair and a cigar. “We missed you at the 
 club.” 
 
 “I was too stupid to make a decent appearance, so pre- 
 ferred to remain at home. Have a good time?” 
 
 “Tiptop ! I wish you could have met that fellow, Tom. 
 
THE TAX ON BACHELORS. 
 
 109 
 
 What ails you, anyhow? You look decidedly morbid.” 
 “I feel morbid. Business has been dull the past year, 
 and it is almost time for that confounded matrimonial 
 tax.” 
 
 “You must have a big one to pay to make you look like 
 this.” 
 
 “It was five thousand dollars last year, and it will be 
 heavier this. Confound such a law, anyhow ! I believe 
 it would be better to let women scratch for themselves, 
 as they used to do in the good old days of our grand- 
 mothers.” 
 
 “Oh, I don’t know about that ! Women’s work cheap- 
 ens labor, you know. That is one reason why the matri- 
 monial tax became a law. And, after all, you would not 
 like to see women obliged to care for themselves. It 
 would look very bad for the men.” 
 
 “I know it, Sander. I presume I’m selfish, but, really, 
 this tax is as hard to pay as a doctor’s bill.” 
 
 “Then why don’t you marry? You could support a wife 
 on five thousand dollars a year.” 
 
 “I have not yet seen any one who was worth the price 
 of my freedom. No, thank you, Sander, I’d rather pay 
 the money and live alone. But I don’t see just where 
 the money is to come from. That’s the rub. I shall be 
 obliged to take a cheaper room, discharge my valet, take 
 meals at a second-class restaurant and smoke five- 
 centers.” 
 
 “That’s where the law gets in its work, my boy. By a 
 steadily increasing pressure of self-denial it hopes” — 
 
 “It is outrageous !” 
 
 “It gives you a choice. For my part I prefer matri- 
 mony.” 
 
110 
 
 THE TAX ON BACHELORS. 
 
 “Is that a fact?” 
 
 “It is.” 
 
 “Who is the young lady?” 
 
 “Miss Alice Griggs.” 
 
 “O-h-h-h! Ahem! Is that — is that why she refused 
 me?” 
 
 “I presume it had something to do with it, my boy. 
 She is a very sensible young lady.” 
 
 “Tastes differ. However, I think she is. I congrat- 
 ulate you, Sander. You know, of course, that there was 
 no serious lovemaking between us.” 
 
 “To be sure. Alice said she suspected that you were 
 fishing for a refusal, and so she accommodated you.” 
 
 “I wish I had not given her the opportunity quite so 
 early in the season. It might have helped me out of this 
 difficulty had I been less premature with my proposal.” 
 “Why don’t you become engaged again?” asked San- 
 der. 
 
 “I have gone my limit in that direction,” replied Tom. 
 “If I am a party to another broken engagement, I shall 
 be subject to a heavy fine.” 
 
 “You are in a bad fix, old fellow, and that’s a fact. 
 Still you might let the next engagement run for the three 
 years allowed, and then perhaps you would be better fixed 
 financially, and the fine would not trouble you.” 
 
 “I wonder how that would work.” Tom’s face bright- 
 ened perceptibly. “In the meantime I should have the 
 money that would otherwise be spent in the matrimonial 
 tax to apply toward the payment of the fine, and it would 
 be a great help out of present difficulties.” 
 
 “If you could find some girl in whom you could con- 
 
THE TAX ON BACHELORS. 
 
 Ill 
 
 fide — some one who would agree to dismiss you at the 
 end of the three years” — 
 
 “I should be in trouble if she did not. When a man 
 breaks the engagement at any time, it is bad enough, but 
 if he does so after allowing it to run three years the law 
 has no mercy on him. It would mean financial ruin.” 
 “Clarissa Pearce is a sensible sort of girl” — 
 
 “I’d rather be dead than be obliged to marry her. She 
 would never let me off of her own accord. Besides she is 
 twenty-eight or twenty-nine years old. She would not 
 make such an arrangement unless she thought me in 
 earnest, for it would deprive her of her pension.” 
 
 “I don’t understand.” 
 
 “Don’t you know that if a woman receives no proposal 
 of marriage between the twenty-fifth and thirtieth years 
 she receives an extra amount of money on pay day which 
 is called a pension for the unprotected? This pension is 
 paid once in three years, after the age of thirty, to those 
 who have not rejected a suitor since the last payment. 
 Even if I could make up my mind to act as Miss Clarissa’s 
 escort during the next three years I doubt if she would be 
 willing to- consent to the arrangement, unless she meant 
 to hold me to it at the end of that time.” 
 
 “I had forgotten the pension law. It would deprive 
 Miss Clarissa of two payments.” 
 
 “And I should be taking an awful risk. No, Sander, it 
 won’t do. We must think of something else.” 
 
 For several minutes there was silence between the two 
 young men. Then Sander startled his friend by springing 
 to his feet with a most exultant shout. 
 
 “I have it !” he said. “Tom, I can help you out of this 
 scrape like magic. I know the very girl.” 
 
112 
 
 THE TAX ON BACHELORS. 
 
 “You do? Old boy, if you help me now, I’ll never for- 
 get it.” 
 
 “I have a cousin” — 
 
 “Have I seen her?” 
 
 “No, she lives in the country.” 
 
 “Pretty?” 
 
 “Pretty as a picture — graceful, too, and very well read. 
 She is a stunner and no mistake, but” — 
 
 “Well, don’t hesitate. But what?” 
 
 “She has an awful temper.” 
 
 “That doesn’t count. I may show you an interesting 
 case of 'Taming of the Shrew.’ It would add variety to 
 my humdrum existence. Really, I believe I should like 
 it.” 
 
 “Well, supposing you sit down and write a note ex- 
 plaining the situation fully. Daisy hates anything like 
 deceit.” 
 
 “Do you mean that I must tell her that I want to be 
 engaged to her for a period as long as the law allows that 
 I may evade the matrimonial tax, and that she must 
 agree beforehand to dismiss me at the end of that time?” 
 “Precisely. Daisy would try to make life a burden to 
 you if she thought you were deceiving her.” 
 
 “Do you suppose she would consent to such an ar- 
 rangement?” 
 
 “I think so. She wishes to study music and has de- 
 cided not to marry before her twenty-sixth birthday. She 
 is twenty-one now and has property enough to enable 
 her to take care of herself, so she cares nothing for the 
 maiden’s pay day. I think she would like an escort who 
 would not trouble her with a lover’s importunities and 
 
THE TAX ON BACHELORS. 
 
 113 
 
 who would act as a shield between herself and possible 
 lovers.” 
 
 “It will do no harm to propose, at any rate.” 
 
 Tom wrote the letter, as his friend had suggested, 
 sealed it carefully, addressed it to Miss Margaret Blake 
 and gave it to Sander to deliver. Sander inclosed it in 
 one giving full particulars, and in due time Tom received 
 the following reply: 
 
 Mr. Tom Wainwright: 
 
 Dear Sir— I have just finished reading your proposal and my 
 cousin’s pleasant account of you, which he was so good as to send 
 with the proposal. In reply, I will say that I agree to consider 
 myself your betrothed for a period of three years and to release 
 you at the end of that time, provided you conduct yourself 
 as a gentleman should toward the lady whom he esteems highly, 
 but does not expect to marry. I do not like endearments, but I 
 understand that society is somewhat exacting in regard to the 
 behavior of engaged people, and I shall try to so conduct myself 
 that we may not be commented upon. I can see that you would 
 prefer not to have it known that we are engaged simply for con- 
 venience. It will please me to have a desirable escort during my 
 stay in town, and Cousin Sander assures me that I shall find 
 you simply perfect. I wonder what he has told you about me. 
 That I have an abominable temper, I presume. He considers 
 that my chief characteristic. Well, it is bad, but console yourself 
 with the thought that, so far as I know, it is the only fault 1 
 have! And I am not cross when things go to suit me. If you 
 prove a satisfactory escort, I presume you will never know from 
 experience that I am not simply angelic! Yours truly, 
 
 - Margaret Blake. 
 
 Tom found this letter quite satisfactory and could 
 hardly wait for the day when he was to see Miss Mar- 
 garet, or Daisy, as her cousin called her, and as he liked 
 to think of her. A number of his best friends knew of his 
 good fortune in finding a charming girl who was willing 
 to be engaged to him for a period of three years and to 
 give him his liberty at the end of that time. 
 
 “It will,” he explained, “not deprive me of my freedom 
 
114 
 
 THE TAX ON BACHELORS. 
 
 in any sense of the term. In fact, it will give me greater 
 freedom. I can be pleasant with other girls without their 
 thinking that I am making love, and even if I should fall 
 in love with one of them my engagement to Daisy will 
 not prevent me from explaining matters to the other girl 
 and declaring my sentiments.” 
 
 It was really quite a nice arrangement, and Tom would 
 not have had a moment’s uneasiness before he met Miss 
 Margaret had he not overheard two of his friends talking 
 about him one day at dinner. 
 
 “I wouldn’t have believed Tom Wainwright would be 
 so simple,” said one of them, “as to go and engage him- 
 self to a girl whom he had never seen.” 
 
 “He depended upon Ridgway’s judgment, I under- 
 stand,” replied the other. 
 
 “But she is Ridgway’s cousin, and one is always Tlind 
 to the defects of one’s relatives. Besides did you ever 
 know Ridgway to be acquainted with any girl who was 
 not charming? All girls are alike in his eyes. He has no 
 more judgment than a Hottentot.” 
 
 “There is no one,” replied the other speaker, “whom I 
 would rather see caught than Tom Wainwright. He is 
 so fastidious ! Think what it would mean to him to be 
 obliged to escort an ugly woman for three long years and 
 see Sander walking away with pretty Alice Griggs !” 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Tom was decidedly uncomfortable when he left the 
 table. His discomfort increased as the day on which 
 Miss Margaret was to arrive drew nearer. He was very 
 
THE TAX ON BACHELORS. 115 
 
 nervous when he went to the station with Sander to 
 meet her. He had hoped to meet her before it became 
 necessary to announce the engagement, but she was de- 
 layed in her preparations, and it was nearly Christmas 
 when she reached the city. All engagements must be 
 announced before the first day of December or the bach- 
 elor was not relieved from the necessity of paying the 
 matrimonial tax. 
 
 As Tom paced back and forth in the little waiting room 
 he thought what a notorious joker Sander was and won- 
 dered at his own folly in trusting his happiness for the 
 next three years in the hands of any one but himself. 
 Suppose Sander had indulged his passion for playing 
 practical jokes and arranged an engagement between 
 himself and an ancient specimen of humanity who would 
 gladly give up her right to a pension for the sake of 
 posing before the world as the object of a man’s affec- 
 tions. Sander had declared that she was stunning, but 
 with Sander that might mean anything or nothing. He 
 would have remembered that at the time of his proposal 
 had he not been so worried over his financial affairs. If 
 Daisy should prove to be what the fellows called “an ugly 
 back number,” how they would laugh at him — the elegant 
 Tom Wainwright, who had always prided himself on 
 being first in the estimation of every young lady whom 
 the other fellows raved about ! 
 
 The train came shrieking into view, and Tom felt the 
 pressure of Sander’s hand upon his arm. He walked 
 with him to the side of the day coach, arriving just in 
 time to see Sander help a lady to alight and then press 
 a kiss upon her cheek. She had come. Tom could not 
 doubt it, for he had heard Sander call her Daisy. She 
 
116 
 
 THE TAX ON BACHELORS. 
 
 had come, and she was a caricature on humanity. It was 
 worse — a hundred times worse — than his worst fears had 
 pictured. Tom could scarcely suppress a groan. He felt 
 himself growing pale to the lips, when he heard his name 
 spoken in a soft voice and realized that Sander had intro- 
 duced the woman who held his written proposal. He 
 stammered something by way of reply to her greeting 
 and mentally vowed to break off the engagement if it 
 cost him every cent he had in the world. He told him- 
 self that beggary was preferable to being seen for three 
 long years in company with such a nightmare of feminin- 
 ity. But he must not be rash. He had just sense enough 
 left to realize that. There were two ways of doing every- 
 thing, and he was noted for always finding the pleasanter. 
 He allowed Sander to escort Daisy to the waiting room, 
 and, although he walked beside her, he tried to appear 
 more like an acquaintance of the lady than her promised 
 husband. Arrived in the waiting room, »he murmured 
 something about being very sorry, but a most pressing 
 engagement — 
 
 “I saw that man for you this morning, Tom,” inter- 
 rupted Sander, with a determined expression on his 
 happy face. “I told him you had a previous engagement, 
 which you had doubtless forgotten, and that he need not 
 expect you until later in the day.” 
 
 “Ah ! H’m, ahem ! Much obliged, I’m sure,” stam- 
 mered Tom. He saw that Sander understood his little 
 dodge and also that he would brook no trifling. 
 
 “Don’t mention it,” replied Sander cheerfully. “I’ll go 
 out to see if the carriage is ready. You bring Daisy in 
 the course of five minutes. I suppose you will be glad of 
 an opportunity to be alone with her.” 
 
117 
 
 She was a caricature on humanity. 
 
118 THE TAX ON BACHELORS. 
 
 Sander bowed gracefully and left them together. Tom 
 felt that Daisy was scrutinizing him sharply, but that did 
 not disturb him so much as the fact that he was also sub- 
 ject to the scrutiny of several of his friends. Whatever 
 happened, he must not let them see that he was not en- 
 tirely satisfied. He must appear so well pleased with his 
 companion that they would not dare to mention her in 
 his presence. Giving himself a mental shake, he man- 
 aged to smile into her spectacled eyes as heasked her if 
 she were ready to go to the carriage. He gave her his 
 arm, escorting her with as grand an air as if she had 
 been a queen, but he did not fail to hear the half sup- 
 pressed titter that followed from the room. It almost 
 unnerved him. The carriage was at the door, but San- 
 der was not to be seen. The small boy whom he had 
 hired to hold the horse told Tom that Mr. Ridgway had 
 gone to see that man whom Mr. Wainwright was to meet 
 at this hour, thinking there might have been a misunder- 
 standing. 
 
 A naughty word came close against Tom’s smiling lips, 
 but he did not allow it to escape. He handed his com- 
 panion into the carriage, tucked the robes around her so 
 carefully that much of her objectionable dress of bright 
 green was concealed, took the reins and the whip and 
 drove toward the house where Sander lived with his 
 mother at a rate of speed which was, to say the least, 
 extremely reckless. Miss Margaret was obliged to give 
 her whole attention to an effort to keep her seat, and con- 
 versation between herself and her companion did not be- 
 come intensely interesting. 
 
 Good Mrs. Ridgway was watching for them and came 
 to the door to welcome her niece. 
 
THE TAX ON BACHELORS. 
 
 119 
 
 “How unusually well you are looking, my dear !” she 
 exclaimed, and once more Tom groaned under his breath. 
 If she looked better than usual now, he thought, what 
 must she be like in a normal condition? 
 
 “I shall not invite you in now, Mr. Wainwright,” added 
 Mrs. Ridgway, “for I want Daisy all to myself for a little 
 while. You may come later.” 
 
 “She will soon tire of me,” said Daisy, smiling at Tom 
 with an abandonment of sentimental gush that set his 
 teeth on edge. “It doesn’t seem to take any one long to 
 tire of me,” she added plaintively. “You can’t think how 
 nice it seems to be bound to some one who is as glad to 
 devote himself to me as I am to have him.” 
 
 Tom bowed and tried to smile. He could not say a 
 word. He did not know which he wanted most — to com- 
 mit suicide or murder. 
 
 “Tire of her !” he thought as he went toward his room. 
 “I don’t see how any one can help it who has eyes and 
 ears.” 
 
 Going to his rooms, Tom found Sander comfortably 
 ensconced in his favorite easy chair. 
 
 “Thought I’d make myself at home,” he announced 
 cheerfully. 
 
 “See here, Ridgway,” exclaimed Tom, paying no atten- 
 tion to his friend’s remark, “joking is well enough, but 
 when it comes to unmitigated falsifying it is downright 
 low.” 
 
 “Will you please explain yourself?” said Sander, a 
 gleam of snger in his eyes. 
 
 It suddenly occurred to Tom that Sander’s cousin was 
 under discussion and that perhaps one could not be 
 blamed for failing to see the ugliness in one’s relatives, 
 
120 
 
 THE TAX ON BACHELORS. 
 
 He found himself admitting that it was barely possible 
 that Sander had not been joking at his expense, but the 
 results could hardly have been more unpleasant had he 
 been the victim of a practical joke, and he must get rid 
 of part of his ill feeling by expressing himself indignantly 
 to some one. It was certain that no one was more de- 
 serving of such unpleasant attention than §ander Ridg- 
 way. 
 
 “Are you such a fool,” he said, “as to pretend that you 
 believe what you told me?” 
 
 “I am not conscious of having lied,” replied Sander 
 stiffly. “I may be a fool, but shall not be twitted of it a 
 great many times, let me tell you.” 
 
 There was a tone in Sander’s voice that was new to 
 Torn. It was not pleasant. It seemed to say that two 
 could show ill temper quite as well as one, and that he 
 would come off victorious who was least in the power of 
 the other. Tom saw that if he were to attempt to break 
 the engagement with Daisy he would need the support 
 of his friends, and that least of all could he afford to an- 
 tagonize Sander. He resolved to control his temper and 
 succeeded, as any man can and does when his interests 
 are at stake. 
 
 “Sander,” he said, “I have said more than I should, 
 perhaps, but if you could understand how disappointed I 
 am — 
 
 “Disappointed ! About what?” 
 
 “You told me she was but twenty-one years old.” 
 
 “I say so now.” 
 
 “But her hair is gray.” 
 
 “Did you never hear of hair turning suddenly from sick- 
 ness? I think, however, that it helps rather than hurts a 
 
THE TAX ON BACHELORS. 
 
 121 
 
 young face. You cannot deny that it softens Daisy's 
 iace wonderfully. Did you notice what pretty eyes she 
 has?” 
 
 “How could I see her eyes through colored glasses?” 
 “Oh, I remember ! She wore her goggles. She does 
 not wear them all the time. Perhaps she will be without 
 them this evening. Hasn't she a pretty complexion?” 
 “That hideous green thing she wore” — 
 
 “Do you mean that woolen veil? She is subject to 
 attacks of neuralgia and is obliged to be very careful 
 when traveling. She will not be likely to wear that very 
 much here in the city.” 
 
 “Will she wear it at all?” 
 
 “She may. One can never tell exactly what a woman 
 will do — especially a woman like Daisy. As I have told 
 you, she is very willful and has a high temper, but you 
 know you thought that rather an advantage.” 
 
 Tom bit his lip savagely. He remembered his foolish 
 speech about “Taming of the Shrew” and wished he had 
 not made it. He had indulged in some delightful day 
 dreams in which he and a beautiful young girl figured 
 and where she had always acknowledged his supremacy 
 in the most charming manner, and all the fellows had 
 looked on admiringly and envied him his good luck and 
 fascinating demeanor. The remembrance of that dream 
 did not tend to make the reality any more delightful in 
 his eyes. 
 
 “I must admit,” continued Sander, noticing that Tom 
 did not seem disposed to reply to his question, “that 
 Daisy does not show good taste in dress. I did not 
 notice that when I saw her in the country. Such things 
 are more a matter of comparison than anything else, I 
 
122 
 
 THE TAX ON BACHELORS. 
 
 fancy. She must learn how to dress like city girls. Pm 
 sure she will not object to a few suggestions from you 
 when she has learned to know you well. You have such 
 a taking way with girls, you know, and already Daisy 
 seems anxious to please you. She is very conscientious. 
 When she undertakes to do a thing, she do€s her best.” 
 Sander talked with boyish enthusiasm, and Tom found 
 it quite impossible to say what he had in mind. He 
 was not sure, when Sander rose to go, whether his 
 friend had played a practical joke on him or not. He 
 promised to call in the evening, and as soon as Sander 
 had had time to get well out of sight he put on his hat and 
 overcoat and started for the office of his lawyer. 
 
 “I thought so, my dear boy,” chuckled Sander from a 
 doorway where he had been watching for Tom. “You 
 are going to see your lawyer. How should you feel if 
 you knew I had already been there. Oh, Jemima, what 
 a lark this is ! Til go to the club now and ask a few of the 
 fellows if they would not like to drop in informally and 
 see Tom entertain Daisy.” 
 
 “Parkhurst,” said Tom, taking a chair opposite his law- 
 yer, ‘Tm in a bad fix.” 
 
 “What’s up now?” 
 
 “Oh, it’s all on account of that beastly matrimonial tax. 
 You know how impossible it would be for me to pay it 
 this year” — 
 
 “Not exactly impossible, Wainwright.” 
 
 “Yes, impossible unless I oblige myself to live without 
 everything to which I have been accustomed.” 
 
 “Would that be so hard?” 
 
 “It would be extremely unpleasant.” 
 
 “But think to what use your money would be put. You 
 
THE TAX ON BACHELORS. 
 
 123 
 
 forget that this tax is levied that women may have a few 
 of the luxuries which you have in such abundance.” 
 
 “I forget nothing of the sort. Of course I am willing 
 to pay a fair share toward their support, but you know 
 that I have always been taxed beyond reason.” 
 
 “I think there are few of us who would not find fault 
 with almost any rate of taxation. Well, what can I do 
 for you?” 
 
 /'First, forget what I have said if you can,” replied 
 Tom, with a sudden change of tone. "A man must 
 grumble about something, I suppose, or he would not be 
 human. It might as well be taxes as anything else. I 
 presume I shall be taxed nearly six thousand dollars this 
 year, shall I not?” 
 
 “I may get it reduced four or five hundred by proving 
 that your financial condition does not warrant so large a 
 rate of taxation.” 
 
 "That would really be proclaiming that I am hard up. 
 No, don’t do that. If I must sink, I prefer to sink with 
 flying colors.” 
 
 "Who is talking of sinking?” 
 
 "I am. I tell you, Parkhurst, I have got myself in a 
 tight place.” 
 
 "How so?” 
 
 "Suppose I am obliged to fight a breach of promise 
 case?” 
 
 "You can’t afford it this year, my boy. It would mean 
 financial ruin.” 
 
 "I am afraid I shall have to do it, ruin or no ruin. I 
 very foolishly proposed to Ridgway’s cousin and was 
 accepted” — 
 
 "Do you refer to Miss Margaret Blake?” 
 
124 
 
 THE TAX ON BACHELORS. 
 
 “Yes. Do you know her. 
 
 “Very well. Tom, you surprise me. Why did you do 
 that?” 
 
 “I had not seen her” — 
 
 “I should think not!” This was said with such energy 
 that Tom was sure the lawyer had no higher opinion of 
 the personal appearance of the young lady in question 
 than he himself had formed. 
 
 “Sander has always seemed to be a friend whom one 
 could trust,” he said apologetically. “We have told each 
 other everything for the last five years. He saw that I 
 was worried about that beastly tax and suggested this 
 plan as a way out of the difficulty. He represented Miss 
 Blake as beautiful, graceful — everything, in fact, that a 
 man could ask for except that she might be a little too 
 high tempered.” 
 
 “Ridgway always worshiped his cousin. Still, I must 
 say that you have shown a surprising lack of common 
 sense. Had you thought of buying a horse of Ridgway 
 you would have insisted on seeing it first.” 
 
 “I didn’t have much time, you know.” 
 
 “Oh, well, I guess it is not as bad as it might be. 
 Miss Blake is quite musical, and she has very pleasant 
 manners, I believe ; at least they seemed pleasant in the 
 country. I can hardly think of her as a city girl. I 
 have an idea that she will appear very differently from 
 the girls upon whom you have usually danced attend- 
 ance.” 
 
 “I am sure of it,” groaned Tom. “Parkhurst, I’m 
 thinking of breaking the engagement.” 
 
 “Have you counted the cost?” 
 
 “I presume it will pinch me for a year or two.” 
 
THE TAX ON BACHELORS. 
 
 125 
 
 '‘Pinch you ! Man alive, it will ruin your prospects for 
 life. Not only will there be a heavy fine for the broken 
 engagement, but the breach of promise suit” — 
 
 "Perhaps Miss Blake will not sue” — 
 
 "Don’t flatter yourself. She will. I know her better 
 than you do. She will like nothing better. It will give 
 her just the advertisement she wants before becoming 
 a public singer.” 
 
 "Does she mean to study for the stage?” 
 
 "So I am told.” 
 
 "Worse and worse.” Tom groaned more dismally than 
 before. He looked so wretched that the lawyer’s heart 
 became almost sympathetic. There was silence between 
 the two men for several minutes. Then Parkhurst said 
 seriously: 
 
 "I don’t believe I should break that engagement if 1 
 were you, Tom.” 
 
 "How can I go on? I have virtually promised to ap- 
 pear with her in society, and if I should break even that 
 part of the contract” — 
 
 "She has you in her power and no mistake. Should 
 you lose everything, you would be in a more unhappy 
 condition than you would should you play the devoted 
 lover to Daisy. You may be chaffed for your odd prefer- 
 ence, but if you carry yourself well it will only be consid- 
 ered one of your oddities, while if you throw your prop- 
 erty away you will not be thought worthy even so much 
 notice as is given to those whom we chaff. You will, 
 besides, subject yourself to most uncomfortable personal 
 experiences.” 
 
 Parkhurst was convincing in any argument. He of- 
 fered to go with Tom to call on Daisy, and when the two 
 
126 
 
 THE TAX ON BACHELORS. 
 
 men stood on the steps of Sander's home Tom was quite 
 prepared to try to play the part which he had taken upon 
 himself in his effort to evade the tax oh bachelors. But 
 when he entered the room his courage nearly failed him. 
 He would have left the house at once could he have done 
 so without observation. 
 
 “Never mind," whispered the lawyer. “She will learn 
 to dress better when she has been in the city awhile." 
 
 “Bare arms and shoulders !" groaned Tom. “And all 
 those men around her! I wonder that they don't offer 
 her a shawl." 
 
 “Society ladies always used to dress in that way," re- 
 plied the lawyer. “I presume your mother's gowns were 
 cut that way." 
 
 “Do you suppose my mother painted her face as well?" 
 asked Tom witheringly. 
 
 “I should not be at all surprised were I to be assured 
 of that fact. Ladies used to consider their toilet but half 
 made until they had painted their faces. Daisy, in her 
 effort to create a sensation, is slightly behind the times, 
 but"— 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The conversation was interrupted by that young lady, 
 who came forward to meet them, with both hands ex- 
 tended and her gown trailing behind her in a way that 
 disgusted Tom beyond measure. He had read of women 
 who wore trailing gowns, but it had never been his mis- 
 fortune to see one until now. To his fastidious mind it 
 
THE TAX ON BACHELORS. 
 
 127 
 
 seemed shockingly untidy, and an untidy woman was, in 
 # his opinion, the most pitiable spectacle imaginable. 
 
 “I thought you were never coming, Tom, dear,” said 
 Daisy, taking his hands in hers and smiling up into his 
 face. “And now that you are here I have a great mind 
 to keep you all to myself.” 
 
 “I want to get acquainted with him,” she added, speak- 
 ing to Mr. Parkhurst. “I presume you know that we are 
 engaged to be married?” 
 
 “Tom has told me. I’ll offer congratulations- when we 
 are alone.” 
 
 “I believe he means to kiss me,” replied Daisy, looking 
 at Tom. “Shall you allow that?” 
 
 “I will answer when I am sure of his intentions,” re- 
 plied poor Tom. 
 
 “He thinks you could not make up your mind to do it,” 
 said Daisy, turning to Mr. Parkhurst. “He doesn’t know 
 how we behaved when you were in Wheatlands, does he? 
 It seems ever so nice to see you again, dear Mr. Park- 
 hurst. Let us sit together on that couch in the corner, 
 where we can talk over old times.” 
 
 “I thought you were going to give your exclusive at- 
 tention to Tom?” 
 
 “I have changed my mind. Tom has a squint that 
 makes my eyes ache, and his ears are ever so much too 
 large. I think I shall like him better if I see very little 
 of him. It is quite necessary, you know, that we should 
 avoid becoming too antagonistic, for we must spend a 
 great deal of time together.” 
 
 Daisy’s voice was soft and sweet, but very clear. Tom 
 was quite sure that several of the callers who had hap- 
 pened in had heard her allusion to his squinting eyes and 
 
128 
 
 THE TAX ON BACHELORS. 
 
 his large ears — the only defects by which nature had 
 sought to mar an otherwise perfect exterior. Tom was 
 very sensitive concerning these defects, and his friends 
 had humored his sensitiveness for so long a time that he 
 had begun to believe that no one noticed them but him- 
 self. Miss Daisy’s criticism did not serve to increase his 
 love for her. 
 
 Tom tried to make himself entertaining to Stella Man- 
 ning, another of Mrs. Ridgway’s nieces, but he could not 
 keep his attention from wandering to the little figure in 
 the gay gown of black and yellow satin sitting beside 
 Parkhurst. 
 
 “You don’t like her dress, I see,” said Stella, following 
 his glance of cold disapproval. “Daisy always did have 
 the oddest taste in dress, and no one can persuade her 
 that it is not perfect. Gray hair, smoked glasses, bare 
 arms and shoulders, painted face, corsets and bustle. Did 
 ever any one see such a combination?” 
 
 “It is not modern, certainly,” replied Tom, trying not 
 to sneer. “I believe there was a time when all society 
 ladies dressed in that way. In these days of obedience 
 to the laws of beauty it hardly seems possible.” 
 
 “Daisy has a perfect mania for collecting old things. 
 They say it is a characteristic handed down from a grand- 
 mother, who would give as much as would make a poor 
 family comfortable for a year to possess a rickety chair 
 or a soiled head rest or any equally useless thing that had 
 been owned by a person of distinction.” 
 
 “Do you know that to be a fact?” asked Tom eagerly. 
 It had occurred to him that if such a mania could be 
 proved he would have sufficiently good grounds for 
 breaking his engagement to Daisy. The law was not 
 
THE TAX ON BACHELORS. 
 
 129 
 
 meant to enforce marriage with one who had so question- 
 able an inheritance for the coming generations. 
 
 ‘‘I do not know Daisy intimately/’ confessed Stella, 
 “although she is a cousin, but I have reason to believe it 
 is a fact. A great many persons have told me so.” 
 
 “Can you give me the name of any of them?” 
 
 “You seem to doubt me,” replied Stella coldly. “I 
 ought to have remembered that you would naturally re- 
 quire proof of anything said against the young lady to 
 whom you are betrothed.” 
 
 There was a peculiar emphasis on the word “young” 
 that Tom did not fail to notice, but what troubled him 
 most was the very evident fact that Stella was displeased. 
 He felt that she had information which might be of great 
 use to him, and that he must exert himself to propitiate 
 her. 
 
 “I asked,” he said quickly, “not because I doubted you 
 — please believe I could not do that — but for an entirely 
 different reason which I should prefer not to mention just 
 at present.” 
 
 “I beg that you will not mention it at all,” interrupted 
 Stella, with an asperity that caused Tom to wonder 
 whether there might not be more than one of Sander’s 
 cousins who had a bad temper. “Excuse me, please,” 
 she added, with frigid politeness. “I wish to speak with 
 auntie.” 
 
 Stella crossed the room and pretended to button her 
 aunt’s glove while she murmured: “Oh, my unfortunate 
 tongue ! I’m dying to laugh, auntie. I came very near 
 getting myself into trouble just now.” 
 
 It was decided that evening that Daisy should attend 
 her first reception on the following week. It was to be 
 
130 
 
 THE TAX ON BACHELORS. 
 
 given at the elegant home of the De Quinceys, who were 
 considered the wealthiest, most refined and most benev- 
 olent family in the state. 
 
 "Will this dress do to wear?” asked Daisy of Tom 
 when the reception had been planned by Mrs. De Quincey 
 and indorsed by Mrs. Ridgway. "I want to please you,” 
 she added, "since it will be the first time we will appear 
 in society together.” 
 
 "If you will pardon me for saying so,” replied Tom 
 coldly, "I do not like this dress at all.” 
 
 "Do you not like colors? I see so many ladies here in 
 white.” 
 
 "I do not like colors, and I detest stripes and spots and 
 checks and everything which tends to make a woman 
 look like a peacock.” 
 
 "I am so glad I have a white dress,” replied Daisy as 
 sweetly as if Tom had not been in the least ungentlemanly 
 in his manner of speech. "It is of white silk,” she added, 
 "so stiff as almost to stand alone, and it rustles when I 
 walk, like wind blowing through the corn. It has a train 
 three yards long, and there are no sleeves at all — just a 
 little strap over the shoulders. It is trimmed with passe- 
 menteries which sparkle with every movement, and I have 
 some beautiful jewels which were left me by my grand- 
 mother. Do not fear that I shall not make a sensation. 
 Even you, who, I am told, have broken the hearts of so 
 many girls, cannot fail to be satisfied with my appear- 
 ance. It will be simply stunning.” 
 
 Think what that was to hear from the lips of a girl to 
 whom one was betrothed, in a land where the perfection 
 of style was expressed in the words "beauty unadorned 
 adorned the most”; where jewelry and beads and passe- 
 
THE TAX ON BACHELORS. 
 
 131 
 
 menteries were looked upon as relics of barbarism ; where 
 only savages dressed themselves in colors; where the 
 natural form and complexion were considered most beau- 
 tiful ; where trailing skirts were looked upon as an almost 
 unpardonable evidence of untidiness ! Think how it must 
 have sounded in the ears of a man who was the acknowl- 
 edged leader in the art of beautiful dressing. The fastid- 
 ious Tom could not find words to express his disappro- 
 bation of the gown she described. It seemed to him that, 
 in the face of such utter lack of appreciation of the beau- 
 tiful, nothing he could say would have the slightest effect. 
 He was reduced to a state of helpless speechlessness quite 
 foreign to him, but his companion chatted as incessantly 
 as if she believed him to be infatuated with her conversa- 
 tional powers. 
 
 Tom could not but admit that her voice was exquisitely 
 sweet and well modulated. It vibrated most pleasantly 
 upon his sensitive ear, and its charm was not diminished 
 by the use of poor diction and a faulty pronunciation. It 
 would have been a delight to him to listen to her could 
 he have sat with closed eyes, even though she talked only 
 of trivial things. She reminded him of the characters por- 
 trayed in some of the novels which were supposed to rep- 
 resent society as it was between the years 1870 and 1886. 
 In his fine condemnation of that age, as represented by 
 Daisy, he failed to see that he himself showed a share of 
 the inheritance handed down by the parents of those days 
 in that love of luxurious ease which had been sufficiently 
 strong to tempt him to place himself in his present un- 
 happy position. 
 
 “I think, Mr. Wainwright,” said Daisy quite suddenly, 
 “that already you repent your proposal. Am I not good 
 
132 
 
 THE TAX ON BACHELORS. 
 
 enough in your opinion to help you evade a tax which 
 every honorable man should be willing to pay? Or do 
 you think yourself worthy of the best, no matter what use 
 you wish to make of her? Does your exquisite taste rob 
 you of the instincts of true manhood ?” 
 
 There was a touch of sarcasm in the soft voice that cut 
 Tom like a knife. He tried to give her to understand that 
 he would not tolerate such insinuations, even from a 
 woman, but he could not speak. She had shown him a 
 picture of himself which he despised, yet which he could 
 not deny. 
 
 “I intend,” continued Daisy, rising and confronting 
 him, “I intend to hold you to your proposal, because it 
 suits my convenience to do so, but I wish you to under- 
 stand that you have not inspired my respect and that I 
 do not care to see you except when you must appear as 
 my escort. I am disappointed in you. I had thought, 
 judging by what my cousin wrote, that you were a gentle- 
 man.” 
 
 “May I ask how I have displeased you?” asked Tom 
 coldly. 
 
 “You have shown that you are disappointed because I 
 am less beautiful than Sander pictured me. Do not try 
 to deny it. I have seen it in your eyes from the first, but 
 I should like to ask who and what you are that you give 
 yourself the right to criticise my personal appearance. A 
 man who, to continue his selfish indulgence, will resort 
 to such methods as I am helping you to carry out, and 
 who, instead of showing proper appreciation of my good 
 intentions, sulks in a manner most conspicuous and in- 
 sulting because I am not as beautiful as a picture! You 
 shall carry out your part of our contract, Mr. Wain- 
 
THE TAX ON BACHELORS. 
 
 133 
 
 wright, or suffer the consequences. I shall expect you 
 to be here in good season to escort me to Airs. De Quin- 
 cey’s, but I do not care to see you again in the meantime. 
 You need not fear that I shall exact much attention from 
 you when once we are there. I am not quite so unat- 
 tractive as that would imply.” 
 
 She swept him a mocking bow, and, walking away with 
 the air of an empress, joined the party of young people 
 who had gathered around the piano in the music room. 
 The next moment Tom heard her singing with young De 
 Quincey, and, angry as he was, he could not help paying 
 a silent tribute to her beautiful voice. 
 
 “If she were only half civilized,” he mused, “and not 
 quite so ugly — but, no, even her voice does not make her 
 endurable !” 
 
 Tom quietly left the house, without a word of parting 
 to any one, and made his way to his own room. He had 
 never been more thoroughly wretched. He felt that, in 
 one respect, Sander’s description of his cousin had not 
 been at fault — she did have a temper ! 
 
 “Heavens,” he thought, “what a punishment it would 
 be to a man to be obliged to go through life with such a 
 virago !” 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 During the days which followed, Tom grew thin. His 
 appetite fled, and lines of worry were deeply drawn in his 
 face. His lawyer assured him that he was a fool for 
 showing his annoyance so plainly and by that means giv- 
 
134 
 
 THE TAX ON BACHELORS. 
 
 ing his friends so good an opportunity to discuss his 
 affairs. 
 
 “They will mistrust that you are hard up,” he said, 
 “and then you will lose prestige. I am ashamed of you, 
 Tom. Why don’t you brace up and be a man about it?” 
 “I wish you were in my boots, Parkhurst” — began 
 Tom. 
 
 “I should like it of all things, my boy! Handsome, 
 refined, popular, wealthy — what more can a man ask? 
 As for Miss Daisy, you are blinder than you need to be 
 about her. She has a certain power of attraction that 
 more than one of your acquaintances seems to appreciate. 
 I saw her out riding yesterday with young De Quincey 
 and to-day with Walton Humphrey.” 
 
 “You didn’t!” exclaimed Tom in amazement. 
 
 “I certainly did. You might have seen her also had 
 you not been moping here in your room. There have 
 not been so many callers at the Ridgways in years as 
 there have been since Miss Daisy came to the city.” 
 
 Tom brightened up under the influence of the lawyer’s 
 information. It is wonderful how much easier it is to 
 endure a person when one discovers that he is sought 
 for among the idlers of society. Tom began to think 
 that he might at least endure what De Quincey and 
 Humphrey deliberately sought. He began at once to 
 make preparations to attend the reception at the De Quin- 
 ceys. Half an hour ago he had decided to send word 
 that he was too ill to go, trusting that she might accept 
 the excuse. He decided to dress himself with even more 
 than his usual care and to appear so brilliant that his un- 
 happy manner during that last evening at the Ridgways 
 would be credited to the premonitory symptoms of the 
 
THE TAX ON BACHELORS. 
 
 135 
 
 indisposition which had followed. He was grateful now 
 to Parkhurst for having spread the report that he was 
 not feeling well, although he had been annoyed when his 
 friends began dropping in to make inquiries concerning 
 his health. 
 
 Tom never looked better than he did when standing 
 before the grate in Mrs. Ridgway’s sitting room, waiting 
 for the appearance of Daisy. He heard her voice in the 
 hall, and, summoning a polite smile to his face, turned to 
 greet her. The heavy draperies before the door were 
 pushed aside. Tom advanced a step or two and stood 
 face to face with a vision of loveliness which fairly took 
 his breath away. The smile became more genial as he 
 softly explained that he was expecting to see Miss Blake. 
 
 “I am Miss Blake,” replied the girl quietly. 
 
 It was Daisy’s voice surely, but what had become of 
 the gray hair and the smoked glasses? Where were the 
 heavy eyebrows which had met so sternly over the 
 glasses? Where was the unsightly black patch which 
 had adorned one cheek? Where was the ugly wart which 
 he had seen on the side of her nose? 
 
 “You are disappointed once more, I perceive,” said 
 Daisy, breaking the uncomfortable silence which had 
 fallen between them. 
 
 “I presume I might as well explain, Mr. Wainwright, 
 that I have been acting a part. I wished to convince 
 myself that you were as perfect as my cousin Sander rep- 
 resented you to be. Shall we go now? It is growing 
 late.” 
 
 “You were fortunate in having such able assistants to 
 make your little comedy so enjoyable,” said Tom coldly. 
 
 “Oh, you need not blame your friends ! No one wanted 
 
136 
 
 THE TAX ON BACHELORS. 
 
 to do it at first, but I persuaded them to change their 
 minds. Sander may not have told you that I usually have 
 my own way.” 
 
 Once more Tom was speechless. It was not difficult 
 for him to believe that so charming a girl always had her 
 own way. He would have turned against any friend he 
 had for the sake of pleasing her, but to have his friends 
 turn against him was different. 
 
 “I suppose Parkhurst knew,” he said after he had 
 helped Daisy into the carriage and taken a seat beside 
 her. 
 
 “Oh, yes,” replied Daisy, changing to the seat oppo- 
 site, “Mr. Parkhurst knew. He was difficult to persuade, 
 however !” 
 
 Tom thought how Parkhurst had tried to persuade him 
 to appear perfectly satisfied with his engagement to Miss 
 Daisy, and he could see that if he had followed his law- 
 yer’s advice he would now be in a position to laugh at his 
 tormentors. Tom realized that he had blundered, and he 
 did not know how to retrieve himself. He cursed himself 
 and all his friends, but that did not help matters in the 
 least. In a few moments the carriage would stop before 
 the door of the De Quinceys, and the silence between 
 himself and that vision of loveliness opposite was rapidly 
 becoming more uncomfortable. Tom would have liked 
 to establish a friendly relation before he met his friends, 
 thinking that by so doing he could make his own position 
 less difficult. 
 
 “I presume,” he began, “that there is no explanation” — 
 
 “I think I shall find it easier to forget if you say noth- 
 ing,” interrupted Daisy coldly. 
 
THE TAX ON BACHELORS. 
 
 137 
 
 Tom ventured no further remark, and the two entered 
 the house in silence. 
 
 “Why did you do it?” asked Tom of Parkhurst, when 
 a little later he had the pleasure of seeing Daisy sur- 
 rounded by the most eligible young men in the room and 
 making herself delightfully agreeable to every one but 
 himself. 
 
 “Because, Tom,” replied the old lawyer gravely, “I 
 thought it would do you good. So did Mrs. Ridgway, 
 who, as you know, has always taken a motherly interest 
 in you. You will pardon me for saying that you were 
 becoming too firmly impressed with the belief that the 
 best of everything belonged by right to yourself. Do 
 not get angry with me for saying so. Remember that I 
 was an old friend of your father.” 
 
 Tom was angry. He was angry, and the more he 
 thought of it the angrier he became. It was quite natural 
 that he should be, and his friends appreciated that fact, 
 and bore with him as patiently as possible, believing that 
 before many days he would be himself again. 
 
 “Tom,” said Parkhurst, “take my advice and appear 
 to enjoy yourself. You look like a thundercloud. Keep 
 your eyes away from Miss Daisy. Leave her as severely 
 alone as she could possibly desire and give your attention 
 to the other young ladies, as you used to do.” 
 
 This time Tom saw that the lawyer’s advice was good, 
 and he tried to act upon it from that moment. He never 
 spoke to Daisy unless it was absolutely necessary, and no 
 one guessed how much of self denial he practiced in con- 
 sequence. Pie was soon on as good terms as ever with 
 his friends and was the idol of society, as he had always 
 been. The young ladies raved over him, but he could 
 
138 
 
 THE TAX ON BACHELORS. 
 
 not win one smile from Daisy, except when she thought 
 it was demanded by the rules of politeness. She was the 
 personification of iciness whenever they happened to be 
 alone together. 
 
 At first Tom had laughed lightly when his friends men- 
 tioned her evident avoidance of him, but there came a 
 time when he could not bear it and when his flashing eyes 
 warned them that it was a subject which he would not 
 hear discussed. There came a time when Tom realized 
 that Daisy held his happiness in her keeping, and that it 
 was a matter of indifference to her. There were days when 
 he was filled with a fierce exultation at the thought that 
 she was bound to him for a period of more than two years 
 yet, and that no one could claim superior rights. There 
 were other times when he felt that to see her and to wait 
 upon her and know that he had no part in her life was a 
 torture which was fast becoming greater than he could 
 bear. There were bright mornings when he resolved to 
 win her love or die in the attempt. There were dark 
 nights when he thought of the easiest and surest means of 
 committing suicide. He had played at love a great many 
 times and enjoyed it. He was deeply in love now and was 
 miserable. 
 
 How was it with Daisy? It is a question which that 
 young lady would have found difficult had she tried to 
 answer it, but she did not try. She had come to the city 
 fully determined to give the best of herself to her music. 
 She had resolved never to marry, at least not until she 
 had won fame in the musical world. She had entered into 
 the engagement with Tom principally because she be- 
 lieved that by so doing she would be free from importu- 
 nities of other men which she might otherwise have found 
 
THE TAX ON BACHELORS. 
 
 139 
 
 distracting. She was a very earnest young lady, who had 
 brought the whole force of her strong nature to bow be- 
 fore the altar of her ambition. Even her pleasures were 
 enjoyed with the thought that such recreation, if not too 
 often indulged in, would enable her to work more profit- 
 ably. It had amused her for two reasons to play a part 
 to deceive Tom — she wished to know if she possessed the 
 qualities necessary to a successful actor, and she fancied 
 that it would be more enjoyable than it had proved to be 
 to try the man whom her cousin praised so extravagantly. 
 Daisy was inclined to be cynical in her opinions of men. 
 When she had first seen Tom's face, she had liked it. She 
 told herself afterward that she might have liked its owner 
 better than she should, considering her ambition, had he 
 not proved himself so little of a gentleman. Therefore 
 she was glad that he had behaved just as he did. She 
 believed she had forever dismissed that subject with her 
 disapproval of his conduct, and that now her heart was 
 impregnable so far as he was concerned. 
 
 At first Tom’s opinions and preferences were really 
 a matter of indifference to Daisy, but no young lady likes 
 to have the most attractive gentleman of her acquaintance 
 attentive to every one but herself. Daisy was not pleased 
 with Tom’s behavior. Had she shown her displeasure in 
 the ordinary way she might soon have been the recipient 
 of more attention from him than she would have liked at 
 that time, but she did nothing in the ordinary way, and 
 she deceived even herself as to her opinion of Tom. 
 
 She realized that he made her uncomfortable, but she 
 said it was because he was so very ungentlemanly. She 
 was sure that she should always despise a man who judged 
 people entirely by their personal appearance. There was 
 
140 
 
 THE TAX ON BACHELORS. 
 
 no dependence to be placed in one whose regard for 
 another was regulated by that other’s wealth of natural 
 attractions. She never listened when her friends spoke of 
 the great improvement noticeable in Tom Wainwright 
 during the past year. She preferred to believe that it was 
 impossible for him to overcome the only fault which she 
 had been able to find in him. She assured herself and 
 others that a man with such a fault could pretend any- 
 thing, but that he was false at heart, and the heart did not 
 change. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Tom and Daisy had been betrothed more than a year 
 when the hop at Calhoun’s was proposed, and the pro- 
 posal heartily indorsed by the young people of their ac- 
 quaintance. Silas Calhoun was the proprietor of a large 
 hotel built on the shores of a little lake miles away from 
 nowhere — at least that is the way it was described by the 
 enthusiastic guests who congregated there every sum- 
 mer for rest. It was so secluded that society, with its 
 unceasing demands, never found it, and the favored few" 
 who kept its location a secret enjoyed themselves as un- 
 conventionally as possible. The nearest railway station 
 was five miles distant. The young people, however, did 
 not propose to go to Calhoun’s by rail. The roads were 
 in prime condition, and a sleigh ride of 50 miles, divided 
 in the middle by a hot supper and two or three hours 
 spent in dancing while the horses rested, was a prospect 
 much too delightful to be resisted by any young person 
 
THE TAX ON BACHELORS. 
 
 141 
 
 with a spark of enthusiasm and vivacity about him. The 
 best horses to be had were engaged for the ride. Tom had 
 no desire to make the trip alone with the coldly silent 
 Daisy and had persuaded a friend to go with him in a 
 double sleigh and take Daisy's cousin Stella. 
 
 Sleigh rides like this have been described so much bet- 
 ter than I can do it that I shall pass over this part of the 
 story, as well as over the delights which followed when 
 the merry party arrived at Calhoun's. 
 
 It was after supper, while they were dancing in the long 
 dining room, that the stornTcame up. No one noticed it 
 until it was nearly time for the gay party to start on the 
 homeward trip and the jolly host had gone to the barn 
 himself to make sure that the horses had been well cared 
 for. When he came back to the house he told his guests 
 that he believed there would be a blizzard before morning 
 and that it would be safer for them to remain at his place 
 overnight. Then the dancing ceased and eager young 
 people crowded around the door and peered out into the 
 darkness. 
 
 “If there should be a blizzard," said Stella, “we might 
 be detained here for several days." 
 
 Daisy looked at her quickly, but said nothing. She 
 was thinking of her appointment for the next day with 
 a noted manager who had condescended to try her voice. 
 If he pronounced it good there was hope that a desirable 
 position might be offered her. Daisy was deciding that 
 she should not remain over night at Calhoun's. 
 
 “Do you think the storm is close upon us?" asked San- 
 der, who, for reasons which will be easily understood by 
 those who have been in love, did not like to miss the long 
 ride home, under the stars, in the comfortable little sled 
 which was just large enough for Alice and himself. 
 
142 
 
 THE TAX ON BACHELORS. 
 
 “I can’t tell,” replied Mr. Calhoun, stepping farther 
 away from the house that he might get a better look at 
 the heavy bank of clouds in the northwest. "‘Storms are 
 dreadfully deceptive in this part of the world,” he added. 
 “Now, when I was back in York state I could reckon 
 on a storm almost to- a minute, but here I’ve sometimes 
 missed it by an hour or two. However, I think we shall 
 hear from those clouds before long.” 
 
 “Are you sure there is to be a blizzard?” asked Daisy, 
 who put little faith in the ordinary weather prophet, un- 
 less he happened to make a prediction which suited her 
 desires. 
 
 “One is never sure of anything in this world,” replied 
 the old man. “One thing is certain, and that is there is a 
 great deal of snow in the air already, considering the 
 clouds, which means that a blizzardy wind is blowing. If 
 those clouds contain both wind and snow” — 
 
 “Do you think it probable, Mr. Calhoun,” interrupted 
 Daisy, “that those clouds will break over us in less than 
 an hour?” 
 
 “They may not ; they look a long way off.” 
 
 “An hour would give us time to reach the station,” 
 said Daisy, “and we could go into the city on the cars.” 
 
 “But our rigs,” interposed Sander. 
 
 “Leave them here, and send some one after them,” sug- 
 gested Daisy. 
 
 “I am afraid to start when the sky looks like that,” said 
 Stella. 
 
 “You might stay here, then,” replied Daisy. ""For my 
 part I prefer to go.” 
 
 An excited discussion ensued, when it was discovered 
 that Daisy was the only young lady who preferred to risk 
 
THE TAX ON BACHELORS. 
 
 143 
 
 the dangers of the storm in order to reach the city. She 
 remarked, most politely, but decidedly, in response to 
 Tom’s expostulations, that she meant to make the at- 
 tempt, but that she did not ask him to risk his life by 
 accompanying her. 
 
 “I am determined,” she said, “to meet Mr. Gilmore to- 
 morrow, and I have no doubt that I can hire Mr. Cal- 
 houn’s stable boy to drive me to the station.” 
 
 “You will not be left to the care of Mr. Calhoun’s stable 
 boy,” replied Tom coldly. In another moment he was 
 inside his overcoat. 
 
 No further opposition was offered to Daisy’s plan. 
 Mr. Calhoun insisted on loaning Tom a fresh horse — 
 one that knew the road — and told him he might leave it 
 with the hotel keeper at the railway station, to be cared 
 for until the owner came to claim him. The horse was 
 hitched to Mr. Calhoun’s cutter, which had been made 
 expressly for travel over country roads, and plenty of fur 
 robes were wrapped around the occupants. 
 
 The air had seemed almost springlike when the young 
 people left the city, but a biting wind had arisen which 
 blew directly in their faces as Tom turned the horse’s 
 head toward the railway station. They drove for some 
 time in silence, broken only by the clatter of the horse’s 
 hoofs on the frozen snow and the dismal creaking of the 
 sled runners which is always to be heard in very cold 
 weather. The air was rapidly becoming more dense with 
 the frozen sleet, which struck their faces like fierce little 
 darts. The wind was steadily rising, and it seemed to 
 Tom as if it came from every direction at once. In many 
 places the road was made almost impassable by heavy 
 drifts. Not a star was to be seen in the sky, not a ray of 
 
144 
 
 THE TAX ON BACHELORS. 
 
 light anywhere which could have been used as a guide. 
 The horse patiently fought his way along, and Tom 
 finally reached the conclusion that the faithful creature 
 knew more about the road than he did himself. He cer- 
 tainly could not have known less, for Tom had been guid- 
 ing him in a circle for the last half hour. Left to himself, 
 he promptly turned his face homeward, but Tom did not 
 know that. 
 
 Notwithstanding the intense darkness Daisy knew that 
 Tom had loosened his hold on the reins. 
 
 “Are your hands cold?” she asked quickly. It was 
 the first time she had spoken since she bade her friends 
 good-by at Mr. Calhoun's door. 
 
 “I am very comfortable, thank you,” replied Tom iron- 
 ically. 
 
 “Why did you drop the reins?” 
 
 “Because I can no longer see the road.” 
 
 “Mr. Wainwright, are we lost?” 
 
 “I do not know.” 
 
 The words could not have been spoken with greater 
 indifference. Tom was not in the happiest mood when 
 he left the Calhoun House. It had seemed to him a 
 reckless proceeding to start out in the face of such a 
 storm, for no better reason than that a girl wished to try 
 her voice before a theatrical manager, but there was not 
 money enough in the world to have tempted him to allow 
 Daisy to go without him. When he found himself alone 
 with her, all his anger was forgotten in his love and in his 
 despair because of its utter hopelessness. Then came the 
 thought that there might be a worse fate than to die with 
 Daisy before they reached the station. He had been ex- 
 
THE TAX ON BACHELORS. 
 
 145 
 
 cessively morbid for days, and this new fancy was a not 
 unnatural climax to such a state of mind. 
 
 Daisy was irritated over his silence. She felt that she 
 had been foolish in insisting on coming out in such a 
 storm, and she wanted to say so, but it is never easy to 
 introduce such an acknowledgment. She felt that it 
 would be less hard if Tom could be beguiled into con- 
 versation. 
 
 “I should have thought,” she said, with a feeble attempt 
 at playfulness, “that you might have allowed the stable 
 boy to accompany me when you knew I preferred it.” 
 
 But in a howling wind playful tones are not always 
 apparent. Tom believed that Daisy’s remark was in- 
 tended as a reproach because he had shown himself un- 
 able to guide the horse. It angered him so that he could 
 with difficulty control himself. 
 
 “Believe me,” he said curtly, “had I known that you 
 preferred the company of the stable boy I should not have 
 forced mine upon you.” 
 
 At this moment there was a sudden jerk of the cutter 
 that nearly unseated them. The horse had plunged into 
 a deep snowdrift and was floundering in an attempt to 
 regain his footing. He recovered himself, gave one leap, 
 which freed him from the cutter, and with a snort dis- 
 appeared into the darkness. 
 
 “Oh,” gasped Daisy, “he has left us !” 
 
 Tom was himself in a moment. All his petty griev- 
 ances were forgotten in his desire to make Daisy as com- 
 fortable as possible. The true manliness which had won 
 him so many friends in spite of his egotism now asserted 
 itself. Springing from the cutter, he spread one of the 
 robes upon the snow, then held out his hand to Daisy. 
 
146 
 
 THE TAX ON BACHELORS. 
 
 “Let me help you out,” he said cheerfully. “I am 
 going to tip the cutter over to make a partial shelter 
 against the storm.” 
 
 “Must we stay here?” faltered Daisy. She was recall- 
 ing stories she had read of people who had perished in 
 blizzards, and was a little fearful of the consequences of 
 her persistence. 
 
 “I can see no better way,” replied Tom. “Even if we 
 could walk in such a storm we should not know which 
 way to turn. The horse will doubtless find his way home, 
 and when the stable boy knows you are in danger” — 
 
 “Mr. Wainwright, can I help you turn the cutter over?” 
 interrupted Daisy, who did not care to hear more about 
 the stable boy. 
 
 “Thanks, no. I think I can manage it.” 
 
 The sled was soon turned bottom upward against the 
 drift where it had stuck. Tom scooped snow from be- 
 neath it until he had succeeded in making a room large 
 enough for two. The robes were spread down, and when 
 he and Daisy had succeeded in crawling under the sled 
 and had placed one of the robes against the opening to 
 their den they were really quite comfortable. The wind 
 piled the snow against them, making them still warmer, 
 and they congratulated themselves on the coziness of 
 their retreat. Notwithstanding the unpleasantness of 
 their position they were far from being unhappy. Indeed 
 Tom was more wildly happy than he had ever been in all 
 his life. 
 
 * * * 
 
 When the first faint blush of crimson appeared in the 
 eastern sky, Calhoun and his guests started on an ex- 
 
THE TAX ON BACHELORS. 
 
 147 
 
 ploring expedition and had no sooner left the house than 
 they caught sight of the overturned cutter. 
 
 Don’t ask me for a detailed account of what followed ; 
 neither my pen nor my patience is equal to it. It began 
 with tears and exclamations of joy and ended with happy 
 laughter and merry jests. It is not unlikely that as long 
 as they live Mr. and Mrs. Tom Wainwright will be teased 
 about their experience in Mr. Calhoun’s barnyard and 
 their preference for a circular track when driving to a 
 point five miles distant. 
 
 When Tom hears a bachelor friend wondering how he 
 can manage to evade the matrimonial tax, he invariably 
 says: “By getting married, my boy. A man is a fool to 
 remain single when it will cost him no more to have a 
 home of his own.” 
 
 “And if it did cost more?” asks Daisy. 
 
 “He would sfill be a fool,” replies Tom. 
 
148 
 
 A SCIENTIFIC COURTSHIP. 
 
 A SCIENTIFIC COURTSHIP. 
 
 I awoke to find myself surrounded by strangers, who 
 were regarding me with an air of deepest interest. 
 
 “Howdy friends !” I remarked as nonchalantly as was 
 possible under the circumstances. “How can I serve 
 you?” 
 
 There was no reply. They drew a long, 'deep breath, 
 quite in unison, then jumped from their seats and began 
 shaking hands with one another, taking not the slightest 
 notice of me. They seemed under the spell of an emotion 
 too deep for words. 
 
 At this moment my attention was attracted toward a 
 man who sat apart from the others, and nearer the head 
 of the bed, where he gazed at me with piercing eyes that 
 seemed to penetrate my very soul. The others turned 
 toward him, after having greeted one another, as if moved 
 by a strong impulse to offer their hands to him also ; but 
 he merely glanced at them, slightly nodding, then once 
 more turned his gaze on me. His companions bowed, al- 
 most sweeping the floor with their caps, then, with one 
 accord they broke into a hearty cheer. 
 
 “Runjeet Singh!” they cried. “All honor to the great 
 Runjeet Singh !” 
 
 Runjeet Singh ! the name brought memory back to her 
 
A SCIENTIFIC COURTSHIP. 
 
 149 
 
 stronghold, and I turned to look more closely at the man 
 sitting so quietly at the head of my bed. 
 
 “He is not Runjeet Singh,” I exclaimed. “Why do 
 you call him so?” 
 
 My companions paid no attention to my query, but 
 looked with troubled eyes at him whom they had called 
 Runjeet Singh. There was evident displeasure in his face, 
 as he arose from his seat and quietly l$ft the room. 
 
 “I am a humble minister of the Almighty,” he said, at 
 the door. “Give all honor to Him to whom it is due.” 
 
 “Say!” I exclaimed, as the door closed behind him, 
 “why did you call him Runjeet Singh?” 
 
 My companions looked at me very much as their mas- 
 ter had looked at them, and then they as silently left the 
 room. 
 
 I was alone, and I decided to dress. I strove to assume 
 a sitting posture, but my joints refused to move. 
 
 “The scoundrel !” I muttered ; “he said I’d come out 
 of it feeling as good as new, and here I am as stiff as a 
 ramrod !” 
 
 There was a small bell on the table near my bed. If I 
 could reach it I could summon Runjeet Singh, the man 
 who had induced me to be buried alive. He would doubt- 
 less hasten to my assistance. I exerted myself to the 
 uttermost, but I could not move my hand so much as 
 the tenth part of an inch. As for my feet and legs, I 
 had to take them on faith. They had been with me only 
 a little while ago, and they must be yet ; but below my 
 neck I was as lifeless as if dead. How deeply I regretted 
 the curiosity that had led me to the study of the occult ! 
 How I prayed to be myself again just long enough to 
 punish the man who had induced me to offer myself a 
 
150 
 
 A SCIENTIFIC COURTSHIP. 
 
 victim to his unholy practices! I lay there, impotently 
 cursing him, when the current of my thoughts was sud- 
 denly changed by the unexpected appearance of a young 
 lady. She was standing in the doorway, when I first no- 
 ticed her, gazing at me exactly as I have seen naturalists 
 study a new kind of bug. It was disconcerting. I felt 
 that something should be said, and since she showed no 
 inclination to speak first, I must necessarily do what I 
 could to break the embarrassing silence. 
 
 “Good afternoon !” I said, cheerfully ; “did old Martin 
 Van Buren get in?” 
 
 '“Did— did w-h-a-t?” 
 
 The expression on her face led me to believe that she 
 was deaf, so I raised my voice to repeat the question. 
 
 “Martin Van Buren! Was he elected? I voted for 
 him — my first vote. Good chap, old Martin !” 
 
 “Good chap !” repeated my guest, with a merry laugh. 
 “Good chap, indeed ! My friend, if you were better read 
 — but I forget ! How could you be !” 
 
 “Is that intended for sarcasm?” I asked mildly. “Do 
 you mean that I know it all, or that I’m not bright 
 enough to assimilate more?” 
 
 “Neither, my friend. Don’t vex yourself without rea- 
 son. May I come in?” 
 
 I grunted an assent. I wanted her to entertain me, 
 of course, but I didn’t want to appear too well pleased 
 until I knew whether she came as friend or foe. 
 
 “Thanks !” she said, dropping into a chair near my 
 bed, “now I can talk to you comfortably. To begin, Mar- 
 tin Van Buren became president — the good Martin for 
 whom you voted — and within two months the total busi- 
 ness failures in New York alone reached the enormous 
 
A SCIENTIFIC COURTSHIP. 
 
 151 
 
 sum of one hundred millions of dollars. I quote from 
 history. Factories and mills stopped running, and in one 
 year the total debt of the country — ” 
 
 “Stop!” I gasped. “For Heaven's sake, stop! My 
 
 brain reels.” 
 
 “Why, what is the matter? Is it possible you have not 
 been told?” 
 
 “Told what? But no, let’s get at this thing in a logical 
 
 manner.” 
 
 A frightful idea had taken possession of me. What if 
 Runjeet Singh had kept me buried for an entire year in- 
 stead of a month, as he had promised? Would not that 
 account for the horrible stiffness I felt in every joint 
 whenever I tried to move? 
 
 My guest regarded me with a look in which I saw both 
 amusement and sympathy. 
 
 “Well,” she said^“ask questions. Perhaps it will be 
 the best to let you enlighten yourself in your own way.” 
 “How long has Martin Van Buren been president?” 
 “He served four years, I believe.” 
 
 “Four years !” 
 
 “Yes. I’m not a very good historian, but — ” 
 “Historian ! Madam, are you crazy?” 
 
 “Oh, no. Oh, dear, no! but I’m really afraid you will 
 be before you realize — I wonder where Runjeet Singh 
 can be ! He had no right to leave you — ” 
 
 “Runjeet Singh! Yes, where is he?” I asked eagerly. 
 “Let me get hold of him, just once — Oh, but I’ll — ” 
 “Don’t!” she whispered; “don’t make threats, and 
 please forget that I dared criticize him. It is very rash 
 to say a word against Runjeet Singh.” 
 
 “Perhaps discretion is the better part of valor,” I said 
 
15 
 
 A SCIENTIFIC COURTSHIP. 
 
 meekly, “and just now I couldn't harm a fly.” I had no 
 thought, however, of overlooking any opportunity for 
 revenge that might present itself. 
 
 “Well,” I continued, trying to assume a jocular air, 
 “we might as well continue our lesson! Will you be 
 kind enough to tell me what year this is?” 
 
 “To-day is the first of July, 1963,” was the startling 
 reply. 
 
 I gasped for breath, but recovering myself with a he- 
 roic effort, burst into a fit of laughter. 
 
 “What a little tease you are !” I said, “but please be 
 good, now. Don't tease any more, there's a good girl ! 
 Do you think you are treating me with the consideration 
 I deserve, under the circumstances?” 
 
 “Tm trying to,” gravely. “It is a difficult position. 
 What is the latest year you can recall?” 
 
 “Why, 1837, of course! I don't believe it is later than 
 that now !” 
 
 “You must try to believe it. What is your latest rec- 
 ollection?” 
 
 “Runjeet Singh was preparing to bury me alive. He 
 buried the Fakir of Lahore, you remember, and unearthed 
 and resuscitated him six weeks later; but there were 
 those who did not believe it was just as it seemed to be, 
 because the Fakir — well, you know how Fakirs are us- 
 ually regarded, and he was Runjeet Singh's instructor. 
 Runjeet Singh wanted some one who could in no way be 
 accused of complicity — ” 
 
 “And you offered your services. It is all down in the 
 records. Well, he decided that you must sleep until nine 
 times fourteen years had come and gone. He said your 
 life was of little use either to the world or yourself ; but 
 
A SCIENTIFIC COURTSHIP. 
 
 153 
 
 if it were devoted to science your parents need not be so 
 ashamed of having given you birth.” 
 
 I reflected that it was necessary for me to hear all this 
 frank young lady could tell, and that it would therefore 
 be policy to take no note of this reflection on my parents 
 and myself. 
 
 “Nine times fourteen — that makes one hundred and 
 twenty-six,” I said slowly. 
 
 “And one hundred and twenty-six added to 1837 makes 
 1963,” was her triumphant response. 
 
 “Where are we?” 
 
 “In the court of Loodhiana, just where the operation 
 took place one hundred and twenty-six years ago. Your 
 coffin and the door to your vault were fastened with the 
 Rajah's seal, but to-day Americans rule Loodhiana, and 
 so the bolts were broken by a Yankee blacksmith. It has 
 been proven beyond a doubt that apparent cessation of all 
 the vital functions may continue for an indefinite period, 
 where the right conditions exist, and Runjeet Singh is 
 indeed a happy man. He has gone far beyond all knowl- 
 edge possessed by the Fakir of Lahore.” 
 
 “But — but I might not have survived !” I faltered, 
 
 “That, my friend, would be a matter of little conse- 
 quence, when taken into consideration with a scientific 
 question of such importance. But, since you did survive, 
 you should be thankful, for now you’ll have a share of 
 Runjeet Singh’s triumph. This day has been looked for- 
 ward to with great anxiety. Did you not see Runjeet 
 Singh and his devotees? I understood they were with 
 you.” 
 
 “Nine times fourteen makes one hundred and twenty- 
 
154 
 
 A SCIENTIFIC COURTSHIP. 
 
 six,” I repeated, “and Runjeet Singh was quite fifty years 
 old—” 
 
 “Oh, he wore out the body you knew,” interrupted my 
 companion quickly, “and stepped into another. I think 
 it belonged to a young person who left it, temporarily, 
 on an astral tour. Poor fellow ! How unhappy he must 
 have been not to be able to take possession of it again. 
 But such trifles are never to be considered, of course, 
 when a scientific problem is to be solved. It was neces- 
 sary for Runjeet Singh to remain on earth longer than 
 one body could possibly be made to wear, in order to 
 prove that you would come to life to-day.” 
 
 “Madam,” I said feebly, “if you will change the sub- 
 ject I shall be infinitely obliged. Somehow I — I feel old.” 
 “You don’t look old,” was her charming response. 
 
 It made me feel more at home, for I thought I scented 
 a flirtation. 
 
 “Tell me,” I pleaded, “could you sacrifice one you loved 
 to the cause of science?” 
 
 “Oh, yes,” was her instant response, and her face light- 
 ed up beautifully. “It is wonderful — it is most desirable 
 to be connected with science in any way ! Why, only a 
 year ago I let them use my father — ” 
 
 “If you please,” I interrupted quickly, ‘ I should like 
 to change the subject again.” 
 
 “Pll talk of something else with pleasure,” was the 
 brisk reply. “I am here to-day on business that may, 
 perhaps, be of interest to us both. Will you be so kind 
 as to tell me when you were born?” 
 
 “In June, 1816. Now will you be so kind as to tell me 
 why you wish to know?” 
 
A SCIENTIFIC COURTSHIP. 
 
 155 
 
 “To be sure. I am in search of a husband ; but there 
 are certain requirements I must insist upon — ” 
 
 “I hope I have them,” I replied promptly, for she was 
 certainly a vision of loveliness. 
 
 “I’ll be able to tell you before a great while,” she said, 
 as she began figuring on a tablet she carried. “You see 
 it was so long ago, and — oh, dear ! I wonder if you have 
 Saturn in your seventh house?” 
 
 “I did not know I had so much as one house,” I re- 
 sponded, “but this seems an age of surprises, so perhaps 
 I am richer than I thought. If I have a seventh house, 
 and Saturn is in it, and ought not to be there, I’ll cer- 
 tainly try to get him out. I feel that I could do any- 
 thing to please you,” I added, fervently. 
 
 “Why, don’t you understand?” she continued, a look 
 of perplexity on her pretty face ; “your seventh house is 
 your house of marriage — ” 
 
 “So much the better! We’ll go there at once.” 
 “How absurdly ignorant you are !” 
 
 The exclamation filled me with discomfiture. She 
 made me feel as if it were the most dreadful thing to be 
 ignorant. 
 
 “You must remember,” I said, “that — that I am very 
 old, according to your reckoning. Perhaps I am grow- 
 ing childish — ” 
 
 “Nonsense!” Her face brightened. “It is more likely 
 that you were accustomed to different ways when you 
 were alive before. 1 had forgotten for the moment. Now 
 I see that we have only to understand each other. Tell 
 me, did you not make use of the truths of science when 
 contemplating marriage?” 
 
156 
 
 A SCIENTIFIC COURTSHIP. 
 
 “No — that is — -well, no! I think we depended more 
 upon the truths of the Goddess Love/’ 
 
 “Oh, the Goddess Love! Well, you did live in the 
 dark ages! No wonder history has so much to say of 
 the crimes of those days.” 
 
 I presume I looked puzzled. Is it surprising? I 
 so disliked having her accuse me of ignorance, that I 
 couldn’t make up my mind to ask for an explanation. It 
 seemed to me it would be wiser to keep up my end of the 
 conversation as best I could and trust that light would 
 break in upon me by degrees. 
 
 “There were marriages in our day not prompted by 
 love,” I ventured, “but the general feeling was that they 
 were very dreadful.” 
 
 “And the parties were blamed?” she questioned eagerly, 
 “and held up as awful warnings?” 
 
 “Yes, I think so.” 
 
 “Well, what was the result?” 
 
 “Oh, I don’t know that there was any result ! The fact 
 is, people don’t — I mean didn’t — think of that part of it 
 very seriously. So long as they were married, everybody 
 decided to make the best of it.” 
 
 “But when they discovered that, through ignorance, 
 they had united themselves to one not of their domain — 
 what did they do then?” 
 
 “Then? Ahem! Do you mean when they discovered 
 that they were no longer in love — that they did not 
 agree?” 
 
 “That they did not agree ; that is the better term. Poor 
 things, how could they agree being in different domains? 
 But what did they do?” 
 
 “Oh, the good ones made the best of it, and went 
 
A SCIENTIFIC COURTSHIP. 157 
 
 through life together, and the bad ones got divorced and 
 were shunned by the good ones.” 
 
 “But the children?’’ 
 
 “They usually went to one of their parents or a rela- 
 tive.” 
 
 “No, no. I mean the children of the — of the good ones, 
 as you call them.” 
 
 “Why, their parents cared for them, of course.” 
 
 “You regard the matter simply from a financial point 
 of view,” she said, looking at me curiously. “I have 
 read that people did so regard everything in your day, 
 but really did not believe it. It is horrible, utterly hor- 
 rible. Didn’t these — these good ones, know that perfect 
 children could not be born into a loveless home?” 
 “Well, really, you know, I never heard the subject 
 mentioned. If you’ll excuse my saying so, I’ll explain 
 that it was not considered, well, exactly modest to talk 
 about children before they were born.” 
 
 “Not modest ! Oh, shades of Uranus ! Do you mean 
 that young people were not brought up to consider the 
 coming generation ; that babies were brought into the 
 world without preparation — ” 
 
 “Oh, not so bad as that ! I think every mother pro- 
 vided a layette.” 
 
 “Provided a layette !” It would be impossible to de- 
 scribe the tone in which she repeated my harmless state- 
 ment. Suffice it to say that it sent me into the depths of 
 humiliation. 
 
 “Did these — these good ones — actually live together, 
 knowing that they were not married?” 
 
 “Who said they were not married?” I asked indignant- 
 
158 
 
 A SCIENTIFIC COURTSHIP. 
 
 ly. “A ceremony was always performed by either a 
 preacher, priest or justice of — ” 
 
 “Oh, you mean man-married? God pays no atten- 
 tion to ties of that sort. Surely you know that. He has 
 laid out plans for us, and pointed the way so plainly that 
 we can have no excuse for going wrong.” 
 
 While she talked she had been busy with a circular 
 drawing she had made on the tablet — putting all sorts 
 of queer figures into the spaces into which she divided 
 it. Suddenly she looked at me with an air of deep dis- 
 appointment. 
 
 “I'm afraid I shall be obliged to give you up,” she said. 
 “I have Saturn in my seventh house, and you have Venus 
 afflicted by Mars, Saturn and Uranus, which shows that 
 you could not agree with the best woman that ever lived.” 
 “Oh, but you are mistaken !” I exclaimed, eagerly. “I 
 know I could agree with you. I love you, darling — ” 
 “Nonsense!” she interrupted, patting my head as if I 
 had been a child, “true love is impossible between us. I 
 have just discovered that you belong to the watery do- 
 main. Now, I am an air child. You and I could no more 
 live harmoniously than could the trout and the robin, and 
 it would be dreadful for the children.” 
 
 “I don't believe it,” I protested, choosing to ignore the 
 children. “I don't believe it for a minute. You don't 
 know me ! Listen ! I have never before seen a woman 
 who interested me in the least. Has not Heaven brought 
 us together most miraculously — ” 
 
 “Marriage and miracles are in no way related,” she re- 
 sponded curtly. 
 
 “But let me try to persuade you — ” 
 
 “My friend, I have Mars afflicting Uranus!” 
 
A SCIENTIFIC COURTSHIP. 
 
 159 
 
 “Bother ! Let him afflict. What I wish to say — ” 
 “Don’t you know what is indicated when Mars afflicts 
 Uranus?” 
 
 “Can’t say I do.” 
 
 “Well, it shows a very stubborn disposition. I warn 
 you that it is quite useless to try to talk me over. Do 
 you suppose I’d marry a man born under a sign so un- 
 congenial to my own? But do not look so unhappy. I 
 know a very nice girl, belonging to the earthly domain, 
 whom I think you will like. Earth and water get along 
 very nicely. Mud is sometimes the result, but I think 
 you’ll be able to mold her to your ideas, and that will 
 certainly be satisfactory to you, coming as you do from 
 the dark ages, where men were taught to consider them- 
 selves the superior sex.” 
 
 “In my day, also, there was match-making,” I said, 
 scornfully, “and we never had a very high opinion of the 
 match-makers. They seldom considered the question of 
 love or even preference on the part of their victims.” 
 “They were fools,” replied my guest calmly. “I’ve 
 read about them. They considered nothing except finan- 
 ces. You are deceived in your feeling for me, just as 
 thousands of your fellow beings were deceived, and all 
 because of ignorance. I, too, am pleased with you, for 
 the moment ; but I know it must be temporary, because 
 it is contrary to the great natural law for people in an- 
 tagonistic domains to love each other. I’ll tell Miss Sea- 
 mans about you — ” 
 
 “Don’t trouble yourself,” I exclaimed petulantly. “If 
 I can’t have you I don’t want anyone.” 
 
 “Don’t be absurd,” she replied. “Marriages are not 
 lotteries in these days. When you see how beautifully 
 
160 
 
 A SCIENTIFIC COURTSHIP. 
 
 science governs the marital relation, you’ll feel different- 
 
 iy.” 
 
 “When I see !” I exclaimed bitterly. “When shall I 
 see anything outside this room? I am as stiff as a poker. 
 I wonder that you do not call a doctor — ” 
 
 “Call a what?” 
 
 “A doctor.” 
 
 “What for?” 
 
 “To cure me, of course. Do you mean to tell me you 
 have no doctors?” 
 
 “I never even heard of such a thing.” 
 
 “What do you do when you are sick?” 
 
 “We are never sick, unless we have sinned, and no one 
 can cure us of that except ourselves. Why don’t you 
 commune with your sub-conscious personality?” 
 
 That was the straw that broke the camel’s back. It 
 was enough to make any man swear, and I did it vigor- 
 ously. A blue smoke arose from my lips, spelling each 
 word in fantastic letters, and when it cleared away I saw 
 that I was alone. Evidently it had been more than my 
 fair companion could stand. 
 
 “I don’t care!” I growled savagely. “I’m glad she’s 
 gone. She was crazy, without a doubt, and I should have 
 told her so long ago had she not been so very pretty.” 
 But I was destined to learn that Miss Cameron, for 
 that was the young lady’s name, was not crazy in the 
 least. What she told me was only too true, and the worst 
 of it all was that I could not have revenge on Runjeet 
 Singh, for he had given up his borrowed body soon after 
 proving his point regarding my resurrection and had 
 gone to a more congenial planet. I was told that he left 
 a memorandum for the benefit of his devotees, telling 
 
A SCIENTIFIC COURTSHIP. 
 
 161 
 
 them where he expected to be on certain dates, that there 
 might be an exchange of thought waves between them. 
 He intended visiting the moon first, then Mars. I’ve for- 
 gotten the order in which the other planets were men- 
 tioned ; but that is neither here nor there. 
 
 I had not remained alone in my helplessness a great 
 while when Miss Seamans, of the earthly domain, called 
 upon me. She seemed to me so much more beautiful than 
 Miss Cameron — bah ! — more beautiful than any woman 
 I had ever seen, that I worshipped her at once, and I 
 think I did not allow many minutes to pass before telling 
 her so. 
 
 “I think it will prove as you say,” she replied sweetly. 
 “Tm sure you’ll be glad to know that I have Jupiter in 
 the seventh house. It does grieve me, though, to know 
 that the sun is afflicted by Mars and square to Jupiter ; but 
 we’ll be happy again when we’re reunited on the other 
 side.” 
 
 “What do you mean? What is indicated when Mars 
 squares off to Jupiter, on the sun?” 
 
 “Why, don’t you know? That signifies the death of 
 my husband.” 
 
 “Oh ! Well, my dear, under the circumstances, do you 
 think it would be wise for us to marry?” 
 
 “Why not? The sun, with you, is so afflicted by the 
 malefics that your body must become uninhabitable in a 
 few years anyhow.” 
 
 It was certainly a philosophical way to look at it, and 
 I did my best to accustom myself to the thought. If I 
 had got to die anyhow, I might as well do so as the hus- 
 band of the peerless Miss Seamans, and I think I made 
 
L62 
 
 A SCIENTIFIC COURTSHIP. 
 
 myself quite clear on the subject, and not entirely unsat- 
 isfactory. 
 
 “Now,” said my affianced, “I have been told just how 
 ignorant you are, and I am going to teach you. I must 
 first teach you to cure yourself. In these days it is a re- 
 proach to be sick. Of course, you did not know that; 
 but now I have told you, you must bestir yourself at once. 
 Do you know, there is not a person among my acquaint- 
 ances under seventy-five who would think of lying abed 
 like this?” 
 
 “If they were as stiff as I am — ” 
 
 “Hush ! it will do you no good to repeat that.” 
 
 “But can’t you see that a fellow who ha-s been in one 
 position for one hundred and twentv-six years might 
 be—” 
 
 “Don’t! Please don’t!” and a dainty finger was laid 
 across my lips and two pleading brown eyes looked into 
 mine. 
 
 “All right, I won’t; but will you please tell me what I 
 may do?” 
 
 “Think what a nice long rest you’ve had ! More than 
 a hundred years of sweet dreamless sleep ! Isn’t it won- 
 derful? How thankful you should be ! But now you are 
 rested you should get up and go about your work.” 
 
 “My work!” I repeated, interrupting her enthusiastic 
 discourse. “Has that been waiting for me all these 
 years?” 
 
 “What was it you were doing?” 
 
 “I had just opened a cigar shop, and I had added a 
 fine stock of candies. You see, it would be difficult for 
 the ordinary observer to know whether the small boy 
 came to purchase candy or tobacco. There was not an- 
 
A SCIENTIFIC COURTSHIP. 
 
 163 
 
 other shop like it in the city. I had everything in my 
 own hands, and if it hadn't been for Runjeet Singh — " 
 
 “If it hadn't been for Runjeet Singh you would never 
 have known me," interrupted my charming Marguerite. 
 
 I was silenced at once. 
 
 “And now," she continued, “you must put that tobacco 
 store out of your mind, with all your other sins. You 
 are given a blessed opportunity to begin life anew, and 
 the world is crowded with worthy work that must be 
 done, for the burdens arising from the unholy marriages 
 of the last century have not yet been entirely lifted. 
 Come !" 
 
 Marguerite held out her hand, fully expecting to be 
 able to assist me to my feet ; but, although I longed to do 
 so, I could not move a muscle. 
 
 “Help me," I cried, in the abandonment of despair. 
 “For Heaven's sake, help me or kill me ! I can endure 
 this no longer." 
 
 She stooped over me, gently making passes above my 
 head. Her lips moved silently. Her very soul shone 
 from her eyes in an agony of entreaty. Five, ten, fifteen 
 minutes passed — minutes that are engraven on my soul — 
 minutes that will go with me into eternity. 
 
 “Now, come !" she said, in a low, thrilling voice that 
 seemed to start the blood moving in my shrunken veins. 
 “Come, my love ; we will go to begin life together. 
 Come !" 
 
 Shall I ever forget the lingering sweetness of that last 
 word ! It thrilled my dead bones to the marrow, and I 
 felt my sluggish heart leap within me. 
 
 “It is life !" I shouted exultantly. “My beloved, you 
 are giving me life !" 
 
164 
 
 A SCIENTIFIC COURTSHIP. 
 
 “Come,” she repeated, and again she held out her hand. 
 
 Oh, God, how I tried to take it! I strove until it 
 seemed to me that my soul was wrenching itself from its 
 tenement of clay. The agony was intense. I felt as if 
 coals of fire burned in my eye-sockets. It seemed as if 
 my entire body was a hollow cylinder, and sensitive, oh, 
 how sensitive ! and that sharp rocks of seething lava were 
 being churned within me, with a heavy, constant dash, 
 dash, that sent sharp, spluttering drops of the molten lava 
 over every quivering nerve. But I endured it bravely. 
 I am sure I did, for suffering meant life, and life meant 
 action. There was work to be done. Ah, what a priv- 
 ilege to help do it! And there was Marguerite! 
 
 “Come !” she repeated for the third time. The beau- 
 tiful hand was still extended, but the light of hope that 
 had shone in the dark eyes was slowly, slowly giving 
 place to a dreadful look of anxiety. 
 
 I struggled desperately, but I could move neither hand 
 nor foot. Not so much as the tenth part of an inch could 
 I move. With the exception of my brain I was utterly, 
 hopelessly, dead. 
 
 “Put a ten dollar gold piece on the table,” drawled a 
 cynical voice outside the window. “Tell him he can have 
 it if he will pick it up. I’m sure the spirit of the nineteenth 
 century cannot resist that.” 
 
 Marguerite went to the window. 
 
 “Who speaks?” she asked in astonishment. “I see no 
 one. If you can help us, oh, come quickly !” 
 
 Then a marvelous thing came to pass before my unac- 
 customed eyes. A puff of smoke, from a neighboring 
 chimney as I supposed, was blown through the open 
 window. It gathered, black and dense, beside my bed, 
 
A SCIENTIFIC COURTSHIP. 
 
 16 b 
 
 then grew luminous, and slowly from its shifting folds 
 there emerged the form of Runjeet Singh. Marguerite 
 gazed at him without recognition, for he had assumed 
 his old form and looked exactly as I had seen him so 
 many years before. 
 
 “It is Runjeet Singh,” I said to her, and then to him, 
 “Oh, Master ! I pray you make me as you found me.” 
 
 The shade of Runjeet Singh paid not the slightest at- 
 tention to my wail of distress, but turned to Marguerite, 
 his brilliant eyes softened by tender compassion. 
 
 “My child,” he said, “you’d better give him up. He 
 is the incarnation of the nineteenth century — material, 
 disgustingly material ! That was the age of gold, you 
 remember. Nothing was held superior to the shining 
 metal. It was believed that even Heaven might be bought 
 with gold. Imagine such a condition, if you can, and 
 you will not wonder that this poor fellow is as you see 
 him. They were all so in that day. They all suffered, as 
 he is suffering now, as he must still suffer, before they 
 softened the metallic substance in which they have en- 
 cased their soul. Why should you suffer, too, Marguer- 
 ite? It is not necessary.” 
 
 Marguerite looked at him with clear brown eyes, in 
 which the shadow of a hidden resolution was slowly tak- 
 ing shape. 
 
 “Must he bear much of such pain as this before he 
 can arise?” she asked. 
 
 “Much more, and worse.” 
 
 “But eventually he will conquer this dreadful rigidity?” 
 
 “Should he persevere he may conquer it while still in 
 the flesh. If not, he must do so when the spirit has left 
 the body, and then the pain will be no less intense.” 
 
166 
 
 A SCIENTIFIC COURTSHIP. 
 
 “Then I will stay with him, Runjeet Singh. I will en- 
 courage him, help him, love him, suffer with him if nec- 
 essary; but I will never leave him. He shall be victo- 
 rious. We shall yet know happiness together.” 
 
 Runjeet Singh looked at her searchingly, piercingiy, 
 but the sweet eyes did not waver. 
 
 “You will do it,” he muttered, “and there will be vic- 
 tory. Blessed is the man who wins the love of such a 
 woman — thrice blessed when he is worthy of it.” 
 
 The heavy cloud slowly enfolded Runjeet Singh. A 
 light breeze, wandering through the window, dispersed 
 it. Runjeet Singh was gone. 
 
 Marguerite bent over me, her face shining with hope 
 and courage. 
 
 “Come, my love,” she said ; “you have had a nice rest ; 
 now make one more effort. Never mind the pain ! See ! 
 Here is my hand; I am waiting to help you.” 
 
MR. -DILLINGHAM’S CORRESPONDENT. 
 
 167 
 
 Mr* Dillingham's Correspondent* 
 
 When Mr. and Mrs. Dillingham married, it was their 
 intention to live together. So strong was this intention 
 that it led each to incur the displeasure of near and dear 
 relatives for the sake of the other ; yet at the close of the 
 third year of their wedded life they were occupying sep- 
 arate apartments, removed from each other by nearly a 
 mile of the bustling city in which they had started to 
 build up a home. 
 
 In all probability they would never have separated, 
 except at the call of the grim reaper, had it not been 
 for the Society of Automatic Writers. Mr. Dillingham 
 had been married nearly two years when he became a 
 member of this society. His interest had been excited 
 when first he heard of it. On his return from the first 
 meeting he had attended, it had occurred to him to try 
 his own powers of passivity. Who knew but his hand 
 might become very useful to his absent friends, as an 
 organ of telepathy! 
 
 A writing tablet lay on the table beside him. He held 
 a pencil lightly over it, and became as passive as possible, 
 and waited. He was almost discouraged, and had de- 
 cided to give it up, when he felt a queer sensation along 
 his arm, and a growing numbness in his passive fingers. 
 
168 
 
 MR. DILLINGHAM’S CORRESPONDENT. 
 
 The pencil moved. He was sure that it had passed from 
 his own control. It traced long, irregular scrawls on the 
 paper, like a baby's attempt at writing. He felt that his 
 hand was controlled by another as if it were being guided 
 by one who moved it from the forearm. 
 
 Faster and faster it moved, and he could see that the 
 wavering lines were forming themselves into letters, 
 which gradually became quite distinct. When he could 
 see that words were being written, he closed his eyes, 
 that he might not, unintentionally, guide his pencil, and 
 not until his hand became quiet did he look at the paper 
 before him. It was covered with a communication in fine 
 penmanship, with sharply pointed letters, as unlike as pos- 
 sible to his own. This is what he read: 
 
 “I am interested in the published accounts of the work 
 done by the Society of Automatic Writers, and have de- 
 cided to send this thought on, hoping that it may secure 
 me a correspondent from somewhere. I am residing in 
 an English village in Simla, India. — Esther Mayo.” 
 
 Mr. Dillingham did not lose his presence of mind, but 
 immediately concentrated his will power on an effort to 
 project his thought to Simla. If he were successful, and 
 Esther Mayo could attain the proper degree of passivity, 
 she would soon be tracing words which should tell her 
 that her communication had been received, and that he 
 was most anxious to learn more concerning her. 
 
 He concluded not to go to bed until sufficient time 
 had elapsed to allow of a reply from his new correspond- 
 ent. There was not a shadow of a doubt in his mind that 
 there was such a place as Simla in India, and that a per- 
 son named Esther Mayo was living there. It pleased him 
 to imagine her to be young, pretty, and in every way at- 
 
MR. DILLINGHAM’S CORRESPONDENT. 
 
 169 
 
 tractive. While he waited, he wondered if he were in 
 duty bound to lay before the Society of Automatic Writ- 
 ers the result of his experiment and finally concluded to 
 say nothing until he had learned more of his fair corre- 
 spondent. If she were young and attractive, it would be 
 wise as well as pleasant to keep her existence a secret. 
 
 An hour passed before Mr. Dillingham felt impelled to 
 take his pencil and make himself passive. In just six 
 minutes his hand began to write, and he closed his eyes 
 until it again became motionless, then he read: 
 
 “It was a success. Thank God! Now this dreadful 
 loneliness will be less hard to bear. I am an orphan, nine- 
 teen years of age. At the death of my parents, my uncle 
 was appointed my guardian. He has squandered my 
 property, and now, when I am nearing my twenty-first 
 birthday, he desires my death, that I may take no steps to 
 bring him to justice. I have never been allowed com- 
 panionship or freedom. I have plenty to eat, plenty to 
 wear, and plenty to read ; but for three years I have been 
 a prisoner behind iron bars, on the top floor of his coun- 
 try residence a few miles from Simla. He is my only 
 relative in India. My other relatives and all my friends 
 suppose me to be dead, for so he wrote them soon after 
 bringing me here. I wish some of them could be induced 
 to join your society ; but they have not yet risen above 
 the level of those who believe nothing that is not revealed 
 to them by the evidence of their five senses. I wish you 
 would write me regularly. Shall we not give an hour 
 to each other at this time every day? — Esther Mayo.” 
 
 Is it surprising that Mr. Dillingham replied “yes” to 
 that request? It strikes me that there are few of us who, 
 having gone thus far, would not wish to go a little farther. 
 
170 
 
 MR. DILLINGHAM’S CORRESPONDENT. 
 
 Mr. Dillingham’s mistake lay in concealing his inten- 
 tions from Mrs. Dillingham. 
 
 Mr. Dillingham’s reticence was not entirely due to the 
 fact that this strange correspondent was a young lady. 
 That might have had something to do with it, but not 
 everything. Since the second month of his married life 
 Mr. Dillingham had been very careful not to tell his wife 
 anything about himself which he did not wish her mother 
 and sister to know. He firmly believed that a woman 
 was constitutionally bound to tell all she knew about her 
 husband to her nearest and dearest relatives, more espe- 
 cially if her knowledge would be likely to put him in a 
 ridiculous or unmanly light. 
 
 This opinion was first impressed on the mind of Mr. 
 Dillingham by his chancing to overhear his wife recount 
 as a “good joke” a little circumstance in which he had 
 shown himself so simple that he could never recall it with- 
 out a scarlet blush and a whispered oath. He had indig- 
 nantly taken Mrs. Dillingham to task for telling every- 
 thing she knew, and she had tearfully protested that she 
 had not for a moment supposed that he would care about 
 so trifling an afifair. He had then decided that, if she con- 
 sidered such an affair trifling, and was determined to cry 
 if not permitted to repeat all trifling affairs to her female 
 relatives, it would be wiser to keep to himself everything 
 which he was not quite willing should be classed under 
 that head. 
 
 The occult sciences were, in the mind of Mrs. Dilling- 
 ham’s mother, nothing more nor less than sly sugges- 
 tions from his satanic majesty, and the members of this 
 good lady’s family who dared to entertain opinions dif- 
 
MR. DILLINGHAM’S CORRESPONDENT. 
 
 171 
 
 ferent from her own were not in a position to enjoy un- 
 broken peace. 
 
 There were times when Mr. Dillingham sincerely re- 
 gretted that Mrs. Maybury had concluded to forgive her 
 daughter for marrying him. He said that her opinion 
 had no weight whatever, so far as he was concerned, yet 
 he was careful that she should not know how interested 
 he had become in automatic writing. Perhaps, had Mr. 
 Dillingham known why his mother-in-law entertained 
 such antipathy toward the occult sciences, he might not 
 have considered it, as he did, only one more proof of her 
 stupendous ignorance. He could not know, for she never 
 told it, that, before Mrs. Dillingham was born, she had 
 been told by a clairvoyant that she was soon to give birth 
 to a boy who would be able to live without a stomach, 
 and that he would travel with a circus, and be the means 
 of bringing her a great fortune. The good lady did not 
 want such a son, but if she must have him, and she firmly 
 believed she must, why, she wanted the money also ; and 
 so, not to be anticipated by any other mother who might 
 have such a son, she wrote at once to Barnum, asking 
 him to make her an offer. The showman, supposing the 
 child to be already born, sent an agent to investigate. 
 He arrived ten minutes after the present Mrs. Dillingham 
 came into the world. The visit was most unsatisfactory 
 to all concerned, and rendered it quite impossible for Mrs. 
 Maybury ever again to put faith in anything of that sort, 
 not emphatically endorsed by her pastor. The trouble 
 lay in her belief that the members of her family should 
 accept her opinions without having passed through the 
 experiences which led her to adopt them, or even without 
 being allowed to know of such experiences. All things 
 
172 MR. DILLINGHAM’S CORRESPONDENT. 
 
 considered, it is not to be wondered at that Mr. Dilling- 
 ham decided to say nothing about Esther Mayo ; yet, as 
 I have said, it would have been wiser had he not done so. 
 
 During the next few weeks, Mr. Dillingham’s habits 
 were astonishingly regular. No matter where he might 
 be spending his evening, or how much he might be en- 
 joying himself, he always excused himself in time to be 
 at home at eleven o’clock. He then told his wife that he 
 had work to do, and wished to be alone, and ten minutes 
 later he would be seated beside his library table, his pencil 
 in his hand, and his writing tablet open before him. 
 
 Every communication from Esther Mayo had been 
 carefully preserved. On the lower left hand corner of 
 each he had written the date of its arrival. On several, 
 he had made a note of the thought he had sent in reply, 
 and not a few of these thoughts were of an extremely 
 ardent nature. Mr. Dillingham liked to read them over 
 and over again, and try to imagine how the lovely Esther 
 looked when her hand penned such and such a message. 
 
 ‘Til bet she blushed, here,” he would say to himself, 
 “and this brought the smiles to her lips ! I shouldn’t be 
 surprised if this made her a little spunky, and like as not 
 she threw the paper down and set her pretty foot upon 
 it ; but when she received this she knew, of course, that 
 I was only joking. I wonder if she was pleased when I 
 told her that I loved her? I wish she could be persuaded 
 t© answer a direct question. What a coy little creature 
 she must be !” 
 
 As may be seen, Mr. Dillingham’s correspondent gave 
 him abundant food for reflection, and was a source of 
 great happiness. 
 
 > Thoughts of what she had last written and what he 
 
MR. DILLINGHAM’S CORRESPONDENT. 
 
 173 
 
 should next say filled his mind so completely that he 
 could give his attention to little else. His friends watched 
 him anxiously, fearing that he was about to become the 
 victim of some disorder of the brain. Fred Maybury, his 
 wife’s brother, even went so far as to question him about 
 his symptoms, but to every question Mr. Dillingham re- 
 plied that he had never been so well in his life. He was 
 particularly short in his replies to Fred, for once during 
 the process of questioning that young man had asked 
 him if he were not subject to strange hallucinations, and 
 had advised him to go to bed at half past ten every night. 
 He had said this with a meaning expression of his bright, 
 black eyes that had made Mr. Dillingham strangely nerv- 
 ous. If Fred had not been the son of his mother, with 
 her opinions firmly engrafted on his mind, he would 
 have been tempted to think that his brother-in-law had 
 not been in earnest when he had expressed his contempt 
 for the occult sciences, and that he was not unaware of 
 the truths demonstrated by the Society of Automatic 
 Writers. It made Mr. Dillingham quite sick when the 
 thought came to him that perhaps Fred also was in com- 
 munication with Esther Mayo. He had no proof that he 
 was her only correspondent. He had asked her, repeat- 
 edly, whether she wrote to anyone else ; but she always 
 evaded this, as she did all other questions. There were 
 times when he was tempted to believe that his thought 
 did not reach her at all ; but her next communication 
 was sure to convince him that he was wrong. Of one 
 thing he was certain, there was no doubt that the charm- 
 ing Esther had given her fresh young heart into his keep- 
 ing. The thought afforded him as much pleasure as pain. 
 If it had not been for Anna, his wife — but it was for 
 
174 
 
 MR. DILLINGHAM’S CORRESPONDENT. 
 
 Anna ! Mr. Dillingham did not want to desert Anna ; he 
 did not want to lose her love ; he did not want her to feel 
 that he was deserving of reproach ; he did want things to 
 go on, so far as he and she were concerned, just as they 
 had been going on — but if it were not for Anna, he knew 
 that he should go at once to the rescue of Esther. He 
 spent many pleasant hours in thinking out the details of 
 a trip to India, of his meeting with Esther, of their flight 
 together, and of their prosecution of the unfeeling uncle. 
 He never got much farther than this in his day dreams. 
 Sometimes he would think of himself in foreign lands 
 with Esther ; but even in the most daring flights of his 
 imagination he could not bring his fair correspondent to 
 America — the home of Anna and Anna’s relatives. 
 
 In an evil moment Mr. Dillingham went to a clairvoy- 
 ant, hoping that she might be able to tell him something 
 more about Esther than he could glean from her letters. 
 He had never believed in clairvoyance, and had unhes- 
 itatingly proclaimed his idea that anyone who pretended 
 to be able to look into the future was a fraud and a liar. 
 He would have added “and possessed of the devil” had 
 he not known that such an admission would give Mrs. 
 Maybury great joy, and he said that he was not sent into 
 this world to add to the pleasure of his mother-in-law. 
 He studiously refrained from doing anything whatsoever 
 which might go to show that he had mistaken his mission 
 in life regarding that individual. 
 
 It is but a step from one branch of the mysterious to 
 another, and any one who had known that Mr. Dilling- 
 ham had become a member of the Society of Automatic 
 Writers would not have hesitated to stake a large sum 
 of money on the assertion that he, notwithstanding his 
 
MR. DILLINGHAM’S CORRESPONDENT. 
 
 175 
 
 sneers at clairvoyance, would within six months be stand- 
 ing knocking for admission at the door of a clairvoyant. 
 They would not have lost their money. Mr. Dillingham 
 chose a clairvoyant living on the outskirts of the city, 
 that he might be as far as possible from the streets fre- 
 quented by his acquaintances. He did not wish to be 
 seen standing at the door of such a person. He glanced 
 hastily around to make sure that he had not been fol- 
 lowed; but he failed to see the familiar form of his 
 brother-in-law hiding behind a tree on the opposite side 
 of the street. 
 
 “My dear sir,” said the clairvoyant, when, at last, he 
 found himself seated opposite her in a little closet-like 
 room, “I see crape on your hat. There will be a death 
 in your family before very long. I think it will be your 
 wife.” 
 
 “How soon?” asked Mr. Dillingham, faintly. He had 
 not thought to hear anything like this, and he wished he 
 had not come. 
 
 “In about a year, I should say,” replied the clairvoyant. 
 
 “Are you sure it is my wife? May it not be my mother- 
 in-law? She has rheumatism — ” 
 
 “It is not your mother-in-law. I see that lady plainly. 
 She is large and strong. She will live many years yet, 
 and she will not desert you ; but you will not have your 
 wife long.” 
 
 The clairvoyant then proceeded to give Mr. Dilling- 
 ham an idea of his own characteristics. He had thought 
 that he knew himself pretty well ; but she succeeded in 
 impressing him with the belief that he was a great deal 
 better fellow than he had supposed himself to be; but 
 that he had not yet been well understood. There was 
 
176 
 
 MR. DILLINGHAM’S CORRESPONDENT 
 
 something within himself that told him she had hit it ex- 
 actly. She ended by assuring him that he was destined 
 to be rich, honored, happy, famous, and beloved by his 
 countrymen, and he paid her a dollar and left without 
 having heard one word about Esther Mayo. Indeed, it 
 must be said to his credit that the news that he was so 
 soon to lose his wife had driven all thought of Esther 
 from his mind for the moment. 
 
 Mr. Dillingham did not want his wife to die. He could 
 not be surer of anything than he was of that, and when 
 he got back to his office he buried his face in his hands 
 and wept bitterly at the thought of the great bereavement 
 in store for him. He was so busily engaged in this, to 
 him, unusual exercise, that he failed to hear his door 
 open and close again, and did not know that he was not 
 alone until he heard the voice of his brother-in-law. 
 
 “My stars !” exclaimed Fred, in undisguised astonish- 
 ment. “What can ail the man?” 
 
 Mr. Dillingham raised his head quickly, and tried to 
 look as if he had been overcome with amusement. 
 
 “You here, Fred?” he said, with a pitiful attempt at 
 nonchalance. “I have laughed over this ridiculous letter 
 until I have actually cried. It is the funniest thing I ever 
 read in my life.” As he spoke he caught up a letter which 
 had been lying idle on the desk, and shoved it into the 
 envelope ; but not before the quick-eyed Fred had seen 
 that it was from a business acquaintance who could not 
 have written anything funny if he would, and would not 
 if he could. 
 
 “Let’s hear it,” he said. “It isn’t fair for you to keep 
 all the good things to yourself.” 
 
 “It has something to do with his private affairs,” replied 
 
MR. DILLINGHAM’S CORRESPONDENT. 
 
 171 
 
 Mr. Dillingham, evasively, “and I am not at liberty to 
 show it now. You shall see it later on. Won't you be 
 seated, Fred?” 
 
 “No, thanks; can't stay but a moment. Say, old chap, 
 let's go to the meeting of the Society of Automatic Writ- 
 ers, to-night. I have an acquaintance who is a member, 
 and I'm sure I can get him to give us cards.” 
 
 Mr. Dillingham was struck dumb with amazement, and, 
 in the few seconds that elapsed before he regained his 
 speech, he did a great deal of thinking. He could not go 
 to the meeting with Fred, for then that young man would 
 discover that he was a member of the society, and that 
 was precisely what he did not want any member of his 
 wife's family to know. He felt that he must do every- 
 thing in his power to prevent Fred from going at all, 
 but he must not arouse that young man's suspicions by 
 appearing over anxious. If Fred should go, there was no 
 knowing but that he might become so infatuated as to join 
 the society himself, which would, of course, prevent Mr. 
 Dillingham's further attendance. And even a hasty with- 
 drawal from the society, before Fred should be admitted, 
 might not prevent that young man from discovering that 
 he had been a member. These thoughts, and many more 
 of a like nature, flitted through Mr. Dillingham's mind 
 during that short period of silence. Meanwhile Fred 
 watched him narrowly. 
 
 “Well,” he said finally, “do you agree to go?” 
 
 “What would your mother say?” inquired Mr. Dilling- 
 ham, gravely. 
 
 “She need know nothing about it; neither need Anna. 
 I don't see why we should consider ourselves bound to 
 tell them everything we know, do you?” 
 
178 
 
 MR. DILLINGHAM’S CORRESPONDENT 
 
 “No,” said Mr. Dillingham, thoughtfully, “perhaps 
 not.” Then he recovered himself. “The fact is,” he said, 
 “I should not like to have my wife go to a place of that 
 sort.” It had suddenly occurred to Mr. Dillingham that 
 the wisest way for him was to assume a tone of high 
 morality, even bordering on austerity. He could do that 
 well, especially in the presence of those younger than 
 himself. Fred was nearly ten years younger, and besides 
 he had no father. Mr. Dillingham felt that now was the 
 time for him to show a fatherly interest in his brother- 
 in-law. 
 
 “Well,” resumed Fred, somewhat impatiently, “I did 
 not say anything about Anna's going, did I?” 
 
 “No; but the idea is this: have I a right to do that 
 which I should not care to have her do — worse yet, which 
 I should not care to have her know?” 
 
 “Fudge and nonsense! Do you mean to tell me that 
 you carry that thought into your daily life?” 
 
 “I mean to tell you that I try to,” replied Mr. Dilling- 
 ham, in a tone of conscious propriety. 
 
 Mr. Dillingham would have choked over this statement 
 had he not just returned from a clairvoyant who had told 
 him that he never did a thing which he would not care 
 to have the world know. Since learning how very soon 
 he was to be called upon to bury his wife, he had resolved 
 to do nothing to displease her, and he quieted his con- 
 science with the thought that he had used the word “try” 
 in present time. 
 
 “Oh, well,” said Fred, carelessly, “if you feel like that 
 about it, I'll say no more. I hate to go alone, however.” 
 “Why do you go? Fred, let me ask you to change 
 your mind about it. Let me persuade you for the sake of 
 
MR. DILLINGHAM’S CORRESPONDENT. 
 
 179 
 
 your dear old mother. It would grieve her and do you 
 no good.” 
 
 “I am not so sure about that,” returned Fred. “I’ve 
 been reading up in spiritualism and hypnotism and psych- 
 ical research, and all that stuff, and I begin to think that 
 a fellow can get great fun in that line. Did you ever go 
 to a clairvoyant, George?” 
 
 The question was sudden, but Mr. Dillingham was 
 equal to the emergency. 
 
 “Fred,” he said, gravely, “I thought you had a better 
 opinion of me than to ask a question like that. Do you 
 think I have taken leave of my common sense?” 
 
 “That doesn’t follow, in my opinion. I know ever so 
 many fellows who have been, and who have quite as much 
 common sense as the rest of us. Honest, now, George, 
 have you not been?” 
 
 “I have not.” 
 
 Mr. Dillingham told the lie with a steady voice, but 
 his face reddened uncomfortably, and he kept his eyes on 
 the paper knife with which he was playing. 
 
 “Hum! hum-hum!” Fred cleared his throat with im- 
 pudent emphasis, in the opinion of the guilty Mr. Dilling- 
 ham. “Well,” he said, “I must be going. If I attend the 
 meeting to-night, shall I tell you what I hear?” 
 
 “As you like,” returned Mr. Dillingham, with well- 
 assumed indifference. 
 
 Mr. Dillingham was so unnerved after Fred’s call that 
 he could not turn his attention to his work. He longed 
 to go home and take his Anna in his arms, and tell her 
 how dearly he loved her, and how unhappy he should be 
 without her. All the tenderness of the days of his court- 
 ship had been brought back by his fear that he was about 
 
180 
 
 MR. DILLINGHAM’S CORRESPONDENT. 
 
 to lose her. At last he could no longer withstand the 
 influence which was urging him homeward, and, donning 
 hat and overcoat, he was soon unlocking the door of his 
 house. Anna was not at the door to meet him. She did 
 not come bounding down the stairs, as had always been 
 her custom, when she heard him enter the hall at an un- 
 usual hour. She was not in the parlor with guests or in 
 the sitting room with her fancy work, or in her boudoir 
 with a headache. She was in the library. When Mr. 
 Dillingham looked into that room he saw her there, and 
 her mother sat close beside her. They had found the 
 communications from Esther Mayo. They had discussed 
 them. Anna’s eyes were red and swollen with weeping. 
 Mrs. Maybury glared at her son-in-law when he entered 
 the room, and he thought that her eyes had never more 
 closely resembled those of an incensed cat, although he 
 had always considered the resemblance striking. 
 
 “Mr. Dillingham,” said Mrs. Maybury, icily, “will you 
 oblige me by explaining these letters?” 
 
 “Madam,” he replied, “will you oblige me by telling 
 me by what right you go to my private desk.” 
 
 “By the right of a mother, sir ! By the God-given right 
 of a mother, who cares more for her daughter’s happi- 
 ness than for her own peace of mind.” 
 
 There was a grandiloquence about this statement that 
 staggered Mr. Dillingham for a moment. His usual 
 mode of warfare with his mother-in-law was to let her 
 alone as much as possible. He fiad learned that he could 
 incense her terribly, and preserve his own dignity, by 
 ignoring her completely at those times when she was 
 most determined to reduce him to a state of abjection. 
 
MR. DILLINGHAM’S CORRESPONDENT. 
 
 181 
 
 He paid no further attention to her, now, but turned to 
 his wife.” 
 
 “Anna,” he said, “when you can give me a few mo- 
 ments alone, I will endeavor to satisfy your curiosity.” 
 “What you have to say,” sobbed Anna, “must be said 
 before my mother.” 
 
 “She will need witness—” began Mrs. Maybury. 
 
 “What in thunder — ” interrupted Mr. Dillingham, 
 grasping his wife by the shoulders. 
 
 “Take care, sir,” exclaimed Mrs. Maybury. “Would 
 you add cruelty to the list of your other offenses?” 
 
 “I am — go — going to — to get — a — di-v-o-r-c-e !” 
 sobbed Anna. “I — I can’t live — live with a man — f mean 
 a f-f-fiend — fiend who loves — loves ano-t-h-e-r.” 
 
 “Fiddlesticks !” exclaimed Mr. Dillingham, “you don’t 
 know what you are talking about.” 
 
 “Oh, of course not!” exclaimed Mrs. Maybury, with 
 intense sarcasm. “And such sweet little notes as this 
 can tell her nothing. 'Dear George, my life is bound up 
 in yours. I never knew happiness before, and it is sweet, 
 sweet V To which I see you replied as follows — ” 
 
 “Drop that !” thundered Mr. Dillingham. 
 
 “To which you replied,” continued the old lady, “ 'Your 
 last letter, my darling Esther — ’ ” 
 
 “Hold your tongue, madam, or leave this house.” 
 
 “ 'My darling Esther, your last sweet communication 
 gives me unspeakable pleasure. My heart — ’ ” 
 
 At this point, Mr. Dillingham gently, but firmly, led his 
 mother-in-law to the door, pushed her out into the hall, 
 and locked the door behind her. Then he turned once 
 more to his weeping wife who, but a few moments before, 
 
182 
 
 MR. DILLINGHAM’S CORRESPONDENT. 
 
 he had longed to take in nis arms. He did not feel quite 
 so lover-like now. 
 
 “Anna,” he said, “I hope you will realize the extent of 
 your own folly when I tell you that I wrote all those let- 
 ters myself.” 
 
 “Why, George Dillingham, what an awful lie ! What 
 you have been doing is bad enough — but to lie about it ! 
 Oh, my, what is going to come from all this ! I wish I 
 were dead !” 
 
 Mr. Dillingham was about to reply that he echoed the 
 wish, but he suddenly remembered how short a time she 
 had to live, and his heart grew tender again. 
 
 “Anna, my dear little girl — ” 
 
 “Don’t dear — little — girl me ! I hate you !” 
 
 “But you must let me explain. Can’t you see that the 
 paper on which these notes are written has been torn from 
 my writing tablet? See here, dear! Don’t you see how 
 nicely they fit? That ought to convince you of the truth 
 of what I am saying.” 
 
 “George Dillingham, do you think I am such a fool as 
 to imagine that there are no writing tablets of this size, 
 except yours?” 
 
 “But if I should show you that there is a note for every 
 leaf torn from — ” 
 
 “I should know,” interrupted his wife, “that you had 
 answered every note you received.” 
 
 “But, Anna, can you not see that these sheets have 
 never been folded to fit an envelope? See, there are no 
 creases in them.” 
 
 “I presume you have ironed them out. A man who can 
 write such letters to a woman not his wife, is capable of 
 anything.” 
 
A TWENTIETH CENTURY ROMANCE. 
 
 183 
 
 “Mrs. Dillingham, you shall hear my explanation. 
 I — ” 
 
 “Mr. Dillingham, I have just received a letter which 
 makes any explanation on your part quite unnecessary.” 
 “A letter ! What — what — who — ” 
 
 “I found one of your darling Esther’s loving notes on 
 the floor several days ago, and sent it to a man who reads 
 character from handwriting.” 
 
 “Ah !” Mr. Dillingham spoke the word as ironically 
 as possible ; but, notwithstanding the cutting sarcasm of 
 his wife’s words, he was greatly interested in what she 
 had said. He hoped she would tell him what she had 
 learned. 
 
 “Yes,” continued Mrs. Dillingham, “I know all about 
 it.” She drew a letter from her pocket, and began to 
 read : “ 'She is a sprightly brunette (you have always pro- 
 fessed not to like brunettes), a heartless flirt, a girl who 
 does not hesitate to break up a home when prompted by 
 her love of admiration, a girl whose vanity can not be 
 satisfied with the homage of less than a dozen men at a 
 time. She wins hearts just for the pleasure of breaking 
 them.’ And this, George Dillingham, is the sort of girl 
 whom you prefer to your own wife !” 
 
 Mrs. Dillingham was so overcome by her emotions that 
 she could no longer remain in the presence of her hus- 
 band. She rushed from the room and flung herself into 
 the arms of her mother, who was seated as close as pos- 
 sible to the keyhole. 
 
 That very night Mrs. Dillingham left her husband’s 
 house and took rooms near her mother, and Mr. Dilling- 
 ham was left to nurse his grief and rage in solitude. He 
 no longer cared how soon his Anna died. He even went 
 
184 
 
 MR. DILLINGHAM’S CORRESPONDENT. 
 
 so far as to say that the sooner she died the better pleased 
 he should be ; but that was when he was very angry. He 
 allowed his thoughts to dwell with Esther almost con- 
 tinually, and at last he decided that, with her, he could 
 find balm for all his woes. She would give him love, sym- 
 pathy, peace. She would understand him as no one else 
 had ever done, and, best of all, she had no relatives, ex- 
 cept the old uncle whom he would very soon place behind 
 iron bars. He did not believe one word about her being 
 a flirt. He was willing to believe that she was a brunette 
 and fascinating, but not that she won hearts only to break 
 them. How could he believe that after reading her let- 
 ters? Did he not know that she was much more deeply 
 in love with him than he was with her? Had she not been 
 the first to make advances? And she had made the ad- 
 vances, not because she was a flirt, but because she was 
 a dear unsophisticated young girl, who had given her 
 loving heart into his keeping. Mr. Dillingham begged 
 leave to flatter himself that he knew enough about human 
 nature — more especially girl nature — to be able to tell 
 that. 
 
 Mr. Dillingham told his partner that he needed a vaca- 
 tion, and thought of taking one. The partner replied that 
 he had not been acting like himself of late, and that he 
 thought it would be a good thing. Mr. Dillingham then 
 dismissed all of his servants but the housekeeper, whom 
 he placed in charge of the house for an indefinite time. 
 He told her that he needed a vacation, and should not 
 return until he felt better. He sent word to his wife that 
 she could go ahead with her suit for divorce ; that he did 
 not intend to contest it. He bought a ticket for India, 
 and in thirty-six hours from the time his wife left him, 
 
MR. DILLINGHAM’S CORRESPONDENT. 
 
 185 
 
 he had completed his arrangements for the voyage. He 
 expected to start the next day, and decided to spend his 
 last evening in his library, writing to Esther. He must 
 prepare her for a long visit, and get a few directions from 
 her which would enable him to find her without the loss 
 of one precious moment. He was nervously trying to 
 busy himself during the hour which must elapse before he 
 could hope to receive a communication from her, when 
 he was disturbed by the entrance of the housekeeper, with 
 a note. It was from his mother-in-law, and bade him 
 come at once, for Anna was dying, and wanted him. 
 
 Once more Esther was forgotten. He hastened to the 
 bedside of his Anna, although he could not hope to get 
 back in time to receive a communication from Esther. 
 
 Anna had attempted to end her life by taking an over- 
 dose of arsenic, and when Mr. Dillingham arrived he 
 found the family physician relieving her of the poison by 
 the energetic and unromantic measures usually employed 
 in such cases. After an hour of dreadful suspense, he 
 told the frightened family that Anna was out of danger. 
 He then took his leave, after promising to call again on 
 the next day. 
 
 “Now,” said Fred, somewhat severely, “I want to know 
 what this is all about. Why did Anna take poison? Why 
 is she not at her own home?” 
 
 “Did you not know,” replied his mother, “that that 
 wretch,” pointing to the unhappy Mr. Dillingham, “that 
 flint-hearted, base, deceiving wretch has been correspond- 
 ing with another woman?” 
 
 Fred's boyish face showed a great deal of intense, but 
 badly mixed, feeling when he heard the news. It was 
 quite evident that it affected him strangely. 
 
186 
 
 MR. DILLINGHAM’S CORRESPONDENT. 
 
 “Who is she?” he asked, excitedly. 
 
 “Her name is Esther Mayo. She is a brunette of 
 nineteen, a vain, heartless, fascinating flirt, who does not 
 hesitate to break up the happiest family.” 
 
 “How do you know all this, mother?” Fred looked 
 almost indignant, and his mother mistrusted, at once, that 
 he, too, knew Esther Mayo. Mr. Dillingham was watch- 
 ing Fred closely, and his former suspicions were now 
 confirmed. Anna was out of danger, and he felt almost 
 sorry that he had lost the opportunity of corresponding 
 with Esther that night. 
 
 “How do I know?” repeated the mother, “look at this 
 letter, and see for yourself.” 
 
 Fred read the letter, and the puzzled expression on his 
 face intensified. 
 
 “Where did it come from?” he asked. 
 
 “From Signor Fontanelli. At my request Anna sent 
 him a specimen of Esther’s handwriting.” 
 
 “But, mother, I thought you had no faith in people of 
 that sort.” 
 
 “In desperate cases one must use desperate measures,” 
 replied Mrs. Maybury somewhat ambiguously, “and even 
 I am obliged to admit that Signor Fontanelli is quite re- 
 markable.” 
 
 “I don’t see why. You don’t know that he has told a 
 word of truth about this young lady.” 
 
 “Reason tells me, and ought to tell you, that he has 
 spoken the truth. Fred, is it possible that you, too, have 
 become interested in that unprincipled female?” 
 
 “I am afraid it is possible,” replied Fred with a crimson 
 face. “Not only possible but more than probable.” In- 
 stantly, three pairs of eyes were fixed eagerly on his. 
 
MR. DILLINGHAM’S CORRESPONDENT. 
 
 187 
 
 "Is it true?” asked Anna, pointing to the letter which 
 
 he still held. 
 
 "This letter? Not one word of it, my dear sister/' 
 
 Mr. Dillingham breathed a sigh of relief. He was glad 
 to know that Esther was not a heartless flirt. 
 
 "Yet she writes love letters to a married man, at the 
 same time that she is receiving the attentions of a young 
 man,” said Mrs. Maybury. "You are infatuated* Fred, 
 and therefore your judgment in this matter is entirely 
 worthless.” 
 
 "Anna,” said Fred, earnestly, "I am awfully sorry this 
 thing has gone so far. Had I not supposed that you and 
 George had the greatest confidence in each other, I 
 should never have done it.” 
 
 "Done what?” demanded Mr. Dillingham. A horrible 
 fear was tugging at his heart. 
 
 "Never tried to get a mental influence over you,” re- 
 plied Fred, boldly. Then he turned again to his sister. 
 "Anna,” he said, "I presume you will find it difficult to 
 believe — I mean what I am about to say — but you know 
 I have never deceived you.” 
 
 "I trust you, Fred, my dear, dear brother,” replied 
 Anna, with touching tearfulness. 
 
 "Well, then, try to believe that it is possible for one 
 person to influence another to write his thoughts. I had 
 been a member of the Society of Automatic Writers for 
 more than two years before George joined — ” 
 
 "You a member — ” stammered Mr. Dillingham. 
 
 "Yes, my dear boy,” replied Fred. "When you joined, 
 I kept out to watch developments.” 
 
 "Do you mean,” asked Anna, "that George did actually 
 write those letters himself?” 
 
188 
 
 MR. DILLINGHAM’S CORRESPONDENT. 
 
 “I do.” 
 
 “He told me so, but I could not believe it.” 
 
 “And Esther Mayo prompted them?” asked Mrs. May- 
 bury, who feared that her son-in-law was about to get off 
 too easily. 
 
 “Esther Mayo prompted them,” replied Fred. 
 
 “And you know Esther Mayo,” asked Anna. 
 
 “I ought to,” replied Fred, “for I am Esther Maya. 
 If you had not been blind and stupid, you would have 
 seen that the writing is almost exactly like mine.” 
 
 “Fred,” gasped Mr. Dillingham, “were you able to get 
 my thoughts?” 
 
 “No, I couldn’t get a word, although I tried again and 
 again.” 
 
 “Thank God !” breathed Mr. Dillingham, but no one 
 heard him. 
 
 The excitement w r as too great for Anna, and she fainted. 
 Mrs. Maybury sent every one from the room, saying that 
 her dear child must not be disturbed again that night. 
 Mr. Dillingham concluded to spend the remainder of the 
 night at his own home. He had a great deal of thinking 
 to do, and wanted to be at home, where he would be un- 
 disturbed. Fred insisted on accompanying him. 
 
 “I know a man,” said Fred, “who is about to start for 
 India. I think you can sell him your ticket. There is no 
 need of Anna knowing anything about that, you know.” 
 
 “No,” replied Mr. Dillingham, meekly. Then, after a 
 moment’s silence, “Fred, I wish you would sell this con- 
 founded ticket for me.” 
 
Sir Jefferson Nobody 
 
 Is the title of Effie W. Merriman’s new book for boys. 
 Like “The Street Arab Series’"’ it teaches that boys may 
 be gentlemen in the highest sense of the term, even if not 
 born wealthy. The hero of this story, Jeff, or Sir 
 Jefferson Nobody, as he called himself, had no recollec- 
 tion of his parents, or of a time when he was not obliged 
 to look out for himself. A street boy, making the best of 
 life as he found it, he was merry, cheerful, loving and 
 lovable, and no boy can read this story of his life without 
 gaining the useful lesson taught between the lines, but 
 never put into words. Sir Jefferson Nobody is, without 
 doubt, the best and strongest character to be found in this 
 author’s juvenile stories. Tie is decidedly original, and 
 will not easily be forgotten. 
 
 Mrs. Merriman is an idealist, of whom one critic has 
 said, “Her stories are like giving a child a certificate of 
 good character and expecting him to live up to it.” It 
 is a characteristic that appeals to mothers, especially now 
 when they are beginning to see that, to describe the fault 
 and then warn the child against it, is not so wise as to 
 make him forget the bad in contemplating the good. — Pp. 
 275; cloth; price $1.25. Published by A. C. McClurg 
 & Co., Chicago, 111 . For sale by The Franklin Taylor 
 Pub. Co., Box 376, Minneapolis, Minn. 
 
The Street Arab Series 
 
 comprises three books for boys, entitled respectively, 
 “Pards,” “A Queer Family,” and ‘The Little Millers. 1 ” 
 The first book, “Pards,” was written at a time when the 
 “Little Lord Fauntleroy” style of boy was most popular, 
 and its purpose was to show that the little street boy 
 possessed quite as many attractive and desirable qualities 
 as those more fortunately placed by birth. This book, the 
 author’s first, was accepted by the first publisher to whom 
 it was submitted, and two more were asked for to com- 
 plete the set. Then followed “A Queer Family” and 
 “The Little Millers” in the order named. 
 
 These books have won a place for themselves in the 
 heart of every child so fortunate as to possess them. The 
 entire set can be had, neatly boxed, for three dollars, or 
 the volumes may be bought, separately, at one dollar 
 each. — Cloth ; illustrated. Published by Lee & Shepard, 
 Boston, Mass. For sale by Franklin Taylor Pub. Co., 
 Box 376, Minneapolis, Minn. 
 
MOLLIE FILLER 
 
 —AND— 
 
 t pe ©onw/iys. 
 
 While these two books are really intended for girls, 
 they will be found equally interesting to boys, for boys 
 take quite a prominent part in their pages. “Mollie 
 Miller” was written by request of many readers who had 
 not become sufficiently acquainted with the little heroine 
 in ‘The Little Millers,” of which this book is a sequel. 
 
 “The Conways” tells of a band of merry cousins, whose 
 mischief brightens the book from the first cover to the 
 last. 
 
 The young people in both these books are full of life 
 and mischief, not at all “goody-goody,” but full of good 
 impulses. They are just the sort of young people a 
 mother would be willing to have her children know. 
 
 The books are nicely illustrated, and well bound in 
 cloth. They may be had for $1.25 each. Published by 
 Lee & Shepard, Boston, Mass. For sale by The Franklin 
 Taylor Pub. Co., Box 376, Minneapolis, Minn. 
 
Are You Interested in Any Branch 
 
 of 
 
 LITERARY WORK? 
 
 THE 
 
 EDITOR 
 
 Can help you to 
 
 %*t ^SUCCESS V* 
 
 Send 6 cents in stamps for sample copy and 
 full particulars. 
 
 THE EDITOR, 
 
 Franklin, 
 
 Ohio.