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THE WARNING
33
mercy for her in that heart, there wo uld be none anywhere on earth.
What, then, was left for such a one as she? What did one do? — the river ! That was what one did. She had thought it silly, melodramatic; she knew now. It was the only thing one could do. It seemed a shame to defile this little, rushing, gladsome river with such an ugly thing as death. Her feet halted an instant on the little bridge. How many times she had skated on it, canoed on it, bathed in it — this playful stream. Well, she would bathe in it now. Perchance it would be merciful, at least, and wash away her sins. She felt herself falling, falling — She heard a voice in her ears and shrieked aloud. How it hurt, falling into water ! had always supposed
"Dorothy — Dorothy!" What was that voice haunting her even in death? The roaring of the river in
her ears? She opened her eyes
She was on the ground; the appletree was raining its fragrant shower on her. She had dreamed, and Donald Crisp had waked her, calling
DONALD YOU YOU COULDN'T.'
She
her name across the field. She stumbled to her feet dizzily and ran to the house like some hunted thing. "Mother!" she called, as she dashed into the kitchen and threw herself at the astounded woman, "mother, mother, here comes Mr. Crisp. G-go tell him never to come here again as long as he lives — never, never, never!"
Picture Plays
By HARVEY PEAKE
ee the fascinating plays,
Picture plays! How their humor and their pathos
Charm us in a hundred ways! How their awe-compelling motion!
As we watch them on the screens, Fills us with a strange emotion, And gives us a passing notion
That we're seeing real scenes! How they gleam, gleam, gleam, In a never ending stream, And catch the fleeting fancy
Of the endless crowd that goes To the shows, shows, shows, shows,
Shows, shows, shows, To the wonder-working Motioa Picture shows!