Photoplay (Apr - Sep 1918)

Laurel had been the crown of her father's latter days, and had shared with him his highest hopes and his greatest ambitions. AS the vestal guards the urn wherein burns steadily the sacred flame, so keep thou unremitting vigil o'er the Light within — the clear white flame of Conscience, of Duty, and of High Ideals." "You were well-named 'Laurel,' my dear." These were Dr. Carlisle's last words. The famous bacteriologist had shared with his talented daughter his highest hopes, his greatest ambitions, and the success which had come with the glory of achievement. And now, on his death-bed, he urged her to carry on alone the campaign against the insidious germs that destroy life. Laurel had been the crown of her father's latter days, and she determined, after his death, to devote her life to the work he had left unfinished. With her clear brain, her capacity for work, and her untiring spirit in the face of bitter disappointment, Laurel soon established herself as her father's successor; and the hours spent each day in her laboratory were happy hours indeed. They filled the need of her creative nature and The LIGHT WITHIN Laurel and Leslie kept faith 'with themselves and with each other — and won out By Beulah Livingstone her passionate desire to help humanity; and they helped her to forget that she was the wife of Clinton Durand. Durand — whose suavity and worldly goods served to mask his innate selfishness, his superb egoism. Durand, who took a kind of fiendish delight in subtle and refined cruelties towards his talented wife. To him she was a silly creature who frivolled her time "puttering over darnfool cultures in little messy tubes," when she might better have been arranging his dinner parties. The world knew Durand as an exceedingly wealthy and charming gentleman — one who lavished his fortune on his wife and child. But the world did not know of the cutting insults which hurt Laurel all the more because the rapier was highly polished and jewelled. It did not know of his hatred of his wife's success and recognition in the world as a worker. And the world never guessed, either, of his jealousy of Donald, the little son, who obeyed his father and respected him, but who gave to his mother all the love in his baby heart. Donald was just six — such a handsome, sturdy little lad — when Laurel's big chance came. Her first big chance — to give to the world the result of her years of experimental research. An unusually virulent form of infantile paralysis had broken out, and the usual antitoxin had but little effect. For years Laurel had worked on a curative serum; and now, during the plague, she concentrated on perfecting it. She experimented on white mice and guinea pigs until, at last, she began to see the light; and straightway reported her progress to Dr. Leslie. Richard Leslie had many times encouraged her when things looked darkest; so she was eager for his commendation, his enthusiastic co-operation. In the laboratory of the Children's Hospital where they often worked together, she told him. Of course he congratulated her; shared her glowing faith in her experiments. And then — his hand, over a test tube, touched hers, quite by accident. And she knew that the thrill that came to her was not altogether due to scientific achievement. He spoke her name, "Laurel." And she remembered that he was called "Richard." That was all. But when they journeyed together through the public wards, Laurel's arms laden with picture-books and dolls for the poor little waifs, there was a beautiful spirit of comradeship between them, beyond which, by tacit agreement then never ventured.