Motion Picture Magazine (Feb-Jul 1919)

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Send 20 cts. silver or stamps for miniature bottle. /!» ^ tb*dc mash oeoiBTeneo , ^sieger* ffoworDrops The above comes in less concentrated (usual perfume) form at $1.25 an ounce at druggists or by mail, with two new odors, "Mon Amour," "GardenQueen," both very fine. Send $1.00 for souvenir box, five 25c bottles same size as picture, different odors. Ask your druggist — he knows there is no better perfume liikdb. Bottle 20 RAUL RIEGER "271 FIRST ST SAN FRANt Puppy Love {Continued from page 46) "How did you come?" she faltered, and the winds sighed back. "I came," a stormy tempest answered her, "because I had to. Because I cant live without you. I wish now I had died on the trip, as I thought of doing many times. You are like all women — you are false — you are worse . than false — you have — have broken my heart " He stumbled over his words. A breeze caught the light stuff of her summer gown and played with it. Her hair stirred at the nape of her throat. Under her lashes her tears began to creep like seed pearls down soft damask. The boy caught hold of her. "Why did you go with him?" he demanded. "You — why, you — are mine!" The instinct of the hunter pushed the quarry from him. "You weren't here," she parried. "I — it was — lonely " The boy eyed her sternly. "Women," he bit out, "have said the selfsame thing from time immemorial. You should be different. Well" — an air of settled gloom shrouded his speech like a cloak — "well, this, then, is the end. I have read somewhere that all great writers write from a broken heart. I shall be even as they. I should kill you for this — but I wont. You may live, and may you — I mean may you not suffer as you have caused me to do !" The girl sobbed herself to sleep. She sobbed first like a tragedienne, then like a sulky little girl, finally like a baby. When she slept she dreamed a horrible dream. She . dreamed that she died and that they put lilies at her feet and roses at her head and buried her in a tomb with an angel over it holding a blowing scarf. But when she got to heaven, which she recognized because it had pearly gates and a general air of Luna Park about it, St. Peter forbade her entrance. "You are an old maid," he told her, sternly. "Such as they are not admitted into the Kingdom of Heaven." And, even as she had fallen asleep, so did she awaken, sobbing, this time more in fright than in grief. After breakfast, while her Aunt Mercy was sweeping the front porch she confided her dream. Aunt Mercy, who was banking very much on heaven for what she had not had on earth, did not take the dream amicably. She called Gloria a bad, sacrilegious brat, full of sick wishy-washiness, and that she'd be glad to see the last of her idling dressed-up feet. Gloria felt that the world was painted indigo-blue and there was no more happiness anywhere. It is always so delicious to find out that a new and most overwhelming happiness is just about the corner. As there was no more happiness to be found on earth it seemed to Gloria that to insure heaven would be the most practical and most worthy-of-her-father act she could commit. She sought out Hippo Harger and proposed matrimony to him. Hippo, from looking elephantine, immediately resembled a gossoon and, scarcely believing in the gifts that the gods bestow, planned to invade paradise the following week. "I must have a week," Gloria told him, solemnly, "in which to lay away the memory of my One Love. For, of course, you know, Hippo, you are not, nor can ever be, anything more than just my husband. My love is dead." Hippo was inarticulate. Two days after the dissolution of love into contemplated matrimony James Oliver's broken heart appeared in the first print. It was a most descriptive tale of the two hundred odd old maids inhabiting Ardendale, and by no means a subtle plea for a suspension of their dire sentences. Love was all, reasoned James Oliver — marriage the definition of "all" — he exhorted relief for the two hundred odd. To make a good tale better, Gloria returned to him, along with the keepsakes which were to immortalize the outer seeming of their love, an album containing various snapshots of Aunt Mercy and her contemporaries, taken at intervals of the past twenty years. They made extraordinary illustrative matter. When the article appeared in print James Oliver had his salary raised by his paper. But Fame brought no crown of laurel for James Oliver. Simultaneously with its appearance in print came a pink-tinted, carnation-scented note from Gloria saying that, love being dead, she was about to achieve matrimony. She bade him a Shakespearean farewell. James Oliver ran ahead of Shakespeare and cribbed his mother's car to make a record trip to Ardendale, where he sought to kill the willing bridegroom and die, himself, avenged, at Gloria's feet. It seemed the only fitting thing. He had suffered enough. Hippo Harger should suffer now. In fact, they should all suffer. Life had been too much for them. Unfortunately, even murder is not always permitted an open sweep. The primitive emotions are more and more misunderstood and misinterpreted. Even the sheriff, to whom James confided his lustful intent, shook a philosophical head and advised him not to do "no killin' over a womin." "They likes a live one," he advised the melancholy James ; "dead ones dont get more'n a wreath or two." James shook his head. The sheriff had not been comforting, not even encouraging. He set forth to further incense himself by the sight of the perfidious Harger. En route he was beset by various irate, very modern-looking ladies, who gave him to understand that they were the. "old maids" for whom he had so very, very kindly opened a matrimonial agency, and did he think they were in need of help, now did he? At the end of the wooded lane he met the girl. She had just left Hippo, who had bought her a new car to honeymoon in. He felt, at the sudden sight of her, that it was all impossible, this misunderstanding, this separation, this suffering. He felt as tho many mists which had been tangled about his feet were separating themselves and clearing away. He groped toward her. He found her in his arms. What had they been thinking of? Why had they suffered ? As if she could have married any one — any one but him? "Sweetheart," he whispered into her banded hair, "my sweetheart, my little sweetheart ..." Gloria tightened her arms. She closed her eyes till her eyelids pressed and made star-fringes deep within her cheeks. "Kiss me," she said; "oh, I love you so!" An hour later Gloria's father and James Oliver's mother, who had found quite a bond together, beheld their errant children riding past them out of town. "They have made up again," smiled James Oliver's mother. "Till the next time," smiled Gloria O'Connell's father. "They are so young," sighed the woman. "And so wise," sighed the man. Then, because of them, the man and the woman laughed.