Motion Picture Magazine (Feb-Jul 1920)

The Couraee of Marge O'Doone By NORMAN BRUCE I THOUGHT that I came to the Northland to lose a woman," David Raine said somberly, "and now I know I came to find a woman. There's no escaping life — and they are life, the flame of it that warms — and burns " Father Roland spoke with a patient gentleness that, one sensed, had been learnt by years of resolute, difficult schooling. "You are still young, lad. The sap runs keenly in a green branch. God knew what He was about when He sent you to the Great Woods away from the citie-." "Would you like to see her?" David asked. He touched his breast. "I have carried her here since that da) when the Weeping Lady left the picture in the train on the edge of the border. I shall carry her here till I find her, or till I die. She is — she is very wonderful." His voice shook. The man in the rusty priest's robe shook his head, almost, one would have said, with terror. "I have not looked at a woman's face for many ," he sighed, "but — I have seen one alv before me. You are right, my son. They are a man's whole life, the keen joy of it, the keen pain, and always the meaning of it all." THE COURAGE OF MARGE O'DOOXE Fictionized by permission from the Vitagraph production of the story by James Oliver Curwood. Scenario by R. X. Bradbury and direction by David Smith. The cast : Marge O'Doone Pauline Starke David Raine, a derelict Miles Welch Michael O'Doone, the little missioner George Si Brokaw, the brute I Hauck William Tarvish Beris K Margaret O'Doone, wife of the missioner. . Billie B< Mukoki, the faithful James O'Neill The Bear Tara The Dog Baree The eyes of the younger man went toward the door at the end of the great room, locked now, but unlocked once a day for the old priest to enter. He had seen the inside of that room for one stolen instant, seen the child's high-chair, the woman's rocker, the toys and the small, faded red satin slippers on the table, and he knew that in that moment he had peeped into Father Roland's soul. But there is a silent pact among men not to ask questions or pry into the soul's affairs, so he said nothing. He was sorry for Father Roland, yes, of course, but he was sorrier for David Raine. There was silence in the cabin on the Harp o' God. Outside in the blackness the wind swept up the ravine with the wailing harmony that explained the name, and very far away, on some silhouetted hilltop, a coyote defied the stars. The priest stirred restlessly and threw another log on the fire, filling the cabin with dancing shadowflames. "And so," he questioned, "so you think you must leave me tomorrow and push on, eh, Davie? 1 wont try to hinder you, but I shall miss you. It's been a month, hasn't it, since we joined forces in that stalledTranscontinental ?" Raine nodded, " I was at the end of my rope 69 f