Picture Play Magazine (Oct-Nov 1915)

24 And then he took from his pouch another seed, and dropped it in the ground. Presently there sprang up a tall, green stalk. And, as she watched, it grew and sent out tender shoots; and then she saw silken tassels drooping from the opening husks, and she knew that the corn was ripe and ready to be gathered. "Is not life wonderful !" cried the child, again hurrying her on. Then he led her to the farmyard, and showed her the cows and their calves, the sheep and their lambs, and peeping into a hen's nest he found an egg. PICTURE-PLAY WEEKLY grew brighter and brighter as she gazed in speechless wonder. And as it grew, she could see a golden staircase leading upward, and in the ever-increasing light it shone like gold. Far above, through luminous clouds, she beheld the Golden Gates, and she knew that she was dead ! As the light increased in brilliancy, she could see angels on the stairs, and they were gently leading women and children up the long way. And she, being dead, joined the throng that was toiling upward. But there seemed to be no angel to ?ll i»i> '& \ sis! a <>L%i:-< 'S John Catherwood took it from her and shared her horror. "Is not life marvelous?" he cried. "Come, we have a greater thing to see." Taking again her trembling hand in his, he drew her gently to the farmhouse, and, tiptoeing to one of the windows, he motioned for her to look within. And she saw a woman lying in bed. She was very pale, but there was a wondrous light of love and happiness in her eyes. And the old woman, peering in, could see that she held a newborn babe at her breast. "There is the great miracle of life !" said the child. And then everything faded from her sight, and all around her was a dense, black darkness. Presently to her fading eyes there appeared a faint glow, like a star shining through misty clouds. This light give her a helping hand. They were all busy with the women who were leading little children by the hand. But she toiled on upward alone, her eyes fixed longingly on the gates above, for she was very weary. At last she reached the gates, but, as she staggered forward to enter, she heard a terrible voice, saying: "Woman, what have you done with the soul of the child that was given into your keeping?" And she fell upon her face, and could make no answer. Then the voice spoke again, saying: "Go thy way ! Thou canst not enter here !" And she swooned and knew no more. Slowly consciousness returned to Grace Catherwood. and she look* around her in great wonder. She was lying on her own bed, and her hand she clasped the hated botth The door of her room opened su< denly, and John Catherwood, accon panied by a doctor, entered. With I glad cry she sprang into his arms, arl with her face buried on his breast si j told him her secret and the crime si I had meditated. But now she looked at the bottle i horror, for in her vision she had seen future that might be hers. John Catl erwood took it from her and shared In J horror. With a loud cry she took the bottl from him. and hurled it among sorn^ window plants, and it was shattered. When she dared to raise her eyes t; his, she saw that they shone with a ligl of love and happiness, and in her heat there was joy and an infinite peace. Gently he led her to the window, an: pointed to the plants, among which la the fragments of the broken bottle. "See," he said, "they are withered am dead !" "Yes," she said slowly. "They ar dead, but the plants that grew fron them still live." When, a few months later, she drev her husband's face down to hers. an< uncovered the little head that lay softh against her breast, she whispered : "We will call her Mary, for that wacfr the name of the Mother of the Grea Miracle Worker!" He Might be a Camera Man, But IF a short-story writer were seeking "atmosphere" around a moving-picture studio, he could do no better than the "dub" camera man looking for a job, who swears he at last has invented a way to "photograph colors." One such was given a trial at the Oliver Morosco studio under the mentorship of Head Camera Man Clawson. To get a line on the recruit, who was none too promising looking, Clawson had him photograph the face of a clock at the hours of Two and Four, to be used as; "inserts," but when Clawson found him at half past Three seated on a camp stool before the clock waiting for the hands to travel around to Four, he quite1 reasonably decided such patience might find its reward elsewhere.