Social, or, as they are used to call it, Political Economics, covers a larger, but not essentially different field. A family consists of people, and the Mother is their natural manager. Society consists of people—the same people—only more of them. All the people, who are members of Society, are also members of families—except some incubated orphans maybe. Social Economics covers the whole care and management of the people, the maintenance of peace and health and order and morality; the care of children, as far as done out of the home; as well as the spending and saving of the public money—all these are included in it.

This great business of Social Economics is at present little understood and most poorly managed, for this reason; we approach it from an individual point of view; seeking not so much to do our share in the common service, as to get our personal profit from the common wealth. Where the whole family labors together to harvest fruit and store it for the winter, we have legitimate Domestic Economics: but where one member takes and hides a lot for himself, to the exclusion of the others, we have no Domestic Economics at all—merely individual selfishness.

In Social Economics we have a large, but simple problem. Here is the earth, our farm. Here are the people, who own the earth. How can the most advantage to the most people be obtained from the earth with the least labor? That is the problem of Social Economics.

Looking at the world as if you held it in your hands to study and discuss, what do we find at present?

We find people living too thickly for health and comfort in some places, and too thinly for others; we find most people working too hard and too long at honest labor; some people working with damaging intensity at dishonest labor; and a few wretched paupers among the rich and poor, degenerate idlers who do not work at all, the scum and the dregs of Society.

All this is bad economics. We do not get the comfort out of life we easily could; and work far too hard for what we do get. Moreover, there is no peace, no settled security. No man is sure of his living, no matter how hard he works, a thousand things may occur to deprive him of his job, or his income. In our time there is great excitement along this line of study; and more than one proposition is advanced whereby we may improve, most notably instanced in the world-covering advance of Socialism.

In our present study the principal fact to be exhibited is the influence of a male culture upon Social Economics and Industry.

Industry, as a department of Social Economics, is little understood. Heretofore we have viewed this field from several wholly erroneous positions. From the Hebrew (and wholly androcentric) religious teaching, we have regarded labor as a curse.

Nothing could be more absurdly false. Labor is not merely a means of supporting human life—it is human life. Imagine a race of beings living without labor! They must be the rudest savages.

Human work consists in specialized industry and the exchange of its products; and without it is no civilization. As industry develops, civilization develops; peace expands; wealth increases; science and art help on the splendid total. Productive industry, and its concomitant of distributive industry cover the major field of human life.

If our industry was normal, what should we see?

A world full of healthy, happy people; each busily engaged in what he or she most enjoys doing. Normal Specialization, like all our voluntary processes, is accompanied by keen pleasure; and any check or interruption to it gives pain and injury. Whosoever works at what he loves is well and happy. Whoso works at what he does not love is ill and miserable. It is very bad economics to force unwilling industry. That is the weakness of slave labor; and of wage labor also where there is not full industrial education and freedom of choice.

Under normal conditions we should see well developed, well trained specialists happily engaged in the work they most enjoyed; for reasonable hours (any work, or play either, becomes injurious if done too long); and as a consequence the whole output of the world would be vastly improved, not only in quantity but in quality.

Plain are the melancholy facts of what we do see. Following that pitiful conception of labor as a curse, comes the very old and androcentric habit of despising it as belonging to women, and then to slaves.

As a matter of fact industry is in its origin feminine; that is, maternal. It is the overflowing fountain of mother-love and mother-power which first prompts the human race to labor; and for long ages men performed no productive industry at all; being merely hunters and fighters.

It is this lack of natural instinct for labor in the male of our species, together with the ideas and opinions based on that lack, and voiced by him in his many writings, religious and other, which have given to the world its false estimate of this great function, human work. That which is our very life, our greatest joy, our road to all advancement, we have scorned and oppressed; so that "working people," the "working classes," "having to work," etc., are to this day spoken of with contempt. Perhaps drones speak so among themselves of the "working bees!"

Normally, widening out from the mother's careful and generous service in the family, to careful, generous service in the world, we should find labor freely given, with love and pride.

Abnormally, crushed under the burden of androcentric scorn and prejudice, we have labor grudgingly produced under pressure of necessity; labor of slaves under fear of the whip, or of wage-slaves, one step higher, under fear of want. Long ages wherein hunting and fighting were the only manly occupations, have left their heavy impress. The predacious instinct and the combative instinct weigh down and disfigure our economic development. What Veblen calls "the instinct of workmanship" grows on, slowly and irresistably; but the malign features of our industrial life are distinctively androcentric: the desire to get, of the hunter; interfering with the desire to give, of the mother; the desire to overcome an antagonist—originally masculine, interfering with the desire to serve and benefit—originally feminine.

Let the reader keep in mind that as human beings, men are able to over-live their masculine natures and do noble service to the world; also that as human beings they are today far more highly developed than women, and doing far more for the world. The point here brought out is that as males their unchecked supremacy has resulted in the abnormal predominance of masculine impulses in our human processes; and that this predominance has been largely injurious.

As it happens, the distinctly feminine or maternal impulses are far more nearly in line with human progress than are those of the male; which makes her exclusion from human functions the more mischievous.

Our current teachings in the infant science of Political Economy are naively masculine. They assume as unquestionable that "the economic man" will never do anything unless he has to; will only do it to escape pain or attain pleasure; and will, inevitably, take all he can get, and do all he can to outwit, overcome, and if necessary destroy his antagonist.

Always the antagonist; to the male mind an antagonist is essential to progress, to all achievement. He has planted that root-thought in all the human world; from that old hideous idea of Satan, "The Adversary," down to the competitor in business, or the boy at the head of the class, to be superseded by another.

Therefore, even in science, "the struggle for existence" is the dominant law—to the male mind, with the "survival of the fittest" and "the elimination of the unfit."

Therefore in industry and economics we find always and everywhere the antagonist; the necessity for somebody or something to be overcome—else why make an effort? If you have not the incentive of reward, or the incentive of combat, why work? "Competition is the life of trade."

Thus the Economic Man.

But how about the Economic Woman?

To the androcentric mind she does not exist. Women are females, and that's all; their working abilities are limited to personal service.

That it would be possible to develop industry to far greater heights, and to find in social economics a simple and beneficial process for the promotion of human life and prosperity, under any other impulse than these two, Desire and Combat, is hard indeed to recognize—for the "male mind."

So absolutely interwoven are our existing concepts of maleness and humanness, so sure are we that men are people and women only females, that the claim of equal weight and dignity in human affairs of the feminine instincts and methods is scouted as absurd. We find existing industry almost wholly in male hands; find it done as men do it; assume that that is the way it must be done.

When women suggest that it could be done differently, their proposal is waved aside—they are "only women"—their ideas are "womanish."

Agreed. So are men "only men," their ideas are "mannish"; and of the two the women are more vitally human than the men.

The female is the race-type—the man the variant.

The female, as a race-type, having the female processes besides; best performs the race processes. The male, however, has with great difficulty developed them, always heavily handicapped by his maleness; being in origin essentially a creature of sex, and so dominated almost exclusively by sex impulses.

The human instinct of mutual service is checked by the masculine instinct of combat; the human tendency to specialize in labor, to rejoicingly pour force in lines of specialized expression, is checked by the predacious instinct, which will exert itself for reward; and disfigured by the masculine instinct of self-expression, which is an entirely different thing from the great human outpouring of world force.

Great men, the world's teachers and leaders, are great in humanness; mere maleness does not make for greatness unless it be in warfare—a disadvantageous glory! Great women also must be great in humanness; but their female instincts are not so subversive of human progress as are the instincts of the male. To be a teacher and leader, to love and serve, to guard and guide and help, are well in line with motherhood.

"Are they not also in line with fatherhood?" will be asked; and, "Are not the father's paternal instincts masculine?"

No, they are not; they differ in no way from the maternal, in so far as they are beneficial. Parental functions of the higher sort, of the human sort, are identical. The father can give his children many advantages which the mother can not; but that is due to his superiority as a human being. He possesses far more knowledge and power in the world, the human world; he himself is more developed in human powers and processes; and is therefore able to do much for his children which the mother can not; but this is in no way due to his masculinity. It is in this development of human powers in man, through fatherhood, that we may read the explanation of our short period of androcentric culture.

So thorough and complete a reversal of previous relation, such continuance of what appears in every way an unnatural position, must have had some justification in racial advantages, or it could not have endured. This is its justification; the establishment of humanness in the male; he being led into it, along natural lines, by the exercise of previously existing desires.

In a male culture the attracting forces must inevitably have been, we have seen, Desire and Combat. These masculine forces, acting upon human processes, while necessary to the uplifting of the man, have been anything but uplifting to civilization. A sex which thinks, feels and acts in terms of combat is difficult to harmonize in the smooth bonds of human relationship; that they have succeeded so well is a beautiful testimony to the superior power of race tendency over sex tendency. Uniting and organizing, crudely and temporarily, for the common hunt; and then, with progressive elaboration, for the common fight; they are now using the same tactics—and the same desires, unfortunately—in common work.

Union, organization, complex interservice, are the essential processes of a growing society; in them, in the ever-increasing discharge of power along widening lines of action, is the joy and health of social life. But so far men combine in order to better combat; the mutual service held incidental to the common end of conquest and plunder.

In spite of this the overmastering power of humanness is now developing among modern men immense organizations of a wholly beneficial character, with no purpose but mutual advantage. This is true human growth, and as such will inevitably take the place of the sex-prejudiced earlier processes.

The human character of the Christian religion is now being more and more insisted on; the practical love and service of each and all; in place of the old insistence on Desire—for a Crown and Harp in Heaven, and Combat—with that everlasting adversary.

In economics this great change is rapidly going on before our eyes. It is a change in idea, in basic concept, in our theory of what the whole thing is about. We are beginning to see the world, not as "a fair field and no favor"—not a place for one man to get ahead of others, for a price; but as an establishment belonging to us, the proceeds of which are to be applied, as a matter of course, to human advantage.

In the old idea, the wholly masculine idea, based on the processes of sex-combat, the advantage of the world lay in having "the best man win." Some, in the first steps of enthusiasm for Eugenics, think so still; imagining that the primal process of promoting evolution through the paternity of the conquering male is the best process.

To have one superior lion kill six or sixty inferior lions, and leave a progeny of more superior lions behind him, is all right—for lions; the superiority in fighting being all the superiority they need.

But the man able to outwit his follows, to destroy them in physical, or ruin in financial, combat, is not therefore a superior human creature. Even physical superiority, as a fighter, does not prove the kind of vigor best calculated to resist disease, or to adapt itself to changing conditions.

That our masculine culture in its effect on Economics and Industry is injurious, is clearly shown by the whole open page of history. From the simple beneficent activities of a matriarchal period we follow the same lamentable steps; nation after nation. Women are enslaved and captives are enslaved; a military despotism is developed; labor is despised and discouraged. Then when the irresistible social forces do bring us onward, in science, art, commerce, and all that we call civilization, we find the same check acting always upon that progress; and the really vital social processes of production and distribution heavily injured by the financial combat and carnage which rages ever over and among them.

The real development of the people, the forming of finer physiques, finer minds, a higher level of efficiency, a broader range of enjoyment and accomplishment—is hindered and not helped by this artificially maintained "struggle for existence," this constant endeavor to eliminate what, from a masculine standard, is "unfit."

That we have progressed thus far, that we are now moving forward so rapidly, is in spite of and not because of our androcentric culture.



A FREQUENT QUESTION

If women become economically independent, their husbands will stop working—and depend on them.

Oh, no, they won't.

How do you know they won't?

Because that kind of man will not succeed in getting that kind of woman to depend on when women are wiser.

What's to prevent the man from becoming a burden on her afterward?

The marriage contract.

You propose a new kind of marriage contract, do you?

Why not? Marriages may be made in Heaven, but the contract is drawn up by mere men. These—and some women to help them—may easily make a better one. Why not?



BOYS WILL BE BOYS

"Boys will be boys," and boys have had their day; Boy-mischief and boy-carelessness and noise Extenuated all, allowed, excused and smoothed away, Each duty missed, each damaging wild act, By this meek statement of unquestioned fact— Boys will be boys!

"Now, women will be women." Mark the change; Calm motherhood in place of boisterous youth; No warfare now; to manage and arrange, To nurture with wise care, is woman's way, In peace and fruitful industry her sway. In love and truth.



MANY WINDOWS

Many minds are many windows, Varied are their views; Each of us, if lonely, knows Only what one window shows— Can no further choose.

Many minds are many windows, One the light divine, We may freely move and range, Wide our windows may exchange,— Come and look through mine!



COMMENT AND REVIEW

Lavina L. Dock is a trained nurse of long and wide experience in more than one country. She is the author of "A Text Book of Materia Medica for Nurses," now in its fourth edition, revised and enlarged, and, in collaboration with M. D. Nutting, R.N., of "The History of Nursing," in two volumes.

Miss Dock's present book, "Hygiene and Morality," is of far wider appeal than either of the former works. The title is a good one, for it links two aspects of one subject, and presents the new case without ignoring the old one.

The work deals in the main, in plain, simple moderate language, with the pathological aspects of what is called "the social evil"; laying stress not so much upon the moral danger, long known, as on the physical danger, to which we are but just awakening.

The first part gives clear descriptions of the venereal diseases, now known to be caused by specific germs; and to be both infectious and contagious in the highest degree; giving statistics as to their prevalence.

The general estimate, in syphilis, she quotes as from five to eighteen per cent of the population, varying in the different countries. Taking the most modest estimate for ours, and allowing our population at 80,000,000—this would give us an army of 4,000,000 syphilitics at large among us—unknown to the public.

Say they had leprosy, or cholera, or smallpox, and imagine our horror; yet these diseases are not comparable in their terrible consequences; not only to the victims, but to their children and grandchildren.

In gonorrhoea, a cause of sterility, blindness of babies, and all manner of surgical operations and "diseases peculiar to women," so common among innocent wives, Miss Dock shows us that European records give about seventy-five per cent of men as infected. In America things are better, a conservative estimate giving the proportion of our men having either syphilis or gonorrhoea as about sixty per cent.

As each of these diseases affects both wife and child, it is specially necessary that women should be informed about them.

The second part treats of Prostitution; the efforts made at its control and regulation, and the new widespread movement for its abolition; and gives melancholy figures to show not only the immense extent of this evil, but the fact that the large majority of its victims are unwilling ones.

Abnormal women who might wish to follow this trade are so few that in order to supply the market, innocent young girls, numbering in America about fifty thousand a year, must be forced into this profession, into shame, disease and painful death; hence the "White-Slave traffic."

The third part discusses Prevention; with wise and hopeful words; telling how chance infection may be avoided, how patients with these diseases should be isolated; and how all children should be educated in full knowledge of this danger and its best avoidance.

Miss Dock is also very clear and strong in showing that women can best reduce this evil through the use of the ballot; and gives conclusive evidence of what is already accomplished in those states and countries having equal suffrage.

It is a clean, forcible interesting book, most moderate in tone; and giving a long list of scientific authorities.

*

Now for an amusing book!

This is "Marriage as a Trade," by Cicely Hamilton, a clever and forcible English writer, co-author of that delicious little play "How The Vote Was Won."

A keen and accurate weapon is Miss Hamilton's pen; and in this work she uses it with delicious dexterity to prick bubbles, to slice off masks, cut veils and bandages, and dissect ancient idols.

Her special matter in discussion is exactly given in the title, and she does not stray from her theme; but brings out, sharply and inescapably, the universal fact, that marriage, to a woman, is not only a happiness (or a grief!), not only a duty, or at least a natural function, but a trade—she earns her living by it!

Miss Hamilton points out very forcibly that not all women are fitted by nature for following the same trade, that not all of them like it; that it produces low grade work and discontented lives; and that many women would infinitely prefer working at some other business.

The value of this book is is the sharp light thrown on this large subject from the woman's view—or at least from a woman's view; and one that will be shared by many others.

Its amusing quality is for those who like trenchant wit and penetrating satire.

*

Mary Jonston is a writer of good novels, strong, thrilling, excellent in workmanship, as all who have read her "To Have and To Hold" will agree; and it was that quality of literary skill which made me seize upon this, in the Woman's Journal of October 8th, before I noticed the name of the author:

THE WISE HOUSEKEEPER:

Will be against A HOW BUILT ON SAND. Will be for THE CATEGORICAL IMPERATIVE.

Will be against GROUNDS WITHOUT SHADE AND WATER. Will be for CONSERVATISM.

Will be against QUARRELS WITH NEIGHBORS. Will be for INTERNATIONAL ARBITRATION.

Will be against EXTRAVAGANT HOUSEKEEPING. Will be for ECONOMY IN ADMINISTRATION.

Will be against PENNY WISDOM AND POUND FOOLISHNESS. Will be for LIBERAL APPROPRIATIONS FOR COMMON WELFARE.

Will be against DISHONEST SERVANTS. Will be for INTELLIGENCE AND HONOR IN OFFICE.

Will be against DIRT. Will be for CLEAN POLITICS.

Will be against MOTHS, RUST AND MILDEW Will be for AN END TO GRAFT.

Will be against UNTRIMMED LAMPS. Will be for THE INITIATIVE AND REFERENDUM.

Will be against UNPAID BILLS. Will be for JUSTICE.

Will be against DARK CORNERS. Will be for COMMON OWNERSHIP IN COMMON NEEDS.

Will be against DARKENED WINDOWS. Will be for COMPULSORY EDUCATION.

Will be against CANDLES BURNED AT BOTH ENDS. Will be for ABOLITION OF CHILD LABOR.

Will be against CARELESS BREAKAGE. Will be for ACTS LOOKING TO PREVENTION OF MINE, RAILWAY AND FACTORY ACCIDENTS.

Will be against HOUSEHOLD DRUDGES. Will be for AN EIGHT-HOUR DAY.

Will be against BAD DRAINS. Will be for A FEDERAL DEPARTMENT OF HEALTH.

Will be against STAINS THAT WILL NOT COME OUT. Will be for JUVENILE COURTS.

Will be against POISONS LEFT WHERE THE CHILDREN CAN GET THEM. Will be for WAR AGAINST THE SOCIAL EVIL. WAR AGAINST ALCOHOL.

Will be against MISTAKEN PARTNERSHIPS. Will be for WISER MARRIAGE LAWS.

Will be against SPOILED CHILDREN. Will be for A FEDERAL DEPARTMENT OF EUGENICS.

Will be against A MISTRESS OF THE HOUSE WITHOUT AUTHORITY. Will be for THE FRANCHISE FOR WOMEN.

*

"To-day's Problems" is a good ten cents' worth—or five, if you live in Chicago.

It is a pocket-size pamphlet, full of short bits from some hundred and fifty leading writers, workers, and speakers, along lines of Social Progress.

Ministers, college professors, economists, sociologists, editors, authors, organizers, poets, orators; a millionaire, a member of parliament, a prince,—it's a great booklet. And not a thing in it that fills one page, even.

To-day's Problems. Trade Union Book Concern. Chicago, Ill.

*

We mean to carry lists of books useful to our readers. We wish to prove that it will pay publishers to advertise with us. If you order any book reviewed here, please send your order to The FORERUNNER.

"Pure Sociology," by Lester F. Ward, Macmillan, Pub., $4.00.

"Hygiene and Morality," by Lavina L. Dock, R. N., G. P. Putnam's Sons, Pub., $1.25.

"Marriage as a Trade," by Cicely Hamilton, Moffat, Yard & Co., Pub., $1.25.



PERSONAL PROBLEMS

Question.—A radical woman and conservative man are married, have been married for years. The woman now wants to do a share of work for votes for women. The man takes it as a personal reflection. He thinks outsiders will conclude that a woman suffragist must have a family grievance at home. How much suffrage work do you advise her to do?

Answer.—I advise her to do all the suffrage work she thinks right; and any other work she thinks right. What her husband thinks somebody else will think, is a pretty poor obstacle.

If a woman so lives as to hold the love and respect of her husband, she can differ from him quite widely—for conscience sake—and not break their bond.

If he does not love and respect her—why should she mind what he thinks?

*

Here are some earnest questions from an artist:

1. "How shall I be most efficient?

2. "Which of my work is best—what I think best, or what other people think best?

3. "If my best work is done by accident, what's the use of trying?"

Answer.—1. Live to your fullest development in all lines—and keep your health. Do not so concentrate on art as to neglect life—and your art will be greater.

2. Do the work you think best, with all your might, accepting others' judgement only when it convinces yours.

3. Trying, always—that is, doing your best work, life long—is what allows those happy accidents. Keep on trying.

*

In this department in August, "E. M. K." asked:

"Would you please outline a plan of organization among married women who wish to continue practicing their profession, through which they may arouse other women; and also reach the authorities who have control over their work?"

I then recommended political organization as the best possible; but have been called upon since to mention The Married Women Teachers' Association, of New York, as an instance of what may be done. The Secretary is Mrs. Anna G. Walsh, 22 Harvard Avenue, Jamaica, N. Y.



FROM LETTERS OF SUBSCRIBERS

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*

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*

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*

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*

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*

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*

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*

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*

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*

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*

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*

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*

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*

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*

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* "Will it be presumptuous in me to take enough of your time to tell you how much The Forerunner means to an ordinary woman out West? It is defining and putting into shape so many of my vague feelings and muddy ideas. * * * Your books and magazine have been among the few great inspirations of my life that have made all life look big and splendid and worth while."

*

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"The first number came. And I devoured it from cover to cover and back again before I let anyone else see it. Now they are all reading it and chuckling over 'How doth the Hat,' and discussing the serious parts with great gusto. It makes me glad when I think that more numbers are coming regularly now and I can look forward to the next one and waylay the postman when the time comes. Certainly this number has made me (for one), sit up and think a bit. I wish the next one were due to-morrow."

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"I enclosed a dollar; please send your magazine for a year to the following address, beginning if possible with the first number, Vol. 1, No. 1. If that cannot be, then start with January. It is to go to my daughter, her husband, and brand new grand-baby; and I am sure it will do them all good."

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"As your lectures and books always appealed to my best judgment, I am anxious to have it a monthly visitor, beginning with the first number."

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"It has the spirit of making people think and wish to see things go on."

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"To say that we greatly appreciate it is to only hint our mood. It is by far the strongest and best expressed word on these problems of society in which are inextricably mingled the position of woman. We read it with the greatest satisfaction and feel sure that your message is coming most timely." * * *

*

"Here is my subscription to The Forerunner—one of the most cheerful purchases I ever made, and certainly a bargain! Success attend your efforts, for they mean much to mankind."

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A FRIENDLY RESPONSE

The editor wishes to acknowledge with cordial thanks the warm response to the appeal to subscribers to "renew, and get another."

They are doing it, quite rapidly, and only three or four—so far—have discontinued. One of these did it twice! Evidently The Forerunner was non persona grata there.

We begin to feel that we have more friends—and warmer ones—than at first appeared.



OUR BOUND VOLUME AS A CHRISTMAS PRESENT

The first year comprises fourteen issues—November, 1909, to December, 1910, inclusive.

In it is the Housekeeping novel—"What Diantha Did"—which will interest many, both men and women. It offers a very practical solution to the Servant Question.

In it is also the Book About Men—"The Man-Made World, or Our Androcentric Culture."

There have been books and books about women—mostly, unpleasant. This is the first one about men, as such; men as distinguished from Human Beings—as women have always been distinguished from Human Beings.

You won't wholly like the book—just consider whether it is true!

The novel separately, or the book separately, would also make good presents, but the date of their publication is not settled, while in the bound volume of the magazine you get them both for only 25c. more than one would cost.

This set, making a volume of some 420 pages, with its twelve short stories, its articles, fables, verse, and other matter, will make a very good gift—for some people. Ready early in December. $1.25.



TO THOSE SPECIALLY INTERESTED IN THiS MAGAZINE, OR SPECIALLY INTERESTED IN FIFTY DOLLARS

This is not a "Popular Magazine." It does not try to be. It is a magazine which meets the needs of a comparatively few, but they like it immensely—as is shown by the extracts from their letters we are now publishing.

We want to reach, if possible, all the people who would like The Forerunner if they knew about it.

For the rest of this year we are making a special offer to anyone who will get us new subscribers; the regular commission of 25 per cent., and a rising premium which goes up to a total of 50 per cent. for a hundred new paid year's subscriptions.

$50.00 for one hundred new subscribers!

For a girl in college who wants to help herself;

For a woman in a liberal church, or with a wide acquaintance among progressive thinkers;

For a Suffragist in touch with similar believers;

For any man or woman who can reach organizations of liberal-minded people;

For anybody who thinks they would like to earn $50.00 that way—it is a good offer.

Write for full terms, samples, etc.



IF YOU RENEW

The first year runs through December; fourteen copies.

Renew from January, 1911, and get the whole of next year.



IF YOU DISCONTINUE

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She will get the magazine two months more.

If you must discontinue, please let us know.



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Volume 1. No. 14 DECEMBER, 1910 Copyright for 1910 C. P. Gilman

You can't give what you haven't got. The best gifts are love and wisdom, courage and power. Lay in some!



IN AS MUCH

The Christian arose upon Christmas Day And solemnly cleared his score: He called on the sick, to the needy gave alms, And entered the prison door.

He lent to his friends, gave away his old coat Was never by sinners enticed, And handed the man who complained of a throat A cup of cold water—iced.

He bestowed on a newsboy a new pair of shoes, And quoted in pious glee: "In as much as ye've done it to one of these least Ye have done it unto me."

*

That night he dreamed upon judgment Day: Men's hearts were all in their throats; To his pained surprise he was hustled away And herded among the goats!

"Oh Lord," he cried, "there is some mistake, I have always remembered Thee!" But the world's neglected children rose And gazed reproachfully.

And a voice replied, "Thy punishment take; Thy duty thou didst not see! In as much as ye have NOT done it to ONE Ye have NOT done it unto me."



A WORD IN SEASON

"Children pick up words like pigeons peas, And utter them again as God shall please."

When Grandma came to the breakfast table with her sour little smile and her peremptory "Good morning," every one said "good morning" as politely and pleasantly as they could, but they didn't say very much else. They attempted bravely.

"A fine morning, Mother," Papa observed, but she only answered "Too cold."

"Did you sleep well, Mother?" ventured Mama; and the reply to that was, "No, I never do!"

Then Uncle John tried—he always tried once.

"Have you heard of our new machine, Mrs. Grey? We've got one now that'll catch anything in a room—don't have to talk right into it."

Mrs. Grey looked at him coldly.

"I do not take the least interest in your talking machines, Henry, as I have told you before."

She had, many times before, but Uncle Henry never could learn the astonishing fact. He was more interested in his machines than he was in his business, by far; and spent all his spare time in tinkering with them.

"I think they are wonderful," said little Josie.

"You're my only friend, Kid! I believe you understand 'em almost as well is I do," her Uncle answered gaily; and finished his breakfast as quickly as possible.

So did everybody. It was not appetizing to have Grandma say "How you do dawdle over your meals, Louise!"

Little Josephine slipped down from her chair, with a whispered "Scuse me Mama!" and whisked into her play room.

"How you do spoil that child!" said Grandma, and Mama closed her lips tight and looked at her husband.

"Now Mother, don't you fret about Josie," said he. "She's a good little girl and quiet as a mouse."

"Anything I can do for you downtown, Mother?"

"No thank you Joseph. I'll go to my room and be out of Louise's way."

"You're not in my way at all, Mother—won't you sit down stairs?"

Young Mrs. Grey made a brave effort to speak cordially, but old Mrs. Grey only looked injured, and said "No thank you, Louise," as she went upstairs.

Dr. Grey looked at his wife. She met his eyes steadily, cheerfully.

"I think Mother's looking better, don't you dear?" she said.

"There's nothing at all the matter with my mother—except—" he shut his mouth hard. "There are things I cannot say, Louise," he continued, "but others I can. Namely; that for sweetness and patience and gentleness you—you beat the Dutch! And I do appreciate it. One can't turn one's Mother out of the house, but I do resent her having another doctor!"

"I'd love your Mother, Joseph, if—if she was a thousand times worse!" his wife answered; and he kissed her with grateful love.

Sarah came in to clear the table presently, and Ellen stood in the pantry door to chat with her.

"Never in my life did I see any woman wid the patience of her!" said Ellen, wiping her mouth on her apron.

"She has need of it," said Sarah. "Any Mother-in-law is a trial I've heard, but this wan is the worst. Why she must needs live with 'em I don't see—she has daughters of her own."

"Tis the daughter's husbands won't put up wid her," answered Ellen, "they havin' the say of course. This man's her son—and he has to keep her if she will stay."

"And she as rich as a Jew!" Sarah went on. "And never spendin' a cent! And the Doctor workin' night and day!"—

Then Mama came in and this bit of conversation naturally came to an end.

A busy, quiet, sweet little woman was Mama; and small Josie flew into her arms and cuddled there most happily.

"Mama Dearest," she said, "How long is it to Christmas? Can I get my mat done for Grandma? And do you think she'll like it?"

"Well, well dear—that's three questions! It's two weeks yet to Christmas; and I think you can if you work steadily; and I hope she'll like it."

"And Mama—can I have my party?"

"I'm afraid not, dearest. You see Grandma is old, and she hates a noise and confusion—and parties are expensive. I'm sorry, childie. Can't you think of something else you want, that Mother can give you?"

"No," said the child, "I've wanted a party for three years, Mama! Grandma just spoils everything!"

"No, no, dear—you must always love Grandma because she is dear Papa's mother; and because she is lonely and needs our love.

"We'll have a party some day, Dearest—don't feel badly. And we always have a good time together, don't we?"

They did; but just now the child's heart was set on more social pleasures, and she went sadly back to her playroom to work on that mat for Grandma.

It was a busy day. Mama's married sister came to see her, and the child was sent out of the room. Two neighbors called, and waited, chatting, some time before Mama came down.

Grandma's doctor—who was not Papa—called; and her lawyer too; and they had to wait some time for the old lady to dress as she thought fitting.

But Grandma's doctor and lawyer were very old friends, and seemed to enjoy themselves.

The minister came also, not Grandma's minister, who was old and thin and severe and wore a long white beard; but Mama's minister, who was so vigorous and cheerful, and would lift Josephine way up over his head—as if she was ten years old. But Mama sent her out of the room this time, which was a pity.

To be sure Josephine had a little secret trail from her playroom door—behind several pieces of furniture—right up to the back of the sofa where people usually sat, but she was not often interested in their conversation. She was a quiet child, busy with her own plans and ideas; playing softly by herself, with much imaginary conversation. She set up her largest doll, a majestic personage known as "The Lady Isobel," and talked to her.

"Why is my Grandma so horrid? And why do I have to love her? How can you love people—if you don't, Lady Isobel?

"Other girls' Grandmas are nice. Nelly Elder's got a lovely Grandma! She lets Nelly have parties and everything. Maybe if Grandma likes my mat she'll—be pleasanter.

"Maybe she'll go somewhere else to live—sometime. Don't you think so, Lady Isobel?"

The Lady Isobel's reply, however, was not recorded.

Grandma pursued her pious way as usual, till an early bedtime relieved the family of her presence. Then Uncle Harry stopped puttering with his machines and came out to be sociable with his sister. If Papa was at home they would have a game of solo—if not, they played cribbage, or quiet.

Uncle Harry was the life of the household—when Grandma wasn't around.

"Well, Lulu," he said cheerfully, "What's the prospect? Can Joe make it?"

"No," said Mama. "It's out of the question. He could arrange about his practice easily enough but it's the money for the trip. He'll have to send his paper to be read."

"It's a shame!" said the young man, "He ought to be there. He'd do those other doctors good. Why in the name of reason don't the old lady give him the money—she could, easy enough."

"Joe never'll ask her for a cent," answered Mrs. Grey, "and it would never occur to her to give him one! Yet I think she loves him best of all her children."

"Huh! Love!" said Uncle Harry.

*

Grandma didn't sleep well at night. She complained of this circumstantially and at length.

"Hour after hour I hear the clock strike," she said. "Hour after hour!"

Little Josephine had heard the clock strike hour after hour one terrible night when she had an earache. She was really sorry for Grandma.

"And nothing to take up my mind," said Grandma, as if her mind was a burden to her.

But the night after this she had something to take up her mind. As a matter of fact it woke her up, as she had napped between the clock's strikings. At first she thought the servants were in her room—and realized with a start that they were speaking of her.

"Why she must live with 'em I don't see—she has daughters of her own—"

With the interest of an eavesdropper she lay still, listening, and heard no good of herself.

"How long is it to Christmas?" she presently heard her grandchild ask, and beg her mother for the "party"—still denied her.

"Grandma spoils everything!" said the clear childish voice, and the mother's gentle one urged love and patience.

It was some time before the suddenly awakened old lady, in the dark, realized the source of these voices—and then she could not locate it.

"It's some joke of that young man's" she said grimly—but the joke went on.

It was Mrs. Grey's sister now, condoling with her about this mother-in-law.

"Why do you have to put up with it Louise? Won't any of her daughters have her?"

"I'm afraid they don't want her," said Louise's gentle voice. "But Joe is her son, and of course he feels that his home is his mother's. I think he is quite right. She is old, and alone—she doesn't mean to be disagreeable."

"Well, she achieves it without effort, then! A more disagreeable old lady I never saw, Louise, and I'd like nothing better than to tell her so!"

The old lady was angry, but impressed. There is a fascination in learning how others see us, even if the lesson is unpleasant. She heard the two neighbors who talked together before Mama came down, and their talk was of her—and of how they pitied young Mrs. Grey.

"If I was in her shoes," said the older of the two, "I'd pick up and travel! She's only sixty-five—and sound as a nut."

"Has she money enough?" asked the other.

"My, yes! Money to burn! She has her annuity that her father left her, and a big insurance—and house rents. She must have all of three thousand a year."

"And doesn't she pay board here?"

"Pay board! Not she. She wouldn't pay anything so long as she has a relative to live on. She's saved all her life. But nobody'll get any good of it till she's dead."

This talk stopped when their hostess entered, changing to more general themes; but the interest revived when men's voices took up the tale.

"Yes—wants her will made again. Always making and unmaking and remaking. Harmless amusement, I suppose."

"She wastes good money on both of us—and I tell her so. But one can't be expected to absolutely refuse a patient."

"Or a client!"

"No. I suppose not."

"She's not really ill then?"

"Bless you, Ruthven, I don't know a sounder old woman anywhere. All she needs is a change—and to think of something besides herself! I tell her that, too—and she says I'm so eccentric."

"Why in all decency don't her son do her doctoring?"

"I suppose he's too frank—and not quite able to speak his mind. He's a fine fellow. That paper of his will be a great feature of our convention. Shame he can't go."

"Why can't he? Can't afford it?"

"That's just it. You see the old lady don't put up—not a cent—and he has all he can do to keep the boys in college." And their conversation stopped, and Grandma heard her own voice—inviting the doctor up to her room—and making another appointment for the lawyer.

Then it was the young minister, a cheerful, brawny youth, whom she had once described as a "Godless upstart!"

He appeared to be comforting young Mrs. Grey, and commending her. "You are doing wonders," he said, as their voices came into hearing, "and not letting your right hand know it, either."

"You make far too much of it, Mr. Eagerson," the soft voice answered, "I am so happy in my children—my home—my husband. This is the only trouble—I do not complain."

"I know you don't complain, Mrs. Grey, but I want you to know that you're appreciated! 'It is better to dwell in a corner of the housetop, than with a woman in a wide house'—especially if she's your mother-in-law."

"I won't allow you to speak so—if you are my minister!" said young Mrs. Grey with spirit; and the talk changed to church matters, where the little lady offered to help with time and service, and regretted that she had no money to give.

There was a silence, save for small confused noises of a day time household; distant sounds of doors and dishes; and then in a sad, confidential voice—"Why is Grandma so horrid? And why do I have to love her? How can you love people you don't, Lady Isobel?"

Grandma was really fond of quiet little Josephine, even if she did sometimes snub her as a matter of principle. She lay and listened to these strictly private remarks, and meditated upon them after they had ceased. It was a large dose, an omnibus dose, and took some time to assimilate; but the old lady had really a mind of her own, though much of it was uninhabited, and this generous burst of light set it to working.

She said nothing to anyone, but seemed to use her eyes and ears with more attention than previously, and allowed her grand-daughter's small efforts toward affection with new receptiveness. She had one talk with her daughter-in-law which left that little woman wet-eyed and smiling with pleasure, though she could not tell about it—that was requisite.

But the family in general heard nothing of any change of heart till breakfast time on Christmas morning. They sat enjoying that pleasant meal, in the usual respite before the old lady appeared, when Sarah came in with a bunch of notes and laid one at each plate, with an air of great importance.

"She said I was to leave 'em till you was all here—and here they are!" said Sarah, smiling mysteriously, "and that I was to say nothing—and I haven't!" And the red-cheeked girl folded her arms and waited—as interested as anybody.

Uncle Harry opened his first. "I bet it's a tract!" said he. But he blushed to the roots of his thick brown hair as he took out, not a tract, but a check.

"A Christmas present to my son-in-law-by-marriage; to be spent on the improvement of talking machines—if that is necessary!"

"Why bless her heart!" said he, "I call that pretty handsome, and I'll tell her so!"

Papa opened his.

"For your Convention trip, dear son," said this one, "and for a new dress suit—and a new suit case, and a new overcoat—a nice one. With Mother's love."

It was a large check, this one. Papa sat quite silent and looked at his wife. She went around the table and hugged him—she had to.

"You've got one, too, Louise," said he—and she opened it.

"For my dear daughter Louise; this—to be spent on other people; and this" (this was much bigger) "to be inexorably spent on herself—every cent of it! On her own special needs and pleasures—if she can think of any!"

Louise was simply crying—and little Josephine ran to comfort her.

"Hold on Kiddie—you haven't opened yours," said Uncle Harry; and they all eagerly waited while the child carefully opened her envelope with a clean knife, and read out solemnly and slowly, "For my darling Grand-child Josephine, to be spent by herself, for herself, with Mama's advice and assistance; and in particular to provide for her party!"

She turned over the stiff little piece of paper—hardly understanding.

"It's a check, dear," said Papa. "It's the same as money. Parties cost money, and Grandma has made you a Christmas present of your party."

The little girl's eyes grew big with joy.

"Can I?—Is there really—a party?"

"There is really a party—for my little daughter, this afternoon at four!"

"O where is Grandma!" cried the child—"I want to hug her!"

They all rose up hurriedly, but Sarah came forward from her scant pretense of retirement, with another note for Dr. Grey.

"I was to give you this last of all," she said, with an air of one fulfilling grave diplomatic responsibility.

"My dear ones," ran the note, "I have gathered from my family and friends, and from professional and spiritual advisers the idea that change is often beneficial. With this in mind I have given myself a Christmas present of a Cook's Tour around the world—and am gone. A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to you all!"

She was gone.

Sarah admitted complicity.

"Sure she would have no one know a thing—not a word!" said Sarah. "And she gave us something handsome to help her! And she's got that young widder Johnson for a companion—and they went off last night on the sleeper for New York!"

The gratitude of the family had to be spent in loving letters, and in great plans of what they would do to make Grandma happy when she came back.

No one felt more grateful than little loving Josephine, whose dearest wishes were all fulfilled. When she remembered it she went very quietly, when all were busy somewhere else, climbed up on the step ladder, and took down the forgotten phonograph from the top of the wardrobe.

"Dear Grandma!" she said. "I do hope she liked it!"



CHRISTMAS LOVE

When the Writer or the Preacher or one who chances to be both considers a Christmas sermon, a Christmas story, what is the idea that comes uppermost?

Love, of course. Not sex-love: that's for every day. Not Mother-love: that's always and always. Not any of the minor brands of admiring devotion, gratitude, sympathy, friendship, attraction of any sort. No. When we say "Love" at Christmas time we mean Love, the Spirit of Life.

About once a year we give thought to it. About once a year we seek to express it; and, pitiful and limited though that expression be, its forms are right.

These main forms of Christmas expressions are two-fold: the Spirit of Joy, of Celebration, of High Festival—the highest of all; and the Spirit of Giving. These are found wherever Christmas is kept, and make it, as it should be, the glory of the year. In joy and in giving we are most absolutely in line with the mainspring of the Universe: unmeasured happiness—happiness that cannot be quenched—cannot be kept to ourselves. What must run over and pour forth on other people: that is real Love, Christmas Love—and that, of course, finds physical expression in gay festivities and showering gifts.

Light, color, music—all that is sweet and gay and comforting; games, dances and performances that show the happy heart; and always the overflow—giving, giving, giving. That is the Spirit of Life.

It is the children's festival because children are more in line with the Life Spirit than weazened old folk: the child has the passionate thirst for joy which marks his high parentage.

Whatever else is true about the Central Power of the Universe, this is true: it is power. And it pours forth in Radiant Energy. All "inanimate nature," so called, expresses this Power, each form after its kind; and all animate nature, crowned with consciousness, not only expresses it, but feels it,—which is called "Living."

We human beings are the highest, finest, subtlest instrument on this planet to receive and to transmit these waves of pouring Power. When we feel it most we call it Happiness. In two ways it reaches our consciousness, as it comes in and as it goes out, via the sensory and motor nerves. The joy of receiving power is great: "stimulus" we call it. It comes to us along the avenues of sense and thrills us with increased well being. But this kind of pleasure is sadly limited by those sense nerves of ours. We are but a little tea-cup: we cannot hold much. The Music of the Spheres might pour round us; the light of a thousand suns, the sweetness of piled banks of flowers, and all honey and sugar and rich food: every sense can be fed to its little limit only—and there the Happiness stops.

We can only feel so much—coming in. But there seems to be no limit to the joy we feel when Power goes out through us. It seems so self-evident, so needless, to say "It is more blessed to give than to receive." Why of course it is: any child even knows that.

True, a child, having a fresh, unsated sensorium, can receive with more vivid pleasure than an adult—for a while. But it is easily over-tired, easily over-fed with sensation, easily bored and weary with receiving.

Not with giving! Every child delights to let out the Power which is in him—in her; delights to make and delights to give. Therefore, to children is this their festival: the busy weeks of happiness in making gifts, the swelling, glowing pride of giving them!

It's all right as far as it goes, but why, when such a thing is such transcendent splendid blessedness, why only once a year? Why should this beautiful experience in which we not only remember the birth of the man who taught the world most of love but even try to practise what He preached—why should it be limited to a mere memorial of His birthday, plastered over the remnants of ancient festivals of the return of the Sun God—the Goodness of the Earth Mother?

If Christmas is good, why not more of it? Then we smile, wryly, and say, "Why, of course, we couldn't. The rest of life isn't like that—and we have to live, you see."

Ah, that is where we are wrong—utterly wrong. The rest of life is like that. That is life—Loving and Giving.

"Tut! Tut!" says the Practical Man. "That's emotional nonsense. That's womanish." Two-thirds right, my practical friend. It is not nonsense, but it is "emotional" and it is "womanish."

Emotion is consciousness under pressure. When we feel Power, we call it emotion. Emotions vary: some are helpful and some hateful, according to the nature of the instrument; but not to be emotional at all is not to be alive. Those who spend their lives lit by a blaze of emotion, warmed by a deep, slow-burning fire of emotion, pouring forth that emotion in great works—we call Geniuses. Genius is simply more Power.

As to being womanish: that word is no longer a term of reproach or belittlement. To be womanish is to be human, and we may now turn round and pitifully dismiss much old world folly and passion as merely "mannish." To be womanish—and practical—let us repeat, Life is Loving and Giving. When we realize this, intelligently and completely, we shall have a "continuous performance" of Christmases and a higher level of happiness the year round, varied by greater heights. At present the natural flood of Life Force, pouring through us in unbounded creative energy, resulting in the myriad forms of human achievement and manufacture, is sadly thwarted in its output by lingering remains of our old period.

For a long time we lived by getting: to hunt, to catch, to kill, to eat was all we knew: no loving or giving there save as the mother fulfilled the law. But since our Humaness began, since all our thousand powers and talents grew for mutual service, since we learned to do things for each other—to make things for each other, to give things to each other—then grew in us that rising tide of Power which lives out in expression.

In spite of our old world perverseness, that Power pours on. Though we scorn the gifts of those who make the comforts of life for us, though we despise their service and so cruelly use them as to greatly thwart their love—still we are fed and housed and clothed and carried by the love and service of our kind, the daily, hourly gifts of those who work.

"They are not gifts," cries the Practical Man. "They are paid for—every bit of 'em." Yes, Brother. And how paid for? Paid how much? What scant reward, what meagre living, what miserable houses, what stinted food, what limited education, and what poisoned pleasures do we pay to those who make every necessity, comfort, convenience and luxury for us!

Pay indeed! If a man "saves your life" once, and you give him twenty cents an hour for his exertions in your behalf—have you paid him? By the life-long labor of the human race—all those dead workers who built up the structure of our present world, all those living workers who keep the wheels revolving now—by these labors we live, all of us, all the time.

Pay? Pay for daily—hourly—maintenance, protection, food, shelter, safety, comfort? Pay for being kept alive?

Life is giving—Loving and Giving. You can't pay for it. You don't pay for it. But this you do: you hinder it, by your paying. This pitiful trickle of measurement, this ticking and pricing and holding back the world's flood of outpouring energy by our wretched turnstiles—this is what keeps us poor!

We need to let loose the Power that is in us. We need to Love more and Give more—a plain truth, Jesus taught some centuries ago, largely in vain. We have but to let out the love that is in us: there is no limit to its flood.

To so love every child that is born on earth as to provide that child with all that it needs for richest growth, for full appreciation of the splendor of human life—of conscious citizenship! Children so reared will have a thousandfold more to give, and a thousandfold greater joy in giving. Then life will roll out through our glad hearts and willing hands as the sun's light pours abroad—only that we are conscious, we feel this light, this heat, this radiant energy. We call it—love.



WHAT DIANTHA DID

CHAPTER XIV.

AND HEAVEN BESIDE.

They were married while the flowers were knee-deep over the sunny slopes and mesas, and the canyons gulfs of color and fragrance, and went for their first moon together to a far high mountain valley hidden among wooded peaks, with a clear lake for its central jewel.

A month of heaven; while wave on wave of perfect rest and world-forgetting oblivion rolled over both their hearts.

They swam together in the dawn-flushed lake, seeing the morning mists float up from the silver surface, breaking the still reflection of thick trees and rosy clouds, rejoicing in the level shafts of forest filtered sunlight. They played and ran like children, rejoiced over their picnic meals; lay flat among the crowding flowers and slept under the tender starlight.

"I don't see," said her lover, "but that my strenuous Amazon is just as much a woman as—as any woman!"

"Who ever said I wasn't?" quoth Diantha demurely.

A month of perfect happiness. It was so short it seemed but a moment; so long in its rich perfection that they both agreed if life brought no further joy this was Enough.

Then they came down from the mountains and began living.

*

Day service is not so easily arranged on a ranch some miles from town. They tried it for a while, the new runabout car bringing out a girl in the morning early, and taking Diantha in to her office.

But motor cars are not infallible; and if it met with any accident there was delay at both ends, and more or less friction.

Then Diantha engaged a first-class Oriental gentleman, well recommended by the "vegetable Chinaman," on their own place. This was extremely satisfactory; he did the work well, and was in all ways reliable; but there arose in the town a current of malicious criticism and protest—that she "did not live up to her principles."

To this she paid no attention; her work was now too well planted, too increasingly prosperous to be weakened by small sneers.

Her mother, growing plumper now, thriving continuously in her new lines of work, kept the hotel under her immediate management, and did bookkeeping for the whole concern. New Union Home ran itself, and articles were written about it in magazines; so that here and there in other cities similar clubs were started, with varying success. The restaurant was increasingly popular; Diantha's cooks were highly skilled and handsomely paid, and from the cheap lunch to the expensive banquet they gave satisfaction.

But the "c. f. d." was the darling of her heart, and it prospered exceedingly. "There is no advertisement like a pleased customer," and her pleased customers grew in numbers and in enthusiasm. Family after family learned to prize the cleanliness and quiet, the odorlessness and flylessness of a home without a kitchen, and their questioning guests were converted by the excellent of the meals.

Critical women learned at last that a competent cook can really produce better food than an incompetent one; albeit without the sanctity of the home.

"Sanctity of your bootstraps!" protested one irascible gentleman. "Such talk is all nonsense! I don't want sacred meals—I want good ones—and I'm getting them, at last!"

"We don't brag about 'home brewing' any more," said another, "or 'home tailoring,' or 'home shoemaking.' Why all this talk about 'home cooking'?"

What pleased the men most was not only the good food, but its clock-work regularity; and not only the reduced bills but the increased health and happiness of their wives. Domestic bliss increased in Orchardina, and the doctors were more rigidly confined to the patronage of tourists.

Ross Warden did his best. Under the merciless friendliness of Mr. Thaddler he had been brought to see that Diantha had a right to do this if she would, and that he had no right to prevent her; but he did not like it any the better.

When she rolled away in her little car in the bright, sweet mornings, a light went out of the day for him. He wanted her there, in the home—his home—his wife—even when he was not in it himself. And in this particular case it was harder than for most men, because he was in the house a good deal, in his study, with no better company than a polite Chinaman some distance off.

It was by no means easy for Diantha, either. To leave him tugged at her heart-strings, as it did at his; and if he had to struggle with inherited feelings and acquired traditions, still more was she beset with an unexpected uprising of sentiments and desires she had never dreamed of feeling.

With marriage, love, happiness came an overwhelming instinct of service—personal service. She wanted to wait on him, loved to do it; regarded Wang Fu with positive jealousy when he brought in the coffee and Ross praised it. She had a sense of treason, of neglected duty, as she left the flower-crowned cottage, day by day.

But she left it, she plunged into her work, she schooled herself religiously.

"Shame on you!" she berated herself. "Now—now that you've got everything on earth—to weaken! You could stand unhappiness; can't you stand happiness?" And she strove with herself; and kept on with her work.

After all, the happiness was presently diluted by the pressure of this blank wall between them. She came home, eager, loving, delighted to be with him again. He received her with no complaint or criticism, but always an unspoken, perhaps imagined, sense of protest. She was full of loving enthusiasm about his work, and he would dilate upon his harassed guinea-pigs and their development with high satisfaction.

But he never could bring himself to ask about her labors with any genuine approval; she was keenly sensitive to his dislike for the subject, and so it was ignored between them, or treated by him in a vein of humor with which he strove to cover his real feeling.

When, before many months were over, the crowning triumph of her effort revealed itself, her joy and pride held this bitter drop—he did not sympathize—did not approve. Still, it was a great glory.

The New York Company announced the completion of their work and the Hotel del las Casas was opened to public inspection. "House of the Houses! That's a fine name!" said some disparagingly; but, at any rate, it seemed appropriate. The big estate was one rich garden, more picturesque, more dreamily beautiful, than the American commercial mind was usually able to compass, even when possessed of millions. The hotel of itself was a pleasure palace—wholly unostentatious, full of gaiety and charm, offering lovely chambers for guests and residents, and every opportunity for healthful amusement. There was the rare luxury of a big swimming-pool; there were billiard rooms, card rooms, reading rooms, lounging rooms and dancing rooms of satisfying extent.

Outside there were tennis-courts, badminton, roque, even croquet; and the wide roof was a garden of Babylon, a Court of the Stars, with views of purple mountains, fair, wide valley and far-flashing rim of sea. Around it, each in its own hedged garden, nestled "Las Casas"—the Houses—twenty in number, with winding shaded paths, groups of rare trees, a wilderness of flowers, between and about them. In one corner was a playground for children—a wall around this, that they might shout in freedom; and the nursery thereby gave every provision for the happiness and safety of the little ones.

The people poured along the winding walls, entered the pretty cottages, were much impressed by a little flock of well-floored tents in another corner, but came back with Ohs! and Ahs! of delight to the large building in the Avenue.

Diantha went all over the place, inch by inch, her eyes widening with admiration; Mr. and Mrs. Porne and Mrs. Weatherstone with her. She enjoyed the serene, well-planned beauty of the whole; approved heartily of the cottages, each one a little different, each charming in its quiet privacy, admired the plentiful arrangements for pleasure and gay association; but her professional soul blazed with enthusiasm over the great kitchens, clean as a hospital, glittering in glass and copper and cool tiling, with the swift, sure electric stove.

The fuel all went into a small, solidly built power house, and came out in light and heat and force for the whole square.

Diantha sighed in absolute appreciation.

"Fine, isn't it?" said Mr. Porne.

"How do you like the architecture?" asked Mrs. Porne.

"What do you think of my investment?" said Mrs. Weatherstone. Diantha stopped in her tracks and looked from one to the other of them.

"Fact. I control the stock—I'm president of the Hotel del las Casas Company. Our friends here have stock in it, too, and more that you don't know. We think it's going to be a paying concern. But if you can make it go, my dear, as I think you will, you can buy us all out and own the whole outfit!"

It took some time to explain all this, but the facts were visible enough.

"Nothing remarkable at all," said Mrs. Weatherstone. "Here's Astor with three big hotels on his hands—why shouldn't I have one to play with? And I've got to employ somebody to manage it!"

*

Within a year of her marriage Diantha was at the head of this pleasing Centre of Housekeeping. She kept the hotel itself so that it was a joy to all its patrons; she kept the little houses homes of pure delight for those who were so fortunate as to hold them; and she kept up her "c. f. d." business till it grew so large she had to have quite a fleet of delivery wagons.

Orchardina basked and prospered; its citizens found their homes happier and less expensive than ever before, and its citizenesses began to wake up and to do things worth while.

*

Two years, and there was a small Ross Warden born.

She loved it, nursed it, and ran her business at long range for some six months. But then she brought nurse and child to the hotel with her, placed them in the cool, airy nursery in the garden, and varied her busy day with still hours by herself—the baby in her arms.

Back they came together before supper, and found unbroken joy and peace in the quiet of home; but always in the background was the current of Ross' unspoken disapproval.

Three years, four years.

There were three babies now; Diantha was a splendid woman of thirty, handsome and strong, pre-eminently successful—and yet, there were times when she found it in her heart to envy the most ordinary people who loved and quarreled and made up in the little outlying ranch houses along the road; they had nothing between them, at least.

Meantime in the friendly opportunities of Orchardina society, added to by the unexampled possibilities of Las Casas (and they did not scorn this hotel nor Diantha's position in it), the three older Miss Wardens had married. Two of them preferred "the good old way," but one tried the "d. s." and the "c. f. d." and liked them well.

Dora amazed and displeased her family, as soon as she was of age, by frankly going over to Diantha's side and learning bookkeeping. She became an excellent accountant and bade fair to become an expert manager soon.

Ross had prospered in his work. It may be that the element of dissatisfaction in his married life spurred him on, while the unusual opportunities of his ranch allowed free effort. He had always held that the "non-transmissability of acquired traits" was not established by any number of curtailed mice or crop-eared rats. "A mutilation is not an acquired trait," he protested. "An acquired trait is one gained by exercise; it modifies the whole organism. It must have an effect on the race. We expect the sons of a line of soldiers to inherit their fathers' courage—perhaps his habit of obedience—but not his wooden leg."

To establish his views he selected from a fine family of guinea-pigs two pair; set the one, Pair A, in conditions of ordinary guinea-pig bliss, and subjected the other, Pair B, to a course of discipline. They were trained to run. They, and their descendants after them, pair following on pair; first with slow-turning wheels as in squirrel cages, the wheel inexorably going, machine-driven, and the luckless little gluttons having to move on, for gradually increasing periods of time, at gradually increasing speeds. Pair A and their progeny were sheltered and fed, but the rod was spared; Pair B were as the guests at "Muldoon's"—they had to exercise. With scientific patience and ingenuity, he devised mechanical surroundings which made them jump increasing spaces, which made them run always a little faster and a little farther; and he kept a record as carefully as if these little sheds were racing stables for a king.

Several centuries of guinea-pig time went by; generation after generation of healthy guinea-pigs passed under his modifying hands; and after some five years he had in one small yard a fine group of the descendants of his gall-fed pair, and in another the offspring of the trained ones; nimble, swift, as different from the first as the razor-backed pig of the forest from the fatted porkers in the sty. He set them to race—the young untrained specimens of these distant cousins—and the hare ran away from the tortoise completely.

Great zoologists and biologists came to see him, studied, fingered, poked, and examined the records; argued and disbelieved—and saw them run.

"It is natural selection," they said. "It profited them to run."

"Not at all," said he. "They were fed and cared for alike, with no gain from running."

"It was artificial selection," they said. "You picked out the speediest for your training."

"Not at all," said he. "I took always any healthy pair from the trained parents and from the untrained ones—quite late in life, you understand, as guinea-pigs go."

Anyhow, there were the pigs; and he took little specialized piglets scarce weaned, and pitted them against piglets of the untrained lot—and they outran them in a race for "Mama." Wherefore Mr. Ross Warden found himself famous of a sudden; and all over the scientific world the Wiesmanian controversy raged anew. He was invited to deliver a lecture before some most learned societies abroad, and in several important centers at home, and went, rejoicing.

Diantha was glad for him from the bottom of her heart, and proud of him through and through. She thoroughly appreciated his sturdy opposition to such a weight of authority; his long patience, his careful, steady work. She was left in full swing with her big business, busy and successful, honored and liked by all the town—practically—and quite independent of the small fraction which still disapproved. Some people always will. She was happy, too, in her babies—very happy.