The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, July 16, 1905, Page 2

(Continued From Page One.) liness and frank cordiality, and beamed upon him with her radiant swmile, his old heart warmed—curiosity and Amer- ican independence ti to tenderness —and out of the fullness of it he said: he President must feel proud. ‘of having a @aughter like that.” You see-he knew how he'd feel the President’s place—or was it the father's place he thought of? It §s such little.things as this that she did made known the real girl under th mour of “the President's daughter’—that made her triumph her very own. here were the two women she made appy on the boat that ferried the spe- in from Benicia, kindly, modest ith the ambition to hand the story of how with the President’s rous at making the ver approached her shyly, She beamed upon them ine delight and friendliness, d and shook hands WITH t down to them from the dizzy t of a Washington belle. cldent was a pleasure to her to t You smile incredulc You drop an eyelid a and diplomacy? And of D ou are wrong hal same trip . to the Bohemian n the private car of the special with the carefully blue-penciled d party of those who were consid- ered privileged to meet “the President’s daughter,” she sat looking out of this window and then out of that, eager to v country. in only timo ey ‘think of tact sevelt pressed h face to the window, as she got the chance between introductions of the priv- ed out upon the people y as they looked in upon r. * Somebody came to her and told her the look at the Presi- daughter. re was a fleeting instant of natural h shyness, and then toe frank cor- bled up with a little laugh of artless pleasure in being made much of, i she went out on the platform and i and bowed in her friendly way, and the crowd cheered When she came back to her seat her bright ung eyes were moist and her face flushed with pleasure and she said: “] just can’'t help feeljhg—like this— when they are—when everyone is—so—so nice to me.” And when she went across the bay for her little visit to the university at Berkeley and was, as always, carefully “protected” from the annoyance of crowds by her hosts—special boat, special train, smart little brougham to meet L.c train and whigk her away to the campus—she still had the friendly smile and friendly little NN TSNP OO boew for the peopie ';vh'c gathered at every nfi‘nnape;s to the public that had been peint to see her pass. And at the reception and luncheon in Hearst Hall there was the same cordial- ity and same firm, warm handshake for the president of the university and for the little old lady in spectacies. and bon- net of no known period, who kept sa; ing “Dear child! Isn't.she pleasant When ambng “the toasts the toast was drunk “to the President’s daughter,” the warm pink. that .swept from her;em- broidered collar to her sunny browif hair and the gay little nod and radiant smile with which she acknowledged the honor, her spontameous, undisguised joy in it, was as infectious and appealing as a baby's laugh, and nb other toast was drunk with such zest as this one. And when the. luncheon ‘was. . over and the photographers from the news- papers, who had been balked of their flashlight of thie tables by some one inopportunely glving’ the signal to rise, . were hovering on the edge of the com- pany, loaded with cameras and filled with despair, do you know what Alice . Roosevelt did? v When the situationi was explained to her and she was asked to pose she I ‘Where = shall certainly. And she smoothed the front of her pretty white linem frock, patted and puffed her hair into place,. slipped a tious hand around to see {f her skirt and blouse were on good terms in the back and was ready for the camera. 3 You the picture in the next morning’s Call, I hope, for it was a good one. / Not -quite so good as this tb-day, however, on The Sunday Call's front page, which she again found time and willingness to pose for in'the very last hour of the bustle of departure on the Manchuria, when she was surrounded ten and twenty deep by friends walit- ing to press her hand in farewell In this one little matter of smiling into the newspaper cameras she might have been “snippy,” as “snippy” as so many a man and woman of smaller caliber, briefly in the public eye ven- tures to be for fear of being accused by scofiing by-standers of wanting to get his picture in the paper. But no such small -and mean con- Roosevelt's sideration entered Miss mind. Would she be so good as to pose for the newspaper - photographers, . that their papers might have pictures to show how “the Presjdent's daughter” looked to-day at BerKeley, another day. on the Manchuria? “Why, certainly,” said Miss Roose- velt with simple unself-consciousness and perfect graclousness. And she posed and turned a little this way and that at the request of. the camera men and never thought of dis- criminating between this paper and that or the other, but only of being “nice” -through the medium @of .the A NIGHT OFF By Thomas (Cepyright. 1904, by T. C. McClure.) WOMBLEY had been watching with sllent satisfaction the very artistic smoke garlands he was reeling off his post-luncheon cigar. Suddenly his glance fell to the figure of the girl bending over a desk by the window. Evidently she was puzzled by the letter d given her to his father's Vene- representative. She shifted her osition to throw a better light on- the book. Incidentally it breught her profile out sharply against the early afternoon sunlight. Twombley forgot all about the smoke wreaths. “By Jove!™ he sald to himself, “that’'s a profile for a sculptor. I wonder where she sprang from and where the governor found her?” “The governor,” otherwise Thomas Twombley Sr., had been called suddenly to London, and Thomas Twombley Jr. wa instead of at Newport, or on some friend's vacht, as was his usual custom. The sum- mer nights in town were something of & revelation to the young man, who, de- epite his city birth, knew little of city life, so much had he traveled with his mother. The girl swung around to her desk and the typewriter clicked insistently. Tom laid down his cigar and bent forward, wa g her curiously. It must be dev- flish hard to work like that when you know you were meant for better things, thought the young fellow, and the light of a strong resolution shone on his smooth, square-cut face. “I wonder how she'd like.to spend an evening as I do, around town?" Then he paused uncertainly. - Would she have the clothes to wear? He re- membered the flimy, extravagant gowns he had seen at the Casino the night be- fore. Then he as quickly decided that €he’d Jook well no matter what she wore. He strolled across the room to draw down the shades just a trifie. eastly hot, isn't 1t?" * replied . Miss Carruth, out looking up from. her work. “If 1 owned the stock exchange or con- trolled big business interests I'd stop everything short in hot weather.” She locked up at him with .a grave smile. “Then I'm afraid you couldn't own a yacht and a shooting box in the Adirondacks.” “That's so. The wheels of commerce must grind on the Yyear around, I sup- pose “And what a lot of .poor peoplé they grind down.” The girl s/poke to_herself rather than to him. *Oh, but the town’s not so bad in summer,” he sald. “It's corking jolly if you . know: the right sort of people. I've had some good times the last few weeks.” Bhe Jooked at him almost pityingly, but he d1d not notice it. “¥ou know there are the rcofs and the gardens, and nearly all the fellows in town have their automobiles. Oh; it's not half bad.” She did not answer, but resumed her writing. He went back to his desk, but the idea of giving her an evehing out had become ‘thoroughly embedded 'in his .mind. About 4 o'clock he rose with sud- den determination. Hinchman. ‘‘Oh, I say, Miss Carruth, let's knock off for the day.” “Krock off?’ she sald wonderingly. ““I don’t understand.” “Let's take a trip around town.” The giri swung around in her chair and looked at him in silent amezement. Twombley looked back at her with an engaging, boyish smile, and the faint flush which had come into her face died down again. ¥ “I think we have been witking pretty faithfully since the Governor went away and we deserve a holiday. I'd be awfully much obliged to you if you'd have dinner with me to-night, and then we will go ne of the roof gardens and see the he felt encouraged. “It's ‘awfully jolly, don’'t you know, and if you have never seen that sort of thing you'd ¥ke it.”” A “Oh, I tWnderstand,” said the girl, “you're going to give me just a taste of the life you and your friends'lead. ‘But it might make me very dissatisfied with my surroundings, you'know.” . Twombley: found himself actually blink- ing at her. - She put it so baldly. & ““Oh, I say, that's "not falr..« Just for to-night 1 think we might be jolly good pals and forget that my father pays your salary.” The girl laughed. Twombley pulled down the lid of his desk with a snap. THE SAN FRAN “nice” to her, Pt For Mrs. Eleanor Martin's reception in honor of “the President’s daughter,” _which was the great social event of her visit here, Society came back from its summering at seashore. and moun- tain to pay its.respects and do {itself proud. Right jn midsummer it léft its’ sailing at’ Coronado,- its golfing and swimming at Del Monte, its polo and house parties at Burlingagme, jts: fish- ing and flirting at' Tahge, to come to the city for a one- t - ste formal crush to‘do honor to' th CO- SUNDAY CALL. she had trusted to without wraps -she had eaught a cold; the much g had tried hcr, too. “In Washington,” it was whispéred ‘ by the socially. sophisti- cated, ‘“the hours are later than here, anyhow."” B < She came—and her tardiness was for- given.” , ¥ She came and— . Would you belleve it? Soclety Tubbered! - . Yes—even Society! myself. dent’s' daug] ter‘b—‘nd-wuvl\m:‘how -stati her that“San Francisco.has Socfety. . It wis not such a:little thing to do T S0 many ‘to break easure ‘plans to. pay homege to one little slender slip of a 1 A, It was rather nice of Francisco How many other citles would do as much? 3 § z ‘Would Washington i —in mid- ummer, when its hollands are .down, its doors boarded up and.its drawing- Joom chairs in linen overcoats? Would 'New York—when its plate is in -the bank vaults and {ts' “150" at Newpoft and Bar Harbor? - & Nay, nay. M Y Washington ‘Would- sa; that you son. 5 s i New Vork would send polite but not too vulgarly pressing invitations to “‘take a rin down to Newpart,” or “up to Bar Harbor,” and let, it go at that, with a consciousness of dutv well ‘done. * San Francisco, however, has a her “own. Mrs. Martin's beautiful home—one of the finest houses in the city—was thrown open for the occasion, and beautifully embellished. Socléty gave up a day, or two or three, as ' distance demsinded, from its summer playtige ‘to come home and meet the Presidert's daughter, It ‘began to gather for the purpose even S0 early as 9 o'clock. ~ Perhaps' it was a little eager, perhaps it was stirred a little by the same curi- osity that massed the crowds who are not in Soclety ‘at the ferries and the rallway stations, hotel entrances and even around Mj Martin's handsome doorway, P 3 At any rate at.the reception where Society: was to meet the President's .daughter, the guests gathered early, and were a little impatient, “with a. politely - repressed and almost concealed impa- tience, to see her. She came late. It was quite half-past 10, almost - a quarter ‘to 11, when the opening click of ja carrlage door and the quick following cheer of those who at- tended the' reception without—on the curb, on the sidewalks, in the street, on the fences opposite and even on. Mrs. Martin’s’ own garden coping—announced the arrival of the guests of hgnor to those who waited within. Too bad _didn’t come during the sea- way of 1 She was late, but she came.with am- heat . that ple excuses. In the unusual noticed that as they ‘passed down aisle between the linés of tables, all followed the slender, gray figure, 'as low murmurs of approval reached his e a{e hwondered wh;:thgr this was a t leth century, Cinderella, . “gragel ure at hls side ‘trans :’%‘hy sh! ing gray ‘silk’ from -thg tallor-made - ographer who had worked-beside him for the past few weeks She was perfect self-possessed, only a slight flush a singularly bright light in her eyes showed that she was excited, - a5t All patronage died out of Twombley’s, bearing. He was genuinely, anxious now : to please her. As for the girl, she dis- plaved a knowledge of: books, plays and pictures of the hour which astonished ‘Twombley. Wondlfiully,‘ldn%uve crea- tures are the American girls, he decided. That must be. the reason why it was so hard to tell whether a family had been born to money or born te make it. . Be- fore they re-entered the hanscm to drive 0 n he had decided that. money really flm’l‘mfisr all. 4 roof garden ed stupld and chéap. He looked at the girl. at his, side, then at the occupants in the hoxes around him, then he -leaned- toward her and whispered, ‘‘Let’s get out of this. .I know it's’ boring oo NWe'n'xb over to the Beauclajre for a bit. of supper-and hear. the mandolin club play." s o s She rose with evident'rellef and they walked ‘the quiet sile street to’ ‘an’ old, foreign-looking cafe :on whose e e e . ) lights blazed, for the" m_g‘gll:hgtl ficoded t.h‘:.‘uqime. N‘ : ¥ L girl - back ‘restfull ‘cnalr, aha: Toombley ¢ ;i:d’#:: Ter profile the while. Somehow al X t . avenqew%l al His aus- tere -critical s mother. faded ‘into & ,in" her d vn‘sue}oéuma. It would not be any - condescension . on his part..he decided. into ' their . < on its prettily 'slip moked in silence, nsion on the te. - o g curiosity “_?d yiélds to 1t— even as the rest of weak humanity. - Eoclety at the Martin reception stood toes_and eraned its- ‘neck . over around th fture before to' catcha-first glimpse of “the President’s “daughter.” e 5, It rubbered politely—but it rubbered! At the very first rumble of the cheer . shows, much capacity for She is perhaps willful—the" Not once has her straight little nose in a most winsome ’smlle_thng_ shows g about turned up in supercilious dlsfllh}‘ at~ “the crowds.” ‘white téeth in far less ostentatious dis- play than the famous Roosevelt cam- Not once has she inflicted a pain or ( Paign teeth; very pretty teeth, in fact. a disappointment where it was possible for her to confer a pleasure. This attitude in a girl so young is not the outcome of policy or training— it is the expression of a charming na- ture. Even an older woman, crafty, wise and sophisticated, eannot counterfeit it so perfectly as this-younhg girl naturally expresses it. Some oné.has described her as affable; “Affable” is a word moest inapt to ap- ply to her. = “Affable” implies ' conscious periority, suggests condescension. Neither of these. does one find Alice Roosevelt. 5 She is cordial, spontaneous, impul- sive, with, as her mobile face plainly pain and in pleasure. frank, fearless eyes, ‘the firm, round without that followed the click of the chin, the full lines of the mouth, the right carriage door it lost the air of en- nui that waiting gave. It verged toward the doors of the beautiful rooms, it pressed—politely,, of course—upon those filling the spacious, handsome hall, and saucy little nose, all more than hint that she 'is. She 1is no laggard in repartee. She can make swift shots— and pointed ones, too, when the spirit moves and the provocation is sufficient. as the front deor swung open admitting But these are good American attributes, the brown-haired, black-robed, slender figure of ‘“‘the President’s daughter” it breathed quite’ perceptibly, and tiptoed rand craned—even an . eminent jurist craned, and a famous lawyer tiptoed and- ‘would have come down with his heel on my toe, only I remembered in time my- ‘‘self. And - then while the President's and the crowd that gathers around the train platforms where she stands, below the ship's rail where she leans, and around the doorways she passes through will only love her all the more for them. Her willfulness and - her sauciness tickle them mightly—so long as she daughter was capturing her stray locks smiles upon them herself in her friend- and’preening her feather into e above ' ly ‘way and nods her pretty head so stairs, Soclety moved—ever so gently and politely” and ' casi of course—into places' of vantage where it could see her déscend the stairs and get the very best view of her possible, 3 Then it formed in line in a great queue that doubled and ‘twisted hnd wound through the ‘roomis, and made its slow, conventional way “to meet the Presi- dent’s daughter.” -+ By ‘way: of making conversation, a pretty S8an Francisco girl in line when it came her turn said to Miss Roosevelt: *You must be tired to death shaking hands with so many people.” “Tired to .death!” smiled back Miss Roosevelt with that radiant smile that seems to flash like a light from within. “No, indeed! Why, I could throw my arms around their necks and kiss them. Every one has been so nice to me!"” Here. in this little ebullient confes- sion: is the secret of the triumph she has won for herself, her personal tri- umph over the impersonal one of “the President's daughter.” She has herself so much to give, of warmth and friendliness and apprecia- .tion and-gratitude. * Heér pleasure i{s so real and spon- taneous in the petting of a whole na- tion. She has such smiling confidence in its kindly intent. (Copyright, 1904, by Belle Manlates.) | DITH WILMOT looked' into the - open fire, whose soft glow inten- sified bk ' softened the meditative restraint in her beautiful eyes. It was the ‘night of her return home after an en- forced absence abroad of six years, which ‘time had been devoted to the care of an invalid: father. Since his death had oc- curred, two.years before, she had aim- lessly traveléd and visited, until now she had decided to open her old home, so long closed. On Arnold Graves, organist of St. Paul's " out to her, though with confli and her teacher of piano, her young, girl- ish fancy had centered its dreams. The e she had gone abroad had very happy ones to her. She had ey r of music socially, and their frien into a closer relation” whe c el fate had in- tervened in the shape of the family phy- siclan; ‘'who had ordered Mr. Wilmot to Switzerland, where their sojourn had been ' prélonged beyond their original ¥ . on a spasmodic cor- respondence with Arnold Graves, but, ow- ing to his sensitiveness, her natural re- straint, and the lack of propinquity, their relations had not changed. 4 Constaiitly on her- journey home had ‘come ‘the question .to her mind whether ‘he would find {n'the woman of 26 what had seemed to please him in the girl of 20 She written to him en route and asked hith to call that evening. He had done so, and now, after his departure, she sat before the fire musing on their She had in these years sometimes teared lest her girlish inexperience had read him ‘wrong and invested him with qual- ities that lived only in her own fancy. “Wait,” said the girl, “you must sign They could slip away to’Italy or-Japan, She thought she would almost prefer not these lefters.” 2 “Oh, hang it!” he said, “I forgot."” - ‘While he -dispatched that work the girl was closing up her own affairs for the day, and when she took the letters from him aj touched the bell for the office boy tp‘carry them away, he noticed that she had her hat on’ and a neat pair of gloves were caught through the handle of her purse, “We'll have time for a spin in the park before we. go {o dinner,” he said. “I must go home first and change my frock.” He iooked her -over ecritically. The shirt waist suit was simple, but it had an alr. He didn’t feel quite so safe about the finery she might deem necessary for evening wear. ' ‘‘Oh, dpn't bother,” :he: sald quickly. “You logk very fit in that.”. 7 She shook her head. “I must go home, ' because mother would worry and*I have no way of telephoning to het.”. - o Twombley saw-that it was useless to argue the question.. ““‘When and where shall I call for you?’ The girl flusped suddenly.- . “Oh, I will meet you at the park entrance.. It's not far from our house, and T Would mj rather do that ‘than give you the trouble of calling.”” “Alf right,” said Twombley cheerfully, 4nd under his breath he add “‘Ashamed of mamma and the little flat, I suppose. You cgn’t exactly plame her when she made something of herself.’ & At 6 o'clock she met him &t the park lcmrfn;ce‘ .nd]fusg Qo:i:dn instant Twomb- <y felt actually dazzled. Her statuesque figure was draped In s E biflowy gray stuff. He knew somehew . that it :iook an fil‘tllt to design and such & ress. Her face was shaded by. a plc- ture hat of softest gra¥.chiffon clouding pink roses. . Rt Twombley hailed a hansom and they ve rapidly through the park to the f sino. With a thrill of satisfaction he give my selfish or seme other far-away place for the honeymoon, ‘and the world * would get through talking about it before they came back. A filmy cloud, passed dver the moon. The girl's hand, white and'slender, lay on the table, temptingly close’ within hlsn-l reach. He leaned ‘forward impetu- “‘Hello, Twombley! What are you do- ing in town at this season of the year?" Twombley scowléd at the intruder; then his face cleared. o “Hello, Davidson. When did you land?" The girl -had made a move as if to rise, _then she sank back in the chalr, her face white and set in the moonlight. 4o meet him again, rather than suffer the loss of her {llusions: But now_ her broad- ened nature and wider experiénce found him to be all she had thought him—and more. She knew, too, that her youthful feeling for him had quickly and suddenly become something else—something that Mr. was stronger for its long duration. She never had felt quite sure of the place. she occupied in his thoughts and feelings, but to-night she had seen a strange light in his eyes when he looked at her. Per- chance the expression had been there in the days long ago and she had been too orant to translate it. had pursued her musical studies clear-cut features andy cordially and does not hold aloof. She fulfills the public idea of the American_ girl so completely. She is pretty with a prettiness that is typically American—not of a.classie or artistic type of beauty, but of a piquant, modish, bright prettiness. Americans don’t like their women too big or too beefy. Alice Roosevelt is of a pleading height—a hairsbreadth. taller than the average, just tall enough to appear slight and‘ escape . insignificance; a happy medium for a woman. Her figure is slender, supple, lissome; expressing youth and life in every lin Her hands are' slender, but strong, and not too small—useful rather than toylike hands. o Her feet are small and pretty and daintily shod—in white when she wears a white frock, in black with her black evening gown. Her hair is abundant and of a lus- trous, sunny brown, that has only missed being blonde by a shade or two. Her brow is unusually broad and like her father's, her eyebrows black and well defined; her eyes well apart, clear as a child's, and frank and fearless as a boy's—as a boy’s should be. Her lips are full and soft and prettily curved—mobile and sensitive—parting dianship, but she had supposed his ward to be a mere child. Beth returned with the music. So charmingly did she render the aria that Edith felt her heart going sations. Riding home she sank backyin the carriage with a dull throb o hours spent weekly under. his tuie- of pain in her heart. She passed a most wretched day, full of sharpened doubts. It seemed to her tuat Beth lacked no charm, and that no man could withstand such loveliness. -Arnold’s ruling passion was music, and he must love the girl for 'her voice alone. She wondered if Beth cared for him. She had seen nothing in the girl's man- ner to indicate that she had anything more than an ordinary affection of a pu- pil_for her teacher, but then. she was young, and her innocent heart had prob- ably not yet awakened. Edith found her-\ self consumed with an intense curiosity to know more of Arnold’s young pro- tege. Yielding to a sudden impulse she sent Beth a note asking her to spend. the following day with her. Beth accepted eagerly and, flattered by having aroused the interést of an older, more accomplished woman, she was re- sponsive In the highest degree to Edith's advances, In discussing a popular novel Beth naively asserted that the woman did not love the man. “What do you know about love, Beth?” demanded Edith. “Nothing, only from looking on. Ar- nold says that when I sing love songs I tear passion to ‘tatters, and that I never can express the song of the heart until I have been in love.” - Jpead LH 4 “They say a pupil never learns to sing until she falls in love with her teacher. Graves has taught you to sing, hasn't he?” 5 ““Yes; he understands voice training. But I'll never learn to sing love songs if I have to in love with him first!” “Do you t him so impossible then?"’ s ; “For me, yes! Arnold doesn't think of me as a person with an individuality. To him I am a voice. If I couldn’t sing I came in on the Lucania yesterday, while abroad, and Arnold had asked-her I'd be devold of interest in his eyes. He ‘and thought I'd see something of little .old New York before starting for—'" Hd had turned slightly toward Miss Carruth, Just then the moon slipped from under the cloud and the clear light struck her face. : “Helen!” % 2 He leaned heavily against the table. The girl's head was bent so low 'that he could not look into her eyes. “Jack,” she said softly, but not so softly that he missed either the words ‘or the tender accent with which she lin-. gered over his name. - They: had forgotten Twombley's ex- istence. Now the newcomer pulled Him- self together. “Lgl your pardon, Carruth and'T - S trtelndl. and—" . “I see,”” sald Twombley, risi an amysed smile, “and ‘lt‘ym:‘lfi ‘l:;’:: after Miss Carruth for a moment, I'd like to have a chat with an artist friend I see buried behind. a row of uulyw‘ u'," . 1out. so much as a ‘“thank you” Davidson ‘dropped fnto the,vacant Jm;r. “Helen, _come back to look after you for dlways, and, dear, if you'll for- ness, I'l promise you can lon, 0ld_man, fut Miss Were once—very—good— to come to his studio.the next morning play to him. She went at the ap- | hour, and after playing a few selections, there suddenly entered a most %"‘MM Graves, “let p: oo, ) e Beth and pupll, Miss Forbes, x,%t&ou to hear her sing,”. d to he Edith. Then turning to the girl he asked her to go into the adjoining room and, logk ‘for a certain aria. He had written casually of a distant cousin who had been left to his guar- s ] study, sociology and found working girls® clubs and low industrial schools—any- thing, so you '111 cn'mt ‘w me.” Twembley had forgotten all about the artist friend. He was leaning over the parapet, looking down on the flaring reet lamps. “And to think I patronized her and thought there was neéed of a secret honeymoon in Italy ‘boy, you're a fool!” He glanced across the area of tables. The gray plcture hat and a stiff, white straw were clase together, ¥ or Japan.. Tom, my- f 2, regards me as a scientist does his speci- mens.” She paused for a reply. Receiving none, she continued: “Did you ever hear, any of his musical compositions?” o it “Yes. Théy are exquisite.’ -&n - “They. have all beert dainty, ple lit- tle numbers, but his last work is far different. It ll.cll-EQ_L"" - it. been published?” ':.g:: yet. He has just finished it. I'll tell you what we'll do. He is coming for me to-night, you know. When we are driving this afternoon we'll stop at the house and get the score. I know where is." In the evening when Arnoid came, Beth told him-that she had the ‘manuscript of his music, “I am no mood to play it to-night,” he said, hesitatingly. “You are' not ‘to play it,” interposed Beth. “I have heard it in all its different stages of composition and I have it at my fingers’ ends.” She seated herself at the plano and commenced playfng. ‘She was not an artist in the rendering instrumental music, but she had great power of pression and a wonderful faculty of terpreting the composer’s thoughts. About the teeth T heard onme woman say to another in one of .the erowds: “See, she’s got teeth like her father!™ . “Ye ’ man: . e She wears her clothes with talent—with just the right swing to her skirts, the right “set” to her bodice, ahd the right . tilt to her hat to give the® proper em- phasis to ‘her piquant personality. And she has, in the judgment of ome of the smartest San Francisco girls who was at the Martin reception, the prettiest back -that’s been seen in California in many a day. y Nothing could have been simpler nor more appropriate than the costumes she wore on the different occasions when she appeared here than the smartly tailored blue serge she arrived in; than the cool, pretty lavender linen jacket and gkirt, and filmy white shirt-waist she wore on the trip to the Bohemian Grove; than the white embroidered linen: frock, a simple short skirt and blouse, and blue-winged white hat she wore to Berkeley: than the clinging black chiffon gown of simple elegance with its silver trimmings at the Martin reception; than the smart little gray steamer frock, with its red hat, on board the Manchuria. There was nothing startling or extrava- gant in any of them. They were all ap- propriate to the occasion, and to her girlishness—and any Ameriean girl with industry and good taste and moderats means can duplicate them. The same moderation marks her man- ners. They are cordial without being effusive, reserved without being restrain- ed or supercilious. In the frankness, the sincerity and the natoral warmth undgr- lying them lies her charm. It is a com- bination that is sometimeés called magnet- ism. The Irish call it the comeéther, and I don’t know how they spell it, if indeed, they know themselves. All the way from Washington to the Philippines the rumor of a romance has followed her, indeed than the rumor —the wooer himself, if rumor is to be heeded. Congressman Nicholas Longworth it was observed was devoted in his attend- ance upon “the President's daughter,” with ever a watchful eye for the vacant place beside her, and it was also observed that she smiled on him—as radiantly as she smiled on the public, and sometimes made room for him by her side where there had seemed to be no room before. Strange are the ways of a mald with a man—even those of a President's daughter. Who shall say whether Con- gressman Nicholas Longworth is the fa- vored man or mot—merely bev:aur of the smile of a maid? - But it he is—C Nicholas Longworth will be the most interesting man in America when the soft impeach- ment is admitted; as much because of Alice Roosevelt's personal triumph as be- cause she is “the President’s daughter.” " agreed the of There was a power and strength In the opening bars which melted into a bril- “liant vivacity of execution, and then finally. glided into soft, reflective minor strains. From this was evoked a phan- tasmagoria of all the i passions. Dark, flerce, turbid dreams, an im; sloned recitative, a thfilling sraceful, insinuating subtlety of thought, a song of peace, joy, sorrow—all were expressed in the tenderness of melody re- fined and subdued. The theme was no- ble, the composition streng, the emotion genuine and the intensity dramatic. - The grandeur of the work was soft- ened and made human by an exquisitely beautiful strain that from a background of sustained harmony ever occurred. ‘When the last note died away there was a momentary silence like that which follows a benediction. Edith's face was ablaze with passion. 5 “The musie divine,” she said in a low one. < Arnold rose and crossed the room, his face pale with excitement and agitation. “Tell me,”” he said to Edith, and thers ‘was something in his voice that made her ;n‘e;‘rt beat qufclly‘ “what you think of “1 hard to dissect such music as that,”” she replied softly. ‘‘There was a color tone in every mote. I felt as if I were In a vast garden of flowers, over- come by a thousand scents. . Arnold looked at her curiously. I did not ‘know,” he said, “that you ‘Were poetic or imaginative, nor did I dream” (turning to Beth) “that your fin- gers could be so expressive.” “I have sat in the dark many a time listéning to you as you played it,” she sald. “I could have played it from mem- ory without the notes. It is Arnold him- self,” she murmured in an aside to Edith, ‘‘Arnold as he lets no one see him. He composed it in broken “fragments; one day ® snatch of gay melody, then a wierd little cadenza or a dainty gavotte, aceord- ing to his moeod: but always he played a most beautiful little melody that seem- ed to be ever with him. The ‘song of the heart, nicht wahr? Then he blended all these compositions so skillrully that a beautiful and complete harmony re- sulted.” “Beth,” laughed Arn precocious _child!” 2 The precocious child gave further evi- dence of her claim to-the appellation by asserting that the music had its charm when heard at a distance in the dark. “It vou add Edith will retire to the little, . reading-room I will play it again and convince you I am right,” she said. They acted upon her suggestion, and Beth again rendered the passionate mu- sic. smiling softly to herself. “1 fancy this time," she mused, “that Miss Wilmot will imagine herseif in a old, “you area very . garden of love instead of a garden of flowers.” When she had finished the composition her hands wandered idly over the keys in fragments of melody. ‘When they entered the music-room Beth looked up quickly, and then, with a mischievous laugh, burst into a grand, triumphant wedding march. There was a half whimsical, wholly lov- ing expression in Edith's eyes as she kissed the young girl. “You are a dear girl!"” she murmured. “And a good guesser?” she queried. “Such a good guesser, Beth, that you shall sing at our wedding!"