Rock Island Argus. (Rock Island, Ill.) 1893-1920, 1903-10-26
DAILY SHORT STORY
NV Heroine.
IOriginal.l

DOIlleS.
'I'm not going to stay here. I'll get
up, dress myself and find out what this
all means.
mo, can't do that. I'm weak as a
kitten. That I'm i'll is plainly evident
how i'll 1 don't know. l wonder if
I'm going to die.
"This won't do. l must occupy my
mind. Fortunately, we authors can al
ways do that. Let me see. What was
l doing when / was last at work? l
have it. l was conjuring up a new
heroine"
Whether there was an interval be-
tween this point and what followed l
don't know. 1 may have slept; may
have been unconscious. At any rate,
standing in the middle of the floor look
ing at me was young woman. She
appeared to be about twenty-three
years old. Her dress was similar to
that of the portrait of my great-grand-
mother when she was young. There
was some adOrnment to the head which
l could not make out, but it resembled
the cap of a QuakeresS. Around her
neck and shoulders was a white ker-
chief. She wore spotless muslin
apron. Her dress was of some gray
material. That face! Can l ever forget
it? Oval, the checks round. the COM
pleXion fair, the mouth small and sensi-
tive, the hair and eyes black. But to
say that the eyes were black is nothing.
They were full of feeling, of sympathy.
My soul went out to her in an instant.
Here is my heroine. That is her per-
sonnet, and 1 am sure from her appear
ance she IS as lovely within as without.
Judging from her dress, she must have
lived not less than a hundred years
ago 1t may be 200. Possibly she
was with William Penn when he
founded the Quaker City. 1 shall have
to brush up my remembrance of what
1 have read of those times, for 1 have
no books here, and ] must set my her
oine in the midst of pioneer scenes.
But that part of my work can wait.
For the present I'll occupy myself with
my skeleton, or, rather, my plan, for
skeleton is not a good word, though an
expressive one, and somehow, feeling
that this romance is keenly near my
own self, 1 don't like grewsome eX-
pressions. q wonder why we authors
so often forget that our readers have
selves.)
She is Alice Gray. Alice is a pretty
name, and Gray is quite appropriate to
q Quakeress. She loves whom? Penn
was marvel of manly beauty. 1
might make him the hero. No; the
heroine is mine. There shall be no
hero unless he is unworthy of Alice
Gray and in the end she turns to me
for the sympathy 1 would give her.
There, she is getting away from me.
Why is it that an authors characters
will fly about like fish hooked to the
end of line? And whence comes this
Howard Stanley, the younger son of
an earl? He has dissipated look, and
yet Alice is infatuated with him. How
can she be pure and listen for a mo-
ment to this noble brute?
She Is strOlling beyond the limits of
the village. 1t is autumn, and she
gathers goIdenrod, which she encircles
with sprlgs of crimson leaves. Think
ing only of these, she wanders into the
forest. Stanley misses and seeks her
Suddenly hideOus painted face springs
up before her Stanley, who is now not
far behind, sees it, too, and. turning,
runs like the wind. A shot. the savage
falls. A simple yeoman advances with |
a smoking rifle.
Who babe this hero come out of the |
forest? Go back. AIy heroine will be |
full of gratitude. She will despise the |
cowardly noble and bestow her love on
the lowly yeoman. Any one could shoot |
an enemy unconscious of his presence, |
but, womanlike, Alice will magnify the |
which even if genuine l am not trying |
to depict. Thus does my plan as we'll |
as my characters constantly run away |
with my intentions.
But by this time l have no intentions. |
am a part of my story, too intense |
part. My temples are throbbing. Alice |
and 1 are sitting on high backed set
tie. The floor is covered with what we /
would now call rag carpet. The great |
high clock ticks in the hall. Her hand |
is in mine; hers delightfully."- cool, mine |
burning. She is looking into my eyes.
do you love me?'' ask.
81 have sacrificed for you"
What a singular reply!
/ awake as from Slumber The morn
ing sun shines in at the window. A
man stands at my bedside looking
down at me. 1 know at once that he is
a physician. 1 am in hospital.
"Am 1 all right, doctor?"
"Of course you are. Your asking the
question proves that. You've been down
with a contagious disease. We found
but one nurse who would volunteer to
take your case. 1t is her nursing that
has saved you"
The door opened, and a trained nurse
came in with breakfast tray. She
was Alice Gray.
My vision must have been strained
to mistake her uniform for the dress of
a Quakeress. And now that my brain
was clear 1 was surprised that her
face was familiar to me. 1 had met
her once long while ago and passed
n oil fr1I |