, 1903-11-18
HEROINE
[Original.1

don't like 1t. The walls are bare, n
there Is no furniture except the bed
lie on, that washstand with Its bowl
and pitcher and those queer looking
bottles.
I'm not going to stay here. I'll get
I'D. dress myself and find out what this
all means.
mo, | can't do that. I'm weak as a
kitten. That I'm Ill Is plainly evident
how i'll | don't know. | wonder IL
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
| doing when | was last at work. l
have 1t. | was conjuring up a new
heroine"
Whether there was an interval be-
tween this point and what followed l
don't know. | may have slept; | may
have been unconscious. AT any rate,
standing in the middle of the floor look
Ing at me was u young m She
appeared to be about twenty-three
years old. Her dress was similar to
hat of the portrait of my gr%eat-grand-
mother when she was young. There
was some adornment to the head which
| could not make out, but 1t resembled
the cap of Il Quakeress. Around her
neck and shoulders was a white ker-
chief. She wore a spotless muslin
apron. Her dress was of some gray
material. That face! Can | ever forget
1t? Oval, the cheeks 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.
Ny soul went out to her In an instant.
Here is my heroine. That Is her per-
sonnet, and | 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
e 1t may be 200. Possibly she
was with William Penn when he
founded the Quaker City. | shall have
to brush up my remembrance of what
| have read of those times, for | have
no books here, and l must set my her
oine In the midst of pioneer scenes.
But that part of my work can walt.
Fol 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, l don't like grewsome ex-
p%ressions. 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 a marvel of manly beauty. l
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 | would give her.
There, she is getting away from me.
Why is 1t that an authors characters
will fly about like a fish hooked to the
end of a line? And whence comes this
Howard Stanley, the younger son of
an earl? He has a 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 goldenrod, which she encircles
with sprigs of crimson leaves. Think
ing only of these, she wanders into the
forest. Stanley misses and seeks her.
Suddenly a 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 bade this hero come out Of the
forest? Go back. My 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
act into one of heroism-a heroism
which even If genuine l am not trying
to depict. Thus does my plan as well
as my characters constantly run away
with my intentions.
But by this time l have no intentions.
l am a part of my story, too intense a
part. My temples are throbbing. Alice
and l are sitting on a high backed set
tie. The f1oor 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 mer' l ask.
II 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. l know at once hat he is
a physician. l am in a hospital.
Am l 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 vou0