Pine Bluff daily graphic., 1914-07-24

went tramping yesterday-alone. I | found my self within sight of another state before I pulled up. was heaven knows how many miles from anywhere. I thrashed things out with
 myself Pm going to make John Es-
 terbrook' the biggest thing that has struck New York in years" Dorcas laughed. She felt foolishly
 happy.
 T am so glad" she said. Its up to me to do the best l can; owe it to you," there was grim de. l termination in Merry's voice; ito you and Oswald, he's a prince of good fellow; now Alice Volk and the child
 come into it."
 And yourself"
 "Yes, myself. If I succeed, it means And you will confess you wrote the
 play?"
 "Not-yet."
 "Why?"
 Miss Dorcas." Merry's voice had a
 tone of entreaty in it, T want to ask
 one thing of you. ask it because your
 faith in me is SO great and uplifting
 Drop the authorship of the play. I can- not explain, cannot fight the thoughts you have of me. You said once, I be. lieve in you Do you remember" Dorcas looked at him with steadfast
 eyes and nodded.
 Go on believing. It's the kindest thing you can do for me, and-for Enoch.''
 Their eyes made a compact though no word was spoken. : They fingered over strange dishes that came and went/ Food seemed merely circumstance, an excuse for being alone and together. They felt curiously isolated, for the noise made 8 retreat for them as silence does. A sudden Hull fell on the babel of sound. The orchestra, which had rested for a few minutes, began again---not one of it's long overtures, but 8 prelude to the lorid music in an Italian opera. Through the murky atmosphere a woman's voice shrilled out with rare sweetness. Dorcas rose to her feet for a sec
 ond, searching for the singer; then she seated herself with her back to the table. The crash of dishes, the rattle of silver, and the popping of corks con-
 tinued, but tongues were stilled except for one voice. It was singing the tremendous aria from "Ernani." The girl drew a long breath as the last note died away into silence then she turned eagerly to Merry. .,.. "Who is she?" "I'll tell you in a minute"
 She turned again to look at the singer, who stood crushed into a mar l row balcony which was crowded to discomfort by a piano and four mu- sicians The woman was absurdly fa. and absurdly gowned. Years ago, in 1 the palmy days of concert tour, she had swept upon the platform in robe of burnt orange velvet splashed gor- geously with silver lace and scintillat- ing embroidery. It had seen years of
 service, then grown tawdry, unfashion-
 able, soiled, and grotesquely queer. It reminded Dorcas of the stately door in it's last stage of shabbiness. The
 woman's straw-colored hair was gath cred into a ridiculous pompadour. Across the dining room, through mur- ky waves of tobacco smoke, the girl could see careworn wrinkles about the woman's eyes. The vivid scarlet of her cheeks was pitifully false, false as the whiteness of her vast, bare shoul- ders. Again she began to sing, some thing which came thrilling from the
 wonderful throat with perfect cobra tura. She threw back her head and tilted her face till Dorcas saw only the profile. For one moment the gross
 lines disappeared; instead came a glimpse of beauty and picturesqueness,
 dignity which belonged to the days
 of youth and power, the royal days of singer.
 Gro be continued)