New-York tribune., 1920-10-10

OF poor but honest parents. She has,
or should have, one Of the quaint
od-fashioned names like Faith or
Hope or Susan. He" mother dies
when she is the merest slip of a
thing with her hair in a braid. Her
father is a righteous man, 700 right
eous wholly to understand the dam
gefs that threaten girl who is at
once pretty and innoccrt-qulte too
righteous to be forgiving. He is the
sort who in the big scene of the
taird act opens The door on the
driven snow and says to his prodigal
daughter creeping horne through the
icy wind to the only h;.ven she has
ever known
GO. You have disgraced the
name Of Hardwick" or Stone, or
Flint, as the case may be- GO And
never darken my door again."
He fings the door to with a bang,
bolts it, and comes down center
trembling with his own virtue, while
al The gallery Kisses. For, OF course,
his daughter had caught the eye of
&, Nou.g advcnturer with money and
10 principles. He made love to her
Y'th The skill Of long practice and
The address of one who does not
really care. She fell desperately in
love with him. Her father warned
- the handsome stranger off the place.
In the dead Of night she stole away
from her little white room, relying
ON her lovers promise 10 marry her.
He proves false. He tires of her.
She is ruined. Just because she had
no mother to guide her.
There have been people who poked
fun at this story. But only when
they saw it in its crudest form. They
thrilled to the big scene in "Magda"
when Mrs Pat Campbell played it
dozen years ago, even as you and |.
They will thrill to it again. For this
story can never die. Too many of
us wish to believe it. All mothers
wish to believe it. And don't daugh-
ters wish to believe that the world
Is tull of handsome young men with
money who are restrained from alb
ductiol only by the knowledge that
'twould be futile to try? Young men
even old men-like to imagine
themselves irresistible Indeed, is
there man with ego so dead that he
doesn't believe that he could have
carried off q fair daughter or two
If he hadn't been too noble?
Oddly enough, there is something
IN this story. Life offers, if not pre-
cisely this story, still, something
well, something like this:
~ EEP HARBOR, on the Con
y necticut shore, less than
hundred miles from Columbus
Circle, is one of those New Eng
land villages-a cluster of white
houses round an elm-shaded green
that preserves the charm of an
fther time in spite of its admirers.
The place is familiar enough now
with the habits of the modern Ro-
mans from New York who have
country places there. 1t knows
about imported touring cars and
polo ponies and international di-
vorces. There is even shop, owned
and managed by a Deep Harbor
girl, that serves cinnamon toast and
tea for 81. But Deep Harbor has
changed it's ways very little, and its
way of thought not at all. The
simple white church-such a prim
little church to have borrowed it's
proportions from pagan Greece
still stands by the village green.
And though the summer colony
doesn't know it, the leading citizen
is neither Colonel Hanchett, of New
York, who has an eighteen-hole
course on his own land and a thirty
knot steam yacht lying in the river;
nor David Bingham, of Boston,
whose place adjoins the colonel's
and who owns the largest ranch in
the Argentine and the most profit
able oil well in Mexico and the finest
tract of timber in Oregon Colonel
Hanchett and Mr. Bingham are
merely first among the Romans. The
leading citizen of Deep Harbor is
Enoch Beal, who built Valiant, the
schooner that won the ocean race in
1902, and the forty-foot ketch that
Gulbransen sailed single handed
round the Horn, and who lives in
ane Of the white houses that look
On the green with Maggie, who has
served in that household for more
snsp generation, and his daughter,
Susan.
Father and daughter were un-
commonly good friends-when one
considers that be was q man of
sixty-odd and she was a girl Of
twenty-three and that they were