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"Too much." The reporter was wise in the ways of Oriental bargaining.

"Wha' foh too muchee? Cost 'um moah-ten dolla' moah."

Merrel turned away and looked upon his lady, who still toyed with the ornament, then back to the smooth Celestial.

"I give you fifteen dollars," he said. "No can do. Cost 'um twentythirty dolla'-you take twenty dolla"."

The girl, hearing, hurried to Merrel and dropped the necklace on the counter.

"Please don't, Bob; I won't let you buy it. It's too much. It isn't worth it, really."

"Twenty dolla'," persisted the Chinese. "Long time-three year-I catch um from man-sailah-I pay twenty dolla. You take 'um, twenty dolla'."

"No," said the little lady, torn between desire and impatience with herself for that desire. "No," and that ended it.

*

Two duties faced Merrel upon the morrow-one, to procure the amber necklace-the other to bid the Ainsleys good-bye.

It was a sad moment for the two young people, and Mrs. Ainsley, realizing it, left them alone. It was only an instant of parting, but it might be forever. It was sacred to them-we will leave it so.

The last thing Merrel did as the train pulled out was to slip a small package into Florence Ainsley's hand. A few moments later, when she had in some measure dried her tears, she opened the box. There lay the amber necklace. The enclosed note read: "Amber for luck-Forever, Bob." The little lady pressed it to her lips and tears again stole forth from eyes that had wept very much lately.

*

It was November. The fine snow had fallen steadily all morning long. It lay softly over street and walk, and earth bore lightly the white robe which clothed her winter nakedness. There

was a tang in the air which forecast a heavier storm and warned the less adventurous to stay close by their hearth-sides.

Florence Ainsley stood before the glowing grate in the reception hall of her uncle's Boston residence. Here among their kin she and her mother had made their home upon the return from the West, and had taken their place in the inner circle of society. Florence, young, chic, and personable, had soon achieved popularity in the younger set, and thanks to the kindness of her aunt, she was not without the wherewithal to maintain her position. The dreams of the West were somewhat dim. At first she and Merrel had corresponded regularly—at such short intervals that the postman smiled as he handed in the familiar missives from California. Then gradually the letters became less frequent, days of silence unaccountably intervened, and Florence sometimes, pen in hand, found that she could not bring herself to write. In the beginning she had hated herself for these lapses, but later had excused it upon some trifling pretext or other. His letters also were sometimes unsatisfactory, as if he wrote from duty or was a little wearied by the effort. She accepted this now with a slight indifference. That she loved him she was sure, but love grows very subdued with long separation. And she found pleasure in the company of other men-the young fellows in her set. With them she was natu

rally popular, and could the distant

Merrel have observed the manner in which they danced attendance, his heart would have ached, undoubtedly.

To-day the little lady mused as she waited a caller. A smile was on her lips as she realized how often she had waited this same person of late. Still smiling, she caught the postman's whistle and received the letter he handed in. She recognized the writing and returned to her place by the fire before opening the envelope.

"Dearest (the brief note read), what I am about to say will perhaps hurt you a great deal-as it has hurt

me. I hope you understand that what I am doing is right and just to you, to every one. I am trying very hard to tell you. I see no future of our happiness together. The raise in salary is still a long way off, and I see the folly of risking your happiness on such slim prospects. I can't ask you to marry a pauper. I love you, but I must release you from your promise. I can't say more. I am always yours, Bob."

Florence sat in silence for a moment and then dropped her head upon her arms, sobbing gently. The letter lay crumpled at her feet. What it had cost Merrel to write she knew, for not once did any doubt of him enter her mind. She knew the future held little for them without the comforts money could buy. In the life around her wealth was necessary for happiness, and that other happiness-that of selfdenial-was never known.

A footstep sounded in the hall and she rose, a little startled, and turned to meet young Forbes. He saw the tear-dimmed eye, radiant for all that, and noticed the crushed letter on the rug.

"No bad news, I hope?" he asked. She caught her breath sharply. "No-that-is-no. A letter, that was all. It is nothing." His gentle solicitation impressed her, and she smiled kindly at him. He was very attractive and possessed that air of breeding which proclaimed him a born gentleman. Strangely enough, a joking word from her uncle that morning concerning young Forbes, had brought a flush to her cheek which bothered her not a little.

Conscious that her hand still lay in his, she withdrew it quickly and turned to the table for her gloves. Then with a nod to her escort, she hurried out of the house to the waiting limousine. She sighed as she sank back luxuriously among the cushions. It was pleasant to have money and enjoy the luxuries it could command, and little mercenary thoughts crossed her mind. Forbes made some slight adjustment to her comfort, and she

smiled at him with such sweetness that his hand stole out and covered hers, and she did not withdraw it.

They were silent during the ride down town. Forbes because he was very much in love, and Florence because she was thinking of many things. Her hand still lay idly in his, but her thoughts were far away. She looked out upon the expanse of snow, but saw instead, as from a vast distance, fields of wild flowers rippling and swaying in the gentle western breeze. She saw rolling hills and sheltered valleys, rich in verdure and trees laden with snowy blossomsmiles on miles of orchard and meadow land. And again, blue waters and white sailed ships and the sun glinting upon the golden roofs of an enchanted city which touched the water's edge— a city where happiness had sought and found her.

The little lady shivered as an icy blast swept down the street. Her 'dream vanished, and she drew closer to her companion. The car turned into the fashionable shopping district, and now, peering from the glass, she watched the throng, which, in spite of weather, hurried hither and thither. Great motors glided past, brilliant in color and design, and her companion. pointed out those whose occupants he knew. Then, leaning forward, he gave an order to the driver, who quickened speed a trifle and soon drew up at the curb. The girl gave Forbes a questioning glance.

"It is the jeweler's-Roucault's," he said. "You wished to stop here."

"Thanks," and aided by the attentive Forbes, she alighted and crossed to the shop.

Once within, out of the cold, she searched the cases for her desire, a small present for a friend, while her companion sauntered on to where the rings were displayed.

The little lady exclaimed over each new trinket which the clerk offered for her approval. The proprietor himself, a vivacious little Frenchman, waited on her attentively and smiled delightedly at her manifest pleasure.

At length with his aid she settled upon a neat pendant, and in trying it on, removed the amber necklace which she wore so constantly. She noted the eyes of the jeweler upon it, and with a smile inquired:

"How much is that necklace worth?" The proprietor picked up the beads and examined them casually. Then his interest visibly increased with the inspection. Suddenly he applied his glass to his eye, and went over each bead searchingly. Then called in excited voice to his assistant. There followed a babble of vociferous French, interspersed with extravagant gestures. The beads seemed to be the center of interest. Miss Ainsley, amused, interested, repeated her question:

"Well, what are they worth?”

In a voice trembling with excitement, the little Frenchman leaned toward her and exclaimed:

"Ninety thousand dollars, madame."

The little lady clutched the counter for support.

"Ninety thousand dollars."

"Oui, madame. You are startled, naturally. It is incredible, but it is true."

"But how?" her mind groped. "It is the Imperial Amber presented by the great Napoleon to Josephine. Behold! On each bead it is engraved

so finely Napoleon to Josephine. Mon Dieu!"

An assistant had rushed up with a ledger.

"Here, madame, is the record." He pointed out the line and her confused brain caught fragments of the print:

"The Imperial Amber NecklaceNapoleon to Josephine. Stolen from Paris Museum, June, 1887. Valued at over hour hundred thousand francs. Chief value-romantic history."

The book dropped from her hands. "Ninety thousand-are you sure?" "Oui, madame. I will purchase it myself for that. I am a Frenchman!"

Just then young Forbes wandered up with a most indulgent smile. He had just made an excellent investment in diamonds, for the future.

"Have you found what you wanted?"

The little lady awoke from her daze. She turned with a great light shining in her eyes, and seizing the bewildered gentleman's arm, she danced up and down in ecstacy.

"Yes, yes, I have I have! I can't believe it-Amber for luck-for luck. Quick-I've got to telegraph!" and she rushed out of the shop into the falling

snow.

And in spite of subsequent events, young Mr. Forbes could never quite understand what it was all about.

MATURITY

I said that I would climb to the heights of Fame,
And stand among the favored of the earth;
That all the world should know and vaunt my name-
When I was young, 'twas this I held of worth.

Now of such golden-dreaming am I free;

Though Fame has slipped my grasp, yet am I glad: For Home and Love are all the world to me,

Dearer than laurels that I might have had!

WILLIAM DE RYEE.

T

Some American Problems

From An English Point of View

By W. R. Castle

HERE are two ideas which inspire Americans as a people, two ideas which are believed to represent the nation and which are expressed by the words progress and democracy. The terms remain the same, but their implication changes year by year. Progress, until recently, meant the economic development of the country, the invention and perfection of machinery, the building of innumerable railroads, above all the amassing of wealth. To-day more stress is put on social legislation. Progress means something very nearly approaching social revolution. The most progressive man is afraid of great wealth, inclined to consider it a symptom of decadence, a thing in itself evil and almost surely the result of dishonesty. So also has the meaning of democracy changed. As the ideal of the framers of the American Constitution and the guiding star of such widely different builders of the nation as Washington, Jefferson and Lincoln, it implied equal opportunity and it included in such opportunity the just use of all resources, whether intellect or wealth, which were at the disposal of the individual. This meaning has been lost. Democracy tends in modern America to mean the leveling of all distinction, whether natural or artificial. It distrusts both wealth and intellectual power. It would foist into positions of responsibility those who lack real qualifications, and that not only by endowing them with imaginary resources, but also, lest the contrast be too obvious, by minimizing or condemning as dan

gerous the real qualifications of others. It is enough if a man has risen from the ranks. Let there be no captious scrutiny of the means whereby he has risen. That may be left to another generation. The sons of the upstart, in their turn, will have to be demeaned, for they will not have started at the bottom. To be really representative to-day, a man must have climbed from the lowest rung of the social ladder. He is profoundly to be distrusted if, like Washington and Jefferson, he started somewhere near the top.

It is, therefore, clear that these two greatly moving ideas have grown more closely together, and that, for the time being, at least, their combined impulse is irresistible. To make the impulse even more powerful, the cry of continually increased democracy as evidence of progress has been adopted, in different degree to be sure, by the leaders of the great political parties. Indeed, it may fairly be said that if Mr. Roosevelt opened the sluice gates of radicalism, Mr. Wilson has blown. up the dam. The flood will be destructive or purifying according to the point of view. Certainly it has already obliterated such landmarks as, in a new country, are still called old. It is filling the valleys and submerging the hill tops. Politicians say that its voice is the voice of the people. Its strength is irresistible. It overrides the rights of individuals, of property, in the name of the common good and of progress. It is conscious and believes itself beneficent, for it claims to be the tide of democracy. Yet the thinker, swept along by the flood though he may be,

still questions its ultimate meaning.

Since 1865 there have been in America two great political parties, the Republican and the Democratic, corresponding, with certain curious differences, to the Unionists and the Liberals of England. The South has always been strongly Democratic because it was the Republican party which, under President Lincoln, freed the negroes and gave them political rights. In spite of this, however, the Republican Party, with the passing of the years, has come to be the great bulwark of conservatism, friendly to legitimate business interests, favoring high tariff, conscious of tradition. A few years ago the principal point of difference was the tariff-really a more or less academic distinction for all practical purposes, but sufficient to create effective party lines. In 1896 Mr. Bryan, a wonderfully clever public orator, succeeded in imposing on the Democratic Party his free silver theories and three times led his party to disastrous defeat. There was too much economic good sense in America to run blindly into a financial policy which would have ruined popular credit. During his administration, from 1904 to 1908. Mr. Roosevelt realized that all the clamor against the trusts had raised a real national issue, that whether or not the average man was being accorded his rights, he believed that he was not, and that, in consequence, the successful party would be that one which appeared most successfully to safeguard the privileges of the common people. With great political sagacity, therefore, as well as because he is by nature a reformer, Mr. Roosevelt began effective and far-reaching prosecution of illegal combinations of capital. He would not run for President in 1908, but his nominee, Mr. Taft, easily defeated his old and inconspicuous Democratic opponent. Mr. Taft proved unable, however, to hold popular sympathy. He was honestly conservative and the country was not in a conservative mood. When, therefore, he was given the nomination in 1912, Mr. Roosevelt, this time the

defeated Republican nominee, decided to run independently as a Progressive candiate. The result of this was the election of Mr. Wilson, the Democratic candidate, who, nevertheless, had a minority of the votes of the country. Mr. Wilson was nominated on a radical platform, but because he was a university president and a distinguished writer on political economy he was given the votes of many conservatives. His election was directly the result of the breakdown of the twoparty system, but it is fair to say that in the present enthusiasm of progress, as represented by increasing popular control, no conservative Republican could have been chosen President. It is still to be proved how far his government will satisfy the turbulent majority.

If a democracy is a popular government which executes the mandates of public opinion, the American Government has never been a true democracy, because in America there is seldom true public opinion, even in a limited area of the country; there is never, one might fairly say, a national public opinion. There was, to be sure, a strong, but divided, opinion in 1860, and its result was the Civil War. Real public opinion may well exist in a small, homogeneous country. Except in the clear case of an insult to national honor it is almost inconceivable in one so huge as the United States, where the problems of different sections are inevitably different, often conflicting. California would exclude all Orientals, because they compete with white labor; Hawaii would cease to exist, economically, if Orientals were excluded, for it can obtain no other labor. Massachusetts has its manufacturing interests and Kansas its farming; each is vital on the spot, but neither interests the other. It is, therefore, impossible to devise national legislation. which is not based on compromise or which will not injure some States as much as it benefits others, since there cannot be equal distribution of industries. A compromise is never satisfactory to a man who believes strongly

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