Ainslee's Magazine, February 1913 — page 141: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

you, I am not so closely touched by this catastrophe, and for that reason I am able to see things more clearly than you can.” Sisterly affection and wise womanhood were equally blended in Mary Walter’s tones. She was at least a dozen years older than the beautiful, young, fair-haired woman who paced back and forth the length of the music room, trailing yards of blue, faintly perfumed, draperies after her, like the falling of flocks of cornflowers in the wake of a mower. “Mary, would you have me let the world think I could condone and ac- cept Jim Kerrall’s treatment of me?” Helen Kerrall’s eyes flashed blue fire ; her short upper lip stiffened and whit- ened; she flamed unutterable indigna- tion at her sister—who saw only. the pain behind it. “Dear, the world’s opinion of your pride will not fill the need in your life. Jim has been wild. No one can dispute: that “Even he does not!’ Helen inter- jected, with a bitter laugh. ‘Why, Mary—he—he didn’t even lie to me about it!” “He didn’t? I could almost say ‘how unmanly’! Isn’t there, perhaps, some- thing fine about that honesty of his? He put his home, his happiness, in jeopardy rather than hold them by falsehood. And even if you feel you have cause to doubt his love for you, PaO roan ance aes you cannot say that Jim Kerrall doesn’t love his little son. He adores Ralph.” “Fine? He is_ heartless, utterly heartless. Of course it was useless for him to deny it. I had told him that I knew. It is not only her own two di- vorces that Eva Peckham has been re- sponsible for!. No woman’s husband is safe with her. Carolyn Whitehead told me—but I had seen enough for myself. I suppose Jim knew I would not be- lieve his denials if he made them. But he might have had the decency to pre- tend—if only to save my pride a lit- tle; instead of letting me see he didn't care enough for me to deny!” Helen stopped in front of her sister ; her lips were quivering, her long, slen- der fingers interlaced so tightly that the knuckles were white. “Do you know when he confessed— or at least tacitly admitted it?” “When, dear ?” “When I had just told him that I would not remain with him another mo- ment—that I would consider myself de- famed, and dishonored, and dragged down by the touch of such a man.” “Yes,” Mary mused, aloud. “I sup- pose you said something very like that.” “Then I said: ‘I will not be unjust. I will hear what you have to say.’ And he—he just stood and looked at me, and said not one word. What could I do but walk out of his house? Though I want you to understand, Mary, that I was willing to put myself aside and to (EO) 0)(0)(6) = a (C@