ings living in squalor ancfclestitution,
their lives unredeemed by laith "
"Both here and abroad, said Mrs.
Lowndes. "Now in Ceylon the poor
Singhalese actually have more than
one wife, according to the "Mission
ary Review," 0, how purposeful our
lives could be and should be!"
'Instead of our wasting them in
worldly pleasures," said John.
Dorothy could bear it no more. She
rose apd "ran out of the room. She
knew that she would never made a
helpmate for John. Why, she had
even had insidious dreams of joining
an art class at the Pratt Institute.
They spent that evening at a mis
sionary meeting. Dorothy sat very
soberly beside John; she hardly heard
a word of the speaker's eloquence, or
of the horrible stories told by three
infirm, aged and superannuated mis
sionaries, who pleaded fervently for
cast-off clothing which should re
place the Join-clothes so immodestly
worn by the natives of the regions
from which they had returned. She
felt that she could live her double life
"Why are you so serious, dear?"
asked John, when Mrs. Lowndes had
retired, instructing John to stay until
eleven o'clock and no later.
Dorothy tried to answer him, but,
instead, she burst into tears and hid
her face in her pocket handkerchief.
' "Dorothy!" exclaimed John in be
wilderment. "Yoirare unhappy, dear
est? Why, with our marriage only
three months away, you ought to be
as cheerful as a bird. Think of the
bright future in store for us!"
"I know, John," wept Dorothy, now
quite unable to control herself.
"Think of the happy, -useful lives
that we shall lead," said John. "How
much good we shall be able to do be
fore we die! I intend to let you de
vote all your life to charitable works.
We will,take a part in all the big pub
lic movements; we will give freely to
missionary enterprises "
"John!" Dorothy burst out, looking
up, at him with, a pale, resolute face,
"I don't want you ever, ever, to men-'
tion the word 'missionary' to me"
again. I'am not worthy to "be your
wife and I want you to forget me as
quickly as you can. I hate mission
"Dorothy!" John began, but he 'I
could not get in a word against the
girl's eloquence. (
"I hate missionaries and all charit-
able works," he exclaimed. "I am a t
worldly sinner, John. If mamma knew
it would break her heart. I have hid-j
den it from her, but I cannot marry
you with a lie on my lips. John, I I
I have been to the theater threeo
times this winter, and and it was
"But Dorothy " John tried to be
"Wait, John! I have been to the
opera house toysee 'II Trovatpre,' and
there is nothing the least bit spiritual
about 'D Trovatore.' And I I oh,
how can I tell you? I have thought
pf joining an art class at the Pratt
Institute. John, I am a sinner at heart.
I love worldly things and I I I can't v,
even feel sorry about it!"
A remarkable sound made her look
up from the handkerchief in which
she had again buried' her face. It was
the sound of dancing 'feet. John was
dancing. In fact, he was capering up
and down the room."
"I'm so 'glad!" he exclaimed. "I'm
a sinner, too, Dorothy, Look at
And he pulled a handful of theater
ticket stubs out of the pocket of his
frock coat. .
"Dorothy," he said, sitting down
beside her and putting his arms-
round her, "I hate the missionaries,
too. Yes, it's true. I go to theaters t
and worldly places and and.I hoped,
after we were married, to bring you
gradually to a broader view of life."
"Why, John how you inust have
loved me to have pretended so long
and and hidden your real nature!"
Dorothy gasped. 4
"I guess I did, dear," answered
John soberiy "But ypu see, JJorpthy
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