in the chair she had been standing on. She did not know how long she stayed there, but a great many things happened. They were curious things. The room seemed to get dark quite suddenly, and ghosts came slipping, sliding out of the shadow and stood round the chair. Dorothy had been introduced to ghosts by an old nurse of hers, and they did not startle her. She had always reasoned that things you could put your finger straight through were not thick enough to hurt you. One of the ghosts came on crutches. Dorothy knew at once that it must be the praxy ghost, and it did not surprise her that its voice, when it spoke, was little and tinkly like Wallie's. "He sent me," it tinkled. "I've come to praxit. He couldn't come, because he had to die, so I came. I'm ready to begin." Then the great doctor would be too late! "It's it's pretty dark here," faltered Dorothy. "Oh, never mind that; you don't have to see to praxit. He told me you didn't have You tell me when to stop." to. over Dorothy. She could not move to go to the piano-to pull the praxy ghost from the stool-to cry out, "No, no, no!" She could not even shut her ears.. She had to sit and listen. The medley of sounds jangled through the room. No, oh no, you did not need to see to practise the praxy way. But it had never sounded as bad as this before. Not as-as wicked. Quite suddenly Dorothy knew that the praxy ghost over there across the room, in the dark, was playing Wickedness, and the hurried rushes up and down the keyboard were the variations. With a great effort she slid to the floor and crossed the room. "Stop-stop-stop!" she pleaded. The discords ceased instantly. "Is my half-hour up? Then I'll stop, of course. I'll go away, but any time you need me-" "Oh, I'll never, never!" hurried Dorothy. "You've-you've graduated," snatching the big word hastily from some little shelf in her mind. "With dishonors," finished the praxy A strange paralysis seemed to have crept ghost sadly. He seemed a wise, sad little ghost. The room was suddenly light again, and Dorothy was in the big chair, rather cramped and stiff, as though she had been curled up there asleep. There was no limping little ghost playing Wickedness on the piano. But there was a mother-face on the wall, looking down at her, and to Dorothy's surprise it was smiling the glad way. Wallie was going to get better. Dorothy slipped through the loose board early next morning to inquire. Oh yes, he was going to get well; a great doctor had come and promised to cure him. He was coming again. And Dorothy, looking up into Wallie's motherface, thought it looked like hers at home, over the piano. It was smiling the glad way; perhaps that was why it reminded her. Or were all mother-faces alike? Rather late that night Dorothy's father, on his way back from his customary trip up-stairs to say good night through Grandmother Mary's ear-trumpet, heard a strange, startling sound. It came from the big empty parlor; it was the sound of piano notes softly, monotonously struck. He stopped midway of the stairs to listen, then hurried on down. On the threshold he stopped again. He could scarcely credit his eyes. The room was flooded with clear moonlight. It illumined all the quaint old-fashioned furnishings--the pictures on the wall, the little child on the high piano-stool. "One-two-three, one-two-three," counted Dorothy, carefully. She was in her little white nightgown, and her bare round legs swung regularly as if they were counting too. Her hair fell round her intent little face, framing it tangledly. She had to peer closely at the open book on the rack. She seemed to be making up for lost time. "Dorothy!" but she did not hear. She kept steadily on one-two-threeing. The man in the doorway did not know it, but she was playing Goodness. The tense little figure, the stiffly crooked little fingers, showed that it was rather a difficult piece to play. The eyes of the mother-face above the piano and the father's eyes in the doorway seemed to meet and a smile to cross the bridge of moonlight between them. VOL. XLI.-3 THE VANISHED VOICE BY CLARENCE URMY You slipped your Mother-hand from mine And went your way with seraphim, voice divine But in my heart your Grew never dumb, grows never dim; It leads me up the Path of Dreams That rambles through the Vale of Rhyme, And on and on by silver streams That haunt the Hills of Chant and Chime. Your voice! I hear it in the call Of woodland wind in redwood boughs, And all the sweetness to be found Is in the dear and dulcet sound I fain would echo of your tongue! [The following editorial in favor of suffrage for women was written by the editor of the North American Review and published in that periodical October 3. As was to be expected, it evoked an unusual amount of discussion and has undoubtedly helped the cause of woman suffrage more than any other individual utterance of recent years. In view of its interest, and of its importance to American women, it is here republished in full.-EDITOR OF THE BAZAR.] W E are convinced that the time has arrived when the welfare of the nation would be most effectually conserved by conferring upon women the privilege of voting and holding political office. The claim of leaders of the cause that the franchise should be granted because of a presumed inherent right we cannot admit. Whether or not in strict conformity with purely ethical considerations, it is nevertheless a fact of surpassing moment that, since the world began, the possession of power has depended upon ability to acquire and hold it. Practically, there has been no change in this regard, certainly since the German barons took possession of the valley of the Rhine; and, theoretically, custom of long prevalence often confers authority equal to that of written law. Man himself is not permitted in this country to vote except in compliance with arbitrary regulations, which universally disfranchise him until he reaches the age of twenty-one, and frequently during his entire lifetime. Advocates of the change only weaken their case by resting it upon the untenable proposition that the action of the founders of the Republic in restricting suffrage to their own sex was immoral. Nor do they strengthen it by insisting that the policy was unwise. The women of a century, or even half a century, ago were notoriously unfitted for the performance of political acts. They possessed neither of the requisites--education and experience. But mighty progress began with the recognition of mental alertness as the chief ingredient of real attractiveness in women, and was greatly enhanced by the sense of responsibility aroused by their acquirement of rights in property. To-day we are satisfied that the intellectual equipment of the aver . age American woman is quite equal to that of the medial man. Morally, it is admitted, she is his superior, and therein lies the basis of our conviction that as a matter, not of right, but of policy, she should be taken into full political partnership. The three evils most menacing to the country to-day are (1) debasement of moral standards in politics and business, (2) absorption by a few, at unwarranted cost to the many, of the common wealth, and (3) unreasonable and violent expression of resentment by the multitude. With each of these perils the American woman is quite as competent to cope as the American man. That she would be less tolerant of moral deficiency in a candidate for public office requires no demonstration; that, as a careful householder and ambitious mother constantly practising economies for the advancement of her children, she would take an active part in restraining monopolies from adding undue profits to the cost of general living seems evident; that her keen personal interest in the preservation and protection of homes and property would inevitably constitute her a conservative balance against the increasing horde of foreign-born voters may also, we submit, be accepted as a certainty.. The time for the effective use of the once-sound objection that she would not exercise the privilege, we believe, is past. Until recently, the necessity for woman's influence in politics has not been apparent; it is now, and it will become increasingly so during the next few years. It is true, doubtless, that at the moment the average woman is not adequately equipped with information. respecting public affairs; but may not this be due chiefly to the absence of occasion for its acquirement? Moreover, is it certain that she is not even now as well qualified, at least, as the average unit in the great mass of American voters? And, at the very worst, would not her mere instinct afford a guide wiser and safer than the sordid motives which now actuate so great a proportion of the electorate? For the purposes, therefore, of purifying the ballot, of establishing and maintaining lofty standards as to the qualifications required of candidates for public office, or effecting an evener distribution of earnings, of providing a heavier balance of disinterestedness and conservatism against greed and radicalism, we reiterate the expression of our firm belief that universal suffrage has now become, not only desirable, but almost a paramount necessity. SCENE.-A comfortable piazza of a suburban house in West Orange on a summer afternoon. Young Mrs. Newbury, blooming and peachy, dressed for the street, speaks to Elizabeth North, in a tennis suit, holding a racket in her hand. . and so your mother told me about your wanting to go to college and asked me if I wouldn't talk to you about it, because it seemed to her that I, being a married woman . . . . . not, of course, but that your mother is a married woman too, but her being a widow makes it seem not really as though she were what you might call married, don't you know, the way I am, for instance, who have been married . . . . let me see, how long is it? Almost six years. why, it is six years this next month. I know because my cousin Ellen's little girl had measles that year and she was six, and she just got over them in time to be the flower-girl at my wedding; and I remember that because I was the first bride in West Orange to have a flowergirl, although they have all had them since, and there have been such a lot of weddings you would think somebody would be able to invent something different by this time. Although nobody knows better than I how hard it is to think of anything new to have at a wedding to keep it from being just the same old thing, because I put off my own for three months trying to get some ideas, until I read in some paper about this flower-girl business (it was new then) and I felt sure that Henry would like something original like that, and I've always made it my duty to do anything that would please him, and to know what would please him; and it's on that very account that your mother felt that I, knowing so much about men, being married and all, could give you some good advice; for I think it is every woman's duty to consider first what effect anything she is going to do will have on men, and I know my husband has very decided views on the subject. I remember just as well what he said once . . . this was before we were married. . . . . I don't know that I've heard him express himself on the matter since then . . . . . but I remember his saying. . . . Dear me! how the scene comes back to me! We were sitting in the most romantic spot you can imagine, a little brook flowing down, you know the way brooks do, and trees overhead and grass underfoot, and things, and I was sitting on a log in the prettiest lilac challie I used to have . . . . was it my challie? Why, no, it couldn't have been, for I gave that to Aunt Maria for cushioncovers for the couch in the spare room of her summer cottage, and she built that the year before I met Henry and she must have furnished it by that time! But I can't think what I had on, and I always make it a point to remember my dresses. I think it is often such a help when you are planning your wardrobe, because you may be right on the point of getting something, and suddenly remember that you have had something like that before, and never got any compliments when you wore it. And so you are saved from getting in that state again, which is a mercy, for there's no standard like that, in spite of their |