"Thank the Lord," said Shawn.
He drew out a little paste-board box. Nestling in a wad of cotton, was the pearl given to him by Burney.
"Lally, this is the only thing I have ever owned in the way of jewelry, and it's not much, but will you take it and wear it for my sake?"
"It will always be a perfect pearl to me," said the blushing girl.
FOOTNOTE:
[56] Copyright, 1911, by the C. M. Clark Company.
GEORGE HORACE LORIMER
George Horace Lorimer, editor and novelist, was born at Louisville, Kentucky, October 6, 1868, the son of Dr. George C. Lorimer (1838-1904), the distinguished Baptist clergyman and author, who held pastorates at Harrodsburg (where he married a wife), Paducah, and Louisville, but who won his widest reputation in Tremont Temple, Boston. His son was educated at Colby College and at Yale. Since Saint Patrick's Day of 1899, Mr. Lorimer has been editor-in-chief of _The Saturday Evening Post_. He resides with his family at Wyncote, Pennsylvania, but he may be more often found near the top of the magnificent new building of the Curtis Publishing Company in Independence Square. As an author Mr. Lorimer is known for his popular _Letters from a Self-Made Merchant to His Son_ (Boston, 1902), which was one of the "six best sellers" for a long time. It was actually translated into Japanese. Its sequel, _Old Gorgon Graham_ (New York, 1904), was more letters from the same to the same. The original of _Old Gorgon Graham_ was none other than Philip Danforth Armour, the Chicago packer, under whom Mr. Lorimer worked for several years. Both of the books made a powerful appeal to men, but it is doubtful if many women cared for either of them. _The False Gods_ (New York, 1906), is a newspaper story in which "the false gods" are the faithless _flares_ which lead a "cub" reporter into many mixups, only to have everything turn out happily in the end. Mr. Lorimer's latest story, _Jack Spurlock--Prodigal_ (New York, 1908), an adventurous young fellow who is expelled from Harvard, defies his father, and finds himself in the maw of a cold and uncongenial world, is deliciously funny--for the reader! All of Mr. Lorimer's books are full of the _Poor Richard_ brand of worldly-wise philosophy, which he is in the habit of "serving up" weekly for the readers of _The Post_. That he is certainly an editor of very great ability, and that he has exerted wide influence in his field, no one will gainsay. The men who help him make his paper call him "the greatest editor in America;" and he is undoubtedly the highest salaried one in this country to-day. _The Post_, which was nothing before he assumed control of it, is one of the foremost weeklies in the English-reading world at the present time; and its success is due to the longheadedness and hard common sense of its editor, George Horace Lorimer.
BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Critic_ (June, 1903); _The Bookman_ (October, November, 1904); _Little Pilgrimages Among the Men Who Have Written Famous Books_, by E. F. Harkins (Boston, 1903, Second Series).
HIS SON'S SWEETHEART[57]
[From _Letters from a Self-Made Merchant to His Son_ (Boston, 1902)]
NEW YORK, November 4, 189-.
_Dear Pierrepont_: Who is this Helen Heath, and what are your intentions there? She knows a heap more about you than she ought to know if they're not serious, and I know a heap less about her than I ought to know if they are. Hadn't got out of sight of land before we'd become acquainted somehow, and she's been treating me like a father clear across the Atlantic. She's a mighty pretty girl, and a mighty nice girl, and a mighty sensible girl--in fact she's so exactly the sort of girl I'd like to see you marry that I'm afraid there's nothing in it.
Of course, your salary isn't a large one yet, but you can buy a whole lot of happiness with fifty dollars a week when you have the right sort of a woman for your purchasing agent. And while I don't go much on love in a cottage, love in a flat, with fifty a week as a starter, is just about right, if the girl is just about right. If she isn't, it doesn't make any special difference how you start out, you're going to end up all wrong.
Money ought never to be _the_ consideration in marriage, but it ought always to be _a_ consideration. When a boy and a girl don't think enough about money before the ceremony, they're going to have to think altogether too much about it after; and when a man's doing sums at home evenings, it comes kind of awkward for him to try to hold his wife on his lap.
There's nothing in this talk that two can live cheaper than one. A good wife doubles a man's expenses and doubles his happiness, and that's a pretty good investment if a fellow's got the money to invest.
I have met women who had cut their husbands' expenses in half, but they needed the money because they had doubled their own. I might add, too, that I've met a good many husbands who had cut their wives'
expenses in half, and they fit naturally into any discussion of our business, because they are hogs. There's a point where economy becomes a vice, and that's when a man leaves its practice to his wife.
An unmarried man is a good deal like a piece of unimproved real estate--he may be worth a whole lot of money, but he isn't of any particular use except to build on. The great trouble with a lot of these fellows is that they're "made land," and if you dig down a few feet you strike ooze and booze under the layer of dollars that their daddies dumped in on top. Of course, the only way to deal with a proposition of that sort is to drive forty-foot piles clear down to solid rock and then to lay railroad iron and cement till you've got something to build on. But a lot of women will go right ahead without any preliminaries and wonder what's the matter when the walls begin to crack and tumble about their ears.
FOOTNOTE:
[57] Copyright, 1902, by Small, Maynard and Company.
SISTER IMELDA
Sister Imelda ("Estelle Marie Gerard"), poet, was born at Jackson, Tennessee, January 17, 1869, the daughter of Charles Brady, a native of Ireland, and soldier in the Confederate army. After the war he went to Jackson, Tennessee, and married Miss Ann Sharpe, a kinswoman of Senator John Sharp Williams of Mississippi. Their second child was Helen Estelle Brady, the future poet. She was educated by the Dominican sisters at Jackson and, at the age of eighteen years, entered the sisterhood, taking the name of "Sister Imelda." For the next twenty-three years she lived in Kentucky, teaching music in Roman Catholic institutions at Louisville and Springfield, but she is now connected with the Sacred Heart Institute, Watertown, Massachusetts.
Sister Imelda's booklet of poems has been highly praised by competent critics. It was entitled _Heart Whispers_ (1905), and issued under her pen-name of "Estelle Marie Gerard." Many of these poems were first published in _The Midland Review_, a Louisville magazine edited by the late Charles J. O'Malley, the poet and critic. Sister Imelda is a woman of rare culture and a real singer, but her strict religious life has hampered her literary labors to an unusual degree.
BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Hesperian Tree_ (Columbus, Ohio, 1903); letters from Sister Imelda to the Author.
A JUNE IDYL[58]
[From _Heart Whispers_ (1905)]
Every glade sings now of summer-- Songs as sweet as violets' breath; And the glad, warm heart of nature Thrills and gently answereth.
Answers through the lily-lyrics And the rosebud's joyous song, Faintly o'er the valley stealing, As the June days speed along.
And we, pausing, fondly listen To their tuneful minstrelsy, Floating far beyond the wildwood To the ever restless sea.
Till the echoes, softly, lowly, Trembling on the twilight air-- Tells us that each rose and lily Bows its scented head in prayer.
HEART MEMORIES
[From the same]
In fancy's golden barque at eventide My spirit floateth to the Far Away, And dreamland faces come as fades the day.
They lean upon my heart. We gently glide Adown the magic shores of long ago, While memories, like silver lily bells, Are tinkling in my heart's fair woodland dells And breathing songs full sweetly soft and low.
When eventide has slowly winged its flight, And moonbeams clothe the flowers with radiant light, Ah, then there swiftly come again to me, Like echoes of some song-bird melody, Borne on the breeze from far-off mountain height, Fond thoughts of home, and Mother dear, of Thee.
A NUN'S PRAYER
[From the same]
When lilies swing their voiceless silver bells, And twilight's kiss doth linger on the sea, I wander silently o'er the scented lea By brooks that murmur through the sleeping dells, And rippling onward, chant the funeral knells Of leaves they bear upon their breasts. On Thee, Dear Lord, I lean! The grandest destiny Of life is mine. Within my heart there wells For thee a deep love, and sweetest peace Doth glimmer star-like on the wavelet's crest.
Grant, Thou, O Christ, its gleaming ne'er may cease, Until Death's angel makes the melody That calls my pinioned spirit home to Thee, Then only will it know eternal rest.
FOOTNOTE:
[58] Copyright, 1905, by the Author.
HARRISON CONRARD
Harrison Conrard, poet, was born at Dodsonville, Ohio, September 21, 1869. He was educated at St. Xavier's College, Cincinnati. From 1892 until the spring of 1899 Mr. Conrard lived at Ludlow, Kentucky, when he removed to Arizona to engage in the lumber business at Flagstaff, his present home. While living at Ludlow he published his first book of poems, entitled _Idle Songs and Idle Sonnets_ (1898), which is now out of print. Mr. Conrard's second and best known volume of verse, called _Quivira_ (Boston, 1907), contained a group of singing lyrics of almost entrancing beauty. These are the only books he has so far published. "Some day," the poet once wrote, "I shall roll up my bedding, take my fishing rod and wander back east, and Kentucky will be good enough for me." He has, however, never come back. A new volume of his verse is to be issued shortly.