THE TILLAMOOK HEADLIGHT and all the while he was there, I never so much as thought Qi ceremonious dress and dinners, and liveried but­ ler« and footmen; nor did It once oc­ cur to me that our aimpl« kltchao Mora, and Old John’s eon at the wheel Ot eur eue motorcar, ware nut UauCS- I fully and entirely adequate, so unas­ sumingly and so perfectly did Jerry Mmlstakably "fit In.” (There are Bo other words that so exactly express what I tnean.) Aud In the end, even hl* charm and bls triumph were as an Obtrusively complete that I never thought of being surprised at the Eleanor H. Porter prompt capitulation of both Fsthar and Mother. Jerry had brought the ring. (Jerry always brings his “rings"—und he never falls to “put them on.”) And Illustrations by he went back to New York with % H. Livingstone Mother's promise that I should visit them In July at their cottage In New- J port. They seemed like a dream—those >t by four days—after he had gone; and I should have been tempted to doubt 8YNOP8I8 the whole thing had there not been PREFACE.—‘Mary Marte" explains her the sparkle of the ring on my finger, amu nat “double personality" ana Just and the frequent reference to Jerry wny ana la a "crOBS-currept and a contra on the lips of both Father nnd Mother. fiictlon,” ah tulla haf reasons for writing the d tar to bs a noval. The They loved Jerry, both of them. •ary Ta com at Andersonville. Father said he wns a fine, manly CHAPTER X.—Mary begins with Nurse young fellow; nnd Mother said he was Sarah's account of hsr (Mary's) birth, a dear boy, a very dear boy. Neither which seemingly Interested her father. of them spoke much of his painting. Who Is a famous astronomer, less than a «•w star which was discovered ths same Jerry himself had scarcely mentioned sight. Her name is a compromise, her mother wanted to call her viola and her It to them, ns I remember, after he father insisting on Abigail Jane. Ths had gone. child quickly learned that nor home wao I went to Newport In July. "The cot­ tn some wav different from those of hsr small friends, and was pussled thereat. tage," as I suspected, wns twice as Nurse «aruh tells her of her mother's ar­ rival at Andersonville as a bride and how large and twice as pretentious as the astonished they all were at the eight of New York residence; and it sported the dainty elghteen-year old girl whom tw’lce the number of servants. Once the sedate professor had ohosen for a wife. again I was caught In the whirl of din- CHAPTER IL—Contlnutag bar story, i tiers and dances and motoring, with Sturse Sarah makes It plain why the the addition of tennis and bathing. ousehold asamed a strange one to the And always, at my side, was Jerry, cbUd and howber father and mother drifted apart through mlaunderetandlng. seemingly living only upon my lightest each too proud to In any way attempt to whim and fancy. He wished to paint smooth over the situation UL Mary tails ef the time my portrait; but there was no time, es­ Sient "out west" where the "perfectly pecially as my visit. In accordance with 1 right and gaateal and respectable’’ vorce wm being arranged for, and her Mother's Inexorable decision, was of mother's (to bar) unacountabla behavior only one week's duration. By the cxxirt'a decree ths chfid Is Io apeml •u months of tbs year with hsr mother But whut a wonderful week that and six months with her father. Boston was! I seemed to be under a kind of Is Mother's home, and she and Mary leave Andersonvilte for that city to spend spell. It win ns If I were in a new the first six months world—a world such as no one had CHARTER IV- At Boston M»ry bs- ever been In before, Oh, I knew, of oomes ■Marte.’’ Hb- Is deilghted wlfh her course, that others had loved—but not K’ home. so different from tn- gloomy es at Andarsonvlll«. Tba numbsr of as we loved. I was sure that no one wbo call on hsr mothsr Isads bad ever loved as we loved. And It on tha poseiblllty of a olaeeos ths caJters as was so much mors wonderful than ra. finälly doeldlna ths anything I had ever dreamed of—this bo Her mother writes asking that Mary be allowed to ■ orn* to Boston for th begin­ ning of the school term, and Mr Ander­ son consents, though from an expression he lets rail Mary believes he Is sorry sb» Is ruins i CHAPTER VI Marv la Surprised at the tenderne»» her father displays when he pm» her on the train for Boston flhe discover» "the violinist" making love to her mother'» maid. Theresa, but ear« nothin« later however »he over hesr» him making a proposal of marriage to her mother and tell» what »hr »aw "The violinist" 1» dismissed An unac­ countable chamre in her mother aston­ ishes her The child 1» given to under »lend »he 1» being taught setf-d|»<-lpllp« and she has leas good times and fewer Lrettv thine» to wear As the time for er return to Andersonville approach»» Mis Anderson equip» her In plain drennea and "sensible" shoe» "Marv" things the hlld complains » >1 I I a I r ■- ■ ■ i. ,1 CHAPTKB VII—At the Andersonville Station Mary Is met hy her father In a new automobile, and find» Instead of the prim ind angular Aunt Jane a young and -onian who «he lenrn* 1« attractive wrr — ----------- '* ................ "Cousin Grace " Mary write* her neither of the (hangi*. amt Is aatonlshi-d at the many questions she la called on to an ewer c ‘oncernlng her father's new house Marv decides that he Intends to keeper t ii'ieln llrace " In a moment of mam confide tnce she a*ke him tf that I* not hie Intention He telle her It Is not. and I* diiinfminded when sh>- Infirm* him »he hnv written to tier mother telling her her Idea of tin- situation. A few day» later Mary goes back to Boston rlLUTI-’ll VIII. Mr And»r»on vi»lt» Bouton to hllver a l»<*tur» Mr* An->» •on md Mari«* hear him »h the reparation, and Marie la »ure that * het mother from 1er ohavrtationa 1 ** w “ rggests that ha call •till loves him Mhe rid . arrange ihe hou»» and ah» wl _ tor h»r -j mother to me»t him without flrat . - know Marla la con fl In» who the visitor 1» dent iiv' it they meet, a reconciliation Her Intuition la correct, mu will follow misunderstandings are explained tuai the two. who -------- have really and ——- always loved one another are remarried CHAPTER IX.-The diary lakrs a jump of iwelvs v».»rs, during »hl h Marls (always Marie thsm has ths usual harm teas l**ie affairs Inseparable from girl hood Tlreii sh» most» THE man—Gerald Weston, young, wealthy, and alresdi a au< resarui portrait painter. They are deeply In love and the wedding follows quickly With the comma of the baby Eum.e thin«» seem to change with Marl« • nd Gerald and they tn a manner drift apart X'l ew Eunice Is five years old Matte decides to part from Gerald In tending to break the news to tier unit her ah is (»minded of her own frequently nnlaptw childhood find how Iter action in parting flora her husband will subl Ktrn re to the sarnr humlllstloos Her •yes opened Malte gives up her Idea of a ■et'aralten. and returns to her husband >tei -rtv end hsr tans At : Newport Jerry Decided That He Wanted to Be Married Right Away. I good deal to be learned later on; t we didn’t think of that. Love th la to last must be built upon the r-.i' zatlou that troubles and trials and »< ' rows are sure, to come, and that th must be borne together—if one back not to break under the loud. We wi ■ entering into a contract, not for week, but, presumably, tor a lLfetlnn —and a good deal may come to , ■ in a lifetime—not all of it pleasin' We had been brought up in two dis tinctly different social environments but we didn't stop to think of that. We liked the same sunsets, and the Samy make of car, and the same kind of i cream; and we looked into each oth er's eyes aud thought we knew each other—whereas we were really only seeing the mirrored reflection of our­ selves. And so we were married. It was everything that was blissful and delightful, of course, at first. We were still eating the ice-cream and ad­ miring tb« sunsets. I had forgotten that there were things other than sun- set* nnd Ice-cream. T suspect, I was not twenty-one, remember, , and my whole ' feet fairly ached to dunce. The world wns a show. Music, lights, laughter—how I loved them all! Then came the baby, Eunice, my little girl; and with one touch of her tiny, clinging fingers, the whole world of sham—the lights nnd music and glare and glitter Just faded all away Into nothingness, where It belonged. As if anything counted, with her on the other side of the scales! I found out then—oh, I found out lots of things, You see, It wasn’t that way at all with Jerry. The lights and music and the glitter and the sham didn't fade away a mite, to him, when Eunice came. In fact, sometimes it seemed to tne they Just grew stronger, If anything. He didn't like It because I couldn’t go with him any more—to dances and things, I mean, He said the nurse could take care of Eunice. As if I’d leave my baby with any nurse that ever lived, for any old dance! The Idea! But Jerry went. At first he stayed with me; but the baby cried, and Jerry didn’t like that. It made him Irritable and nervous, until I was glad to have h'm go. I think It was about this time that Jerry took up his painting again, I guess I have forgotten to mention that all throqgh the first two years of our marriage, before the baby came, he Just tended to me. He never painted a single picture. But after Eunice came— But, after all, what is the use of going over these last miserable years like this? Eunice Is five now. Her father is the most popular portrait painter in the country, I am almost tempted to say that he is the most popnlar nun. a* wch. AH the Mrt charm und magnetism are there. Sorne- times I watch him (for, of course, I do go out with him once in a while), and always I think of that first day 1 «aw hlin at college. Brilliant, polished, witty—he still dominates every group of which he Is a member. Men and women alike bow to his charm. After all, I suspect thnt it's just thaï Jerry still loves the Ice-creiun and sun- sets, and I don't. That’s all. To me there's something more to life than that—something higher, deeper, mom worth while. We haven’t II taste lb common, a thought In unison, an aspiration In harmony. I suspect—lit fact I know- that 1 get <>n his nerve* just as riispliigly as he does on mine For that reason I’m sure he’ll be glad when lie get* my letter. But, some way, I dread to teb Mother • •»•••• Well, It's finished. I've been about four days bringing this autobiography of Mary Marie's to an end. I’ve en­ joyed doing It, In a way, though I'll have to tvltiitt I can't see a* It's made things any clearer. But, then. It was clear before. There isn't any other way. I've got to write that letter. A« I said before, I regret that it must be so sorry an ending. I suppose tomorrow I'll have to tell Mother. 1 want to tell her. of course, before I write the letter to Jerry. It'll grieve Mother. I know it will And I'm sorry. I'ooj Mother! Already she's had so much unhappiness In her life. But she's happy now. She and Father are wonderful together—won­ derful. Father Is still president of the college, lie got out a wonderful book on the "Eclipses of the Moon" two years ago, mid he's publishing another one about the "Eclipses of the Run” this year, Mother's correcting proof for him. Bless her heart. Rhe love« it. She told me so. Well. I shall have to tell her tomor­ row, of course. didn't «nut Io wait two more endle** yenr* until I wu* graduated. The Idea of waxting nil tlint valuable time when we might be togetht there was really no either—no reason at i I smiled to myself, « at Ills sweet luslstenc sure I knew two rei good reason«—why I before grnduatloti. i Father; the other rea I hinted us much. "Ho! Is (bat all?*' lie laughed and kissed tne. ”1'11 run down ami see them about It," he Mild Jauntily. I smiled again. I lind no more Idea TOMORROW — WHICH HAS BE* thnt nuyihlng he could «n.v would— COME TODAY. lint I didn't know Jerry—then. I Imd not I...... home from Newport I wonder If Mother knew what I had a week when Jerry kept Ills promise conic Into her tittle sitting- room (Ins nnd "run down " And lie hnd not been morning to say. It seems as It she there two days before Father and must have known. Aud yet— 1 hud wondered how I whs going to Mother admitted that, perhaps after all. It would not lie so bad an Idea If begin, but. Iiefore I knew It, I was I shouldn't graduate, but should be rigid in the middle of It—the subject. married Instead 1 mean. That's why I thought perhaps And st> I was married that Mother— (Didn't I tell you that Jerry always But I'm getting as bad as little Mary brought rings and put them on ?) Marie of the long ago. I’ll try now to And again I say. and so w e were tell what did haptwn. married I was wetting my lips, and swallow Hut what did we know of each Ing nnd wondering how 1 wns going otherT— the real other? True, we hail to begin to tell her that I was plant mg danced together been swlmnilnc to not to go back to Jerry, when all of a gether. dined togetl er played tennis sudden I found myself saying some­ together Bill wh#i Hid we really know thin* about little Eunice And then of ««eh • »t her’« whims and prejudices, Mother said: opinions end personal habits and "Yea. iny dear; and that's what com taste*? I ini-« to h worn what Jerri forts me ^nost of anythlug—beeauae would snv about a gunnel: and he you are so devoted to Eunice. You «ae. knew I fane, w hat I would say about I havs feared sometime«—for yon and a dream» walls song Bui we didn't Jerry; that you might separate. Rat either of ns know what the other I know, on account of Eunice, that you would say to a dlnnerleaa liouie with never will." ibv cook gone We were lee »lug a "But. Mother, that'a the very son—I metin, It would be the renson,” I stammered. Then I stopped. My tongue just wouldn't move, my throat aud lips were so dry. But Mother was speaking aguin. "Eunice—yes. You mean that you never would make her go through v. Irat you went through when you were her age.” “Why, Mother, I—I—” And then I stopped again. And I was so angry and indignant with myself because I hud to stop, when there were so many, many things that I wanted to say. If only my dry lips could articulate the words. Mother drew her breath In with a little catch. She hail grown rather white. "I wonder if you remember—if you ever think of—your childhood,” she said. “Why, yes, of — of course — sorpe- times.1' It was my turn to stammer. I was thinking of that diary that I had Just read—and added to. Mother drew in her breath again, this time with a catch that was almost a sob. And then she began to talk— at first haltingly, with half-finished sentences; then hurriedly, with a rush of words that seemed not able to utter themselves fast enough to keep up with the thoughts behind them. She told of her youth and marriage, and of my coming. She told of her life with Father, and of the mistakes she made. She told much, of course, that was in Mary Marie's diary; but she told, oh, so much more, until like a panorama the whole thing lay before me. Then she spoke of me, of my child hood, and her voice began to quiver. You can see things so much more clearly when you stand off at a dis- diary, and 1 thought—what if it were Eunice—writing that!) She suit! I was the most devoted mother she had ever known; that I was too devoted, she feared sometimes, for I made Eunice all my world, to the exclusion of Jerry aud everything uud everybody else. But that she was very sure, because I was so devoted, end loved Eunice so deurly, that I would never deprive her of a father’s love aud carq, I shivered a little, and looked quick- ly into Mother’s face. But she was not looking at me. I was thinking of how Jerry had kissed aud kissed Eunice a month ago, when we came away, us if he just couldn't let her go. Jerry is fond of Eunice, now that she's old enough to know something, and Eunice adores her father. I kuew that part was going to be tjard. Aud now to have Mother put it like that— I begun to talk then of Jerry. I just felt that I’d got to say something. That Mother must listen. Thut she didn’t uuderstand. I told her how Jerry loved lights aud music and dancing, ^ind crowds bowing down and worship­ ing him all the time. And she said yes, I she remembered; that he'd been ! way when I married him. She spoke so sort of queerly j again I glanced at her; but she i was looking down at the hem she turning. I went on then to explain that I I didn’t like such things; that I ba- I lieved that there were deeper and higher things, and things more worth while. And she said yes, she was glad, I and that that was going to be my sav­ ing grace; for, of course, I realized that there couldn't be anything deeper or higher or more worth while than keeping the home together, and put- ; ting up with annoyances, for the ulti­ mate good of all, especially of Eunice. She went right on then quickly, be­ fore I could say anything. She suid that, of course, I understood that I was still Mary and Marie, even if Jerry ■ did call me Mollie; and if Marie had ' married a man that wasn’t always con­ genial with Mary, she was very sure Mary had enough stamina a\d good sense to make the best of it; and she was very sure, also, that if Mary would only make a little effort to be once in a while the Marie he had married, things might be a lot easier—for Mary. Of course, I laughed at that. I had to. And Mother laughed, too.* But we understood. We both understood. I had never thought of It before, but I had been Marie when I married Jerry. I loved lights and music and dancing and gay crowds Just exactly as well as he did. And It wasn't his fault that I suddenly turned into Mary when the baby came, and wanted him to stay at home before the fire every evening with his dressing-gown and slippers. )<• Than She Spoke of Ma, Childhood, and Her Voice Began to Quiver. Friday, July 14, 1 vendas ha vaa aurprUsA. lia hadn’t married Mary—he never knew Mary at all. But, do you know? I'd never thought of that before—until Mother said what she did. Why, prob­ ably Jerry was Just as much disap­ pointed to find his Marie turned Into a Mary ns I— But Mother was talking again. She said that she thought Jerry was a wonderful mun, in some ways; that she never saw a man with such chnrni anil magnetism, or one who could so readily adapt himself to different per­ sons and circumstances. And she «aid she was very sure if Mary could only show a little more Interest in pictures (especially portraits), and learn to dis­ cuss lights and shadows and perspec­ tives, that nothing would be lost, and that something might be gained; that there was nothing, anyway, like a com­ munity of Interest or of hobbles to bring two people together; ami that It wns safer, to say the least, when it was the wife that shared the com 111 u* nity of interest than when It wns some other woman, though of course, she knew as well as I knew that Jerry never would— Rhe didn't finish her sentence, and because she didn't finish it, it made me think all the more, Then, In a minute. she was talking again. She was speaking of Eunice. Rhe said once more that because of her, she knew tnat she need never fear any serious trouble between Jerry and me, for, after all. It's the child that always pays for the mother's mistakes mid short-sightedness, just as it Is the sol- dler that pays for Ills commanding offl- cer's blunders. That's why she felt thnt I had had to pay for her mistakes, and why «he knew that I’d never Com­ pel my little girl to pay for mine. Sb« said that the mother lives in the heart of the child long after the mother is gone, nnd that was why the mother always had to be—so careful. Then, before I knew it. she was talk­ ing briskly and brightly about some­ thing entirely different; and two m ru­ ates Inter I found niyself alone mi t- side of her room. And I hadn't told her. But I wasn't even thinking of that, I was thinking of Eunice, and of that round. chlhllsh scrawl of a diary up- Stairs In the attic trunk. And 1 «lit pb turlng Eunice. In the years to coine. writing her diary: and 1 thought whî’t if «he «hiaild have to— L ent iinitnirs then and read that dt: rv : :: In Ind all the while I • tance like this, you know, than you can when you are close to them ! She broke down mid cried when she spoke of the divorce, mid of the influ­ ent** It had upon me, mid of the false Idea of marrlnge it gave me. She said It was the worst kind of thing for mo­ tile sort of life I hail to live. She said 1 grew pert and precocious and worldly wise, and full of servants' talk and Idea*. She even spoke of that nigh nt the little cafe table when I gloried in the sparkle and spangles aud told her that now we were seeing life—real life, And of how shocked «he was. and of how she saw then what this thing wns doing to me. But it was too late. Rhe told more, much more, about the Inter years, and the reconciliation ; then, some way, she brought things nround to Jerry nnd me. Iler face flushed up then, nnd *he didn't meet my eyes. Rhe looked down at her sew­ ing. She wa» very busy turning a hem just * how . I know 1 tried to break In «nd that tell her that we were going to » |m • • • . rate mid that that wa* exactly whnt I ry'w etter to me i had crane into the ro«»ni In the hr- hat a wonder» » to say. write—when h 'Ml again she kept right on talking !«» was silenced before I had even ■ 11*1 Uiaut- •»»> «•» t».< a i» a *o*nh ■'hr said bow she knew It could irai runter amt mik I when am 1 oe—on account of Kunlca. That crai ing hrane? •n d never snbject my little girl to • « ■ •rt of wretchedly divided life that ! wrote him tonight • to live when I was a child. > - she spoke I was suddenly hack ent n<—tomorrow THE END . cobwebby attic with little Mary's W THIRD ELEMENT IN THE VACUUM TUBE Grid Added to Fleming Valve by Dr. Lee DeForest Was a Big Improvement. Any device which will pass electrici­ ty in one direction and will wholly or partially obstruct the flow In the op­ posite direction is termed a rectifier, because when connected in the path of an alternating current it will sup­ press one-half of each cycle and there­ fore the circuit will be traversed by pulsating direct current. A rectifier also is said to possess unidirectional conductivity, meaning, of course, that It will conduct electricity in one di- rection only. Its ability to rectify cur­ rents of extremely high frequency de­ termines its application in radio. Due to its ability to rectify high fre­ quency alternating currents the two- element (filament and plate) vacuum tube can be used in a radio receiver as a detector. Fig. VI is a simple radio receiving circuit employing this type of two-ele­ ment vacuum tube in place of a crystal detector. Dr. 3. A. flcmtuf at London, Bng- land, was the first to use a two-ele- meat tube of the type Just described as a medium of rectifying high fre- quency radio currents. Fleming called his product a valve because it would let current flow in one direction but not in the other direction. The Flem­ ing valve as a forerunner of the vacu- um tube of today marked a very im­ portant step in the progress of the radio art. The Fleming valve, how­ ever. in its original form was not much better than other forms of rectifiers then in use and, owing to the greater ruggedness and ease of manipulation of the latter, did not come into gener­ al use as a detector. Dr. Lee DeForest, an American, greatly Improved the Fleming valve by adding a third electrode called the grid, which served the function of a coutrol element and thus made It pos­ sible to utilize the feeble incoming sig­ nal currents to control more powerful local currents. The three-electrode vacuum tula» of DeForest Is the tube used so extensively today. The third element which is called a grid and from which the three-elec­ trode vacuum tube derives Its name was placed by DeForeet between the filament and the plate in the path of the electrons. The grid Is a perfor­ ated plate or mesh of fine wire through the openings rf which the electrons must* pass ¡n tbetr from the filament to the plate. Fig. VII is a diagrammatical sketch of the circuits of a thre^electiwde vacuum tut-» and is Identically the same as the sketch In Fig III for a two-element vacuum tube with the ad- ditlon of the grid circuit l-J-K-t battery iu the grid circuit is the “C battery. As a start let us suppose thi battery voltage Is zero. The I tlou of the three electrode tube! then be exactly like rhat of a twi trode tube, Just as though therd no grid. Like a two-electruild when the filament C-D Is brmi| incunijescence by the “A" batt steady stream of electrons will h en off, which will be drawn oi the plate E. Plate E Is main! at a positive potential with • to the filament by the "B” bi Now if the grid is made pc with respect to the filament, it li sible to accelerate the flow of flit tron stream from the filament t plate; If (he grid Is made nei with respect to the filament, th« of the electron stream from thi ment to the plate will be reta Or In other words, by making the positive or negative with respei the filament, It is possible to Inc or counteract the space charge, third electrode or grid thus oth means of controlling the current ii plate circuit without changing plate potential or the filament tern; ature. The characteristic curve of a th: electrode vacuum tube is shown Flg_ VIII. This diagram shows tl relation of grid potential to pia current, assuming that the fllamei temperature and plate voltage rema constant. It can be seen from the curve thi by applying a negative potential < value B to the grid, the plate eu rent can be reduced to zero. Tlie nei atlve charge on the grid will have th effect of a negative potential E witi respect to the filament, making thi negative charge so strong around thi filament that the electrons cannot leave it. On the other hand, if a pool tive potential of value F be appllec to the grid with respect to the fila­ ment. the maximum or saturation cur­ rent will flow In the plate circuit. Ap­ plying a cre-iter positive potential than F to the grid with respect to the fila­ ment will not cause an Increase in the ♦ % ? c /* / i È ? r / AxnTrvW •» GOlO a POTCfiTl^L r'f ES plate current because the electrons giv­ en off are being attracted to the plate and grid. When the grid Is maintained posi­ tive with respect to the filament a «mall current will flow In the grid cir­ cuit. Because of its being positive It will attract the electrons and have a charge given up “to it hi them.