ated at her piano. In her charming library
she was shown "Among Her Books." More charmingly she was portrayed with
her beautiful arms about the shoulders of her dear old mother. And these
accompanied an interview with the actress.

The writer, one Esther Schwarz, professed the liveliest trepidation
at first meeting the screen idol, but was swiftly reassured by the
unaffected cordiality of her reception. She found that success had not
spoiled Miss Baxter. A sincere artist, she yet absolutely lacked the
usual temperament and mannerisms. She seemed more determined than ever
to give the public something better and finer. Her splendid dignity,
reserve, humanness, high ideals, and patient study of her art had but
mellowed, not hardened, a gracious personality. Merton Gill received
these assurances without surprise. He knew Beulah Baxter would prove to
be these delightful things. He read on for the more exciting bits.

"I'm so interested in my work," prettily observed Miss Baxter to the
interviewer; "suppose we talk only of that. Leave out all the rest--my
Beverly Hills home, my cars, my jewels, my Paris gowns, my dogs, my
servants, my recreations. It is work alone that counts, don't you think?
We must learn that success, all that is beautiful and fine, requires
work, infinite work and struggle. The beautiful comes only through
suffering and sacrifice. And of course dramatic work broadens a girl's
viewpoint, helps her to get the real, the worthwhile things out of life,
enriching her nature with the emotional experience of her roles. It is
through such pressure that we grow, and we must grow, must we not? One
must strive for the ideal, for the art which will be but the pictorial
expression of that, and for the emotion which must be touched by the
illuminating vision of a well-developed imagination if the vital message
of the him is to be felt.

"But of course I have my leisure moments from the grinding stress. Then
I turn to my books--I'm wild about history. And how I love the great
free out-of-doors! I should prefer to be on a simple farm, were I a
boy. The public would not have me a boy, you say"--she shrugged
prettily--"oh, of course, my beauty, as they are pleased to call it.
After all, why should one not speak of that? Beauty is just a stock
in trade, you know. Why not acknowledge it frankly? But do come to
my delightful kitchen, where I spend many a spare moment, and see the
lovely custard I have made for dear mamma's l