ter Village, New Jersey, in the Orange mountains, in a colony of
literary people which her husband was interested in establishing. After
several years of very successful literary work, she developed
tuberculosis. She went to Torquay, England, in search of health, and
died there March 31, 1910.

Her works include the following titles: _Little Citizens_; _The Isle of
Dreams_; _Wards of Liberty_; _Rosnah_; _the Golden Season_; _Little
Aliens_; _New Faces_. One of the leading magazines speaks of her as the
creator of a new dialect.

HERO WORSHIP

_Most of us are hero-worshippers at some time of our lives. The boy
finds his hero in the baseball player or athlete, the girl in the
matinee idol, or the "movie" star. These objects of worship are not
always worthy of the adoration they inspire, but this does not matter
greatly, since their worshippers seldom find it out. There is something
fine in absolute loyalty to an ideal, even if the ideal is far from
reality. "The Tenor" is the story of a famous singer and two of his
devoted admirers_.

THE TENOR[1]

BY

H. C. BUNNER

It was a dim, quiet room in an old-fashioned New York house, with
windows opening upon a garden that was trim and attractive, even in its
wintry days--for the rose-bushes were all bundled up in straw ulsters.
The room was ample, yet it had a cosy air. Its dark hangings suggested
comfort and luxury, with no hint of gloom. A hundred pretty trifles told
that it was a young girl's room: in the deep alcove nestled her dainty
white bed, draped with creamy lace and ribbons.

"I was _so_ afraid that I'd be late!"

The door opened, and two pretty girls came in, one in hat and furs, the
other in a modest house dress. The girl in the furs, who had been afraid
that she would be late, was fair, with a bright color in her cheeks, and
an eager, intent look in her clear brown eyes. The other girl was
dark-eyed and dark-haired, dreamy, with a soft, warm dusky color in her
face. They were two very pretty girls indeed--or, rather, two girls
about to be very pretty, for neither one was eighteen years old.

The dark girl glanced at a little porcelain clock.

"You are in time, dear," she said, and helped her companion to take off
her wraps.

Then the two girls crossed the room, and with a caressing and almost a
reverent touch, the dark girl opened the doors of a little carven
cabinet that hung upon the wall, above a small table covered with a
delicate