The Perils of Pauline | Page 7

It
proved to be a scarab, or sacred Egyptian beetle, carved in black stone.
"Did you ever dream about that?" asked Harry, chaffing.
"Yes, I have," replied Pauline. Both men looked at her to see if she
were serious
"I dreamed that I was very sick and going to die, and an old man with a
long, thin beard came in. He gave me a stone beetle like that. Then it
seems to me they put it right on my chest and they said -- let's see, what
did they do that for? I think it was to cure me of something the matter
with my heart."
"Polly," said Mr. Marvin, "I never knew you had dreams like this. But
are you sure they said it would cure your heart? Wasn't it for some
other reason?"
Pauline thought a moment, while Harry lit a cigarette and his father
worked his fingers down toward the mummy's right wrist.
"No," said Pauline, "I remember now. It wasn't to cure it at all. It was to

make it keep quiet."
"Ho, ho!" laughed Harry. "I never knew of any one making it flutter
much. I guess that was no dream."
Harry's father silenced him with an impatient gesture and turned to
Pauline, who was watching the wind make cat's paws on the polished
surface of the Hudson River.
"Go on, girl, go on. This is remarkable. I have read of this custom in
the Egyptian 'Book of the Dead'! Why did they want to keep your heart
quiet?"
"They said," continued Pauline, dreamily, "that after I died my spirit
was to be called before somebody -- a God, I guess -- who would judge
whether I was good enough for Heaven or not. That stone beetle was
placed on my heart to make it keep silent and not tell anything wicked I
might have done in life. Aren't dreams crazy things? Say, Harry, there
goes a hydroplane."
The two young people hung out the open window. The old man was
absorbed, too. He had at last worked his fingers along the entire length
of the mummy's right wrist. It was dry and hard as any mummy he had
ever seen, but it bore neither bracelet nor any ornament whatever.
"Well," he said, reluctantly, "it was all a dream, interesting but not
important. Like Polly's dream, it was just the echo of something I have
read or seen."
"Oh, pshaw! What are dreams, anyway?" muttered Harry, with
impatience.
"Dreams," said Pauline, authoritatively, "dreams are the bubbles which
rise to the surface of the mind when it cools down in sleep."
"Now," observed Harry, quietly, "when you and father are through
talking about mummies and dreams I wish you would consider
something that I am interested in. I'd like to know how soon you are

going to marry me?"
"Where did you get that definition of dreams, Polly?" asked the old
man.
"From my story," said Pauline, proudly.
Both men at once remembered that she had gone to find the magazine
and show them her first story. They eagerly demanded to see it.
Pauline picked up the Cosmopolitan from the floor. She had dropped it
in her agitation at finding her foster father had fainted. Sure enough,
there it was:
FIRE ON AN OCEAN LINER
By Pauline Marvin.
It was not the biggest feature by any means, but it was quite a little
story, and there were several large stirring illustrations. Both men
begged her to read it to them, but she modestly declined.
Mr. Marvin adjusted his spectacles and read it through from start to
finish, frequently looking up to compliment the authoress on some
point that pleased him. Harry looked over his father's shoulder, and
there could be no doubt they were both held and even thrilled by the
story.
Mr. Marvin clapped his hands and stated in a loud voice that he was
proud of her. Harry expressed his appreciation by a bear-like hug and a
kiss, all of which she accepted with blushes and protests.
"And -- er -- did they actually pay you something for this?" asked the
old gentleman.
"Oh, yes," Pauline assured him. "They sent me a check at once. It paid
for that frock you told me was too extravagant."
"A hundred dollars?" ventured Harry from the depths of his ignorance

of things feminine.
Both Pauline and his father cast pitying glances at him.
"Look here, young man," said the elder Marvin, "whoever led you to
believe that you could buy dresses for a girl like Polly at a hundred
dollars? If you contemplate matrimony on any such deluded basis as
that you had better back out now before it's too late. Isn't that so,
Polly?"
"Why, father," protested the youth, "what do I care what her dresses
cost? Polly