



Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer





THE FOOLISH VIRGIN

By Thomas Dixon




TO GERTRUDE ATHERTON WITH GRATITUDE AND ADMIRATION





CONTENTS


CHAPTER

     I.      A FRIENDLY WARNING
     II.     TEMPTATION
     III.    FATE
     IV.     DOUBTS AND FEARS
     V.      WINGS OF STEEL
     VI.     BESIDE THE SEA
     VII.    A VAIN APPEAL
     VIII.   JIM'S TRIAL
     IX.     ELLA'S SECRET
     X.      THE WEDDING
     XI.     "UNTIL DEATH"
     XII.    THE LOTOS-EATERS
     XIII.   THE REAL MAN
     XIV.    UNWELCOME GUESTS
     XV.     A LITTLE BLACK BAG
     XVI.    THE AWAKENING
     XVII.   THE SURRENDER
     XVIII.  TO THE NEW GOD
     XIX.    NANCE'S STOREHOUSE
     XX.     TRAPPED
     XXI.    THE DEVIL'S DISCIPLE
     XXII.   DELIVERANCE
     XXIII.  THE DOCTOR
     XXIV.   THE CALL DIVINE
     XXV.    THE MOTHER
     XXVI.   A SOUL IS BORN
     XXVII.  THE BABY
     XXVIII. WHAT IS LOVE?
     XXIX.   THE NEW MAN




LEADING CHARACTERS OF THE STORY

     MARY ADAMS, An Old-Fashioned Girl.
     JIM ANTHONY, A Modern Youth.
     JANE ANDERSON, An Artist.
     ELLA, A Scrubwoman.
     NANCE OWENS, Jim Anthony's Mother.
     A DOCTOR, Whose Call was Divine.
     THE BABY, A Mascot.




THE FOOLISH VIRGIN




CHAPTER I. A FRIENDLY WARNING

"Mary Adams, you're a fool!"

The single dimple in a smooth red cheek smiled in answer.

"You're repeating yourself, Jane----"

"You won't give him one hour's time for just three sittings?"

"Not a second for one sitting----"

"Hopeless!"

Mary smiled provokingly, her white teeth gleaming in obstinate good
humor.

"He's the most distinguished artist in America----"

"I've heard so."

"It would be a liberal education for a girl of your training to know
such a man----"

"I'll omit that course of instruction."

The younger woman was silent a moment, and a flush of anger slowly
mounted her temples. The blue eyes were fixed reproachfully on her
friend.

"You really thought that I would pose?"

"I hoped so."

"Alone with a man in his studio for hours?"

Jane Anderson lifted her dark brows.

"Why, no, I hardly expected that! I'm sure he would take his easel and
palette out into the square in front of the Plaza Hotel and let you sit
on the base of the Sherman monument. The crowds would cheer and inspire
him--bah! Can't you have a little common-sense? There are a few
brutes among artists, as there are in all professions--even among the
superintendents of your schools. Gordon's a great creative genius. If
you'd try to flirt with him, he'd stop his work and send you home. You'd
be as safe in his studio as in your mother's nursery. I've known him
for ten years. He's the gentlest, truest man I've ever met. He's doing a
canvas on which he has set his whole heart."

"He can get professional models."

"For his usual work, yes--but this is the head of the Madonna. He saw
you walking with me in the Park last week and has been to my studio a
half-dozen times begging me to take you to see him. Please, Mary dear,
do this for my sake. I owe Gordon a debt I can never pay. He gave me
the cue to the work that set me on my feet. He was big and generous
and helpful when I needed a friend. He asked nothing in return but the
privilege of helping me again if I ever needed it. You can do me an
enormous favor--please."

Mary Adams rose with a gesture of impatience, walked to her window and
gazed on the torrent of humanity pouring through Twenty-third Street
from the beehives of industry that have changed this quarter of New York
so rapidly in the last five years. She turned suddenly and confronted
her friend.

"How could you think that I would stoop to such a thing?"

"Stoop!"

"Yes," she snapped, "--pose for an artist! I'd as soon think of rushing
stark naked through Twenty-third Street at noon!"

The older woman looked at her flushed face, suppressed a sharp answer,
broke into a fit of laughter and threw her arms around Mary's neck.

"Honey, you're such a hopeless little fool, you're delicious! You know
that I love you--don't you?"

The pretty lips quivered.

"Yes."

"Could I possibly ask you to do a thing that would harm a single brown
hair of your head?"

The firm hand of the older girl touched a rebellious lock with
tenderness.

"Of course not, from your point of view, Jane dear," the stubborn lips
persisted. "But you see it's not my point of view. You're older than
I----"

Jane smiled.

"Hoity toity, Miss! I'm just twenty-eight and you're twenty-four. Age is
not measured by calendars these days."

"I didn't mean that," the girl apologized. "But you're an artist. You're
established and distinguished. You belong to a different world."

Jane Anderson laid her hand softly on her friend's.

"That's just it, dear. I do belong to a different world--a big new world
of whose existence you are not quite conscious. You are living in the
old, old world in which women have groped for thousands of years. I
don't mind confessing that I undertook this job of getting you to pose
for Gordon for a double purpose. I wished to do something to repay
the debt I owe him--but I wished far more to be of help to you. You're