The truth is that it is only woman who can keep a secret. Only a divine intelligence can understand the marvelous power with which ninety-nine married women out of a hundred successfully hide from the rest of the world the secret that they have bound themselves to something unworthy of the pure and sacrificing love they have given them. She may whisper to her neighbor that Mrs. Jones has turned her old silk dress twice, but if she has in her breast anything affecting one she loves, the gods themselves could not drag it from her. Weak man looks into the wine cup and behold, he babbles his innermost thoughts to any gaping bystander; woman can babble of the weather, and gaze with infantine eyes into the orbs of the wiliest diplomat, while holding easily in her breast the heaviest secrets of state. Adam was the original blab; the first telltale, and we are not proud of him. With the dreamy, appealing eyes of Eve upon him--she who was created for his comfort and pleasure--even as she stood by his side, loving and fresh and fair as a spring moon, the wretched cad said, "The woman gave me and I did eat." This reprehensible act in our distinguished forefather can not be excused by any gentleman who knows what is due to a lady. Adam's conduct would have caused his name to be stricken from the list of every decent club in the country. And since that day, woman has stood by man, faithful, true, and ready to give up all for his sake. She hides his puny peccadilloes from the world, she glosses over his wretched misdemeanors, and she keeps silent when a word would pierce his inflated greatness and leave him a shriveled and shrunken rag. And man says that woman can not keep a secret! Let him be thankful that she can, or his littleness would be proclaimed from the housetops. A Pastel Above all hangs the dreadful night. He pleads with her. His hand is on her arm. They stand in the cold, solemn night, gazing into a brilliantly lighted room. His face is white and terror-stricken. Hers is willful, defiant, and white with the surging impulse of destiny. Ten miles away on the Harrisburg road a draggle-tailed rooster crows, but the woman does not falter. He pleads with her. She shakes off his hand with a gesture of loathing, and takes a step forward toward the lighted room. He pleads with her. Crystal flakes of moonlight quiver on the trees above; star dust flecks the illimitable rim of the Ineligible. The whicheverness of the Absolute reigns preeminent. Sin is below; peace above. The whip of the north wind trails a keen lash upon them. Carriages sweep by. Frost creeps upon the stones, lies crustily along parapets, spangles and throws back in arctic scintillation the moon's challenging rays. He pleads with her. At last she turns, conquered. He has refused to treat to oysters. Jim Thanks, young man; I'll sit awhile, And rest while Betsy trades a bit. We've druv 'bout twenty mile to-day; I'm real tired. Just think of it!