* * * * * Within me I felt welling up a vast desire to be treated by this mordant. Who has not felt the pang attendant upon seeing youth slip by? I was young then--but had no desire to grow older. The man must have read my thoughts. He had uncanny powers. “No, it is not for you--not yet--nor for me. The truth is that I am afraid of crippling my powers. I must do greater good in the world than I have yet done.” He paused. His eyes peered into the distances and then he continued slowly: “I have tested it out already--last year upon a morning glory in my garden in the Black Hills.” MacDowell loved flowers. They proved quiet, unobtrusive friends and never waxed merry over what they judged to be the futility of his experiments. “The flower trumpets did not perish. One by one they placed their glory on the vine. But note this well--this I feel intensely--the flowers came to full bloom, remained in full bloom. But beyond that they did not go. There was no seed. I am wondering if there can be a lack of mental fruition also. I need you in this work. You have the rare gift of intuition. Therefore the test will not be made on you.” “But, about the morning glory,” I queried, “is it still living?” “That would be difficult to say. It exists. The flowers are purple, but winter winds and heavy snows have torn and bruised them. No, I should say that it is dead--for it no longer grows and the spring brought to it no new leaf.” “And who is to be the fortunate victim of the mordant?” I asked, half envious of the person upon whom the test was to be made. “That,” he said, with his forefinger directed straight at me, “is where I need you. I wish to do no one harm. Unless the mordant brings good, the world is never to know of it. I have seen young, blooming mothers, upon whom I should have liked to test it. The idea of destroying their creative ability has deterred me. I do not wish to arrest mental development, so I shall not approach a scholar. I have come to the conclusion that it could be tested out to great advantage on some woman, who depends greatly on her beauty for the earning of a livelihood. “I have no doubt that several of the stars of the screen would be glad to accept the test. There are operatic singers, actresses, who might for the sake of preserved youth be willing to undergo the experiment. But I have no way of approach. These favored beauties would think of me as a daring humbug. I might have difficulty in gaining access to them. My clumsy tongue could not induce them.” There was a glint of merriment in his eye as he queried, “Could you do it?” Rosa Celeste was my selection. You have all heard of her--the singer with the voice of golden fire--loved on the operatic stage for her grace of form and her ability in acting as well as for the divine gift in her throat.