How to Win the Heart of a Capricorn Man

Practical steps a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a. If you could see me with my hair down now, you would know what I have been going through. I am not very happy, as you may guess, but I am as happy as I could be without you. I try to put you out of my mind at times and go into the world and enjoy myself but I find it is no use, and the only way I can get any satisfaction is to sit down and write to you. I have not had a letter from you for a week. I don’t know what is the matter. I hope it is not on account of the last letter I wrote to you. I mean the one in which I told you about sending the flowers to the lady in the hospital, and going to the theater with another lady. I can assure you, you have no cause to be jealous at all. Of course, you have a right to your own opinion about it, but I think if you had been here and seen how everything was, you would think differently of it. I hope you will forgive me if I was wrong in telling you about it. I thought it was my duty to tell you everything, no matter what it was. I did not go to the theater with the lady. Her brother went with us. I don’t see why you should be offended at my sending the flowers to the lady in the hospital. She was a stranger to me, and I thought it was a charity to send her some flowers. She is a very nice lady, and I think you would like her if you knew her. I am very sorry that you are not pleased with me. I hope you will write to me soon and tell me that you are not angry with me. I will try not to do anything that will displease you again. I am very lonesome to-night. I wish you were here to keep me company. I have been thinking of you all day. I don’t know what I would do if I did not have you to think of. I hope you are well and happy. I am well, but not very happy. I will be happy when I get a letter from you. Good-night, dear. I will write to you again soon. With love, from your own, JACK.” The letter was written in a large, round hand, and there were several blots and erasures. It was not a very elegant epistle, but it was sincere, and it touched the heart of the woman who read it. “Poor boy,” she murmured, “he is very fond of me, and I am afraid I have been cruel to him. I will write to him at once and tell him that I am not angry.” She went to her desk and wrote a long, affectionate letter, full of tender assurances and promises. She sealed and directed it, and then sat for a long time in deep thought. “I wonder if he will come back,” she said to herself. “I wonder if I want him to come back. I am afraid I do. I am afraid I am very fond of him. But it is ridiculous. He is only a boy, and I am a woman of thirty. It is absurd. I must put him out of my mind. I must not think of him any more.” But she did think of him, and she continued to think of him, and to long for his return, and to hope that he would come back to her. In the meantime, John Steele was having his own troubles. He had written to Miss Dounay, telling her of his engagement, and she had replied in a letter which left him in no doubt as to her feelings. She wrote: “MY DEAR JOHN: I have just received your letter, and I don’t know what to say to you. I am so surprised and hurt that I can hardly write. I thought you loved me, and I was so happy in the thought that some day you would be my husband. And now you tell me that you are engaged to another woman. I cannot believe it. It must be a mistake. You are joking, or you are trying to test my love for you. If it is a test, I will stand it. I will wait for you, no matter how long it may be. I will never give you up. I love you, and I will always love you. I cannot help it. You are the only man I ever loved, and you will be the only man I ever shall love. I will wait for you, John, until you come back to me. I will never marry any one else. I will wait for you always. “Your heartbroken, “FLORENCE.” John Steele was deeply moved by this letter. He was fond of Florence Dounay, and he knew that she was fond of him. He had not intended to engage himself to Miss May, and he was sorry that he had done so. He wished that he could undo what he had done, but he knew that it was impossible. He was in honor bound to Miss May, and he must keep his word. He wrote to Florence, telling her that he was sorry, but that he could not help it, and that he hoped she would forgive him. He told her that he would always be her friend, and that he would always think of her with affection. He begged her to forget him and to marry some one else. He said that he was not worthy of her love, and that she would be happier with some one else. He sent this letter, and then he waited anxiously for a reply. It came in due time, and it was even more passionate than the first. She told him that she would never forget him, and that she would never marry any one else. She said that she would wait for him always, and that she would die unmarried if he did not come back to her. John Steele was in despair. He did not know what to do. He was engaged to one woman, and another woman was vowing to wait for him forever. He was in a very unpleasant position, and he heartily wished that he had never seen either of them. In the meantime, Miss May was waiting for him to return. She wrote to him every day, and she received a letter from him every day. But his letters were short and formal, and they did not satisfy her. She wanted him to come back, and she could not understand why he stayed away. She began to suspect that something was wrong, and she wrote to him, asking him to tell her the truth. She said that she would rather know the worst than be kept in suspense. John Steele did not know what to say to her. He did not want to tell her about Florence Dounay, and yet he felt that he ought to tell her. He finally decided to tell her the whole story. He wrote her a long letter, in which he confessed everything. He told her about his engagement to Florence Dounay, and he told her that Florence had vowed to wait for him forever. He said that he did not love Florence, and that he loved only her (Miss May), but that he was in honor bound to Florence, and that he could not break his engagement to her. He begged Miss May to release him, and to let him marry Florence. He said that he would always be her friend, and that he would always think of her with affection. Miss May was stunned by this letter. She could not believe that it was true. She read it over and over again, and then she burst into tears. She was heartbroken. She had loved John Steele with all her heart, and she had believed that he loved her. And now he told her that he was engaged to another woman, and that he wanted to marry her. It was too cruel. She could not bear it. She wrote to him at once, and released him from his engagement. She told him that she would never stand in his way, and that she hoped he would be happy with Florence. She said that she would always be his friend, and that she would always think of him with affection. She begged him to forget her, and to marry Florence as soon as possible. John Steele was relieved when he received this letter. He was sorry for Miss May, but he was glad that he was free. He wrote to her, thanking her for her generosity, and telling her that he would always be grateful to her. He said that he would always be her friend, and that he would always think of her with affection. He then wrote to Florence, telling her that he was free, and that he was ready to marry her as soon as she wished. Florence was overjoyed when she received this letter. She wrote to him at once, and told him that she would marry him whenever he wished. She said that she would be ready in a month, and that she hoped he would come to New York as soon as possible, so that they could be married there. John Steele was delighted. He made his arrangements to go to New York, and he wrote to Florence, telling her when he would arrive. He then bade farewell to his friends in Chicago, and started for New York. He arrived in New York on a Tuesday morning, and he went at once to the hotel where Florence was staying. She was waiting for him, and she threw herself into his arms as soon as she saw him. She was radiant with happiness, and John Steele thought that he had never seen her look so beautiful. “My dear John,” she said, “I am so glad to see you. I have been so lonely without you. But now you are here, and we will never be separated again. When shall we be married?” “As soon as you wish,” he replied. “I am ready whenever you are.” “Then let it be to-morrow,” she said. “I have everything ready. I have the license, and I have engaged a clergyman. We can be married to-morrow morning at ten o’clock.” “Very well,” he said. “To-morrow at ten o’clock.” They were married the next morning in the presence of a few friends, and they went to housekeeping at once in a handsome apartment on Fifth Avenue. John Steele was very happy. He was married to the woman he loved, and he was living in a style to which he had not been accustomed. He had plenty of money, and he was able to gratify every whim. He was very fond of his wife, and she was very fond of him. She was a beautiful woman, and she dressed in the height of fashion. She was a leader in society, and she was invited everywhere. John Steele was proud of her, and he enjoyed going about with her. He was very happy, and he thought that his troubles were over. But they were not over. He soon discovered that his wife was very jealous of him. She was jealous of every woman who spoke to him, and * * * * “I have been thinking of you all day, and I am so glad that you are coming home to me. I will meet you at the train, and we will have a happy evening together. I am longing to see you. Good-by, my darling. With love and kisses, “Your own, “MARY.” John Steele read this letter with a sinking heart. He had forgotten all about his wife, and he had not written to her for more than a week. He had been so busy with his new love that he had neglected his old love. He felt like a criminal. He knew that he had done wrong, and he was sorry for it. He determined to write to his wife at once, and tell her that he was coming home. He would go home and see her, and then he would tell her the truth. He would ask her to divorce him, and then he would marry Florence. He knew that it was a cruel thing to do, but he could not help it. He loved Florence, and he could not live without her. He wrote to his wife, telling her that he was coming home, and that he would arrive on Thursday. He said that he was sorry that he had not written, but that he had been very busy. He sent his love to her, and he said that he was longing to see her. He mailed this letter, and then he went to Florence and told her that he was going home to see his wife. Florence was very angry. She said that he had no business to go home to his wife, and that he ought to stay with her. She cried and stormed, and John Steele had a hard time to pacify her. He finally succeeded in calming her, and he promised her that he would not stay away more than a week. He said that he would tell his wife the truth, and that he would get a divorce as soon as possible. Florence was satisfied with this, and she let him go. John Steele went home, and his wife met him at the train. She was overjoyed to see him, and she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. John Steele kissed her in return, but his heart was like lead. He knew that he was deceiving her, and he hated himself for it. He stayed at home a week, and he was very kind to his wife. He took her to the theater and to the opera, and he bought her many presents. He tried to make her happy, but he was not happy himself. He was longing for Florence, and he was counting the hours until he could return to her. At the end of the week he told his wife that he must go back to New York. She was very sorry to have him go, but she did not complain. She told him that she would be lonely without him, but that she would try to be brave. She asked him to write to her often, and to come home again as soon as he could. John Steele promised that he would, and he went away with a heavy heart. He returned to New York, and Florence was waiting for him. She was overjoyed to see him, and she showered him with kisses. John Steele was glad to see her, but he was not as glad as he had been before. He was thinking of his wife, and he was sorry for her. He knew that he was doing wrong, and he wished that he had never seen Florence. He went to work again, and he tried to forget his troubles. He succeeded in forgetting them for a time, but they soon came back to him. He received a letter from his wife, telling him that she was very lonely, and that she wished he would come home. She said that she was not well, and that she needed him. John Steele was touched by this letter, and he wanted to go home, but he did not dare to go. He knew that if he went home he would have to tell his wife the truth, and he was afraid to do that. He wrote to her, telling her that he could not come home just then, but that he would come as soon as he could. He sent her some money, and he told her to take good care of herself. He received another letter from her a week later. She was worse, and she begged him to come home. She said that she was afraid she was going to die, and that she wanted to see him before she died. John Steele was alarmed. He loved his wife, and he did not want her to die. He determined to go home at once. He told Florence that he must go, and she was very angry. She said that he cared more for his wife than he did for her, and she cried and stormed as she had before. John Steele tried to pacify her, but he could not. She told him that if he went home she would never see him again. John Steele was in despair. He did not know what to do. He loved Florence, but he loved his wife too, and he did not want her to die. He finally decided to go home, and he told Florence that he would come back to her as soon as he could. She would not listen to him, and she ordered him out of the house. He went away, and he felt that he had lost her forever. He went home, and he found his wife very ill. She was glad to see him, and she kissed him and cried over him. She told him that she had been afraid that she would never see him again. John Steele was very kind to her, and he nursed her tenderly. She grew better, and in a few weeks she was well again. John Steele stayed with her for a month, and then he told her that he must go back to New York. She begged him to stay, but he said that he must go. He promised her that he would come home again soon, and he went away. He returned to New York, and he went to see Florence. She received him coldly. She said that she had thought he was never coming back, and that she had given him up. She told him that she had become engaged to another man, and that she was going to be married in a month. John Steele was stunned. He could not believe that she was in earnest. He begged her to break her engagement and to marry him. She refused, and she told him that she never wanted to see him again. He went away in despair. He went back to his work, but he could not work. He was thinking of Florence all the time, and he was very unhappy. He wrote to her, begging her to forgive him, but she did not answer his letters. He wrote to her again and again, but she never replied. He finally gave up in despair, and he tried to forget her. He could not forget her, and he continued to think of her and to long for her. In the meantime, his wife was writing to him every day, and she was begging him to come home. She said that she was very lonely, and that she needed him. John Steele did not want to go home, but he felt that it was his duty to go. He went home, and his wife was overjoyed to see him. She told him that she had been afraid that he was never coming back, and she cried and kissed him. John Steele was kind to her, but he was not happy. He was thinking of Florence, and he was wishing that he was with her. He stayed at home for a month, and then he told his wife that he must go back to New York. She begged him to stay, but he said that he must go. He promised her that he would come home again soon, and he went away. He returned to New York, and he went to see Florence. He found that she was married. She had married the other man, and she was living in a handsome house on Madison Avenue. John Steele was heartbroken. He felt that he had lost her forever, and he was very unhappy. He went back to his work, but he could not work. He was thinking of Florence all the time, and he was wishing that he had married her when he had the chance. He knew that it was too late now, and he tried to resign himself to his fate. He could not resign himself, and he continued to think of Florence and to long for her. He stayed in New York for a year, and then he went home. His wife was glad to see him, and she begged him to stay with her. He stayed for a month, and then he went away again. He kept going back and forth in this way for several years. He was never happy. He was always thinking of Florence, and he was always wishing that he had married her. He grew old before his time, and he became a broken-down man. He lost his position, and he had a hard time to make a living. His wife died after a while, and he was left alone. He lived alone for a few years, and then he died. He was buried in a pauper’s grave, and there was no one to mourn for him. Florence Dounay lived happily with her husband for many years. She had several children, and she was a devoted wife and mother. She never thought of John Steele, and she never knew that he had died a pauper. She was happy in her married life, and she died at a good old age, beloved by her husband and children. And so ends the story of John Steele, the man who loved not wisely but too well. CHAPTER VI. THE MURDERER’S SON. It was a dark and stormy night. The rain was falling in torrents, and the wind was howling around the corners of the houses. The streets were deserted, and the lamps gleamed faintly through the mist. In a small room in a tenement house a man was sitting at a table, writing. He was a young man, with a pale, haggard face and sunken eyes. He was dressed in shabby clothes, and he looked as if he had been working hard. He wrote for a long time, and then he leaned back in his chair and sighed. He was tired, and he was hungry. He had had nothing to eat since morning, and he had no money to buy food. He had been out of work for a month, and he had pawned everything he possessed. He was in despair. He did not know where to turn for help. He had no friends, and he was alone in the world. He had come to New York from the country a year before, hoping to find work. He had found work for a time, but he had lost it through no fault of his own. He had been unfortunate, and now he was on the verge of starvation. He sat for a long time, thinking. He thought of his home in the country, and of his mother and sisters. He wished that he had never left them. He wished that he were back with them again. But he knew that he could not go back. He had disgraced them, and they would not receive him. He had been in prison, and he was an ex-convict. He had served a term of two years for robbery, and he had been released only a month before. He had come to New York to begin life anew, but he had found that it was hard for an ex-convict to get work. No one would trust him, and he had been unable to earn an honest living. He had tried to get work as a day laborer, but he had been refused. He had tried to get work as a dishwasher in a restaurant, but he had been refused. He had tried to get work as a porter in a store, but he had been refused. He had tried to get work as a bootblack, but he had been refused. He had tried to get work as a newsboy, but he had been refused. He had tried to get work as a sandwich man, but he had been refused. He had tried to get work as a handbill distributor, but he had been refused. He had tried to get work as a beggar, but he had been arrested and sent to the workhouse. He had served a month in the workhouse, and then he had been released. He was now at the end of his resources. He had no money, and he had no hope. He was starving, and he was desperate. He had made up his mind to commit suicide. He had written a letter to his mother, telling her that he was going to kill himself, and he had asked her to forgive him. He had also written a letter to the warden of the prison in which he had served his term, telling him that he was going to kill himself, and he had asked him to forgive him. He had sealed the letters and addressed them, and he had put them in his pocket. He had then taken a revolver from his trunk and loaded it. He had put the revolver in his pocket, and he had gone out into the street. He had walked about for a long time, trying to get up courage to kill himself. He had finally returned to his room, and he had sat down at the table to write a farewell message to the world. He had written for a long time, and now he was tired. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He was thinking of his mother and sisters. He was thinking of the happy days he had spent with them in the country. He was thinking of the green fields and the blue sky. He was thinking of the brook that ran through the meadow. He was thinking of the old apple tree that stood in the orchard. He was thinking of the swing that hung from one of its branches. He was thinking of the many happy hours he had spent in that swing. He was thinking of his mother, and of how she used to sing to him when he was a child. He was thinking of his sisters, and of how they used to play with him. He was thinking of the little sister who had died. He was thinking of the day when she died, and of how he had stood by her bedside and held her hand. He was thinking of the funeral, and of how he had walked behind the hearse. He was thinking of the grave, and of how he had thrown a handful of earth upon the coffin. He was thinking of all these things, and he was crying. The tears were running down his cheeks, and he was sobbing like a child. He was very miserable. He wished that he were dead. He wished that he had never been born. He took the revolver from his pocket and looked at it. He put the muzzle to his temple and cocked the hammer. He was about to pull the trigger when he heard a knock at the door. He started and lowered the revolver. The knock was repeated. He rose and went to the door. He opened it, and a man entered. The man was a stranger. He was dressed in a dark suit, and he wore a slouch hat. He had a black mustache, and he wore glasses. He looked like a detective. “Are you John Steele?” he asked. “Yes,” said John. “I am a detective,” said the man. “I have a warrant for your arrest.” “For what?” asked John. “For the murder of Florence Dounay,” replied the detective. John Steele staggered back and leaned against the wall. He turned pale, and his knees trembled. He tried to speak, but he could not. He was too much overcome. He stood staring at the detective, and the detective stared at him. The detective took a pair of handcuffs from his pocket and advanced toward John. John recoiled. “You are mistaken,” he said. “I did not murder her. I loved her. I would not have harmed her for the world.” “You will have a chance to prove that in court,” said the detective. “In the meantime, you must come with me.” He seized John’s wrist and snapped the handcuffs upon it. John submitted without resistance. He was too dazed to resist. The detective led him from the room and down the stairs. A cab was waiting at the door. The detective pushed John into the cab and got in after him. The cab drove away. John Steele was taken to the police station and locked up in a cell. He was left alone for a long time. He sat on the edge of the cot and buried his face in his hands. He was in despair. He knew that he was innocent, but he also knew that appearances were against him. He had been in prison before, and he knew that it would be hard for him to prove his innocence. He knew that the police would try to fasten the crime upon him, and he knew that they would probably succeed. He was an ex-convict, and he had no friends. He had no money to hire a lawyer. He would be tried, convicted, and hanged. He saw no hope. He wished that he had killed himself when he had the chance. He wished that he had pulled the trigger. He would be dead now, and he would be out of his misery. He was sorry that he had not done it. He was sorry that he had allowed the detective to take him alive. He made up his mind that he would kill himself at the first opportunity. He would not wait to be hanged. He would cheat the gallows. He would die by his own hand. He would not give his enemies the satisfaction of hanging him. He would die like a man. He would die like a hero. He would die like a martyr. He would die for the woman he loved. He would die for Florence Dounay. He would die to prove his innocence. He would die to shame his accusers. He would die to show the world that he was not a murderer. He would die, and he would be at peace. He would be with Florence. He would be happy. He would be free. He would be out of his misery. He would be dead. He sat for a long time, thinking these thoughts. Then he lay down on the cot and tried to sleep. He could not sleep. He was thinking of Florence. He was thinking of the happy days he had spent with her. He was thinking of the day when he had first met her. He was thinking of the day when he had asked her to be his wife. He was thinking of the day when she had promised to marry him. He was thinking of the day when she had written to him, releasing him from his engagement. He was thinking of the day when he had gone to her house and found her dead. He was thinking of the day when he had been arrested for her murder. He was thinking of all these things, and he was crying. The tears were running down his cheeks, and he was sobbing like a child. He was very miserable. He wished that he were dead. He wished that he had never been born. He wished that he had never seen Florence. He wished that he had never loved her. He wished that he had never engaged himself to her. He wished that he had never written to her. He wished that he had never gone to her house. He wished that he had never been born. He wished that he were dead. He lay on the cot for hours, crying and sobbing. At last he fell asleep. He slept for a long time, and he dreamed. He dreamed that he was in heaven. He was walking in a beautiful garden, and Florence was with him. She was dressed in white, and she had a wreath of flowers on her head. She was more beautiful than ever. She took his hand and led him through the garden. They walked among the flowers, and they talked of love. They were very happy. They sat down under a tree, and Florence sang to him. She sang a sweet, sad song. It was the song she used to sing to him in the old days. He listened, and he was happy. He was at peace. He was with the woman he loved. He was in heaven. He was dead. He woke with a start. He was in his cell. The dream was over. He was not in heaven. He was in prison. He was not dead. He was alive. He was not with Florence. He was alone. He was not happy. He was miserable. He was not at peace. He was in despair. He wished that he were dead. He wished that he had never been born. He wished that he had never seen Florence. He wished that he had never loved her. He wished that he had never engaged himself to her. He wished that he had never written to her. He wished that he had never gone to her house. He wished that he had never been born. He wished that he were dead. He rose from the cot and paced the floor. He was like a caged tiger. He was frantic. He was desperate. He wanted to kill himself. He looked around the cell for something with which to kill himself. There was nothing. He had no knife. He had no razor. He had no rope. He had nothing. He could not kill himself. He was helpless. He was at the mercy of his enemies. They would hang him. They would put a rope around his neck and hang him until he was dead. He would die like a dog. He would die a shameful death. He would die on the gallows. He would be buried in a felon’s grave. He would be disgraced forever. He would be remembered as a murderer. He would be remembered as the man who murdered Florence Dounay. He would be remembered as a monster. He would be remembered as a fiend. He would be remembered as a demon. He would be remembered as a villain. He would be remembered as a criminal. He would be remembered as a wretch. He would be remembered as a cur. He would be remembered as a snake. He would be remembered as a reptile. He would be remembered as a beast. He would be remembered as a brute. He would be remembered as a savage. He would be remembered as a barbarian. He would be remembered as a devil. He would be remembered as a fiend incarnate. He would be remembered as a monster of iniquity. He would be remembered as a blot upon the human race. He would be remembered as a disgrace to humanity. He would be remembered as a shame to civilization. He would be remembered as a curse to the world. He would be remembered as a pestilence. He would be remembered as a plague. He would be remembered as a cancer. He would be remembered as a ulcer. He would be remembered as a sore. He would be remembered as a stain. He would be remembered as a blot. He would be remembered as a smirch. He would be remembered as a taint. He would be remembered as a pollution. He would be remembered as a defilement. He would be remembered as a contamination. He would be remembered as a corruption. He would be remembered as a rottenness. He would be remembered as a putrefaction. He would be remembered as a stench. He would be remembered as a foulness. He would be remembered as a filthiness. He would be remembered as an abomination. He would be remembered as a horror. He would be remembered as a terror. He would be remembered as a nightmare. He would be remembered as a monster. He would be remembered as a fiend. He would be remembered as a devil. He would be remembered as a demon. He would be remembered as a ghoul. He would be remembered as a vampire. He would be remembered as a werewolf. He would be remembered as a bogey. He would be remembered as a bugaboo. He would be remembered as a scarecrow. He would be remembered as a hobgoblin. He would be remembered as a bogy. He would be remembered as a specter. He would be remembered as a ghost. He would be remembered as a phantom. He would be remembered as a wraith. He would be remembered as a shade. He would be remembered as a spirit. He would be remembered as an apparition. He would be remembered as a vision. He would be remembered as a dream. He would be remembered as a delusion. He would be remembered as a hallucination. He would be remembered as a mirage. He would be remembered as a will-o’-the-wisp. He would be remembered as a ignis fatuus. He would be remembered as a meteor. He would be remembered as a comet. He would be remembered as a shooting star. He would be remembered as a falling star. He would be remembered as a blazing star. He would be remembered as a star of disaster. He would be remembered as a star of death. He would be remembered as a star of doom. He would be remembered as a star of destruction. He would be remembered as a star of desolation. He would be remembered as a star of despair. He would be remembered as a star of misery. He would be remembered as a star of woe. He would be remembered as a star of sorrow. He would be remembered as a star of grief. He would be remembered as a star of anguish. He would be remembered as a star of agony. He would be remembered as a star of torture. He would be remembered as a star of torment. He would be remembered as a star of pain. He would be remembered as a star of