Bellefonte, Pa., Feb. 23, 1894.
RECALLED,
She stood on the topmost stairs,
Of the dimly-tighiad hall,
Regal, queenly and fair,
Sonor and lithe and tall—
A lovely shape in clinging white
With glorious dark eyes soft and bright,
With scarlet lips and dusky hair,
She paused and smiled with wistful grace—
To the man below twas an angel's face
That gently, tenderly gazed at him—
Out of reach in the shadows dim, J
Where she stood on the topmost stair.’
She stood on the topmost stair,
She had said good-by to her love,
She had said good-bye, had breathed a prayer
To the great white throne above,
But she paused to look on her love again,
She paused—and was lost—and then—and then,
She forgot all else but that he was there.
She stretched out her arms. tho’ never a word
Escaped her sweet lips that her love could
have heard ;
But those eloquent white arms, out-stretched
above,
Flooded his face with new hope and love,
And love itis strong, and love it is fleet—
To the man at her side, twas a woman sweet
That stood op the topmost stair.
— Elizabeth A. Vore.
aS THB UTD.
A ————————
THE BLUE DOMINO.
“You don’t know me |
Hugh Folkard turned and looked
hard at the lady who had whispered
these words in his ear as he stood
leaning against a pillar watching the
crowd of masqueraders who were com-
porting themselves as merrily as an
English crowd could possibly do under
the circumstances. The genivs of
fancy dress does not attain its height
on this side of the Channel. The
moment you dress an Englishman in
anything which he is. not accustomed
to wear he feels awkward. ' Mask him
in addition and he cannot shake off
the impression that he is making an
exhibition of himself.
Hugh Folkard was in the scene, but
not of it. He had come to Covent
Gardens as hundreds of other club
men had come—simply to pass an
evening and “see the fun.” He was in
ordinary evening dress and had just
begun to feel rather bored when his
languid iuterest in the proceedings was
quickened by the challenge of the fair
unknown. '
He did not recognize the voice, but
he fancied that the owner of it was en-
deavoring to disguise it.
A prolonged scrutiny failed to reveal
any feature which would serve as a
clue to identity. The lady was dressed
in a blue domino and the face was con-
cealed by a white satin “loup,” the
lace of which fell rather lower than
usnal and concealed everything but the
chin.
“No—I—er—I really don’t,” said
Folkard.
“And you can’t guess ?”
¢No—I—I can’t guess; won’t you
tell me ?”’
“No ; that would spoil the fan,”
said the lady in the blue domino, ‘‘but
I will tell you who you are.”
“That should be easy if you know
me. Iam not masked.”
“Your face is not, but your heart
is)?
“Really—I—er—didn’t know that
was possible. I should have thought
that sort of thing over one’s heart would
have caused rather an uncomfortable
feeling.”
“Perhaps it does.”
A shade passed over Hugh Folkard’s
face. There was something in the in-
tonation with which these words were
spoken which made him uneasy. He
fancied that perhaps with a few more
questions he might be able to get a
clue to the mystery.
“Well,” he said, “as you say that
know go much about me and my heart
“perhaps you won’t mind proving that
your knowledge is not assumed.”
“Not at all,” replied the Blue Domi-
no, “but I must whisper. You
wouldn’t like everyone to know as
much as I do.”
Hugh Folkard shrugged his should-
ers. “I don’t think it would matter,”
he said. “Come, I have the bump of
curiosity very largely developed and am
anxious to hear something about myself
especially as I fancy itis something I
never knew before. If you really
know me a very few words will prove
it. Give me a sign by which I may
recognize myself.”
The Blue Domino, her dark eyes
flashing through her mask, looked
quickly round to see that no one was
very close to them ; then, bringing her
face close to Hugh Folkard’s she
whispered :
“We haven't met for five years. The
last time you saw me was on your
wedding day. I think you know me
now ; if you don’t I'll tell you some-
thing else that may help you to fix me
in your mind. Your wife died a year
ago. Two days before she died she
managed to write a few words and put
them in an envelope and she got the
nurse to post them. Your wife's last
letter posted unknown to you, was ad-
dressed to me. I have it still, but I
have never let any one know its con-
tents because, Frank Marden, I love
you still.”
Hugh Folkard listened in blank
astonishment. When the lady had
finished it was a moment or two before
he could find words to reply.
“1 assure,” heeaid, “you have made
a mistake—I""—
“It won't do, Frank,” said the un-
koown. “I know you.” Then she
bowed her head with mock solemuity,
and moving rapidly away was soon lost
in the crowd. :
Hugh Folkard stood dumfounded for
a moment ; then he laughed aloud so
heartily that people standing near him
stared at him.
“By Jove,” he raid to himself, “I
never anticipated such an adventure
as this when I came to the ball. I
came unmasked and I’m mistaken for a
widower, and a lady in a blue domino
tells me that my name is Frank Mar-
den, and that she loves me still. I
must tell the fellows this. It will
amuse them, but they won’t believe
me. They'll think I've made it up.
Frank Marden. 1 must remember that
name. I might meet the fellow some
day, and then I could have some
fun.
Hugh Folkard’s astonishment was
perfectly genuine. The Blue Domino
had mistaken him for somebody else,
and had gone away thoroughly under
the impression that his denial was an
attempt to impose upon her. He told
his odd adventure to two or three men
of his acquaintance and to one lady.
The men laughed, the lady looked ser-
ious. She was his finance, and she
didn't like the idea of any woman talk-
ing to her future husband in such a
manner and telling him that ‘she loved
him still”
“But, my dear Madge,” exclaimed
Hugh, as he noticed the cloud upon
his sweetheart’s face, “it was a mistake
She called me Frank Marden, and
thought I was a man whose wife died
a year ago. My name is Hugh Folk-
ard and I haven't been married yet,
you know, at all.”
Madge Hetherington shook her
bead. “Of course I know it wasa
mistake, Hugh dear, but for’ this wo-
man who told you she loved you to
mistake you for another man, you
must be very like that man. I can’t
understand a girl making a mistake in
the man she loves, unless the resem-
blance is very extraordinary.”
“I suppose I must be like the fel:
low,” replied Hugh, laughing, “butl
caa’t help that, you know, and so
long as he didn’t murder his wife and
I am not mistaken for bim by the po-
lice and brough up at the Old Bailey I
can’t see that it particularly mat
ters.”
Folkard’s attempt to treat the mat-
ter jokingly failed miserably. The
picture that he drew of what might
happen only made Madge more serious
still.
“You—you don't think, Hugh, any-
thing like that would happen,” she
said nervously, laying her hand upon
his arm. :
“My darling, how silly you are! As
if such a thing were possible! But as
we don’t know that this man who is
like me did murder his wife that’s on-
ly nonesense, and after all the whole
story may have been an invention of
this woman. It may have been just
her idea of a practical joke at a mask-
ed ball. Come, you musn’t think any
more about it. What shall I bring
you from Italy ?”
“Must you go ?’
“Yes, dear; my father would never
forgive me if I did not meet him in
Brindisi. Remember he has been in
India ten years, and after such a long
separation as that I musn’t appear an
undatiful son. I shall only be away a
fortnight and then we shall come back
to see you. He knows all about’ you
from my letters, and I'm certain that
he will think himself the luckiest fath-
er in the world to have such a daugh-
ter-in-law. Good-bye, dear. God bless
you!”
“Hugh, let me walk a little way
with you. Mamma is not going out to-
day. Sheis not well enough and I
want a little air. I—I feel faint.”
“You dear little goose, you don't
mean to say that silly nonesense about
the girl in the bule domino has really
worried you so much as that ?’
‘ Yes, but I shall shake it off ; let
me come a little way with you.”
“Of course ; I shall be delighted.
Come for a walk in the park and I'll
walk back here with you.”
“Will you? I should like it so
much. I won’t bea minute in getting
ready.” :
Madge ran up stairs to tell her
mother, who was an iavalid and often
kept her room for days together, that
she was going out with Hugh, and the
young man was left in the preity little
drawing room alone.
“Poor little girl,” he said to himself;
‘fancy her taking this silly business so
to heart, as it there was anything in it.
Well, we shall be married this autumn.
My father is sure to do the thing
handsomely for me ; he has promised
me in his letters that he will; and
Madge wili be stronger and happier,
and won't give way to these odd fancies
that she has at times now. She has
lived too long with an invalid, poor
girl, and I’m sure her mother must be
fearfully trying. I’m not sure that she
doesn’t resent my taking her daughter
away. She has made every objection
she could and asked the oddest things
about my people, and wasn’t satisfied
until she'd written out to the governor
herself and received his reply. I won-
der how I shall get on with him ? Ten
years is a long time for father and son
to be separated, but the governor would
never hear of my going out to India
with him, though I wauated to.”
Hugh Folkard was looking out of
the long drawing room window as he
bad this quiet little *think.’” He
didu’tlook at anything in particular
tar a time, but suddenly his attention
was altracted by a young lady on the
opposite side of the street.
She was a tall, handsome girl of
about five and twenty, dark and elight-
ly foreign-looking. She was walking
with an elderly lady dressed in black,
who leaned slightly on her arm, as it
for support.
They were walking past Mrs. Heth-
erton’s house, when the elderly lady
called her companion’s attention to the
flower boxes, which were very taseful-
ly arranged. The young womaa look-
ed up and her eyes met those of Hugh
Folkard.
She started, gave a little gasp of
astonishment, then bowed slightly and
continued her walk,
Hugh bowed in return, bat he
couldn't remember ever having met
the lady before. Only the black flash-
ing eyes seemed familar to him.
“Someone I've been introduced to
somewhere, I suppose,” he said to
himeelt, “but why the deuce did she
start so when she saw me 2
At that moment Madge came into
the room, dressed for her walk, Hugh
"of that son T received the news of my
was curious to see the lady wbo had
bowed to him again. The old lady |
was walking very slowly. He would
be able to catch them if he went after
them at once. He didn’t say anything
to Madge, because he didn’t know, in
her nervous, overwrought coudition,
how she would take it, but when they
were outside he walked rather
quickly.
He walked on the other side of the
road until he caught them up, and
then, by turning his head slightly as
he passed, he was able to get a good
look at the young lady.
No. He certainly did not remember
ever having met her. His curiosity
was piqued. He couldn’t cross the
road with Madge and say to the other
young lady, “I beg your pardon, but
who are you ?’ So he gavea half
smile of assured recognition, and, - turn-
ing to Madge, was soon engrossed with
her.
The walk in the park lasted about
an hour. It was a fine, warm spring
day, and Hugh and Madge sat down
for a little while and enjoyed the quiet
beauty of the scene.
When he got back Hugh, after see-
ing Madge in and bidding her once
more good bye, was about to leave
when one of the servants came to
him,
“I beg your pardon, sir,” she said,
“but soon after you had gone a young
lady and an old lady called and asked
if a Mr. Marden lived here.
“What ?”’ exclaimed Folkard.
“If a Mr. Marden—a Mr. Frank
Marden, I think the young lady said—
lived here, gir.”
Hugh Folkard was dumfounded. In
a moment it flashed upon him that the
young lady who bad looked up at him
was the woman in the blue *domino
whom he met at the fancy ball. :
As soon as he had recovered from
his astonishment he asked the servant
for further particulars,
The servant explained that she had
told the ladies there was no such per-
son in the house, and they asked her
who the gentleman was who had just
gone out with a young lady.
“And you told them ?"
“Well, sir, I'didn’t think there would
be any harm and I gave them your
name.”
“And theo?”
“There wasn't any more said, sir;
they thanked me and went away.”
“You—you haven't said anything to
Miss Hetherington about this?"
“No, sir ; not yet.
“Then oblige me by not doing so.
I have been mistaken for some one else
that’s all ; but it mightalarm Miss
Hetherington—you know how nervous
she is.”
“Yes, sir ; I won't saything, sir.”
Hugh Folkard left the house a prey
to a variety of emotions. What did
this extraordinary business mean ? He
must evidently be very like this very
mysterious Frank Marden, for these
people, baving seen him at the window
had come to inquire after him in that
name.
“As soon as I come back from Italy,”
he said to himeelf, “I'll take measures
to find out Mr, Frank Marden. Some
day he may be necessary to me if I
want to prove my own identity.” *
Then he laughed. After all it was
too absurd a thing to be taken ser-
iously.
A fortnight later Hugh Folkard re-
turned, bringing his father with him.
Colonel Folkard was a magnificent
specimen of the Anglo-Indian. Tall
burly, his handsome face, bronzed with
the sun, was set out in conspicuous re-
lief by his iron gray bair. The night
after their return they were sitting to-
gether in Hugh’s chambers. The next
day Colonel Folkard was to be intro-
duced to his son’s finance. Hugh had
led the conversation up to his approach
ing marriage.
“Well, my boy.” said his father,
“I’m sure that she’s all that you say.
I shall make you a handsome addition
to your present income and I hope
you'll be happy.”
““As happy as you were with my
mother—the mother I can scarcely re-
member.”
A shade passed over the colonels
face. For a moment he hesitated.
Then, laying aside the cigar he was
smoking he said quietly.
“Hugh, I think the time has come
when 1 ought to tell you a family se-
cret. You may have to hear it some
day and had better hear it from me,”
“A family secret ?’
“Yes; and when [ have told it to
you I hope you will think no worse of
me—or of your mother. I should not
tell it you now but that the business
which has brought me to England is
connected with it, and I do not well
see how I can do that business satis-
factorily and keep it from you.”
“Go on, sir.’ ‘
“When I went to India first, thirty
yeare ago, I was a married man,” ~~
"oa were a married to my moth-
er ial i
#No ; I had made a foolish marriage
in England. I had been duped and
and trapped into giving my name toan
adventuress. I found out my mistake
in a very short time I made my wife
an allowance and went abroad. In
India I met a girl whom I would have
given the world to call my wife. She
was the daughter of a man who once.
held a good position in the Indian civil
service, but who had ruined himself by
drink. Her home was a miserable
one. Her father in his mad fits of in-
temperance terrified her. One night
he struck her in my presence. I in-
terfered to protect her and she left his
roof with me—and—and—well, Hugh,
it's a sad story, but I've begua it and
I'll finish it. She shared my home.
She was as dear to me as though she
had been my wife, but I could not
give her that title. A son wae born to
us'’—
“Good God, father!” exclaimed
Hugh leaping to his feet, “do you
mean to say that I am”’—
“No; listen. A year after the birth
‘letter that I «can
-stammered Hugh Folkard, a great
who had given her life and honor into
my keeping. [twas two years after-
ward that you were born.”
“And the other son, this brother that
I have never heard of until now ?’
“Patience. When he was born I
and your mother were living up coun-
try in an out-of-the way place were no-
body knew ue. When 1was free I felt
that our marriage ought to be as pub-
lic a one as possible—that it should be
advertised and made known, for my
wife’ssake. But the child was a diffi.
culty.- I persuaded your mother to let
it be put out to nurse, and we went to
Bengal, where we were married. There
were people there who knew us both—
to have brought the child into our
home would have been to acknowledge
the past, and we hesitated. Then you
were born, and our difficulty was a
greater one than ever. At last we de-
cided that the boy should be sent to
England to some friends of your moth-
er’'s who promised to take care of it as
their own son. I paid liberally forthe
care and education of the child, and
by them he was brought up as their
adopted son. When he was 13 and
you were 10 your mother died and I
came to England with you and left
you here, as you know. I went to see
your brother, but his acknowledged
parents begged me not to reveal the re-
lationship. They looked upon him
now as their own. Each time that I
went to England to see you I saw your
brother, but he never knew who I
was.”
“And now--he still does not know ?
You are going to see him again ?”
“I don’t know. It is about himthat
I have come. A few years ago the old
people who had adopted him died and
he came into their money—a few thous-
and pounds. Then he left the neigh-
borhood and went abroad. This I
gathered from the inquiries made by
my solicitor, and from that time I
have heard nothing of him. I want to
find bim now because, after all, he is
my son, and as you are going to be
married and I must provide for your
future and the future of your children I
ought to knowin what position he is—
whether he is alive or dead. I have
tried every means to trace him ; now I
am determined to advertise. See, here
is what I propose to have inserted in
the principal papers.”
Colonel Folkard drew a slip of paper
from his pocket and handed it to his
son. Hugh took it and glanced at it
and then let it tall from his band.
The advertisement was a request for
Frank Marden to communicate with a
firm of solicitors in London.
“Father!” Hugh exclaimed, as the
colorel looked at him in astonishment.
“Was the name by which my brother
was known Frank Marden ?"
“Yes; his mother’s maiden name
was Marden ; that is the only name he
has a right to.”
Frank Marden! This, then, was the
secret of the resemblance. This man
for whom Hugh had been mistaken,
this man whose wife had two days be-
fore her death posted a letter to anoth-
er woman betraying perhaps some
ghastly secret concerning her husband,
was his brother. The mystery of the
blue domino was as clear as daylight
to Hugh Folkard now.
That advertisement duly appeared.
It was more necessary now than ever
they should ascertain Frank Marden’s
whereabouts, When Hugh had told
his father everything Colonel Folkard
had the same idea as his son—that
there was a mystery connected with
Frank Marden which had caused him
to disappear.
The colonel understood the mistake
of the blue domino at once. As chil-
dren the resemblance between the two
sons had been a remarkable one. It
was evident that the resemblance had
continued in their manhood.
It was the evening before Hugh
Folkard’s wedding day, and still there
was no news of the colonel’s missing
gon. Hugh's father had grown to love
his future daughter-in-law, and was a
constant visitor at her mother’s house.
He was dining there that eve-
ning, but Hugh who was expected,
had sent a letter by a messenger saying
that they were noi~to wait for him.
He would come on later.- An .impor-
tant business matter had 2uddenly
cropped up which required his. atten-
tion. As he would be leaving town the
following day for a honeymoon on the
Continent, Hugh’s letter caused no
anxiety—his explanation was a natural
one, and was really accepted. Bat he
had not dared to tell the truth.
That afternoon, while he was in his
‘chambers, the servant hall broaght
‘hima card. A young lady wished to
see him on a matter of great impor-
tance. Hugh looked at ‘the ‘card, but
the name, Miss Violet Hearne, was
unknown to him. He told his servant
to show the lady in. Immediately she
entered the room his ‘heart gave a
great bound, and his ‘face grew pale.
It was the lady he had first seen in a
blue domino.
As the servant closed the door,
Hugh motioned His visitor to a chair,
but she remained standing.
“Frank,” she said quickly. “I hear
you are to be magricd to-morrow.”
“My name is not Frank!” he gasped;
“any name 1s Hugh Folkard.”
“That is the name you have as-
sumed,” replied thie young lady, “bat
your name is Frank Marken. How
«can you deny it tome? You haven’t
changed so much in a few years.”
“Well,” stammered Hugh, think-
‘ing he had better know the whole tale
now, “and if 'I am Frank Marden,
what then ?”
“Only this—~that if you go up to the
altar to wed ranother woman I will
hand your dead wife’s letter to the po
lice, and have you arrested as you
leave the church.”
“And whats there in my dead wife's
be arrested for’
agony of fear in his heart.
“Can't you guess what i3 in it==the
truth, the truth written by her to me,
wife's death, Then I married the girl
the woman yowjilted for her. With
her dying hanll she wrytg the words’
which give you into my living one. |
She wrote to me asking me to forgive |
her for taking you from me, aod tell-
ing me that [ need not bear her mal- |
ice any more—that her life had been a |
hell, and that she was dying now of |
poison—poison administered to her |
with devilish cunning by you—her |
husbaud.” |
“Great God, can this be true ?”
“Can it be true—you know it is true,
I have her letter still, but to-morrow, i
unless you give up the girl, I will read |
it publicly as you stand at the aliar; I |
will stop the wedding, aod I will tell
them why.”
Hugh Folkard when he realized the
truth staggered and fell into a chair.
This, then, was the secret of his broth-
er’s mysterious disappearance. His
brother had poisoned his wife and had
afterward fled terror-stricken and left |
uo trace behind.
“But gradually he recovered himself
and with an effort rose to his feet
again,
“Miss—Miss Hearne,” be said, “I
am going to be perfectly honest with
you. Whether the unfortunate lady
was poisoned I cannot say. She may
have thought she was. Koowing
nothing of the facts I cannot form dn
opinion—she may have been under the
impression she was, and that’s how I
prefer to look at the matter. I can-
not on the evidenee of a letter written
under such circumstances believe that
my brother was a murderer?’
“Your brother ?”
“Yes, my brother i”
“I expected you would be prepared
with some such story as this,” ex-
claimed Violet Hearne, “but you have
not arranged the details at all cleverly,
When I met you at the masked ball
and called you Frank Marden you
didn’t explain my mistake then by say-
ing he was your brother. You pre
tended that you had never heard of
such a person.” ’
“] dido’t koow of his existence
then!'~—
“Indeed, that is strange, isn’t it?
Frank Marden is your brother, his
father wae your father, your mother
was his mother, and you suddenly re:
member his existence when vou are
charged with being Frank Marden
yourself. Aud if you are brothers isn’t
it rather odd your nae isn’t Marden,
too?”
Hugh hesitated, How could he
trust this woman with the buried se-
cret of his dead mother’s honor?
She noticed his hesitation and drew
lier own inference from it.
He recovered himself a little,
“Miss Hearne,” he said, “I assure ycu
that I am speaking the truth. We
ourselves, my father and I, do not
know what has become of Frank.
Since my father’s return from India he
has been advertising for his son in the
English papers. You who are so in-
terested in the finding of Frank must
have noticed them.”
“Oh, yes, I saw the advertisements,
and I quite understood them. They
were probably inserted by you with an
excellent object, to make me believe
that Frank Marden had disappeared
or was dead. I knew better than that.
Frank Marden is here in this room
now. His secret is safe with me so
long as he does not make another wom-
an his wife. The girl you are going to
marry is rich. She might die too and
leave you rich and free again.”
“Then you absolutely refuse to be-
lieve me? Is there no way in which I
can convince you of your error 2 Will
you see my father—be is here in Lon-
don? 1 will fetch him if you like and
you shall remain here.”
“No, I don’t trust you now. I don’t
know who you might bring to me as
your father. Some one probably quite
prepared to indorse every word of your
little romance.”
“Then what will you do?”
“IT have told you—nothing if you
give that girl up. But if you marry
her I will keep my word and place
this letter in the hands of the police.”
“One word."
“No, I have nothing further to say.”
The girl gave him one glance, half of
pity, halt of contempt, and before Hugh
had recovered himself sufficiently to
plead to her again she was gone.
Hugh Folkard sank back into a
chair and gazed vacantly at the space
before him. What was to be done?
The first thing was to tell his father at
once. He muse decide. This woman
might hesitate to keep ber threat, but
if she did keep it the wholestory would
have to be told.
With a heavy heart he set out for
the home of the girl who to-morrow
was to be his bride.
There were many inquiries as to the
nature of the business which had de-
tained him, but he fenced with the
questions and he said nothing till he
and his father were on their road home
to his chambers.
Then he told his father all that had
happened. Colonel Folkard was hor-
rified. His worst fears were confirmed.
But on the point of telling Madge he
was firm. She must know everything,
horrible 4s it was, and he himself must
tell her in the morniag.
At 9 o'clock the following morning
the .old Colonel weut to the bride's
house and asked toase her. Pale, and
trembling, wondering what such a
strange wisit might mean, Madge came
down to lim, and thes with a great ef
font he told ther what had brought him
there.
When he ‘had finished it the young
girl looked up at him with tears in her
eyes and said: “Tell Hugh be can
wait for me at the altar
there at the appointed time.
The people who assembled to wit
ness the marriage of Hugh Folkard
and Madge Hetherington noticed that
the bridegroom was almost as pale as
the bride, and that the bridegroom's
father was strangely nervous. One or
two shrugged their shoulders and whis-
pered to each other that the principal
parties seemed anything but happy.
When the clergyman commenced the
I shall be |
(Continued on page Siz.)
For and About Women.
Katherine E. Kelsey is probate regis-
ter of Shiawassee County, Mich,
Black moire promises to be in high
favor this spring, and it comes in many
new and rich designs. A black moire
skirt made perfectly plain is one of the
most useful things imaginable and an
old jacket with sleeves and bretelles of
moire antique may be made to look very
smart indeed. Very narrow white gui-
pure or black jet or a combination of
the two are the trimmings en regle.
Some of the new coats are one-sided
affairs. They have cne side rather full ;
on the other is a single wide revere,
edged with braid or stitching. Straight
and slender persons can wear these bas-
ques to great effeot.
Mrs. Leland Stanford, it is said, will
stand out as one of the leading women
of this century when the full story of the
crisis in the affairs of the Stanford Uni-
versity, through which she passed will
become well known.
A couple of gowns which have jus
been completed for a customer who is to
go to Florida for the months of Feb-
ruary and March might serve as spring
suggestions. The first was of ecro crep-
on, the upper part of the waist being
made entirely of the white insertion ov -
er black satin finished with a black sat-
in collar. A drapery of the crepon,
bung in folds over the bouffante sleeves
of the same material, was brought loose-
ly across the heart, and was finished
with a knot with no cords, the figure
showing to full advantage in the per-
fectly fitted insertion guimpe and point-
ed bodice of the crepon, which turned
sharply up on the hips. exactly like the
Columbia collar which has been so uni-
versally worn this winter on outside
jackets. A very long-pointed overskirt
of the crepon, slightly raised at the hips,
was bordered with a band of insertion
over black, and reached nearly to the
hem of the black satin petticoat, which
was made perfectly plain with no trim-
ming.
Mrs. Laura M. Johns, president of
the Woman’s Suffrage Association of
Kansas, gives her entire time to the in-
terest of the cause she represents. She
is on the road practically all the time
traveling through Kansas.
A morning frock was simplicity itself
It was made of wasbable silk of a deli-
cate shade of pink, the body edged with
real lace and crossed ‘‘en surplice’’ over
a pleated chemisette of very fine white
linen lawn, the style of the gown de-
pending on the gracefully draped
sleeves. These were hung so to speak,
at the shoulder, the width of the folds
coming half way from the shoulder to
the elbow, where the fullness was gath-
ered up again, falling slightly over the
tight-fitting white linen sleeve below.
A white gros-grain ribbon finished the
waist, and crossing behind, was knotted
carelessly in front, the ends hanging
over, a very short tablier overskirt,
which was gathered up behind and fell
in two broad,long sash ends over the
tucked underskirt.
Nearly all the new cloth dresses that
one sees just now have some sort of
basque over the hips. A favorite pat-
tern is the short ‘ripple’ flounce that is
cat in circular shape, with no seam at
the side, and opening back and front.
This may be made entirely separate
from the waist, to which it is joined by
a belt. ~ Short flat tabs of cloth are also
popular on the tailor made gowns,
which are as elaborate this season as
those from the dressmaker, having quite
lost their character for severity and sim-
plicity.
Large jet buttons and No. 9 black vel-
vet ribbon are used as trimming on
house gowns of colored Henrietta. The
effect is extremely rich and handsome.
The high dressing of the hair seems
to be gaining favor. Two loops are no
longer worn, but a tight, high knot on
the very top of the head is becoming to
almost every face, and with a standing
bow or filigree pin the effect is excellent.
As to that fickle dame, Fashion, she
has changed herideas astonisLingly lit-
le during the last few months. In
skirts the bell shapestill prevails. All
walking skirts are short, and some es-
cape the ground by a couple of inches.
These short skirts are more generally
trimmed lengthwise, as circular trim-
mings detract from the height. Even-
ing gowns are made with demi-train
backs, and ball gowns merely touch the
ground but have no trains. Empire
fashions have had their day, but the
lengthened shoulder, the bell skirt and
the full, large, but drooping sleeve all’
show our allegience to the modified 1830
styles, although this title is seldom used,
so generally is it accepted. This has
been a blouse year, and the fashion is
still as popular as it was nine months
ago. The minute change is directed -by
La Mode and is now a veritable bodice
of the full type, but its lining is shaped
and fitted as for a gown ; while the
fashion of the distinct” bodice remains
with us so long will so-called blouses
find favor both for day and evening
wear. In deferance, probably, for the
necessity for winter wraps, shoulder
frills and bretelles are flatter and less
pronounced, and in many bodices con-
spicuous by their absence. The fashion
of trimming in lines across the back
and front is very popular. The high
folded waist band has departed with the
corselot, and the newest belts are quite
narrow, while most of them have ribbon
arranged to droop girdlewise over the
front of the dress.
Hats, collars and belts to be ultra-
fashionable must be ornamented with
rhinestone buckles, As theses are ex-
tremely expensive, they are not likely
to become common.
The new white duck is similar in
weave to basket cloth and checked over
like hop sacking : in some cases the
white ground is woven'to represent the
figure 6 in Greek pattern, with forget.
me-not figures in contrasting shades of
gray and red, black and pink, and light
gray and black surrounding the figure
6.