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king’s ministers, but he loved the King.
At the leer Foy gave him some half
rose angrily, but others, of the lower
sort, scenting what was coming, slyly
winked and smiled behind their palms.
“One could scarce be too severe with
such a bloody knave, my lord.”
“He should rot in Tyburn!” blazed
the old man.
“Swelp me!” cried Foy with a coarse
laugh. “And who, gentlemen, think
you was this hangman’s cur, this dirty
factious scoundrel? Why, Colonel
Washington, 1° faith—turncoat since
the French war!”
There were murmurs at this from all
sides, even from these Tories, at the
trap that had been set, at the wanton
affront to a friendship that had been
well known throughout the colony
since the days when Lawrence Wash-
ington first brought sweet Anne Fair-
fax from Belvoir to Mount Vernon.
“Hound!” ground Henry between his
teeth. A cold hand seemed pressed up-
on Anne's heart.
The stanch old loyalist’s face had
turned a gray white. He half choked,
and his hand went fumbling to the lace
at his throat. He was silent for a mo-
ment, his great brows together, his
fingers on the arm of the chair clasping
and unclasping, while Foy sneered
audibly in the quiet.
“Not George!” he faltered at length.
Something almost like a dry sob es-
caped him. He seemed not to see the
sneering face before him, now search-
ing about for applause. He turned to
the company with a gesture appealing
and pathetic.
“Why, gentlemen,” he said — “why
I've known him since he was sixteen!
I remember in ’48 when he was a
ruddy faced boy and ran my lines
for me! The Whigs have misled him,
maybe, but he could not take up arms
against—his king!”
There was a little stir in the place,
a sort of waiting silence. Then a
young man arose in the back part of
the room and bowed gracefully. It
was M. Armand, and he held a slender
stemmed glass, which he filled.
“Messieurs,” he said simply. “I am
not of your country, nor am I of the
allegiance of your king. My country is
one far away, and it is one that has
learned of war to love a soldier and a
brave man.”
As he spoke Henry's face lighted
with a great flash of surprise and
pleasure. He did not see the white
and red changing in his companion’s
cheek, did not note her uneven breath
“1 teach it to you—you dog of the ken-
nel I”
nor the wondrous beauty that came
softly courtesying in her eyes.
The voice went on:
“But we of my country know one
cause it is against our own arms that
he has fought, before Duquesne. Mes-
sieurs, I pledge you a brave man.
Colonel George Washington!”
Armand lifted his glass gravely as
he finished and drank, and a little
hushed cheer ran around the room.
One could net have told from the speak-
er's face that he knew he had drunk
alone. My Lord Fairfax had no glass, |
but he rose in his seat and bowed to
him. re
The toast drunk, Armand set down
the glass with a clash on to the table.
His face became all at once set and
cold, and he stood very straight.
“One thing more, messieurs,” he said,
“we know in my country. We know
the courtesy. Our postilions know what
is due to the gentleman of birth. And
thus’—he turned sharply upon Foy—
“I teach it to you—you dog of the ken-
nel!”
With this he flung the glass full into
his face.
So unexpected had been theaction that
Anne gave a little scream, unnoted in
the stir across the sill, and Henry let
out a great oath of admiration.
Foy's countenance turned a devil's,
and his sword was out before he got up.
Armand bowed to Lord Fairfax and
then to Foy. “Monsieur,” he asked the
latter, “is the affront to your liking?”
“’Sdeath and wounds!” raved Foy
in a fury. “We need go no farther
than here to settle this! I killed a man
at Minden for less.”
The old baron got up, with the aid of
his negro body servant, breathing heav-
ily. “Sirs,” he protested, “let there
be no Bloodshed, I beg of you!”
“My lord!” Armand’s voice was quiet
and contained, and it was all he said.
Lord Fairfax stopped short, looked at
him a moment, swallowed and stood
still.
Rolph came lurching forward, his
shifty cyes sobered by the outcome.
“Gentlemen,” he cried, “clear the room
and send the servants away. We shall
need to confer.”
The baron crossed the room at this
and held out his hand. “I beg of you,”
he said, “to honor me by your presence
| at Greenway Court tomorrow.”
“I thank you, my lord,” said Armand.
Then the old man, with his head up,
erect and leaning on his servant's arm,
passed out to his chariot. He knew
very well that Foy was reputed to be
the best swordsman in the colonies.
“Have you a friend who will serve?”
asked Rolph. Armand shook his head.
“Aye,” said Henry fiercely, and,
swinging his long legs over the sill,
he strode into the room. “If you will
allow me, sir!”
Anne waited to hear no more, but
ran back through the courtyard to the
door. Her eyes, blinded by tears,
scarce saw the great, gaunt figure till
she felt his hand upon her hair.
“You here, my dear, in Winchester?”
he said gayly. “You must ride to Green-
way Court. We shall be blithe for
you! I have just invited a guest for
tomorrow.”
Looking up as she held his hand,
Anne saw two drops—Ilittle shining
miniatures of his big heart—roll down
his cheeks.
CHAPTER VII.
sc ND you will not stay?’
A “I cannot, mademoiselle.”
They stood a little way from
the inn porch between low
box rows, and the young Frenchman's
eyes looked back the stenciled moon-
light.
“Yet,” Anne continued, “last time we
met, monsieur, I should not have deem-
ed it too much to ask of you. There
are those of your sex who would not
scorn the tedium of an evening with
me. Would I had spared my invita-
tion and my blushes!”
“Cruel! When you know I would
give so much—anything—for an hour
with you.”
She touched his sleeve lightly. “We
shall sit before the fire,” she said, ‘and
you shall tell us tales of France and
of the life in your own country. ’Tis
chill here.”
“Mademoiselle, I cannot. I have a
tryst tonight.”
“With beauty? Then will I not de-
lay so gallant a cavalier.”
She left him and walked toward the
porch, but her steps lagged. Turning,
she saw him standing still, looking
after her, then came back, lacing her
fingers together.
“You will not stay?”
" He shook his head.
“I know why you go,” she said after
a moment’s pause. “I heard it—I saw
it”
“You saw”—
“The quarrel in the parlor. I was in
the courtyard by the window. I know
what you would do.”
He looked at her uncertainly, his
eyes dark and bright.
“Twas a craven thing,” she went on,
“a dastardly sneer at a brave, true
hearted gentleman. My Lord Fairfax
is old, and the cowards. the pitiful
cowards who knew him 2nd have eaten
at his table, they sat and heard and tit-
tered behind their hands. But you
must not fight! You must not!”
“And why not?’ he asked. “An old
man, a noble baited by a swine! Should
not such be resented by gentlemen?
And shall I, who have struck that
scoundrel, refuse to meet him?”
“He has killed before!” she cried.
“He has the quickest rapier in Vir-
ginia. It would be murder.”
“Mademoiselle, I ask you—would you
have me fear?’ :
“Tis no question of courage,” she
went on hurriedly. “Must not I, who
saw it, know that? Only you of them
all dared to resent it. Monsieur, you
are brave.”
“Mademoiselle!”
“But it was in my lord's cause, and I
ask it for his sake. If—if you fall, he
would sorrow for it till his death. And
—~and”’—
“And you?’ He had bent forward
eagerly. ‘“Would you sorrow, made-
moiselle?”
“My lord’s grief would be mine.”
The young Frenchman drew a deep
breath. “That is all?’ he said sadly.
“I am nothing but a shadow—a passing
stranger, whose coming or going can-
not make your heart beat one bit faster
or more slow? Because our ways have
crossed but once, shall you tell me I
cannot know your heart? We are like
stars, mademoiselle, we human ones—
little stars wandering in a vault of
blue. When one star has found its
mate, abgut which God has made it
revolve, shall the star refuse to obey
because it has never known that star
before? Have I found the one woman
in the world for me, and she does not
see the divine in it?”
Somewhere far away a whippoorwill
began to call, a liquid gurgle through
the clasping dark. There came the
stamping of horses and a whinny from
the stables.
“Tell me, am I no more to you than
that stranger passing by?”
Anne’s voice held a tremor, but she
spoke earnestly and softly: “You are
more than that. You are one who once
guarded me from danger—one whom I
have this evening seen do a gentle
deed that I shall remember always.”
“Ah. it was nothing,” he answered.
“Was it more than any gentleman
might de? They- were not gentlemen
there. But I would be so proud of it,
mademoiselle, if it made you care ever
so slightly, as I have said. If it made
you think of me not as a stranger. but
as suddenly a little nearer, a little clos-
er than all else besides. Do you re-
member what I told you that day as we
rode in the wood? That a man has a
want for two things—a cause to fight
for and some one to wait for him? It
is near the time now, and I must go,
mademoiselle, out into the moonlight.
I should go joyful if you but told me
that last want was mine. You—you
cannot give me that?”
Anne did not answer, but she was
trembling with a new sense of intoxi-
cation.
“I ask you to give me a token, some-
thing to carry with me as I ride to
keep the memory of always, to”’—
“Monsieur!”
“I love you!”
“No, no!” she cried.
1"—
“I love you!”
“Stop!”
“Once to touch your lips’—
He was leaning near her, so near she
could feel his breath warm upon her
cheek. In a sudden surge of revolt she
thrust out her arm as if to further the
distance between them.
“No!” she cried. “No! How dare
you ask me that? How dare you?”
“Ah, mademoiselle!”
“Count you me so cheap?” she asked,
turning half way, but she did not
hasten. He dropped on one knee and
lifted the hem of her skirt to his lips.
She let her hand fall upon his head
with a fluttering gesture. Then, as he
started up with a joyful exclamation,
she ran back toward the porch.
Standing with bared head in the
moonlight, he saw her pause on the
threshold—saw the heavy door close be-
hind her.
“You clod!” bubbled a furious voice
behind him.
The young man turned composedly
as the figure came out of the darkness
of the highroad behind him.
“Ah, my Jarrat,” he said, “is it you,
then?”
“Look you!” Jarrat’s voice was
hoarse with passion. There are some
things that are denied you. This is one.
Be warned!”
“Warned?
the other.
Wherefore?”
“Our compact”’—
“And do I not hold to it, monsieur?
Did you not tell me to search out the
bright eyes and red lips? Did-you not
say to me that love was fair in the
middle plantation? Did you not whis-
per of proud ladies waiting to be kiss-
ed?”
Jarrat burst into a laugh.
“You! Why, you pitiful fool! So
this is the why of such brave daring!
Insults, forsooth, and duels with gen-
tlemen! A fine nobleman it is, to be
sure! Think you the toast of Virginia
is to be charmed by your tinsel swash-
buckling? Think you that Mistress
Tillotson would lower her eyes to you?”
“She has already lowered her eyes to
me, monsieur.”
“1 tell you I will have you keep your
clerk’s face elsewhere!”
“Clerk?” repeated the young man.
“No, no. Not a clerk; a nobleman, a
marquis—one of the high blood—a title
guaranteed me this morning by my
lord the Earl of Dunmore.”
“So that is it,” jeered the other fierce-
ly. “You think io wed a lady by this
brave masquerade. You dream”—
“Not by this masquerade—no,” said
the Frenchman, a brightening stain
coming to his face. “By only my heart.
By only what it holds, monsieur. I
said she had already lowered her eyes
to me. Yes, the fairest lady in Vir-
ginia, and still she does not guess of
our plan and of my bargain this morn-
ing with his excellency! Ah, such hap-
piness! 1 did not even dream it would
be so—that she would regard me, me
just as I am. When his excellency has
returned—when I am a nobleman—1I
shall have this to remember—that it
was so. That when she first gave me
her hand to kiss it was to me, just to
M. Armand-—not to the marquis which
I shall become.”
“A title,” prompted Jarrat.
only so long as I please.”
“You will not tell her otherwise. No.
Because you wish me to carry out this
purpose—this pretty play the plan of
which has so joyed the noble earl in
the fort yonder and made him smile
upon you and swear you were fit for a
cardinal. You would not cloud t#is
beaming favor of his with early fail-
ure. No, you will tell no one. A man
serves either love or ambition, and your
ambition is master. And I? I am not
worthy to kiss her hand. No one on
earth, rich or proud as he may be,
could think himself that. But I could
offer her more than you, for if I had
the whole world I would give it all—
wealth, name, ambition—just to be but
a vagabond on the street with her! No,
you will not tell her, monsieur, that I
am not what I may come to seem. You
will not tell her.”
Jarrat’s face purpled.
“Beware, you spawn!’ he said in a
“I cannot listen!
And by you?’ laughed
“You lay a law for me?
“good.
4
choked voice. "Un otner points you are
free while you serve in this. But go
not far along the way you have chosen
—with her. She is not for such as you.”
“She is for whom she loves,” answer-
ed the young Frenchman.
The clatter of horses sounded, and
the lank figure of Henry came from
the stable yard leading two mounts.
As the pair took saddle and rode
away Jarrat stood leoking after them
down the highroad.
“So the lady has lowered her eyes
to you?’ he scoffed, with a dark smile
on his arrogant lips. “And I dare not
spoil your gay masquerade? 1 wouldn’t
give a pistole for your chances with
Foy. He will end you as he would
undo an oyster. You made a mistake,
my new laid marquis, in soaring so
high, and a worse one in bragging of
it. But for that touching scene in the
yard I had stopped that blundering
idiot, but now he may spit you and
welcome!”
The rattle of departing hoofs had
scarce died away when Anne crept
softly down the stair of the inn. She
had donned a long cloak, and from un-
der the edge of its hood, drawn over
her hair, her blue eyes looked out with
a feverish brightness.
The hall was lighted with a great
lantern, whose yellow flood added to
the flower white pallor of her counte-
nance. The clock was striking 10. The
soldiers had sought the fort to gain
early rest, and the townfolk were gone
home. The long parlor was still and
dark. Through the open door Anne
could see the litter of tankards and
pipes and a lean dog, stretched with
black muzzle laid to the threshold.
asleep.
She slipped through the door and to
the highroad, and then, with tremu-
lous fits of fear at the shadows, ran at
her best pace toward the fort. It was
a good half mile, and she reached it
out of breath. A sentry at the gate
stopped her, and to him she said she
wished to see the governor on impor-
tant business.
“I know not if he will see you,” he
objected doubtfully. “It is late, and
the march is to begin at sunup.”
“But he must see me,” she told him.
“Tell him he must!”
He left her for a moment, then, re-
turning, led her across a court of hard
beaten earth into a log building con-
taining a single room. At the far end
was a table strewn with papers and
maps. A sword rack was nailed to the
wall.
In an armchair before the table, his
plumed hat and sword tossed across it,
sat the governor, heavy, coarse featur-
ed, with reddish, muddy skinned com-
plexion under a black curled wig. He
was pig necked and his eyes were
bloodshot.
She came into the center of the room
and courtesied slowly, while the earl
rose clumsily, his red eyes flaming over
her lithe young beauty, and sat down
again, tilting back his chair.
“Your excellency,” she began, “will
pardon this intrusion and my haste.
A duel is to be fought this night on
Loudon field, and I—I appeal to you to
prevent it.”
“A duel?’ The ear! bent his bulky
neck. “I’ faith, this is.not the court
at Williamsburg. I have weightier red-
skin matters at present to tiil my time,
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She came into the center of the room.
But ’tis truly a desperate encounter to
cause such a pretty interest from Mis
tress Tillotson. And what fight they
over, pray? I warrant me they have
seen your eyes—eh?”
“At the King’s Arms tonight,” she
said, flushing, “an affront was offered
to a gentleman who was absent.”
“Who was this gentleman?”
“Colonel Washington.”
“The Mount Vernon farmer whom
the rebels bespeak to drill their hinds.
Humph! And whose was the affront,
eh?”
“Your excellency’s aid, Captain Foy.”
The governor slapped the table, high-
ly amused.
“Twas Fey? ’Od’s fish, but he has
a high stomach. He carries a pretty
point, though, and has used it too. He
can take care of himself. And why
think you I should trouble myself over
such playful bloodletting, mistress?
Soldfering makes one not so squeamish.
Haith, but I have had affairs in my
day. When I was a braw young blade
—aye, and there were pretty eyes went
red then, too,” he added, with a boister-
ous laugh.
Anne's fingers quivered with resent-
ment, and storm came to her eyes.
“Your excellency,” she cried, “the
thing was but a trick to wound and
flout a loyal hearted gentleman!”
“Ah, indeed! And who this time?”
“My Lord Fairfax.”
( Continued next week.)
Wood and Cheap Press.
There i3 a close connection between the
tree in the forest and the paper at the fire-
side for wood is the chief ingredient of the
paper on which the modern popular journal
is printed, says the Lodon Chronicle. Its
cheapness as a raw material has made great
half-penny journals commercially possible.
The paper issued from wood pulp; and the
timber moss suitable for the purpose is the
pine of Norway and Sweden,and the spruce
of Canada.
As these countries besides possessing
abundant supplies of the timber are also
the fortunate owpers of immense water
power, the process of manufacturing wood
pulp is to them so cheap that they have
virtually a monopoly in it.
Wood pulp is one of those commodities
difficult to classify, for it is both a manu-
factured article and a raw material. Mr.
Chamberlain has been graciously pleased,
however, to consider 1t a raw material, and
it will consequently continue to have a
free entry into this country, whatever fate
may befall foreign paper—an article which
is just as much the raw material of news-
papers and printers as pulp is of paper mak-
ers.
THE WOOD HARVEST.
At the season of the year when the gnow
lies thick in the forests the harvest of wood
is being gathered. The axe i3 busy at the
root of the trees and the frozen snow pre-
sents a suitable surface for transporting the
logs to the river. Arrived there they are
thrown into the stream, probably ice-bound.
When the thaw comes, about April, a
mighty rush of water and wood takes place
and sooner or later the timber arrives by
this natural means at its destination—the
pulp mill. Here it is cut into short lengths
and consigned to the grinders, the most im-
portant parts of which are the Newoastle
grindstone, revolving at a high velocity.
Grindstones, by the way,are sent from Sax-
ony, and America and Canada also produce
them, but none are so good as certain kinds
from Newcastle. That, therefore, is one of
the industries that happily still remains
with us. The wood is ground into pulp,
and after some other process is ready for
working up into paper on the spos,in Great
Britain or elsewhere. Some 555,000 tons
of pulp are imported into this country
every year, and it is largely owing to a
plentiful supply of this material at a cheap
price that a half-penny Daily Chronicle is
possible.
But not entirely to this, for machinery
in the paper mill plays its part,and has ad-
vanced with rapid strides in the direction
of economy and progress. Not very long
ago 150 feet per minute was considered a
fast speed at which to produce paper. But
now paper double the width is turned out
at a speed of 450 to 500 feet per minute,
with very little cost for labor, in the paper
mills of the Daily Chronicle.
Then the setting up of type by hand bas
given place to iypesetting by machinery, at
an infinitely faster speed; and the print-
ings of a newspaper such as this is now
done at the almost incredible speed of 50,-
000 complete copies per hour from each
press. When a dozen presses are at work,
as in the case of the Daily Chronicle, some
idea may be conceived of the scale upon
which these things are done.
THE SUPPLY OF TREES.
But just as we hear warning that our
coal supply is giving out, so we are con-
tinually reminded that the fearful inroad
now made upon the forests of Scandinavia,
Canada and America will sooner or later
end in their total depletion. Undoubtedly
the drain upon them is very great, and
planting is not keeping pace with the cat-
ting. Germany already feels the pinch, and
so does America.
Big as the forests of the United States
have been, they are rapidly disappearing
before the axe of the wocdman and the fire
of the incendiary, and American paper
mills are drawing upon Canada for their
supplies of timber to a most alarming ex-
tent. Happily, the importance of replant-
is being more and more recognized by the
governments concerned. In Norway the
school children are allowed a half-penny
once a week to go out and plant trees—a
system which serves the double purpose of
afforestration and of instilling into the
youthful minds the value of this great na-
tional asset. And in many of the States,
Arbor Day, or tree-planting day, is careful-
ly observed, while better forest laws are
heing brought into operation to safeguard
this great natural wealth.
While all these things combined make a
half-penny morning paper possible without
decrease in size, he would be a bold man
who would say that in view of the rapid
depletion of the world’s stores of timbers
such a thing can be absolutely permanent.
Anyone who considers these matters is
staggered hy the prodigal wastefulness of
paper which goes on.
ee e———
Cold Siberia.
Barometric Pressure Higher in Asia in Winter
Than in North America.
A fact which is related to the develop-
ment of cold in Siberia, and which has an
influence on Manchuria and Korea as well,
is that the barometric pressure is higher in
Asia in winter than in North America, says
the New York Tribune. Whether the cold
accounts for the unusual banking up of the
cold air there, or the banking up accounts
for the cold,need not be considered at pres-
ent. This much, however, is bevond ques-
tion. The direction and strength of the
winds which pour out of Siberia to the
coast are controlled by the excess to pres-
sure. The air flows from a high area to a
low one, and with a velocity proportioned
to the difference in barometric readings. It
is safe to say, therefore, without having
actual figures to prove it, that Port Arthur
Vladivostok and Korea are subjected to
more copious aerial baths, proceeding from
the coldest part of the continent, than is
any part of the Atlantic seaboard in corres-
ponding latitudes. Roughly estimated, the
distance between Verkjohansk and Port
Arthur is about the same as that between
the territory of Saskatchewan and New
York city—a rcant two thousand miles.
Port Arthur suffers more severely because
the cold waves from Siberia are really
worse than those born in the coldest part of
the American continent.
Even down as Lake Baikal the climate of
Siberia is something appalling. So large a
body of water—it is over 200 miles wide—
has a modifying influence both on hot and
cold weather in its immediate vicinity.
Irkutsk, a trifle to the west of it in about
latitude 52.30, is apparently worse off than
Calgary, in British America. Exact figures
for the latter station are not available, but
the mean temperature for January at the
former place is 6 below zero. It is not sur-
prising that Jake Baikal should be covered
with heavy ice for four or five months every
year, or that one thousand soldiers should
be badly frost-bitten in crossing it on foot.
Everything considered, they got off easily.
——Subseribe for the WATCHMAN.
FOR AND ABOUT WOMEN.
Quite recently, the fashionable set bas
awakened to the fact that electric lights,
no matter how skilfully they are shaded
with color, nor how the rays are diffused
through opalescent globes, do not furnish
the ideal means of illumination. Nothing
serves to soften and beautify the counte-
nance so well as the soft flame of the old-
fashioned tallow or wax candle. Therefore,
huge and quaint candelabra are being
brought forth from family plate chests,
whence they have been hidden fora gen-
eration or more; and, therefore, silver-
smiths are husy designing silver candle-
sticks which shall simulate antiquity. For
the belles of society propose to have the
dinner tables at which they sit graced only
by the mellow glow of the homely wax
candle.
THE PANNE MOTIF.
A pretty garniture for a spring gown is
of wheels of lace gathered around a centre
of panne velvet which serves as the hub of
the wheel. These are more elaborate than
the regular-made wheels, because the gath-
ering of the edge lace gives more fullness.
The centre of panne in black or in colors is
a conspicuous part of the decoration, so its
proper name, the ‘‘motif’’ of pavne, is ap-
plied to the entire circle of lace and velvet.
Valenciennes lace is liked for the wheels.
Oune never tires of this lace, although other
webs come and go in ephemerai hursts of
popularity.
Motifs of panne are used on sheer sum-
mer gowns of barege, batiste, silk muslin.
Liberty silk and mull and chiffon.
The motifs are spaced at regular inter-
vals over a blouse front or simply on the
yoke. They appear on a narrow front
breadth of a many-gored skirt, or again on
the middle section of a wide and full skirt,
as a heading to a graduated flounce. They
dot the descent of the outer or full section
of a fashionable sleeve, and, in short, ma-
terialize in unexpected places.
Narrow panels on a skirt or stole-end ar-
rapgements on a blouse are appropriate po-
sitions for the handsome ‘‘motif’! with its
surround of gathered Valenciennes lace.
A dress of pale-blue veiling or chiffon
would be set «ff cleverly with wheel-like
applications of Valenciennes lace surround-
ing a motif of brilliant peacock-blue panne
velvet.
In this way harmonious developments of
the ‘‘motif’’ can he made to gratify the
eye, and to produce a toilet which will be
an exclusive product, and not be copied by
the dozen in every shop window.
It would surprise the average man to - .
know what pains some fashionable women
take to have their clothes a little unlike
those of everyhody else, hy variation of
cub, combinations of color or arrangement
of trimmings, etc.
THE LINGERIE.
Besides the lace-trimmed lingerie that
has been in vogue so long, a number of this
year’s modes are decorated with openwork
eyelet embroidery in line with the prevail-
ing fashion craze for hroderie anglaise.
This last-named style of garniture is es-
pecially attractive for corset covers or
chemises, of which necks and armholes or
sleeves have hand-worked scalloped edges.
Little upright buttonholes worked right
in the garment itself are more durable and
better liked for running ribbon through
for lingerie than the more ordinary bead-
ing. This is true whether the ribbon is
intended to hold in fullness, catch the gar-
ment artistically or merely for ornameut.
Sheer materials are always far and away
daintier and prettier for lingerie than the
heavier kinds, and more than repay for all
the difference in wear by their charming
effect. Linen lawn is a wise choice where
hand embroidery is to be the embellish-
ment, and lace trimming shows to great
advantage upon fine batiste, sometimes
called wash chiffon. For long petticoats
or winter night robes both French and
English nainsook serve admirably as they
are more substantial than tbe two first
named.
White wash silk, such as China, Shan-
tung, wash. taffeta and a washsilk ina
tiny basket weave, are used for novelty or
bridal sets, but are neither so daintily re-
fined nor so generally popular as sheer
linen or batiste. Small sprays of embroid-
ery or lace medallions are used to adorn
silk underwear. A pretty notion is to
form bowknots from Valenciennes inser-
tion and applique them upon the silk.
Of course, hand embroidered marking of
the initials or monogram on lingerie is al-
ways very desirable. A new fad is to have
the first name of the wearer in a facsimile
of her own writing, hand embroidered, up-
on each piece of dainty underwear.
Many of the newest night robes ate so
elaborate and so carefully designed and
fitted that they may easily be transformed
into lounging robes by the addition of a
ribbon run beading around the waist and a
lace trimmed flounce around the bottom of
the skirt.
A number of very handsome corset covers
and chemises have strips of ribbon coming
from the bust line in front and the shoul-
der blade in the back and finishing in a
bow on the top of the shoulder as a shoul-
der fastening. Or they run into a point at
the top of the shoulder, back and front,
and are tied together with ribbon. These
two devices are especially convenient for
letting down when a decollete bodice is
worn.
Short sleeves, coming to or above the
elbow and finished witl a graduated doub-
le ruffle of lace or needlework, are much
favored for nightgowns. More elaborate
nightgowns have their seams bemstitched,
and some have a shaped flounce at the
bottom hemstitched onto the main portion
of the gown.
FOR THE LITTLE LADIES.
Fine white frocks are made of nainsook,
fine cambric and Paris muslin.
French waists are -still made, but they
will not have the vogue they had a short
time ago.
A great many little Duchess frocks are
seen, these having the ordinary waist-line;
while Empire waists will be very fashion-
able for girls up to ten or eleven years of
age.
Something decidedly new for children
from two to four is a little frock cut in
narrow gores and joined by embroidery in-
sertion. The tiny equare-cut yoke is form-
ed of two strips of the insertion, joined by
faggotting, while a ruffle of fine embroid-
ery to match finishes the bottom of the
skirt.
Young children will also wear lingerie
hats, with broad crowns and comparatively
narrow hrims. A very pretty one for morn-
ing wear is of fine white lawn, with two
broad insertions of embroidery across the
crown. More elaborate ones aie made of
mull and lace, or lace alone, and have the
brims faced with pleated chiffon,
“onl