Beliefonte, Pa., January, 20, 1911. THE LADIES’ We've put a fine addition on the good old church at home, It’s just the latest kilter, with z gallery and dome. It seats a thousand people—finest church in all the town; And when ‘twas dedicated, why, we planked ten thousand down: AID. We've got an organ in the church—very finest in the land: It’s got a thousand pipes or more, its melody is grand. And when we sit in cushioned pews and hear the master play, it carries usito realms of bliss, unnumbered miles away. It cost a cool three thousand, and it’s stood the hardest test; We'll pay a thousand on it, the ladies’ aid the rest. ‘They'll give a hundred sociables, cantatas, too They'll beg and scrape and toil and sweat for seven years or more, And then they'll start all o'er again, for acarpet on the floor. No; it isn't just like digging out the money from your vest, When the ladies’ aid gets busy and says, “We'll Of course, we're proud of our bigchurch, from pulpit up to spire; It is the darling of our eyes, the crown of our de- sire. But when I see the sisters work to raise the cash that lacks, 1 somehow feel the church is built on women's tired backs. And sometimes I can't help thinking, when we reach the regions blest ‘That men will get the toil and sweat, and the ladies’ aid—the rest. A LOVERS’ DILEMMA. "How are you feeling?” Words could not ears. “Not very bright, I'm afraid, nurse,” said 1 Think of something to do with streams and moonlight, and you may have anidea of the mellow ripple of the laugh I heard. “I'm not the nurse. Can't you tell the difference? I'm Miss Deane—Dr. Deane's ter.” dae oe 1 echoed. “Don’t you know where you are?” “Everything is still confused,” said I. I had an idea that they had carried me somewhere by train and put me into a bed, and that soft-fingered people had tended my eyes; but where I was I neith- er knew nor Torture and blind- ate | had been quite enough to occupy my m “You are at Dr. Deane's house,” said the voice, "and Dr. Deane is the twin brother of Dr. Deane, the great oculist of Grand- chester, who was summoned to Shepton- Marling when you met with your acci- dent. Perhaps you know you had a gun accident?” ppose it was only that after all,” said I, “but it felt like the disruption of the solar system.” “Are you still in great pain?’’ my un- seen hostess asked sympathetically. “Not since you have been in the room I mean,” | added, chilled by a span of silence, “I mean—I am just stating what happened to be the fact.” "0!" she said shortly. “Well, my uncle found that you couldn’t be y treat- ed at your friend's little place at Shep- ton-Marling, so he brought you to Grand- chester—and here you are.” “But I don't understand,” said I, "why I should be a guest in your house." “You are not a guest,” she laughed. “You are here on the most sordid and commercial footing. Your friend—I for- get his name—" “Mobray,” said I. “Mr. Mobray settled it with my uncle. You see the house is large and fathers practice small, so we keep a nursing home for my uncle's patients. Of course we have trained nurses.” “Are you one?” I asked. “Not exactly. [ do the housekeeping. But I can settle those uncomfortable pil- I felt her dexterous cool hands about my head and neck. For a moment or two my eyes ceased to ache, and I wished I ey see her. In tendering my thanks, I expressed the wish. She laughed her delicious laugh. “If you could see you wouldn't be here, gud therefore you couldn't sec me any- | “Shall | ever see you?’ 1 asked dis- “Why of course! Don’t you know that Henry Deane is one of the greatest ocu- lists in England?” We discussed my case and the miracu- lous skill of Henry Deane. Presently she left me, promising to return. The tones of her voice seemed to linger, as a per- fume would, in the darkness. That was the beginning of it. It was love, not at first sight, but at first sound. Pain and anxiety stood like abashed gob- lins at the back of my mind. Valerie Deane’s voice danced in front like a tri- umphant fairy. When she came and talked sick-room platitudes I had sooner listened to her then to the music of the spheres. At that early stage what she said mattered so little. I would have given rapturous heed to her reading of loga- rithmic tables, 1 asked her silly questions merely to elicit the witchery of her voice. When Melba sings, do you take count of the idiot words? You close eyes and in- | tellect and just let the divine notes melt | into your soul. And when vou are lying : on your back, biind and helpieee, as was, your soul is a very or any- | thing beautiful that can 1 After | a while she gave me glimpses of herself. | ed BY and we iin ed Tow common into ngs. was the perfect pods We discussed all topics. from chiffons to Schopenkauer. i Like mast women, she execrated Schopen- | hauer. She must have devoted much of | her time to me; yet I ungratefully com- | plained of the long intervals between her visits. But oh! those interminable idle of a EE ae mm wa 2 ett. Sm S— face is like your laugh,” I declar- f. 1 know ae Te ho. yours Deane. How old are She hes, I ugh,” she answered 4 'm eno » with a la oe nree and twenty. And I'm five foot four and I haven't any good looks at all, at all.” “Tell me,” said | impatiently, “exactly how dolook. I must » . But my straight she retorted. “It is very ugly. thin black hair.” “Let me feel.” “Certainly not. And my eyes are a sort of water china blue and much too And my nose isn’t a bad nose al- One of those My mouth is large—I am looking at myself in the glass—and m are white. Yes, they are nice white. But they are large and protrude—you know the French caricature of an Englishwoman's teeth. Really, now I consider the ques- tion, I am the image of the English mees in a French comic paper.” “I don't belive it,” I declared. “It is true. I know I have a pretty voice—but that is all. It deceives blind people. They think I must be pretty too, and when they see me soir, la com- pagnie! And I've such a thin, miserable face, coming to the chin in a point, like a kite. There! Have you a clear idea of me now?" “No,” said I, "for I believe you are wil- fully misrepresenting yourself. beauty does not depend Spon features regular in themselves, but way those features are put together.” "Oh, mine are arranged in an amiable sort of way. I don’t look cross.” “You must look all sweetness,” said I. She sighed and said meditatively: “It is a great misfortune for agirl to be so desperately plain. The consciousness of it comes upon her like a cold shower bath when she is out with other girls. Now there is my cousin—"" “Which cousin?” "My Uncie Henry's daughter. Shall | tell you about her? “l am not in the least interested in your cousin,” I replied. She laughed, and the entrance of the nurse put an end to the conversation. Now I must make confession. I was grievously disappointed. Her detailed description of herself as a sallow, ill-featur- ed young woman awoke me with a shock from my dreams of a radiant goddess. It privotis. my infatuation in mid-course. My dismay-was painful. I began to pity her for being so unattractive. For the next day or two even her beautiful voice failed in its seduction. But soon a face began to dawn before me, elusive at first, and then gradually gaining in definition. At last the picture upon my mental vision with sud- den vividness, and it has never left me to this day. Its steadfastness convinced me of its accuracy. It was so real that I could see its expression vary, as she ke, according to her mood. The ainness, almost ugliness, of the face re- pelled me. | t ruefully of having dreamed of kisses the lips that bare- ly closed in front of the great white teeth. Yet, after a while, its higher qualities ex- ercised a peculiar attraction. A brave, tender spirit shone through. An intel- lectual alertness redeemed the heavy fea- tures—the low ugly brow, the coarse nose, the large mouth; and as I lay think- ing and picturing there was revealed in an illuminating flash the secret of the harmony between face and voice. Thence- forward Valerie Deane was invested with a beauty all her own. 1 loved the dear plain face as I loved the beautiful voice, and the touch of her fingers, and the ten- der, laughing womanliness, and Joni habitually lose umbrellas. Alas re is no Lost Property Office for gold- en moments! Still 1 vow, although nothing definite was said, that when the unanticipated end drew near, our intercourse was ar- rant love-making. All pain had gone from my eyes. | was up and dressed and permitted to grope my way about the blackness. Tomorrow I was to have my first brief glimpse of things for three weeks, in the darkened room. | was in high spirits. Valerie, paying her morning visit, seemed depress- le “But think of it?” I cried in . ble egotism. “Tomorrow I be able to see you. I've for it as muchas for the sight of the blue of “There isn't any blue sky,” said Valerie. “It’s like an inverted tureen that has held pea-soup.” Her voice had all the melancholy notes the wood-wind in the unseen hours of darkness, in which all the! herd’s lament in “Tistan and Isolde.” pt Shree: til the | claimed TL Ove A ON Ee I those who have been th the valley ex- q “I don’t know how to tell you,” she ly, after pause. tomorrow. It's a tment. . | face and the memora I have been telegraphed for, and name of heaven,” | “who are I must go.” : 38 not fhe daughter of Dr. Deane of | “My father is Mr. Henry Deane, the ,oculist. You asked if | were the daugh- ! ter of Dr. Deane. So many give just as soon keep blind,” said him the wrong title that I t trouble It took me a few moments to recover. to correct you I felt I had been a pretty fool of my- of her aunt to make self. I stam out pleas for a thou- not postpone sand pardons. [| confused myself, and her demise to a more suitable opportuni- her, in explanations. Then I remembered I murmured, however, a few decent that the fathers were twin brothers and condolence. . bore a strong resemblance one to the , Mr. Winter,” said Valerie. other. What more natural than that the of my aunt; but I had set my ' daughters should also be alike? | heart on your seeing me. And she imnay | * t I can't understand,” said Miss | not die for weeks and weeks! She was Deane, “is how you mistook me for my dying for ever so long last year, and got cousin.” round again.” “Your voices are identical.” I ventured an arm around her shoul- “But our outer semblances—" ders, and spoke consolingly. The day would come when our eyes would meet. left me before | recovered my sight.” I called her Valerie and bade her address | me as Harold. I have come to the conclusion that the man who strikes out a new line of love- in that as in everything else. making is a us. ‘face. I hada meats picture of it." face before you for three months?” “If 1 don't hurry I shall miss my train,” She put on a p she sighed at last. vou used the mental picture for the pur- She rose; I felt her bend over me. Her pose of recognition?” hands closed on my cheeks, and a kiss “Yes,” he said. fluttered Z m Be. J heart the light. “I give it up,” said Miss Deane. swish 0 Fis a quick opening | gp. gig pot me further. Her and shutting of the door. and she was | Gn Valerie's love affairs were grounds gone. . : . too delicate for her to tread upon. She Valerie's aunt, like King Charles lI, tured the conversation by itely ask- | was unconscionable time a-dying. ing how | had come to consult her When a note from Valerie annou her | father. | mentioned my friend Mobra return to Grandchester, I had already and the gun accident. She Ir gone biue-spectacled away. For some the case and claimed a slight acquain- time I.was not allowed to read or write, | tance with Mobray, whom she had met and during this period of probation ur-' at various houses in Grandchester. My t affairs summoned me to Vienna. : credit as a sane and reputable person be- letters as | wrote to Valerie had to | ing established, we began to chat most be of the most elementary nature. If amicably. I found Miss Deane an accom- you have a heart of any capacity worth | plished woman. We talked books, art, troubling about, you can not empty it on | travel. She had the swift wit which de- one side of a sheet of note-paper. For | lights in bridging the trivial and the mine reams would have been inadeq She had a playful fancy. Never uate. | t. I also longed to empty it in her presence, | Brea I found a personality so immediate- er a sad little my eyes meeting hers for the first time. | Jy sympathetic. 1 told bY. the beloved plain | Viennese story in which I happened to voice, | remain- | us, ever haunted have played a minor part, and her ten- ed inarticulate. | derness was as spontaneous as Valerie's | As soon as my business was so far ad- | —my Valerie's. She had Valerie's wood- | justed that I could leave Vienna, I started | land langh. Were it not that her pirson- ; on a flying visit, post-haste, to nd. | al note, touch on the strings of life The be sui. 3 after my arrival me | differed essentially from my beloved’, I in a first-class smoking compartment at | should have held it gfotedquely impossi- Euston waiting for the train to carry me | ble for any human being but Valeria to to Grandchester. 1 had telegraphed to | be sitting in the ite corner of that Valerie; also to Mr. Deane, the oculist, | railway carriage. Indeed there were mo- for an appointment which might give | ments when slie was valerie, when the color to ws visit. I was alone in the girl waiting for me at Grardychester fad- carriage. y thoughts, far away from | ed into the limbo uf unreal things. A kiss the long platform, lea the four hours ! from those lips had fluttered on mine. It that separated me Grandchester. were lunacy to doubt it. For the thousandth time I pictured our | During intervals of non-illusion I exam- meeting. 1 fi Speeches of | ined her face critically. There was no burning eloquence. I saw the homely | question of its unattractiveness to the I closed my eyes features transfigured. ¢ casual observer. The nose was too la the better to retain the beatific vision. | and fleshy, the teeth too prominent, the The train began to move. Suddenly the | eyes too small. But my love had pierced door was opened, a girlish figure sprang | to its underlying spirituality, and it was into the compartment, and a portcr, run- | the face above all others that I desired. ning by the side of the train, threw in a| Toward the end ot a remarkably short bag and a bundle of wraps, and slammed | four hours’ joumey, Miss Deane gracious- the door violently. The young lady stood the h that with her back to me, panting for breath. yen Rope hy vw The luggage lay on the floor. I stooped to pick up the bag; so did the young . Our hands met as [ lifted it to the “Oh, please, don't trouble!" she cried in a voice whose familiarity made my heart beat, I caught sight of her face, for the first time, and my heart beat faster than ever. It was her face—the face that had dawn- ed upon my blindness—the face 1 had to worship. I looked at her, trans- with wonder. She settled herself unconcerned in the farther corner of the | farriage. J took the opposite seat and ag are Miss Deane?” I asked trem- | uiously. | She drew herself up, on the defensive. ! "That is my name,” she said. “Valerie!” I cried in exultation. She half-rose. “What right have vou to address me?" “I am Harold Winter,” said I, taken aback by her outraged demeanor. “Is it possible that you don’t recognize me?” She flushed, it seemed angrily, and “i have never seen or heard of you be- | glanced down at her hand, on which she fore in my life,” replied the young lady | immediately proceeded to draw her glove. tartly, “and I hope you won't ferce me to “Yours .are stronger. And finer,” I take measures to protect myself against “I shall ask Valerie," said J, “to present me in due form.” She smiled maliciously. “Are you quite sure you will be able to distinguish one from the other when my cousin and | are together?” Are you, then, so identically alike?” “That's a woman's way of answering a question—by another question,” she laughed. “Well, but are you?" I persisted. “How otherwise could you have mistak- en me for her?” She had drawn off her gloves, so as to give a tidying touch to her hair. I noticed her hands, small, long, and deft. 1 wondered whether they resembled Valerie's. “Would you do me the great favor of letting me touch your hand while I shut my eyes, as if I were blind?” She held out her hand frankly. My fingers ran over it for a few seconds, as they had done many times over Valerie's. “Well?” she asked. “Not the same," said IL. | { your impertinence."” strength did not please. 1 lay back against the cushions, gasp-| “It’s the one little al thing I am ing with disma; proud of,” she “You have made my four hours pass like four minutes,” said I. “A service to a fellow creature which vou might take ormed. some pride in havi “When I was a child I could have said the same of performing Gephants, “I am no longer a child, Miss Deane,” said I with a bow. What there was in this to make the blood rush to her pale cheeks I do not y. your pardon,” said I, recovering; “I am neither going to molest you on: intentionally impertinent. But, as your face has never been out of my mind for three months, and as I am traveli through from Vienna to G - y at the com- munica on cord and then back at me, as if I were a lunatic. know. The ways of women have often “You are Miss Deane of Grandchester | surprised me. I have heard other men os a similar confession. daughter of Dr. Deane?" | asked. es. “Valerie Deane, then?” “I have told you so.” Then all) Can say a1 cried, losing my temper a y heartlessness, a adie i tod “I think most men are children,” she said shortly. “In what way?" “Their sweet irresponsibility,” said Miss Deane. And then the train entered Grandches- - rl bag at the station hotel my at on hotel and drove straight to Stavaton street. forgot Miss Deane. My thoughts and longings cone he caressi! jor part, wi . ng wa and just a subtle inflection in the are. to which I had been | hs The servant who opened door rec- me and smiled a welcome. Miss alerie was in the drawing-room 3 know the way,” sad 1. mpetuous, I ran up stairs, burst into the dra -room, and stopped short in the presence of a y beautiful woman. slender. She had an honest, and then — a bundle of letters from my pocket and toed) ong over to hot. She glanced at it quickly, started, as t ne OL ie her equal fi t never seen or unblushing impudence. Her mellow tones made the mockery appear all the more diabolical. — . fairy dia ty combined with the glow of health which makes the typic- al loveliness of the Englishwoman. I “If youdidn’t write it,” said I, “I should | gazed for a second or two at this gra- fH Cousi Valorie, clots Fg Son rdo d I; “1 “ in py is r mn,” sai ; “I was | “4 don't understand,” said | told—" your Te The apparition who was standing the fireplace smiled and came fing Sw th extended hands. course you were wi ey Harold! Of told. Itis all right. I am Valerie.” I blinked; the world seemed upside down; the enchanting voice rang inm ears, but it harmonized in no way wi the equally enchanting face. 1 put out my hand. “How do you do?” 1 rc Eutaten's you glad to see me?" asked young woman. “Of course,” said I; Vienna to see you.” “l came from | { i | ' | some acerbity. “But you look disappointed.” “The fact is,” | stammered, “I - ed to see some one different—quite dif- | ferent. The face you been | danced mischief. you really think me such a hideous fright?” “You were not a fright at all,” said I, remembering my late traveling com- panion. And then in a flash I realizen what she had done. “Why on earth did you describe your cousin instead of yourself?” “My cousin! How do you know that?” Dever mind,” | answered. ‘Nou Sid ring your description you r face vividly before your mind. The picture was in some telepathic way transferred from your brain to mine, and there it re- “Did “I have never seen your cousin—she ' mained. The proof is that when I saw a | | certain lady today I recognized her at “How then could you say you had my | once and greeted her effusively as Valerie. Her name did happen to be Valerie, and “I am afraid, Miss Deane, | was wrong | Valerie Deane too, and I ran the risk of It was her | a lice station—and I don’t think it was fair of you. expression. “And | ceive me?” I was hurt and angry, and I spoke with | Valerie drew herself up with dignity. added, when I saw that the attribute of | had “If you claim an explanation, I will give it to you. We have had young men tients in the house before, and, as they ve had nothing to do, they have amused | themselves and annoyed me by falling in love with me. cided that it shouldn't ha case. So I gave a false prica,_ot myself. To make it consistent, | took a real person for a model.” “So you were fooling me all the time?” said I, gathering hat and stick. Her face softened adorably. Her voice had the tones of the wood-wind. “Not all the time, Harold," she said. I laid down hat and stick. “Then why did you not undeceive me afterward?” “1 thought,” she said, blushing and giving me a fleeting glance, “well, I thought you—you 't be sorry to find I wasn’t—bad looking” “1 am sorry, Valerie,” said I, "and that's the mischief of it.” “I was so looking forward to you see- ing me,” she said tearfully. with sudden petulance, she stamped her small foot. “It is horrid of you—per- fectly horrid—and I never want to speak to you again." The last word ended in a sob. She rushed to the door, pushed me aside, as | endeavored to stop her, and fled in a passion of tears. Sprefae injuria formae! Women have remained much the same since the days of Juno. A miserable, remorseful being, I wan- dered through the Grandchester streets, to keep my a; ntment with Mr. Henry Deane, Riers short Ji he dis- m me witha of my eyes. Miss Deane, dressed for walking, I met in the hall as the servant was showing me out, and we went together into the street. "Well,” she said with a touch of irony, “have you seen my cousin?” “Yes,” said I. “Do you think her like me?” “l wish to heaven she were!” I ex- claimed fervently. “I shouldn't be swirl- ing round in a sort of maelstrom.” e looked steadily at me—I like her downrightedness. “Do you mind telling me what you mean?” “I am in love with the personality of one woman and the face of another. And 1 never shall fall out of love with the face.” “And the personality?” “God knows,” I groaned. * “I never conceived it possible for any man to fall in love with a face so hope- | lessly unattractive,” she said with a smile. "It is beautiful," I cried. She looked at me queerly for a few seconds, during which I had the sensation of something odd, uncanny having hap- | I found myself | pened. I was fascinated. saying: “What did you mean by the ‘sweet irresponsibility of man?’’ She put out her hand abruptly and said good-bye. [ watched her disa r swift- ly round a near corner, and I went, m head buzzing with her, back to my hotel. In the evening I Sied with Dr. Deane. 1 no opportunity of seei erie alone. In a whisper she ns forgive- ness. | relented. Her beauty and charm would have mollified a cross rhinoceros. The love in her Slendid eves would have warmed a snow image. pressure of her hand at ing brought back the old Valerie, and I knew I loved her desper- ately. But inwardly I groaned, because she had not the face of my dreams. I hated her beauty. As soon as the front door closed behind me, my head began to buzz again with the other Valerie. I lay awake all night. The two Valeries Vous themselves inextricably Wogethe; in my hopes ongi worshi a composite chimera. When the gray dawn stole through my bedroom window, the chimera vanished, but a gray dubiety dawned upon my soul. Day invested it with a ghastly light. 1 rose a shivering wreck and fled from Grandchester by the first train. 1 have not been back to Grandchester. I am in Vienna, whither I returned as 1| fast as the Orient Express coald eth ny DE cr wi i m t. e every morning to my antine indecision. gE consuming away with love for one of the is the only certain fact in my uncertain existence. But which of the Valeries it is I can not for the life of me decide. If any woman (it is beyond the wit of man) could solve my problem and save me from a hopeless and lifelong celibacy she would earn my undying gratitude. —By William T. Locke. in Collier's. A tree in the orchard begins to droop, | its leaves ego to Wither, ’s oo apparent injury to no visible te on its life. But the tree eeps on fi At le the farmer digs around it to loosen soil at the roots, and in ing he comes on a great, flat stone, wh had cut the tree off from proper nourishment. When the stone is taken away the tree regains its original beauty and strength. Women fail and droop sometimes. 's no ap- parent cause. They take care of them- selves but in spite of all they droop dai- ly. They begin to think the cause must be within them and hidden. When, in this condition, they turn to Dr. Pierce's Favorite Prescription, the result is almost always a complete cure. “Favorite Pre- scription” searches out and removes the obstructions to woman's health. It not only heals the local organs but enriches the whole body. What prompted you to de- | I was tired of it, and de- in your And then, : FOR AND ABOUT WOMEN. DAILY THOUGHT. However things may seem, no evil thing is suc- , cess and no good thing is failure.—Samwe! Loog- | fellow. The Knitted T ~—Have you seen them? They are of wool—red or white, usually—and they are knitted or crochet- ed loosely in the shape of tight-fitting skating caps and in the weave once fa- miliar in baby afghans. Sometimes they are perfectly plain; sometimes they are with dark : fur; sometimes at the left side they have a long quill feather or kid or velvet— | caught by a little half-moon ornament. ' Never anything more than that—simplic- "ity is their raison d'etre. They are certainly very stunning, and they are very easy to make. If you cro- chet at all you must have one of them, ad if you don’t crochet you must learn Probably they won't live very long be- : yond this winter, but Paris has decreed : them, and so this season they are quite the thing. In Paris they wore them first to the races—a little girl selling doll caps 24 THe F215 Shuai ot them first, they say now are seen everywhere - that a tailored suit is in evidence. For ! country tramps or for any open-air exer- cises they are ideal, since they fit closely over the hair, do not need hatpins and yet do not disarrange the coiffure. Moreover, no snow or rain can hurt them, and they are easily washable in : cool water and ammonia, with a little ! suds of castile soap. Do not iron them, but wring them tight, roll them in a tow- el and let them dry. In other words, act just as in laundering sweaters. In fact, where they look best is with the long knitted coats that Paris sent over to us still earlier in the season. With a knitted skirt, coat, Joves, leg- gins and cap, the winter girl is togged out completely, ready for any weather. “Once in two or three months is as often as it is advisable to wash the hair with soap and water,” says Claribel Mon- tague, the beauty expert. “The rubbing, drying and rinsing, together with the action of the alkali in the soap—especial- "ly the alkali—tend to make the hair coarse, hard and brittle. Too much moisture causes the hair to become thin and lose its color. “A simple and satisfactory dry sham- poo is made by mixing four ounces of De + Ty therox. nkle a tablespoonfu mixture on the head and brush thorough- ly through the hair once or twice a week. t is all there isto it. This treatment not only keeps the hair light, fluffy and i lustrous, but therox produces the growth of new hair.” Paris welcomed the bolero one year . Those who took advantage of the vanced notes enjoyed the feeling of being ahead of a few styles, and they are still in style—which is only the result of accepting suggestions from the right sources. It you are interested in lines, you will | notice the prevalence of the bolero or {eton. It need not be a jacket that can be detached. Rather it is incorporated with the rest of the bodice by means of straps, embroidery or cording. One effective style is a bolero that has the kimono sleeve. The front top portion of the bolero drops down in a deep yoke effect and then falls in a slanting line back toward the underarm seams. But- tons and cord hold it in place over a high draped girdle crossed at the front. Another version of the bolero story brings the pointed fironts to the center line, one crossing over the other, and held there by three large buttons. This, too, has the half-length Japanese sleeve. The bolero is an excelient trimming to be used with the high waistline. It re- lieves any flatness of figure and can be as ornate or as simple as you wish. The hand-bag is now the inseparable | companion of woman. A beauty is made | of sealskin with a sold top, the owner's | initials in gold adorning the side that is | generally presented to the gaze of the | public. Oxydized silver is sometimes | seen, but gold is more favored. No longer {is a handle of modest allowed. | Long cords of leather or silk are sup- ipl occasionally several are pleated | together, and finished where they join the i with tassels. i black suede and the velvet bag also have their devotees, while leather worked in the Venetian manner 1s much | in evidence. H In Paris, and on he Continent sunerl y, great liking is evinced for | fairly modest proportions with long cords | that are slung across the shoulder—in the | same way as one carries field glasses— i perhaps because this method displays its ! beauty to the greatest advantage. | Edicts of Fashion Heard in Paris.— | Delft blue is to be a popular shade for | the new spring suit or for the trip to Florida. ori A touch of black velvet is shown on all i the new light frocks displayed in fashion- | able shops. | The butterfly is seen in all of this sea- son's fashions. It ornaments stunning evening gowns, is perched airily oncharm- | ing coi ures and rests lazily on hats of | velvet and fur. | Evening wraps are seen made of bead- ! ed lace or net laid over lustrous satins. | They often have a deep hem of the satin | and a large collar as well. | The day when the debutante was strict- ‘ly gowned in white ispast. The new wild rose for young girls threaten to take the pure white 's place. Ribbon hair ornaments in becomi bow shapes, and also in fiat rosette | fects, called this season “boutonniere, | are greatly liked by both young girls and | youthful matrons. Hosiery always matches the slippers |and many beautiful silk stockings are | Shon Having Oia ey ori em- | broidered floral designs. The ban which has been placed upon the train seems about to be lifted, for _ there are rumors that before the ex- ! aggerated long train will be in favor. This season the long skirt has been | quite out of date and until now the great | majority of gowns for afternoon and even- | ing wear have been quite short, but as | the season advances are more and | more long skirts and once more it seems { we will have the longand grace- { ful however inconvenient, train. | Subscribe for the WATCHMAN. i i
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers