— eR ” % 5 i Demon ald Bellefonte, Pa., June 16, 1922. ———————————————————————————————————————————— WISHING. Do you wish the world were better? Let me tell you what to do. Set a watch upon your actions, Keep them always straight and true; Rid your mind of selfish motives, Let your thoughts be clean and high; You can make a little Eden Of the sphere you occupy. Do you wish the world were wiser ? Well, suppose you make a start By accumulating wisdom In the scrapbook of your heart. Do not waste one page of folly; Love to learn and learn to live, If you want to give men knowledge, You must get it ere you give. Do you wish the world were happy? Then remember day by day Just to scatter deeds of kindness As you pass along the way; For the pleasure of the many May ofttimes be traced to one, As the hand that plants the acorn Shelters armies from the sun. —Ella Wheeler Wilcox. AFTER THE BALL. It was one of the poorest districts of the city of Montreal. In its dirt and its grimness it was not surpassed by the slums of London or New York. In summer it had refuse in the streets, and its odor was bad; in winter it had bleak cold and grinding poverty. To the eyes of those who lived in better quarters, it was hell. The French Roman Catholic families were cared for somewhat by the priests and sis- ters who had the district in charge, but the few English Protestant fam- ilies were left in a state not easily de- scribed. No philanthropic Protestant ladies came to the district and the condition of the few Protestant fam- ilies was deplorable. In one home was Jean Roone and his family. Roone had been a worker in a great sawmill at a low wage, not sufficient to bring up his family of five and to care for his faithful wife, who had been an English girl in a cheap music-hall when he married her, at eight dollars a week. He was good- looking when they were married and she had been as happy with him as poverty and misery will permit. She had a quick temper and no religion, for her people had belonged to circus- es and cheap shows, and she had gone to school only about four years of her life. She was very pretty in a tousel- ed sort of way when she nrarried, and buxom and taking, and had had no lovers—she was only seventeen. She was exceptionally virtuous for one of her class. One day in the winter she had slipped and fallen on an icy pave- ment after her performance at the said: “I not know what the matter is, but I not feel well this past three months. I not sleep well. I have no real strength any more—no. I not know what to do. If I must give up work, we starve, Meg!” She drew back with sudden fear and looked at him. “You not so well as to work, Jean! That’s bad. You have had meat, but the rest of us have not had meat for a month. You must not get so sick as to give up work—but yes, you shall give up work if you have to, Jean.” : : The haggard look in his shrunken face tortured her. She turned her head away, then went about her work, thinking hard. Jean was sick, and that would mean Heaven knew what. If Jean were taken from her, what could she do? Her heart was in her throat. She went and looked at the five children in one bed. As she stooped over the bed, the eldest child waked. It was a girl, who resembled her mother greatly in all ways. She had dark blue eyes, pale but not scrawny cheeks, and a mind that mother and the look in the face star- tled her. “What matter, what makes you feel bad ?” Her mother did not reply, but stoop- ed down and kissed the child and tuck- ed her in. It was early in November and winter was near. Snow would soon come. She shook her head, no more, and the little girl, understand- ing, as only the children of the poor can understand, cuddled down, but lay long in the night thinking hard of the look in her mother’s face and of the strange way her father had acted of late. She was very sensitive. Next morning when Meg got up to light the fire and make breakfast— bread and porridge, no butter, and tea for herself and children, and the same with a little ham for her husband— she did not at the first call Jean. But at last, seeing he did not move, she Yoni over to the bed and spoke to im, “Jean, get up; breakfus’ will be ready ver’ quick.” Still he did not rise. She touched him and he did not respond. His eyes were open but there was no light in them. He was gone forever. She did not cry or exclaim. She looked at him in horror. He was dead; He had been dead about an hour. He had waked with a sharp pain at his heart, had gasped, and was gone. He had died of a combination of heart and kidney disease. She sent for the doctor and under- taker by her eldest girl, who, like her mother, had not exclaimed when she saw her father dead, but had comfort- ed the other children, and helped to dress the youngest; then after a has- ty cup of tea and plate of porridge had gone for the doctor and the un- dertaker. For one so young she knew her way about well. Her name was Denise. The funeral took place two days after, and the undertaker, doctor, and mother— music-hall, and Jean Roone, who had | attended the performance, helped her | up, and as he lifted her had a thrill he | had never felt before in his life. She! was magnetic in those days and the end came soon. He went to the music-hall every night, took a twenty-five-cent seat, and then walked home with her. She: was not very happy in her home, and! when at the end of a week he propos- ed to her ‘she accepted him. They went to a registrar’s office and were married, for he, though French through his father, was a Protestant, and then followed months of wild hap- piness, for she was deeply in love with him and he adored her. After the first child was born things went well for a while, then she realized that another child was coming, and the second child was born a year after the first. Again a child was born at the end of the third year, and then trou- bles began. Times were hard and they became harder. Work was not steady and the expenses of the home did not grow less. In course of time —six years—two more children came, and now love, as it had once been, de- clined, and little remained of the old romance. Year by year the struggle to make both ends meet went on. At last Jean said to her in English, for they talked in that language: “Things go not well, Meg. Wages are low and they’ll be lower, and I not feel well—no, bagosh!” She was in an irritated mood this day, and she replied: “If wages go lower we can as well peg eut. It’s too hard now. Five children and us two on ten dollars a week! It’s star- vation, that’s sure. I'm sick of it all. I earned eight dollars a week myself before I married. You're getting lit- tle more,” He fired up. “P’r'aps you wish you’d not married me, hein?” “P’r’aps!” Then suddenly she relented, for the look in his face hurt her. She went over to him. “Jean, you're not well, you say. I'm sorry. If you get real sick, what are we going to do? * * * But never mind, I'll go out, and earn ten dollars a week in the music-hall again!” Poor creature, she did not realize that her day had passed forever at the music-hall, that she was no longer young and pretty and taking, and that there was no manager who would em- ploy her. Jean knew this well, and he stared for a moment at her, then he said: “Them places ain’t so easy to get now. You're not sixteen—no.” There was a mirror in the room on the wall. She went over to it and looked in, and then a queer change came over her. She swung round on him. “I ain’t got any looks no more. Why, my face looks fifty, and I’m not twenty-seven. That’s what marriage has done for me. My, what a fool I was!” “Nom de diable, I thought we’d been happy, Meg, even when things was bad, but I made a meestak. Sa- pristi!” Suddenly she repented. She caught his head to her breast. “You not well, my Jean—that worse than all. I'm not myself today. What’s the matter now 7” i He looked at her sadly. She had always been neat and clean even in their direst poverty and now she look- ed worn and tired and dejected, but wholesome and clean and patched. She had been a good wife to him. He others had to be paid, and the total bills for all the funeral expenses, ete., were some sixty-nine dollars. Meg had but: three dollars and her home. There was naught to pawn and the undertaker pressed. He must be paid and she had promised him that he would be paid. What was there to do? She must keep her word and pay him. But how? She could not go on the music-hall stage. That was over forever. Yet her experience of the music-hall came to her aid. She would earn the money and pay the un- dertaker and the doctor. Coming from a shop she passed a drill-hall, and then came to her mind that she could give a ball at fifty cents a head, and pay for the burial of Jean. She went at once and secured the drill- hall for fifteen dollars. She had a gift for organization, and it became known in the district that Meg was trying to pay for her hushand’s fun- eral by a ball. It startled the Roman Catholics, it shocked the Protestants, yet when the night came there were four hundred who paid for admission to the drill-hall, and Meg took the money at the door. Refreshments had to be paid for inside, and they were paid for at fifteen cents a head, and the final result was that the fun- eral indebtedness was paid, and there were sixty dollars over. At the ball a violin and a concertina had provid- ed the music, and the neighbors who wished to be kind and who admired Meg’s pluck, helped to make the affair a great success. She plainly showed by this one act that she was an un- usual woman. Curiously enough, it was the influence of heredity and ear- ly association. Had she not been con- nected with the music-hall she would have been wholly at sea. The next day a Protestant lady, who had lately come to Montreal, vis- ited the district in a philanthropic way. She had heard nothing of the ball, and she came by accident to Meg’s house first, as it was at the be- ginning of the street. She was admit- ted. Meg was not at home, but De- nise was, and when the lady came in Denise talked to her. “Where’s your mother, little girl 2” asked Mrs. Medley, looking round the orderly room which showed extreme poverty, yet taste and cleanness and ornamentation. “She’s settling up about the ball— sure,” answered Denise. “About the ball—what ball?” Mrs. Medley asked, looking at the black dresses of the children. “The ball last night to pay for father’s funeral.” “To pay for father’s funeral!” Mrs. Medley exclaimed. “Yes, at fifty cents per head. Fath- er was buried six days ago, and the funeral had to be paid for, ma’am.” Mrs. Medley was horrified. A ball at fifty cents a head to pay for a fun- eral! It struck her as dreadful. A ball to be arranged by the mother of five children in a house like this—a common workman’s cottage. It seem- ed almost phenomenal and improper. “I don’t understand,” she said help- lessly. “Lots of things we can’t under- stand, but they're true—yes,” said De- nise. At that moment Meg entered, and saw Mrs. Medley with surprise. “It’s my mother that made the ball,” said Denise, and looked inquiringly. “I've come to see if I can help you people in this district in some small thought quickly. She stared at her here now,” said Mrs. Medley. down here—no. ; we've little enough to eat and wear. and her stage experience. And when there’s death——" For an instant Meg looked as she felt. then she lashed out. do it, and help us ‘in small ways.” stage came out unknown to her. and are shocked—yes! Well, if you to tower over the noisy crowd. don’t like it, you needn’t. It would be | “What you folks doin’ here? would it? taught? I'll face my judgment-day ' with no fear. : would bless me for letting people get dead six days. pleasure out of his death, if it made no!” shouted a man. his home happier, and paid what he! “It ain’t decent—no,” she repeated. couldn’t pay. Christian religion— “It'd be more decent to owe for the what is it if it ain’t to pay debts hon- funeral and burial, eh? Wot you estly made? Are you rich, mebbe, givin’ me? I loved my man.” Her and you come down here to us poor, voice got thick and broken. “I loved because you wish to do something him so I wanted his soul to be at rest. ! good, and when you find an honest And could it have been w’en we were | woman like me, who gives a dance six starvin’ and his funeral expenses | days after her man’s death, you're wasn’t paid? Was it easy to crowd | startled. There’s oceans between us. down my grief, and do that thing? i You don’t—you can’t understand— It wasn’t. It hurt me terrible, but I | Haven't you staid long enough—eh ?” pulled myself together and I done it. ' Mrs. Medley rose to go, startled by But, ves, I'd do it again, no matter the attack made upon her. Tears were what the world thought. I have five tin her eyes. She was no hypocrite, children, and I had five quarters— : she was only conventional, and she that was all, and my man was gone ‘had not understood, but she was be- from this world. TI had to fight for | ginning to understand with difficulty. them and for myself. There was the | _ “I can see a little of what you mean. bill of the burialman and all, and I | I have never done this work before. had to pay it. How? By takin’ from My husband died six months ago, and some charity society? No, I aint I wanted to do something to help my built that way. I couldn’t—no. I told | fellow creatures. So I began this the undertaker I'd pay him and he be- | work here. I didn’t realize that no lieved me. He took the risk, he was one ever came here before like his. White. And I went out and earned Few women like you have the gift of enough by the ball to pay for the fun- organization. You are not like other eral and to give me something besides. women, I see. How did you come to Eh, wasn’t that right? Wasn't it organize the ball? * * * Don’t send right to pay honest debts by a ball 2” me away, please. I honestly want to! _“Dancin’ on a dead man’s grave!” { know. I'd like to help you. Of course shouted a man in the crowd, I was startled at so unusual a thing, gasped at his boldness, for she had al- ~as who wouldn’t be? But you’ve ex- most conquered them. plained it all. How were you able to “Dancin’ on a dead man’s grave— do it?” to pay the dead man’s funeral debt. “I was on the music-hall stage be- Would he object? He knows that the fore I was married at sixteen. Icame dancin’ was made by a woman that of a family of circus people and loved him, and wanted to see his home cheap-show people. I’ve had a happy clear of debt and the children fed. married life, though poor.” Dancin’! He'd * dance in heaven to “That explains so much,” said Mrs. think the woman that loved him was Medley. “I have a brother in the mu- With a breakin’ heart doin’ this—but sic-hall business, and can now under- yes! Do you think it was no trial to stand how you did what you did.” She me? All my neighbors know I loved came close and looked into the clear, him, and was straight with him while vet sad, blue eyes of Meg. i he lived. I love his memory now, and “You are a remarkable woman, and I'll stand my chance at the last day you ought to get on. What can I do for what I’ve done. It was done all to help you?” tel, pod ny neighbors thought so or they’d not have come to the ball.” pe, a | ame, I've enough to go on with, I've shouted one who had been at it. “It | sixty dollars over the cost of the fun- J 2S 10 insult to the dead. It was an va > honor. She's a brick, that widow er iat Jeon go on! In #0 poone. Three cheers for the widow C 2 LA%en your mon- p,...1 She's all right.” ey, except if my children were starv- 1 gk ing, and it'd hurt me to do that, and The crowd laughed, then burst into I’d have paid it back! I know what a cheer. It had all come right, and the world will think about this ball. the reporter of the Comet chuckled, It’s in the papers today, but I don’t for he had a splendid story for his pa- ‘care. I've dome what's put my con- Per. This low-class woman was a science right, and my children will genius in her way, and he meant to ‘have food I've earned for them.” say so. She had loved her husband, Mrs. Medley said: “You have for- Vet she had swallowed her grief, and given me, and I'd like to help you. I'll with a dollar and a quarter as her try and think it out. You've got a ©f : mind of your own, an original mind, Dificent coup. She had paid for his and you're young yet. You should funeral and had a balance to go on only be at the beginning of your life- | With to keep her house. It was unusu- work.” | 2), it oo a Shoke of genius. The “My life-work? It is to earn bread ©. ok thing was hat she hed a white for my children, and I'l do 1¢. and 1 hesrt 2 hed pitintive and conrogs not borrow, beg, nor steal. If I keep an a "power 2nd goodress. And my health, Ill do it. I seem to have ' ov. 2¢F meighbers had gathered ond waked by the death of my Jean. I'll the vast majority of them were in her KorD awake Bove. | Boon Whos sor | favor. Some were not, but that was Roman Catholics think of what I've | oy ang jealousy, There was naught done, and the Protestants too, and yet : 9 be sald Of her hut what wos good. they come to my dance. I'd do the Ho came forward to her and said: same thing over a hundred times, yes, | |: on nd Shyenmeg = lendid Inter. I would, bien sur!” She smiled. Tnadame; I don’t want anything “We'll see what God does for me now. | Caer: I ain’t ashamed of it.” Yrs, Malley Said: “Of course you |! are not ashamed of it. It’s a matter i « for your own conscience, and ind Along Wilner That was an eg above, and you meant only to do good. | gasht 2 oRvimelng Cy RL I'm going now, but I'll ‘try to help | So b oy go well In fife you—to find work for you to do. You | oY father to know you. Perhaps he want work, I suppose?” ‘can give you work in his office, or even “1 want work to support my chil- | olde L parts on the pusicehall Stage” dren, and I'll get it too if I can No, I've finished with acting. At that moment there was a great Io ge, gn 1 ave po look 5 butild noise outside the house, and looking | Hge to worl; for the stage. out of the window they saw a crowd “ 7 of boisterous boys and men shouting | dress. You'd be at her house. They were chiefly from | department. outside this district, and had come to ! e challenge her on her giving the ball dressmaking, eh? to pay for her husband’s funeral. the door, and when Meg opened it a “I'm a reporter of the Comet,” he view? Why did you give the ball?” His blond face had a sort of sneer on it; his manner was patronizing and familiar. “Why I do this or that’s my own business, and I won’t tell the public why I did it. I’m my own mistress. I don’t care what the public thinks. I'm not a bad woman, as all know.” “Well, the crowd out there seem to think otherwise.” He pointed to the street, where men and boys were noisy and insulting in their remarks. They were evidently organized before they came. Meg opened the door, and the repor- ter of the Comet stepped outside. He was greatly nonplussed by the will and fiery temper of the woman he had come to interview. She had qualities quite her own, and it was clear she meant what she said. Yet he now had a “story” apart from an interview, and this pleased him. It would be a sensation to the public to have a wom- an of the lower class refuse an inter- view so firmly and bitterly. Here was the excited crowd outside. What would she do with it, this six-days-old widow and the heroine of the pay-for- the-funeral ball? He soon knew and he chortled with glee. Meg saw the crowd, and it roused her spirit. She looked at the noisy men and boys for a minute, then, in her plain black frock, she stepped forward to the mid- dle of the doorway with Mrs. Medley young man stepped inside. said, “and it wants to know about the | , i | ball. There's a feeling it was sacri- | the four smaller children. “There are : legious, but what's your point of | five children and you did what was on the stage. I'd like to go back to it. I would for sure—but yes!” “Ill speak to my brother. ways. Things don’t seem very bright behind her and the Comet man on the any harm at all. I . ¥ | edge of the crowd. She had gifts of | children from starving—bien sur. “Things ain’t never very bright her own, got from her earlier life and | Wages are low, and inherited from her parents now dead, | more than that. By nature | and good luck. You have the true i she was a good actress, but she was thing in you. “You give a ball to pay the funeral not acting now. She was in dead | you! expenses,” said Mrs. Medley severely. earnest, and her face showed what | I got to keep my Mrs. Medley smiled. “You'll do far You'll have success Good-bye. God bless You'll hear from me again.” With that she left the house, part- She looked at the crowd in | ing with Meg at the door, and made | though she could cut the lady’s throat, mingled surprise and anger, but there j her way to her brother’s office in the i was a touch of pride in her anger. Un- | city. “You come here—the first that ever . consciously she realized that she had | come to see what we do and how we an audience, and the spirit of the knocked down by a motor-car and was Her | badly injured, and, though the accident Then, when you find a poor honest fuzzy hair was always well brushed. appeared in the papers, Meg did not woman gives a dance to pay for her She was by habit neat and clean, and, | see the account of it, and waited with- man’s funeral, you turn up your nose though of medium height, she seemed | out hearing from her for four weeks. That night, however, she was i Meanwhile she kept her house in or- You der and tried to lay plans for the fu- better to let the undertaker not be don’t belong. This ain’t your district. | ture. 1 ; S paid, or the doctor, or other bills, No, you're out of your beat. You not | not goon the music-hall stage again, be burnt,” she cried, “and IT be long Is that the thing Christ belong here. What you want—eh?” | and, though she had been famous by | before the fire engine comes! 3 “We want to give you blazes for | the account, first of the ball and then | My dead husband the ball when your husband was only | That ain’t decent— ! What could ghe do? She could of her defense of it by the sensational article in the Comet, it brought noth- {ing but advertisement and cheap re- ‘clame. She was bitterly disappointed that Mrs. Medley had not kept her word, and yet, somehow, she contin- ued to believe in her. One music-hall manager came to see her, but she did not suit the stage, and, though she said she could do other things, nothing came of it. The ball had developed her enormously. Imagination was alive. It had been the turning-point in her life. It opened up the way to a | . bigger scheme of things. which : One day she stood in front of a dress-making shop and looked at the models in the windows. It interested her, yet she had never had dresses since she was married that meant either style or finish. Nevertheless she was better dressed than any of the women of her class or in her district, and she had always been neat and had a sense of decoration in her humble | home and in her person. She had made picture-frames out of old cigar- boxes with ornamentations of putty, she had made a rag carpet for her floor and had pasted the walls with plain brown paper from the stores, which cost very little. A sense of style and decoration were in her. Leaving the dressmaking window, she passed a book-shop and in the window ‘ she saw a fashion-plate magazine. She newspapers and began to cut out pat- ! . was going from door to door. only capital had brought off this mag- | | went in, bought it, and took it home. Then she studied it and saw pages of fashion-plates. After studying them for two or three days she got some terns. She was pleased to find that it came to her so easily. She saw her way. She would cut out patterns and sell them from house to house, not in this district but in a better district, and Denise was old enough to look after the younger children while she Denise saw what her mother meant and her eyes brightened. It was curious how the touch of temperament made them feel such a difference in their lives. Denise helped her mother in cutting | out the patterns. With twenty different patterns cut out of brown wrapping-paper in a carpetbag Meg issued forth one morn- ing, and going into a better part of town began her commercial traveling from door to door. At ten houses she had no success, but she set her teeth and went on. A last she began to sell; and she sold a pattern for a dollar; then she sold four more. It took her all day, but in the end she had five dollars, and the cost had only been the brown paper and her labor. Her heart throbbed fast as she went home. make a living, not very distinguished, her gift of talking had helped her with her sales. Next day she cut out more patterns and then she went forth again. cessful, she felt it in her bones. That night, as she ate supper with her children, there came a knock at the door. It was a messenger with a brief letter from Mrs. Medley. From it she learned that Mrs. Medley had had an accident, that she had not for- 3 | gotten her, but She frowned and stepped back into ; waited until she could write herself. : the house as the crowd cheered and i She assumed that Meg had seen the presently dispersed. Mrs. Medley was : in her illness had accident in the papers. There Mrs. | Medley erred, for Meg’s class seldom, I want: told the messenger that she I'm | COM next day at four o’clock, and if ever, read the papers. Now, would Meg come to her house and see her, and she would have news for her. Meg would when he had gone she drew her chil- ‘dren toward her and thanked Provi- “In the property-room and in the ' tered Mrs. Medley’s house. | | ! dence for all that had come her way. Mrs. Medley eyed her house and her | A new and bigger horizon opened out good in the dress ' before her. The next day at four o’clock she en- It was a 1 8, el Well, p’r'aps I'd | fine residence in a respectable but not As | know it by instinct. My parents was | fashionable part of the town. She they clamored there came a knock at found Mrs. Medley in a rocking-chair, with bright eyes and a serene look. He’s | She reached out a friendly hand to hard, but if he takes a fancy he’ll do | Meg. all he can.” She turned to Denise and right. Dancing to pay an honest debt is no crime. Even David and the king danced before the Lord. Dancing is moral if it's a good dance and your dance was a good dance.” She put her hand on Meg’s shoulders. “I like you, and I'll do what I can for you,. You may go far yet.” Meg looked at her with sad, glad, startled eyes. and with these five children, I may go far—but!” She looked round heip- lessly. Then she sank into a chair, leaned forward, and put her head in her hands and her arms on her knees. Denise and the other children crowded round her, and Denise put a hand on her shoulder and with the other strok- ed her hair. “Don’t feel so bad, muvvie, we'll be all right. Mrs. Medley admired Denise great- ly. She saw in her the making of a fine woman. She had sensitiveness, feeling, temperament, and common sense above the ordinary. She was pretty and would be prettier still in good time. Meg got to her feet with composure restored. Her children called out her best qualities, gave her courage and self-possession. She smiled, but rath- er sadly, and her hands stroked the heads of her bairns. “I've got a fair start, and I'll be all right. Sorry, but where should I be if it hadn’t been for the ball? It saved us and did no one | i “You look well,” she said. “Is all well with you?” Meg told her of what she had been doing about the patterns and how well they had sold. For a moment Mrs. Medley sat without speaking, then, with a warm light in her eyes, she said: “I've got it now. My brother i was willing to give you a chance, but he could not quite see how he could use you. I see it altogether. You can “In these three roofs, go into the dress department of his : business, and show Fordyce how you can save him much money by planning and cutting dresses for his actresses. Will you do it, if he consents?” Meg said: “I'd slave myself to death to do it. I think I could—I'm sure I could.” Mrs. Medley grew suddenly grave. “I don’t know what the head, Mad- ame Raoul, will say. She’s a difficult woman and a snob, though capable. She may not like you, and if she does not it won’t be quite possible, I fear. But keep up your spirits. You've be- gun so well you can’t fail. My broth- er depends on Madame Raoul, and he would not go against her. Let us have good hopes. I'll arrange for you to go to his place tomorrow at noon, when all the workers will go to lunch, and you and he and Madame Raoul can meet. I wish I could go with you, but I'm tied here for another fort- night, I fear, and no time should be lost.” Meg nodded. “So—I will go at the time and see Madame Raoul—well, She had found the way to n | brows. yet respectable, and she realized that | All day she tramped and sold | only three patterns—yet it was suc- | we'll see! I not believe frightened—no!” The next day at noon Meg, in her good-fitting black dress, went to the office of Fordyce Glynn, the manager and proprietor of the One Star Music- Hall, and was shown to his office. 1t was empty. She sat down and waited. but he did not come. Suddenly she heard a cry of “Fire!” and she sprang jup. The cry continued and she ran ‘out. A porter told her that a fire had started in the dress department, and she ran toward it. She had just reach- ed the dressmaking department when a woman rushed out of a burning room and slipped and fell, spraining her ankle. Meg was at once beside her, and lifted her up. | “Oh, my God, the dresses will all in being Meg always kept her head in times of crises. “No, they won't all be burnt.” She rushed into the burning | room, and Madame Raoul, with her . sprained ankle, began to descend the ; stairs with difficulty. Inside the burning room Meg saw in the corner a fire-extinguisher which Madame Raoul had forgotten, and she loosed it and gave its contents to the flames. They grew less and less. She persevered and by the time the fire- brigade had come she had the fire in hand. By this time Fordyce Glynn was on the scene. The fire-brigade i chief said to him: “This woman has saved your place. Without her it : would have been lost.” “Who are you?” asked Fordyce Glynn of Meg. “I'm Madame Jezn Roone, and I came here to get work, sent by your sister, Mrs. Medley. 1 got work at once,” she added, with a dry laugh. + The chief of the fire brigade had gone on directing his men. “Your work has been temporary in , one sense and permanent in another,” said Glynn. “You have a head on your shoulders. First the ball, then your defense of it, and now this! I engage you as fire insurance—if noth- ing else.” He laughed, for this wom- an had done him great service. He loved character and he saw she had it. He was a man of moods, difficult, and vet stanch and true when his mind was convinced. “I wouldn’t be very useful as fire in- surance—no, m’s’ieu,” she said. “Well, then, you can go into the dressmaking department under Mad- ame Raoul.” His face clouded. He knew that this was a difficult question. He did not know what had hapvened to Madame Raoul. “I’ve met her, m’s’ieu.” Then she added: “She sprained her ankle and I helped her.” “Well, of all the splendid luck!” he said. “If you helped her and saved this dress-factory, you’re right enough here. That's sure. You were born with a luck spoon in your mouth, hy George!” : ‘ An hour later they all three met in his office, Madame Raoul with her ankle bound up, and Meg with her hair singed by the fire. Fordyce Glynn said: “I’m hiring Mrs. Roone to help you in your dress department, Madame Raoul. I hope all will go well.” “If she’s as good with dresses as in putting out a fire, she'll do all right. She helped me when I fell. I don't object to her staying.” “That’s good. With your approval, neither do I. What experience have | you had, Madame Roone ?” i Meg told them about the patterns, and Madame Raoul raised her eye- “That’s the first time it’s ever been done. You've got ideas, and you will do all right. Bien sur!” “I hope, Madame. I can learn.” “That’s the right spirit—come to- morrow. We can’t begin too soon. There’ll be new patterns to make.” Fordyce Glynn winked an eye at himself in the mirror. Madame Raoul was a splendid head of his dress de- partment, and things were going well. “I'll give you fifty dollars a month to start with, Madame Roone.” Meg caught her breath. Fifty dol- lars a month! Madame Raoul shook her head at first in negation. Then she became tranquil. It was all right. She liked this independent-minded lit- tle woman, and her own place was se- cure. : That night at home Meg celebrated the new course of life by having for supper buttermilk pop, fried sausages, baked potatoes, and a dried fig-pud- ding. “It was good about the ball, moth- er,” said Denise. Madame Roone nodded. “I hope you don’t ever have to do it,” she said. “I won't,” said Denise, with a far- away look. Did she have a premonition that she was in the end to marry the son of Fordyce Glynn when her mother be- came head of the dressmaking estab- lishment after Madame Raoul’s death ?—By Gilbert Parker, in Centu- ry Magazine. I'm green, but MEDICAL. If Women Only Knew What a Heap of Happiness it Would Bring to Bellefonte Homes. Hard to do housework with an ach- ing back. Brings you hours of misery at lei- sure or at work. If women only knew the cause— that Backache pains often come from weak kidneys, 'Tweuld save some needless woe. Doan’s Kidney Pills are for weak kidneys. Many residents of this vicinity en- dorse them. : Mrs. Ralph Hassinger, Oak Hall, Pa., says: “My kidneys troubled me a great deal and my back was weak and lame. I tired easily. Inflamma- tion of the bladder was my worst trouble and the action of my kidneys was frequent and painful. I used Doan’s Kidney Pills and they soon strengthened my back and regulated my kidneys, relieving the bladder trouble.” ; 60c, at all dealers. Foster-Milburn Co., Mfrs., Buffalo, N. Y. 67-24