6
' AS YuU AHD I WIL *- BE.
Though men may h c- np the dollars up
In golden, gleaming piles.
Though thi y may bask beneath the light
Ot fickle fortune's smiles.
Yet, when death beckons unto them,
And murmurs: "Come with me,"
They're just as dead that day. my boy,
A* you and 1 will be.
The dollars and the joy they bring,
The Jewels and the wine,
1 linger ever on this side—
>y cannot cross the line.
"The poorest, meekest of us all,
And he who is most proud.
Are on a level, for there are
No pockets in a shroud.
JJo pockets—for the shrouded has
No need of pockets more—
But all his deeds—the good and bad—
They ail have gone before.
And when he fares to heaven's gate
Ills future fate to reek.
«Tls well, if haply there may be
A tear stain on his cheek.
*Tls well— for on our balance sheet
No dollars have a line.
Hut every one of sorrow's tears
Like gleaming jewels shine.
And all the smiles that we have coaxed
To drive out misery
Weigh In our favor—when we're dead,
As you and 1 will be.
—Baltimore American.
Copyright, ISM, by J. B. Lippincott Com
pany. All rights reserved.
CII A PTEIt XL —Continued.
"May I ask wliy this extraordinary
interest in a private soldier?" The
president was smiling, his sad, kind face
questioning her closer than his lips
alone. She described the scene of her
friend's heroism, the quick interest of
her hearer revealing the kindly heart
within him.
"Grand!" lie said, briefly. "I should
be glad to see him—but no" —and he
turned slightly towards the mass of
papers—"the crowd waits."
"The man that this soldier saved,"
she said, simply, "was a—kinsman of
mine—one to whom I am greatly in
debted."
"And is that all?"
"That is all," she answered. But un
der the playful, mocking gaze of the
president she felt her face grow crim
son. He smiled and bowed gravely from
his chair when he noticed the tell-tale
blush.
"That is all!" he said. One line tipon
a sheet of oflicial paper and the touch
of a. handbell, and Frances found her
self under the guidance of a messen
ger on her way to the war department.
At the door of the department she met
Raymond Holbin in a new and glitter
ing uniform. He was coming out, but,
seeing her. stripped in surprise.
"You here!" he exclajmed.
"Why not?" She gave him but a
glance, a sarcastic smile playing about
her lips.
"It is no place for women; you
•hould be at home."
"It is no place for men; you should
not be at home, Capt. Holbin." An
an gry reply arose to his lips, but he
checked it.
"You know why T am not," he said;
**l have been unfairly treated; but
<wy the word, and I will go even as
a private soldier—if you will prom
ise—"
"It is immaterial to me whether
you go or stay," she said, and passed
in. Holbin waited a moment and fol
lowed her, keeping out of her sight.
"What was it the young woman
wanted?" he asked of a clerk ac
quaintance, with careless indifference,
when she was gone.
"An order for the parole of a pris
oner and a pass through the lines."
As Raymond walked away in deep
thought, a messenger pointed him out
to a hotel porter, and me latter hand
ed him a sealed envelope. Within this
was a card bearing the name "Lou
ise."
CHAPTER XII.
When Virginia seceded and her
young men rushed to the front, among
the first to seek a commission was
Raymond Ilolbinv This was in the
days when most people believed that
the military feature of secession
would prove little more than a grand
«pectacular demonstration. Gradu
■ates of West Point were at once in
great demand, and backed by the
Brookin influence Holbin was ap
pointed a captain of infantry among
the state troops, no search of his rec
ord being at the time possible; but
when the state transferred her troops
to the confederate government, and
Holbin sought a colonelcy, advancing
in support of his application the fact
that he had been an oflicer in the reg
ular army, the matchless memory of
the southern president recalled his
history. Jefferson Davis had been sec
retary of war at the time the Holbin
■court-martial was held, and the rec
ord coming before him for review, he
bad promptly approved the sentence
«112 the court. A long struggle to se
cure a modification of the sentence
had followedi—and in this struggle
many politicians had been arrayed by
Holbin's mother, but in vain. The
»»ntence stood; and these people nev
er forgot the issues involved; the
Holbins hated Jefferson Davis. The
name "Holbin" had clung to the mem
ory of the hero of Buena Vista; he
declined to appoint Raymond Holbin
-or to commission him in any way to
command honorable men. The deci
sion was in harmony with his devo
tion to his principles, a devotion that
was destined to make him in the end
the most unfortunate of American
ttatesinen.
This new public reflection upon Hol
bin filled him with an ungovernable
fage. Had safe opportunity offered,
fee would not have hesitated to send
■a bullet through the heart of the man
who was responsible for it. Indeed,
he armed himself, and for many
.mouths was convinced that he uiigrht
at jn.r moment be dedicated to the
discharge of a patriotic duty. The
president of the confederacy walked
daily in the presence of death, for
fanaticism and desperate men sur
rounded him. His safety lay in the
fact that he walked in the sunlight,
where the results of an attack prom
ised never less than life for life. And
Raymond Holbin was not the man
to barter his away; he bided his time.
A far more dangerous enemy was his
mother, who numbered official ac
quaintances in Washington by the
scores, and who knew when and
where to plant the deadliest blow.
This woman, secure in her social posi
tion, displaying by her own efforts
and the efforts of her stepdaughter
in hospital work devotion to the
southern cause, was in secret fast bal
ancing accounts with Jefferson Davis.
Friends of Raymond liolbin, for he
still had a few, with the aid of his
mother, secured liim a bomb-proof po
sition with a rank of captain; and
there he stuck, with ail the time for
plotting that might be demanded.
What seemed to liolbin an oppor
tunity for a sweeping revenge came
very unexpectedly. Up to thefi he had
been but an instrument in the hands
of his mother and that large circle
of invisibles known to him who
sapped the strength of the confeder
acy. Their many interests preceded
iiis. The opportunity came through
Louise, lie did not dare to disregard
her card and responded instantly to
her implied command, armed with
his old secret and a virtuous indig
nation. He had almost forgotten her.
A year before, when she had suffi
ciently recovered from her illness to
permit it, he had sent her north, de
ceived by "sacred" pledges, to a new
hiding-place. The immediate opening
of hostilities had seemed to fix the
separation. It had never occurred to
him that she would make an effort
to cross the lines.
The new meeting between Louise and
Holbin was marked by a great display
of passion on his part; she was calm
and collected, a suggestion of reckless
ness, however, in her eyes and every
movement; her face relentless and
white with despair of an abandoned
life. For the first time Holbin failed
to move her to anger or to tears.
"1 came." said she, when his rage had
spent itself and in answer to his de
spairing offer of money if she would
depart, "not because I need your as
sistance—that is, your money, for I do
not; lam now well supplied." She
could not have touched him in a more
delicate spot. A swift jealousy, a curi
ous indignation, filled him.
"Whose money?" he asked, breath
lessly.
"lie is very- rich, and gives with a lib
eral hand when the woman is smart,
is able, is fearless, and willing to risk
her life at his bidding." It was not the
speech, but the cautious glance which
involuntarily she gave to her surround
ings that awoke a suspicion in his
breast.
"Louise, you are a —"
"Hush! I am a mother robbed of
her child; that is explanation enough;
for such a woman is capable of any
thing. even murder, as you know. Ray
mond, where is my daughter?" He
looked at her uneasily, and the white
feather appeared in spite of his efforts
to conceal it.
"She is well, and well cared for."
"I asked you where, and you have not
answered me!"
"There is much to be agreed upon be
tween us before I tell you that," he
said, after a pause, during which he
narrowly watched her. He took a
seat close beside her and continued
in his old confidential, half-appealing
way: "Louise, I am ruined, a dis
graced man, and ripe for anything
that will take me out of this city."
lie paused, but she did not answer or
seem to hear him, and he added:
"My downfall began when I was un
true to myself— to you. I have never
had a moment's good luck since;
everything has gone wrong with me."
Still she did not answer him, but her
bosom heaved once or twice, and a
strange look came into the white face
she turned towards him. "I have now
no chance on earth except a chance
to play for even and quit the country.
Louise, if I succeed will you go back
with me into the old sweet life? I
will be true to you; I will right all
of your wrongs— will be a fa
ther indeed to your child. Let us go,
Louise, out of this wild, heartless
country back across the ocean to the
little English home, back to our flow
ers, back to the old life." He took
her hand, and this time she did not
withdraw it.
"My child," she Baid, almost in
audibly, her face lowered and her
bosom rising and falling rapidly.
"That will be all right—all right.
I swear to you she is well and has
not forgotten you. She never fails
to ask for you, and at night to say
her little prayer." A cry burst from
the wretched woman.
"My baby! My baby!" She sank
her face in her hands, then sprang
to her feet, "iou deceived me," she
said, frantically, beginning to walk
the floor, "I cannot—l cannot believe
you."
"I have no cause to deceive you,
Louise—none." He spoke very ten
derly; "and I would not if I could—
now. This uniform, these shoulder
straps, mean nothing in my case but
disgrace. I am a stay-at-home. The
dullards of my class at West Point
are brigadier generals in the field;
I am a uniformed clerk."
"The woman—?" Louise could not
conclude her question.
"She will not assent," he said, sav
agely; and then quickly, lest a nat
ural inference should array her
against him again, "I have purposely
made myself so obnoxious to her that
she would rather be a pauper than
share a fortune with me. She has
yet" time to decide, for she is not
21; but I know her decision in ad
j vance."
I"And then?"
CAMERON COUNTY PRESS, THURSDAY, JUNE 27, 1901.
"Then life with you, Louise our
child's happiness provided for. I do
not count upon that fortune; the
slaves will be free and all valuta up
set; land will not be worth much in
this state." Louise came close t> him
and laid her hand upon his shoulder.
"If I could only trust jou," she
said, sadly, "all might yet be well, for
1 have a way—"
"What do you mean?" She hesi
tated and, leaning over, whispered a
sentence in his ear. He lifted hit. face
quickly.
"How much?"
"Our own price."
"Our own price!"
"And revenge, Raymond, revenge for
jou."
"Revenge?—yes—well said. Xo price
could be complete without that. \nd
what a revenge! The assassin stabs
his f°e and is infamous; the man vho
slays his country's foe is a hero.
Louise, you have made me happy, »nd
you little know how chance has fa
vored you. 1 am connected with the
war department I have friends
around me; and, better, I have my
facts in hand."
"You w ere planning then, '.00."
"I did not know what in jht arise,
and 1 was determined to be ready; I
was tired of doing the work while eth
ers reaped the benefit. But now coaies
the greatest difficulty—and that re
minds me. How did you get iere
through the lines?"
"You remember the little farm in
which I had only a life interest, the
only thing we could not sell? I was
warned that it would soon be within
the southern lines and was sent there
to wait. Jackson's army passed ever
it, and I came onto liiehmond and de
livered my messages." Holbin was as
tounded.
"Who do you know here?"
She shook her head. "Not a human
being beside yourself. I placed my
papers in a certain receptacle to which
I had been directed. If there is an an
swer I shall find it in the same plice
at an appointed time." Holbin walked
the floor in great excitement.
"Iknow both the place and the time,"
he said; "I took your messages; but
there never would have been any an
swer except for this meeting. I alone
can supply the information which is
desired, and I shall not let it go
through the usual channel. It is the
chance of my life. I have facts that no
other human being could have accumu
lated, facts of vital importance. My
God, Louise! A million dollars is a
small price."
"Give them to me," she said; "I will
deliver them upon one condition."
"One condition ? Name it."
"The price shall be paid to me." Hol
bin stood in deep thought.
"Xo," he said, as if dismissing some
mental argument, "it is too dangerous
a mission for any woman. Capture
would mean for you certain death."
"My child!" she said, simply; and
then: "I shall find a way to get
through."
"Then make the trip safely, and I
swear to you I will surrender the child
and come to you, too."
"Oh, Raymond, promises, promises!
It would be inhuman to deceive me
now."
"You will control the future if you
deliver my information and collect the
price." She knew him well enough to
understand that this logie with him
was conclusive.
"Then I go," she said, "but how?"
"I shall prepare a way," said Holbin.
But when he was gone Louise, free
from the influence of his personality,
began to feel all her suspicion and dis
trust returning. She reviewed calmly
but bitterly his life with her; it had
been a succession of deceptions and ut
terly selfish. She asked herself over
and over what recourse would she
have if he should slip away and leave
her in Richmond, and gradually, as she
considered his manner, she became
convinced that he intended nothing
more or less so far as she was con
cerned. The spirit which had sustained
her during the past year returned,
and she felt herself full of fight. Ex
perience had given her better control
of her nerves; her life, when away
from Holbin, carried a more masculine
note; most women who goto school in
Washington acquire it. She had come
to Richmond with the full intention of
seeing Mrs. Brookin, forcing a settle
ment of her claims upon Raymond, and
securing her child. Of success as to
the latter she felt assured; the other
was doubtful. In the hour after her
last interview with Raymond it came
to her as an inspiration that she now
had a weapon in her hand that would
beat down any guard, pierce any ar
mor; for he had admitted his connec
tion with the enemy and had a gigantic
enterprise afoot. She had but to insist
upon a settlement in advance and to
threaten; but the pressure upon Ray
mond should come from his mother.
She therefore determined to carry out
her original intention, call on that
lady, and have a plain talk. Her sur
prise was complete when at the mo
ment that decision was reached the
card of Mrs. Brookin was brought to
her room—complete, because not only
was the visit of this lady a most as
touishing thing, but upon that card
was a sign for which she was instruct
ed to look in every instance—two peri
ods following the name. The meaning
of the two periods was that the visitor
had a message to be sent by word of
mouth only and that she might be
trusted.
By what means the visitor knew of
her Louise was not informed; but she
had been given a name and direct'ed to
register under it, and she readily
guessed. She at once said, after the
formal greetings were over:
"I perceive, madam, that your
mourning has reached the second pe
riod." The visitor moved her chair
close and made a statement, carefully
Miorded, of considerable length, and
this Louise was required to repeat over
and over until its main points were
fixed in mind. It related to a cabinet
meeting of the day before. Mra.
Brookin then offered • few commenti
upon the weather and the unfortunate
war and would have arisen, but Louise
detained her. She said, bending over
her:
"You have a son in the war depart
ment who is in great danger, and his
indiscretion has endangered you and
our whole system—"
"Lower! —speak lower, for God's
sake!"
"He has grossly deceived and
wronged a woman named Louise, and
has been rash enough to let her into
his and your secrets."
Mrs. Brookin was almost unable to
articulate; the otlier handed her a
glass of water.
"Where is she —this Louise?" she
asked then.
"Madam, she stands before you."
Louise had then and there a part of
her revenge; the elder woman, in spite
of all her experience, gave way to a
sudden panic. But only a few moments
was she absolutely helpless. Habit and
the calm face before her restored her
presence of mind.
[To Be Continued.]
IN LOVE, BUT WAS THRIFTY.
The Carefnl Young Mm Objected to
I'uyliiK the Second Time
(or the Ilnnna,
The late I'rof. Shuttleworth, of
London, was particularly fond of tell
ing how, when he once acted as lo
cum tenens in Devonshire, he had to
proclaim the banns of marriage of a
young yokel and a village maid. A
fortnight later the young swain
called at the professor's lodgings, re
lates the London Telegraph.
"You put up the banns for me,"
he said.
"Yes, I remember," replied Mr.
Shuttleworth.
"Well," inquired the yokel, "has
it got togo on?"
"What do you mean?" the
professor. "Are you tired of thegirls?"
"Xo," was the unexpected answer,
"but I like her sister better."
"Oh, if tne original girl doesn't
mind, you can marry her sister."
"But should I have to be 'called'
again?"
"Certainly, that's necessary," an
swered Mr. Shuttleworth.
"But should I have to pay again?"
"Yes, it would cost you three and
sixpence."
"Oh, would it?" rejoined the yokel,
after reflection. "Then I'll let it re
main as it is," and he did.
Too Smnrt an Uncle,
To measure all things by the lit
tle yardstick of our own experience
is a most unsympathetic and some
times unkind method. Forward tells
of a small boy who pronounced
judgment upon this peculiarity of his
elders.
"I caught him all myself, mother,
I did!" lie cried. "A big fellow, so
long!"
The eager little hands measured
an uncertain length, that might have
belonged to anything from a minnow
to a good-sized trout, and then the
boy trotted away to recount his ex
ploit to a neighbor. He came back
very quietly.
"What did Uncle Gray say?" the
mother asked.
"Oh, he said he'd caught lots
bigger'n that. I guess everything was
bigger when he was a boy, but I wish
he didn't always 'member it. When
I show him my long lessons he says
he used to have longer ones, and
when I do lots of work he tells me
hrmv he did more when he was like
me. I wish," said Davy, reflectively,
"he'd left a few big things for me
to have all to myself, 'cause, you see,
I didn't live when he was a boy!"
The Straight Ticket.
The professor's ej-es twinkled above
his evening paper. "My dear," he
said to his wife, "I fear that habit
is stronger than principle with you
suffragists."
"What do you mean?" demanded
Mrs. Professor.
"Why, here is an item from a
western paper which asserts that
after a recent local election in Col
orado, where, as you know, equal
suffrage rights prevail, the tellers
found a dozen or more cookery reci
pes in a ballot box."
"They were voted by mistake, I'm
sure!" returned Mrs. Professor,
stoutly. "They ought to count just
the same. Tuesday is an awfully
busy day, anyway. And I am just
as sure as I care to be that when
men first began togo to the polls
they made mistakes in the ticket,
too!"
The professor's eyes twinkled be
hind his paper, but he replied, with
the perfect gravity of one who has
been thrice refined in domestic fires:
"Without doubt, my dear."—Youth's
Companion.
Aiding and Abetting-.
A cheap-jack Leeds butcher brought
his cart to a standstill in Lady Lane.
An old woman looked with longing
eyes at the pile of bones and gristle
which the butcher loftily referred to
as "joints" and "steaks," but was
evidently very poor indeed, for she
hesitated to pay threepence for a
scaleful of "selected bits.'*
" 'Ere, have 'em at tuppence,''
growled the butcher.
"It's too much," said the woman.
" 'Ave 'em at a penny."
Still the woman hesitated.
There was a look of pity, mixed
with disgust, on his face as he mur
mured pathetically:
"Still too much? 'Ere, 'ang it, I'll
turn my back while you sneak 'em!"
—London Answers.
Hard on Papa.
Fond Mother—Beautiful silk dress
es, Johnny, come from a poor, insig
nificant worm.
Johnny—Yes, I know, mamma
Tapa is the worm, ain't he?— Moon
shine.
UNIQUE PHILANTHROPY.
Mrs. Smith, AVlfe of Cnllforn ia'»
"llorux Kine," ExprrtH <0 Adopt
u Hundred Ciit-I*.
The responsibility of rearing 100
daughters and starting them all prop
erly in life is one that would cause
most mothers to shudder. Yet that is
what Mrs. F. M. Smith, of Oakland,
Cal., is going l to take upon herself.
She is going to adopt 100 poor girls
and rear them as tenderly as the fond
est mother would her best loved child.
Mrs. Smith is the wife of the man
who is known throughout the country
as the "borax king." He controls the
entire borax trade of America and is
rated in California as a multi-million
aire. It is the money made from
borax that will permit Mrs. Smith to
care for 100 girls, some of them hardly
more than toddling babies, from now
up to the time when they are young
women and go away to firesides of
their own or to the life work which
they shall select. 15ut if any of them
should not marry or would not show
any inclination to take up a profes
sion, why, then they will do just as
any daughter of any ordinary family
would do —simply stay at home and
live her own life in her own way.
Mrs. Smith is not going to adopt
her hundred girls for any certain
period of years, to be sent away at
the end of that time, regardless of
whether they want togo or are pre
pared togo or not.
The home which Mrs. Smith will
provide for these homeless girls is to
be a home in fact, and the girls are
to be taught to regard it as such.
Mrs. Smith's hundred daughters will
live in ten houses, ten girls to each
house, on a 35-acre tract of land, near
Arbor villa, Mrs. Smith's home in Oak
land. The first of the ten houses is
already being built, and work on the
others will begin at once.
The girls are to have every oppor
tunity to learn all that they wish.
They will goto the public schools
and attend church. Every effort will
be made to equip them with a prac
tical education, as well as the ac
complishments that an ambitious girl
naturally craves.
Each girl will be permitted to fol
low her own particular bent. Those
who wish to attend the university
after completing the work of the
graded schools can do so, and those
who wish to become milliners, dress
makers, or follow any other trade or
profession will be given every facility
for doing so.
But think of becoming foster-moth
er to more than eight dozen girls.
Think of the cares of teaching eight
SOMK OP MRS. SMITH S WARDS.
dozen daughters to sew and to cook
and to be nice, sweet little girls and
keep their little noses clean. Think
of the ice cream they will eat, and
the shoes and the dresses they will
wear.
Think of two dozen daughters with
the toothache and a dozen more with
colds in the head. Think of the time
when they are sweet sixteen and be
come acquainted with the boys from
the university. Think of the moon
light nights and the ten porches of
ten cottages on which are sitting
eight dozen daughters with twelve
dozen callow-headed young men, who
part their hair in the middle and
thrum guitars and sing the "Spanish
Cavalier."
This is where the borax king will
find that he is a foster-father, and if
it devolves on him to send all those
callow youths home at ten o'clock he
will find life extremely strenuous.
But Mrs. Smith, says the Chicago
Tribune, has no thought of the many
cares and worries that her foster
daughters may cause her. She believes
that she is putting her money to the
best use possible and there are few
who will quarrel with her on this
point.
The Ilnlr In Hot Wenthpr.
Oil the head at night three times
weekly. On the following day wash
with soap and water, rinse and expose
to the sun's heat for as many hours
as possible. Let the sun fall on the
scalp. It in not necessary to expose
the entire ecalp at one time. One
part, may be shielded while another
is bavin# its sun bath. Few people
are aware that by a skillful use of
the comb severe strain-litness can be
remedied. It is difficult to convey in
words (\ correct idea of the necessary
motion of the hand. It resembles
that employed in whisking an egg
into r. frothy state. The comb is
moved rapidly and very lightly, with
the result that the hair assumes a
fluffy condition. But this is merely
temporary. J
BREAKFAST XN NAPLES.
Vender* of Hot Client n lit*, IlollttA
Corn nnd Coffee Ilemler (he
Housewife'* liife ICasy.
A paper by Mary Scott-lTda, withi
drawings from photographs by Henry
Hutt, brings clearly before tin* reader
of the Century certain phases of Ital
ian life.
In the "short and simple annals of
the poor" in Naples there is nogetting
up and lighting the lire to cook the
family breakfast. The wayfarer ar
riving on an early train, or the reveler
returning from some gay ball at dawn,,
sees the first movement of the im
mense wheel of human appetite, in the
shape of a dismal-looking creature
muffled in a ragged overcoat and shuf-
SELLKK OF HOT FIELD CORN.
fling sluggishly from door to door of
the opening bassi, or ground floor
shops and tenements. He carries a
long-handled iron pan half filled with
smoldering charcoal, whereupon sim
mers a quaint copper pot full of a mix
ture that purports to be coffee. This
compound, which he duly administers
to his clientele, is the sober Neapoli
tan "eye-opener." Well-sweetened and
well warmed, it costs only one cent, anil
is the beverage of the early risers; of
hackinen returning from the night's
chill station, of watchmen making
their last rounds, of workmen shaking
off the lethargy of insufficient sleep, of
women half poisoned by the night's
rest in houses devoid of ventilation.
Very soon the air becomes vocal with
the characteristic calls of the break
fast venders, "llot, hot, and big as ap
ples!" shout the sellers of peeled chest
nuts. These are boiled in huge cald
rons in a reddish broth of their own.
making, which is further seasoned
with laurel leaves and caraway seed.
Acent'sworth of the steamingkernels,
each of which is as big as a large Eng
lish walnut, is a nourishing diet that
warms the lingers and comforts tha
stomach of troops of children on their
way to school, or rather to cooperative
creches, or nurseries, where one poor
woman, for a cent a day each, takes
care of the babies of a score of others
who must leave them behind to earn
the day's living.
Meantime dignified cows pass by
"with measured tread and slow," shak
ing their heavy bells and followed by
their beguiled offspring, whose busi
ness it is to make them "give down**
their milk at the opportune moment,
and to let the milkman take it. Noth
ing can be funnier than this struggle
between the legitimate owner, the calf,
and the wily subtractor of the lacteal
treasure. Although tied to his moth
er's horns by a rcpe long enough to
reach and even lick her bag. but not
to get any satisfaction out of it, his bo
vine wit is often sharp enough to give
the slip to the noose and elude the vigi
lance of the keeper, occupied, perhaps,
for the moment, in quarreling with
some saucy maid servant over the
quantity of milk to be paid for. "fhe
scene which ensues is worthy of the
cinematograph. As a sequel, calfy's
tail is nearly pulled off, but he has
spoiled the oppressor's game for one
day, anyhow.
Striking Color Combination.
This season sees one of the strangest
color combinations and odd mingling
of fabrics that Dame Fashion has ever
given a suffering feminine world.
Thus, red and pink are frequently em
ployed together. Heather or helio
trope are considered to harmonize
well with Nile, willow or lime green.
The palest possible blue contrasts
with peach blossoms, while two or
even three different shades of gray
or brown nre often mingled in the
sam« costume, not as regards the
trimming, but the material of the
dress itself. Another rather peculiar
"melange" is very pal* blue and bright
scarlet or crimson.—Chicago Ameri
ca if.
Veil* Are Gutns Out.
Lace veils have no longer the
vogue which a few seasons ago gaves
them. It is noticeable that the wear
ing of veils is not what it once was.
This is due partly to the constant
teaching of fashionable hygienic ex
perts, who claim that the toft film
drawn over the face tends to clog
the pores, interfere with circulation
and eventually dim the clearness of
the complexion.
Four Matrimonial Fallnre*.
Marriage has proved a sad failure
to George W. Anderson, who, after
marrying 17 wives and deserting them
all, now finds himself, at the age of
08, in a West Virginia poorhouse. His
last bride he won and married after
a courtship of two days. She was *
rather giddy maiden of 74.