ELLEN OSBORN'S LETTER. Gowns and Wraps for the Breezy Autumn Days. At a Word W© Fans from the Tropics to Cold Siberia—Novelties la the Use of Fur—The Autumn Bride's Trousseau. COPYRIGHT, 1805. As we toiled on through the heat of summer and tried to make believe that winter was really coming, there wero men who divined it from afar. And so, at the first touch of September cool ness, there leaped as if by magic from a hundred hiding places the very garb of winter—fur. And at one word we have passed from the tropics to Siberia. Everywhere tillage so presses upon the wild life that Adam saw that fur grows more and more expensive. It ia almost the one exception to the univer- A I)C>:IIS AL FAN(3 Y IN FUR. Ral rule of falling of prices, and so I am sure it is pleasant to know how one can make such excellent use of a very little of it as in the handsome red cloth capo with diamond patterns in black braid, and the wide collar of black miffet, which I have been admiring. Or its companion garment, a long evening ♦ oak of dark heliotrope cloth, lined .with a lighter shade and with silver brocade; with jet ornaments, a roll col lar of sable and a narrow strip of the same rich fur on the cuffs. The coat of sealskin lends encourage ment to the little women who wear i FUR MODE IN TRIMMING. Eton and zouave shapes becomingly, for there will be a considerable run upon fur garments in these cuts th's autumn. Another popular fur garment will be the cape, either of fur entirely or of cloth with a fur collar and a second, shorter capo overlapping the longer one. Slim young women will find short, loose-fronted sealskin coats recommended to them, but in longer garments both economy and the wish to avoid crushing weight will point to combinations of fur and cloth. A pelisse of black satin merveilleux is an example. It has Watteau folds in the back, is lined behind with rose and black bro cade, but at the sides and in the front with squirrel lock. The square collar, like a Puritan's neck • bands, only broader, the inner collar coming close about the throat, and the cuffs are lined with mink. Sleeved or sleeveless, all fur garments have to be made roomy enough at tho sides to shelter the big sleeves of the moment. Furs are sometimes continued, as in a cape of black Persian lamb with a shoulder cape edged with sable tails, and a cascade of these tails falling down the front, even below the hem. A coat and skirt costume of Persian lamb with ermine collar is another combination. May I humbly venture the opinion that neither of these is equal in good taste or beauty to the better combinations of velvet, cloth or satin with soft fur. These are novelties in the use of fur: Fur with an applique of velvet upon pale satin, in Paisley or Dresden de signs, tho satin shining beneath and between the velvet bars. Fur over a silvery brocade with groups o.f blurred china flowers in deli rate. faded colors. Fur with rich green Lyons velvet, lined with old gold brocade. Fur in a huge rolling collar, in a strip down the front on each side, in the tails and paws used as trimmings. Fur with jet, velvet, passementerie and lace, all in one garment! Winter will be worth while that shows us all these wonders of tlio street. Surely never before was a ma terial so dignified and rich as fur used in combinations with such perishable, delicate fabrics. Is "silver-fox" offered? I have read of a dealer who says that less than two hundred silver foxes are taken in all , the world in a 3'car, and that all these, i practically, go to Russia to be worn by ; princesses. A single skin is worth one hundred and thirty to three hundred dollars, and a fox is absurdly small. Rut dealers are enterprising. What will they do if the fur seal really be comes extinct? Can the characteristic fur of this long suffering beast be imi tated? I doubt if it has been yet, and for this reason seal is a pretty safe fur to buy. Green is a good rich color, not quar relsome against others, and a key to strong combinations. A chrysanthe mum green cloth walking dress I have seen which is a dream. The deep, square collar reveals a bit of mulberry velvet at the throat. The edging of the collar and of -the cuffs is sable fur, and the tails are worked into the front of the bodice. The buttons are of sil ver repousse, the skirt is lined with mulberry satin. The toque is of green cloth and mulberry chenille, vel vet roses of the mulberry hue, and an j osprey's ravaged plumage. It is the ■ very soul of somber autumn, glowing at heart. What a gown that would bo for an autumn bride's trousseau! The au- j tumn bride demands her share of at- j tention and perhaps a little more. In ! actual wedding gowns there is—well, | the merest trifle of change, hardly no ticeable at a glance at the big sleeves, the medallion front, the long, plain, or lace edged train. The going-away gown and the bride's reception and dinner gowns are quite otherwise, and usually represent the latest breath of fickle fashion. Certainly this is the ease with a going away costume which I have been admiring in a friend's trous- ! seau. The loose, plain bodice front i buttons with big buttons, the skirt is : plain, the material of all a smooth j gray cloth. Over the blouse bodice, and over the big sleeves falls almost to the waist a triple cape with wide, emhroi- dered collar. Beneath this piling of Pelion upon Ossa, the tightly cased arms from the elbow down look like pipestems. The return of the cape is a calamity to most figures; but it cer tainly has returned. I should have said that this fashion able in the extreme garment was crowned by a hat which can only bo described as an hour glass crown on very wide brim, with huge plumes and bows, all in blaek. The steeple crown | is robbed of its full effect by the wide brim, reminding one of the contending and mutually nullifying principles of Ormuzd and Abriman. And speaking of hats, it may be well to add that the steeple crown, though quite advisable, is to be by no means common. Far more usual is the hat with no crown at all, or the mere faint indication of one, scarce rising from its j enormous brim. For the brims are enormous. A tiny close-fitting crown, shallow as as aucer, insecurely supports a structure two feet wide over all and with an enor mous sail area. Cock's plumes, ostrich feathers, steel or rhinestone ornaments, velvet and satin Dresden ribbon are in favor as garnishes. As to the bodies of these aspiring creations, count felt and chenille in the lead, and add that velvet is a favored material in -millinery, as it is with dress and cloak maker and even with the furrier. There is absolutely no change in the lcnickerbocker situation. Plenty of moral, intelligent and good-looking women are wearing bicycle bloomers, but I have yet to hear of one society leader following the Paris pointer, j The bloomers may be none the worse for that. Ellen Osborn. Striicino manners are bad manners. —liobcrt Hall. THE SILENT SISTERS. BY I. ZANGWILL. They had quarreled in girlhood, and mutual ly declared their intention never to speak to each other again, wetting and drying their forefingers to the accompaniment of an ancient childish incantation; and while they lived on the paternal farm they kept their foolish oath with the stubborn ness of a slow country stock, despite the alternate coaxing and chastise ment of their parents, notwithstand ing the perpetual every-day contact of their lives, through every vicissitude of season and weather, of sowing and reaping, of sun and shade, of joy and sorrow. Death and misfortune did not reconcile them, and when their father died, and the old farm was sold up, they traveled to Loudon in the same silence, by the same train, in search of similar situations. Service soparatcd them for years, although 1 there was only a stone's throw be- 1 tween them. They often stared at each other in the streets, lionor, the elder, married a local artisan, and two and a half years later Mercy, the younger, married a fellow-workman of Jane's husband. The two husbands were friends, and often visited each other's houses, which were on oppo site sides of the same sordid street, and their wives made them welcome. ; Neither Honor nor Mercy suffered an allusion to the breach; it was under stood that their silence must be re ceived in silence. Each of the sisters had a quiverful of children, who played and quarreled together in the streets and in one another's houses, but not j even the street affrays and mutual grievances of the children could pro voke the mother's to words. They stood at their doors in impotent fury, almost bursting with the torture of keeping their mouths shut against the effervescence of angry speech. When either lost a child, the other watched the funeral from her window, dumb as the mutes. The years rolled oil, and still the river of silence flowed between their lives. Their good looks faded; the burden of life and of child-bearing was heavy upon them. Gray hairs streaked their brown tresses, then brown hairs streaked their gray tresses. The puckers of ago replaced the dimples of youth. The years rolled on, and death grew busy among the families. Honor's husband died, and Mercy lost a son, who died a week after his wife. Chol era took several of the younger chil dren. llut the sisters themselves lived on, bent and shriveled by toil and sor row even more than by the slow frost of the years. Then one day Mercy took to her death-bed. An internal disease, too long neglected, would carry her off within a week. So the doctor told Jim, Mercy's husband. Through him the news traveled to Honor's eldest son, who still lived with her. By the evening It reached Honor. She went upstairs abruptly when he told her, leaving him wondering at her stony aspect. When she came down sho was bonneted and shawled. lie was filled with joyous umaze to see her hobble across the street, and, for the first time in her life, pass over her sister Mercy's threshold. As Honor entered the sick-room, with pursed lips, a light leapt into the wasted, wrinkled countenance of the dying creature. She raised her self slightly in bed, her lips parted, then shut tightly, and her face dark ened. Honor turned angrily to Mercy's husband, who hung about iinpotently. "Why did you let her run down so low?" sho said. "I didn't know," the old man stammered, taken back by her preseuce even more than by her ques tion. "She was always a woman to say nothiu'." Honor put him impatiently aside and examined the medicine bottle on the bedside table. "Isn't it time she took her dose?" "1 dessay." Honor snorted wrath fully. "What's the use of a man?" she inquired as sho carefully measured out the fluid and put it to her sister's lips, which opened to receive it and then closed tightly again. "How is you wife feeling now?" Hon or asked after a pause. "How are you now, Mercy?" asked the old man, awkwardly. The old woman shook her head. "I'm a-goin' fast, Jim," she grumbled weakly, and a tear of self-pity tiickled down her parchment cheek. "What rubbidge she do talk!" cried Honor, sharply. "Why d'ye stand there like a tailor's dummy? Why don't you tell her to cheer up?" "Cheer up, Mercy!" quavered the old man hoarsely. But Mercy groaned instead, and turned fretfully on her other side with her face to the wall. "I'm too old, I'm too old," sho moaned. "Thisis the end o' me." "Did you ever hear the like?" Hon or asked Jim angrily, as she smoothed his wife's pillow. "She was always conceited about her age, settin' her self up as the equals of her elders; and here am I, her elder sister, as carried her in my arms when I was five and she was two, still hale and strong, and with no mind for underground for many a long day. Nigh three times hex' age I was once, mind you, and now she lias the imperence to talk of dyin' before me." She took off her bonnet and shawl. "Send one o' the kids to tell my boy I'm stayiu' here," she said. "And then just you get 'em all to bed there's too much noise about the house." The children, who were orphaned grandchildren of the dying woman, were *sent to bed, and then Jim him self was packed off to refresh himself for the next day's labors, for the poor old fellow still doddered about the workshop. The silence of the sick room spread over the whole house. About ten o'olcck the doctor came again and in structed Honor how to alleviate the patient's last hours. All night long she sat watching her dying sister, hand and eye alert to anticipate every wish. No word broke the awful stillness. The first thing in the morning, Mer cy's married daughter, the only child of hers living in London, arrived to nurse her mother. Hut Honor indig nantly refused to bo dispossessed. "A nice daughter you are," she said, "to leave your mother lay a day and a night without a sight o 1 your ugly face." "I had to look after the good man and the little 'uus," the daughter pleaded. "Then what do you mean by dc sertin' them now?" the irate old wom an retorted. "First, you deserts your mother, and then your husband and children. You just go back to them as needs your care. I carried your mother in my arras before you was born, and if she wants anybody else now to look after her let her just tell me so and I'll be off in a brace o' shakes." She looked defiantly at the yellow, dried-up creature in the bed. Mercy's withered lips twitched, but 110 sound came from them. Jim, strung up by the situation, took the word. "You can't do no good up here," the doctor says. "You might look after the kids downstairs a bit when 3'ou can spare an hour; and I've got to go to the shop. I'll send you a telegraph if there's a change," he whispered to the daughter; and she, not wholly discon tented to return to her living inter ests, kissed her mother, lingered a little and then stole quietly away. All that day the old women re mained together in solemn silence, broken only by the doctor's vkdt. He reported that Mercy might last a couple of days more. In the evening Jim replaced his sister-in-law, who slept perforce. At midnight she awoke and sent him to bed. The sufferer tossed about restlessly. At half-past two she awoke, and Honor fed her with some broth as she would have fed a baby. Mercy, indeed, looked scarcely bigger than an infant, and Honor had the advantage of her only by being puffed out with clothes. A church clock in the distance struck three. Then the silence fell deeper. The watcher drowsed. The lamp flickered, tossing her shadow about the walls as if she, too, were turning feverishly from side to side. A strange ticking made itself heard in the wainscoting. Mercy sat up with a scream of terror. "J-iru!" she shrieked; "Jiml" Honor started up, opened her mouth to cry "Ilushl" then chocked herself, suddenly frozen. ".lira," cried the dying creature, "listen! Is that the death spider?" Honor listened, her blood curdling. Then she went towards the door and opened it. "Jim," she said in low tones, speaking towards the landing; "tell her it's nothin'; it's only a mouse. She was always a nervous little thing." And she closed the door softly, aud, pressing her trembliug sister tenderly back on the pillow, tucked her up snugly in the blanket. Next morning, when Jim was really present, the patient begged pathetic ally to have a grandchild with her in the room, day and night. "Don't leave me alone again," she quavered; "don't leave me alone, with not a soul to talk to." Honor winced, but said nothing. The youngest child, who did not have to go to school, was brought—a pretty boy with brown curls,which the sun, streaming through the panes, turned to gold. The morning passed slowly. About noon Mercy took the child's hand and smoothed his curls. "My sister Honor had golden curls like that," she whispered. "They were in the family, Hobby," Honor answered; "your granny had them, too, when she was a girl." There was a long pause. Mercy's eyes were half-glazed, but her vision was inward now. "The mignonette will be growin' in the meadows, Hobby," she murmured. "Yes, and the heart's-ease," suid Honor, softly. "VVe lived in the coun try, you know, Hobby." "There is flowers in the country," Bobby declared, gravely. "Yes, and trees," said Honor. "I wonder if your granny remembers when wo were larrupped for stealin' apples?" "Ay, tha* I do, Hobby, he, he!" croaked the dying creature, with a burst of enthusiasm. "We was a pair o' tomboys. Tlio varmcr he ran after us, eryin' 'Ye! Yel' but we wouldn't take 110 gar. He, he he!" Honor wept at the laughter. The native idiom, unheard for half a century, made her face shiue under the tears. "Don't let your granny ex cite herself. Hobby. Let me give her her drink." She moved the boy aside, and Mercy's 1 ips automatically opened to the draught. "Tom was wi' us, Hobb3'," she gur gled, still vibrating with amusement, "and he tumbled over on the heather, he, he!" "Tommy is dead this forty 3'ear, Hobby," whimpered Honor. Mercy's head fell back and an expres sion of supreme exhaustion came over the face, llalf an hour passed. Hobby was called down to dinner. The doc tor had been sent for. Suddenly Mercy sat up with a jerk. "It be growin' dark, Tom," she said, hoarsely; "hain't it time to call the cattle home from the ma'slies?" "She's takin' rubbidge again," said Honor, chokingly. "Tell her she's in London, Hobby." A wave of intelligence traversed the sallow face. Still sitting up, Mercy bent towards the side of the bed. "Ah! is Honor still there? Kiss me—Hobby." Her hands groped blindly. Honor bent down, and the old women's with ered lips met. And in that kiss Mercy passed away into the greater Silence.—Outlook. A Classical Instance. "I hear," said Diana the huntress, as she rested her toe for an instant 011 the pedestal, "that Fygmalion is in love with Galatea." "Indeed!" ejaculated the Hust of Minerva; "well, it's a cinch that he gets the marble heart. * —Puck, GENIUS AN I) MARRIAGE. Mrs. Burnett Is the Latest Un happy "Literary Woman." She Earned the Family Money for Many Years and Then Forgot to Look Up to Her Husband—Other Matrimonial Failures. Frances Hodgson Hurnett is the latest woman to add proof to tlie theory that genius on the feminine side of tlie fam ily does not make a happy home. "In compatibility of temper" is the sad ex cuse put forth when homes like hers are broken up. It has never been known to fail when a woman's power of earning 1001103* is greater than that of her husband that breakers are ahead, and it is an irrefuta ble law of nature that it should be so. A woman of a large inheritance who marries a poor man has the advantage of him in a certain way, but the woman who earns the family money possesses an advantage gigantic in comparison and as impossible to overlook or deny as if it were tangible. No womanly woman, sa3*s the Chi cago News, relishes being married to a man to whom she cannot look up in all respects and whom she does not feel superior to her in man 3' ways. Re formers may howl themselves black hut they can't alter this stern fact one bit. And when a woman discovers that she has much more talent and a larger head for business than her husband there is going to creep into her heart first surprise, then pit 3* and then care less contempt. A man does not shine in this kind of a light. In Mrs. Harnett's case her husband is as talented as she, though in a different direction. Dr. Swann M. Hurnett is one of the leading oculists of the country. To bo sure, his wife paid for his education in this direction with money earned by writ ing; still, that was no pro vided the couple hud amicably under stood one another. Mrs. Hurnett has lived in Europe most of the time for the last few years, and when home she and her husband were only formally polite; congeniality of spirit seemed entirely wanting. Other literary women have shared the same experience. John Oliver MRS. FRANCES HODOBON BURNETT. Ilobbcs, the English writer, otherwise known as Mrs. Craigle, has just secured a divorce because she was miserable in matrimonial life. Gossip now has it that she is going to marry George Moore, the novelist, with whom she has collaborated in several stories. One would think that she was leaping out of the brambles into the briers doing this, for two geniuses are as bad as an army in the amount of damage they can wreak. The artistic and literary instincts produce in a person a sort of irrationalism, a restless morbidness, tender nerves and a large demand for sympathetic tolerance, and if an un comprehending husband is unable to give this a husband of like tempera ment is more than apt to refuse to give it. Women of genius usually have checkered lives. George Eliot, with her strong intellect and knowledge of cause and effect, was not proof against the matrimonial fate of literary women, as her various wedded and uuwedded experiences show. Ouida seems to have had a prescience of what would follow if she married, and so wisely stayed single. Can any one imagine Ouida married? Much as she stoutly admires men, she could never make one happy. He would shoqt himself or get mangled somehow when she turned on him a.stream of her biting, withering, devilishly sarcastic elo quence, poured forth ull for his benefit. Eloquence of that sort is admirable on paper and directed in an opposite line, but when there is a hint of the per sonal in it it becomes uncomfortable. Ouida trying to fry potatoes following on a cataclysm in the kitchen; Ouida moaning over an unreachable cobweb or musing on the turning possibilities in a worn gown; Ouida mixing a salad dressing or sewing on a suspender but ton—oll, no! it is impossible to conceive. It is not charitable to advise geniuses to stay single, for they need the fullest of life to expand in and in which to spread their minds; yet the history of their matrimonial tangles is hut a his tory of the divorce courts. The men who are talented are as unfortunate as they are. A little American actress, who was married to a prominent writer of plays, threw up her hands when her divorce was mentioned. "Yes," she cried, "I am divorced from him at last! My dear, whatever 3*oll do, never marry a genius!" Her dramatic emphasis was sufficient to express poor Jane Carlyle's unspoken thought and Harriet Shel ley's and that of Shakespeare's neg lected wife and their innumerable sis ters. When the genius is on the fem inine side of the house the result is worse. Doesn't Live Half His Life. A Spanish mathematician, figuring out the average allowance of sleep, ill ness and the like, says a man thirtj' years of age has only really lived about fourteeu or fifteen .years. Kill.lv ami Physical Exertion. Three hours of close study wear out the body more than a whole day of close physical exertion. , for Infants and Children. THIRTY years* observation of Castoria with the patronage of millions of persons, permit us to speak of it without guessing. It is nnquestlonably the best remedy for Infants and Children the world has ever hnown. 11 is harmless. Children like it. It gives them health. I t will save lives. In it Mothers have something which is absolutely safe and practically perfect as a child's medicine. Castoria destroys Worms. Castoria alias's Feyerishness. Castoria prevents vomiting Soar Curd. Castoria cures Diarrliam and Wind Colic. Castoria relievos Teething Troubles. 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