THE SLEEP OK MARY. [COPYRICHT. 18DG.) Paul's father had been a portrait painter, who dreamed ihuch but accom plished little, and dying from sheer dis taste of life, had left his little son his paint brushes, his unfinished canvases and his unrealized ambitions A rela tive wished to put Paul to n trade, but a friend of his father's saw in the lanky, Jong-hnird boy a possible art student aud packed him otT to Paris, to live in the J.atin quarter aud learn to work. Paul soon did better than his father in his palmiest days. The boy could achieve uis well as dream, and the head of a '(irisette—a girl he thought he loved— found its way into the salon. Paul woke up from his love dream when •Susanne transferred her affections to a student who could afford to give her champagne suppers. Then lie remem bered that he had always loved a child across seas, on a Long Island farm; a slip of a girl whom he had known three weeks and adored in a boyifeh fashion. Susanne could go—all Paris could go— aud. Indeed, it did shortly after. Paul's patron died, leaving him nothing. The man of 25 set sail for New York, own ing some pictures more or less good. He found New York marked with the changes of ten ycvjrs. He was homesick He was lonely. Fie thought of the little girl on the Long Island farm. She must l>e 22 married, perhaps—and singing lullabies to a baby. Would she remem ber him? At least he could find out. On the train he thought still more about her—not an ordinary farmer's daughter—oh. no! Her father had beei both a scholar and a man of the world who had wrecked Ins life somehow— Paul didn't remember how—and had hidden himself on a lonely const farm His daughter Mary, at 14, could speal French and read (Jreek; but she looked like a wild rose and she had nevei seen New York. A smattering of mem ories filled Paul's brain. They had played together, while their fathers had , talked in the shade of the apple tree, lb had told her that he was cm artist, am that, he would paint her picture, only h couldn't make it beautiful enough. In knew. They had token hands am rushed to the beach together, and lookec over the ocean to Paris, and wished the; wore t here. A brief fortnight or so, bu' the child's face beamed on him still, am his love grew all the more swiftly be cause he was lonely and wanted to find her again. lie did find Iter, a woman a? lorn ly as himself. She was in black fo> lier father. She was soon to leave tin farm to go to relatives in the west. Pan told her of his Paris life, and studied he: face as he spoke. The color canto am went in her oval clieeks, as when sir was a child. The deep blue eyes had los' 1 heir mirth, and the curves of the 111011 tl held sadness, but Paul forgot the chile' and loved the woman. In the autumn they were married and went to live in New York. Mar; did not know New York, although he: home had always been within a luin dred miles of it.. She was unhappy un til they found three little rooms ot West Twelfth street —one with a north light for Paul—and had settled down to housekeeping. There was only a chair apiece, but the walls were hiddci with hooks, and one beautiful pic tun glowed above the fireplace. It was r copy of a famous Madonna and child which had been given to Paul in Paris in lieu of a long-owed debt. Its mas sive gold frame seemed to eonontrat all the Pght in the room. Paul pinuc. up sop • stray sketches made by friend in Paris, a.ml. in a moment ofextrava ganec. bomrht some big palms and ai anilhjuc l-naiw lamp which swung be fore the Madonna. The room was ai tistie and su.nd Mary, who look d lik a Madonna her self, with her sitraigh brown Irttir and her pure mouth thn Paid kissed reverently. He was in lov with his wife. Their first months ii New York were full of rich happiness •bet's be Poiicm an." Mary said. "It's cheaper," Paul answered, "am we like it. so let's do it." Their breakfasts and their lunehet Mary cooked, and Paul preferred then to Delmonieo's. SoincFsues they ah their morning eggs and slices of toast iflp raffiaifel AS if 'mtilA "WHAT IS IT, DEAREST?" seated on the hearth rug, before the fire fed with wood from the farm. Dinner was as stately a ineal as a 60-cent French table d'hote on Twelfth street could furnish. Mary, who had not been trained in the Latin quarter, was, at first, doubtful about this little basement dining-room, where one burned cognac in one's coffee and drank light, heady claret, with t.he Jdiiek onion soup and • the soggy spaghetti, mid where the ! women smoked cigarettes with the men, after dinner. Put she soon learned to like it all—except the cigarettes— because Paul felt at home there, and she would answer her husband's Freii<cl} of the Latin Quarter with good Ameri can French, precise and heavy, until she caught up his slang and tossed it back to liirn. It sounded oddly from her l'n>s. She met her husband's fronds there—mostly struggling artists like himself, who lived in the vicinity of Washington square—men with unruly hair and lofty ambitions, who envied Paul his wile, and refrained from tell ing doubtfrjlrstories in her presence. One of the frequenters of the cafe was a eit.v editor of a paper of minor circulation—-u young man, who, with his wife, lived on the floor below Paul Kenton. He had a salary of $2,000 a year, so he could afford five rooms and a wife, who followed the fashion. She was a fluffy little blond, who wore smart teagowns. She took a great fancy to Mary, because, she told her: "You're different from the rest of us. Now 1 couldn't live in the room with that Madonna. She'd be a standing re proach to me, but she's your twin sis ter. You don't belong in New York. You never will." She grew to love the woman who was *o unlike herself, and for Mary's sake she developed a great deal of unselfish ness. Occasionally, she gave up her bon-bons that she might send Mary some flowers to remind her of the coun try. She and her husband sometimes insisted that Mr. aud Mrs. Fen ton spend the evening with them, and then wine was brought out, and there was much hearty, commonplace talk from the city editor and his gay wife. But Maty was happier when she was alone with Paul. In the spring a new hope had come into her life. Paul coming home one night, found her standing before the Madonna and child in absorbed silence, ller eyes looked far away and her lips were parted. She did not hear the step until he was close behind her. "What is it, dearest?" he said. ' What are you thinking?" She started, and then turned a softly flushed, happy face to his. "Ah, dear, I have not told you. I prayed. God has answered. I want our little child to look like the Christ-child there." Paul put his arms .about her, and drew her to him in silence. "When our boy conies, I'll paint you with him in your arms—call it the mother and child." "It couldn't be a Madonna, dear. I'm not good enough." "Good enough! You wait and SOP what a picture I'll make of you with Paul, junior, against your breast. It will do for an altar piece. But don't 'ret morbid over the fancy. Talk baby •lothes with the little lady downstairs. It's better than gazing too much at that white-faced Virgin." "I've been looking at dozens of them o-day. I was at Snob's, and because hey know you, they let me look through whole portfolios of religious pietures. There was a Christ-child of Raphael's— >h, so beautiful!" "I didn't get that order I expected," Paul said suddenly, "That means we mustn't go to the shore in August." "You must go, Mary." "And leave you!" The summer in the city stole the color from Mary's cheeks, and Paul was doub ly anxious. His work did not sell, and no new orders were given for portraits; uit he was hopeful that with the au tumn would come changes for the bet ter. October flamed itself away, and with ! he gray November days came more dis- , ippointments. Real poverty entered the little, studio. The table d'hote dinners were given up. Mary cooked the even ing meal herself, and Paul pretended I hat he liked the new arrangement much better. It. is more cozy, more homelike. The wife of the city editor divined how things stood "with the chil dren," as she called Paul and his wife, and she grew more tactful; did less for Mary, but watched her more, and was careful that she was not left too long alone. For the brooding, far-away look •■nine into her fair, Madonna face, often •r than the wife of the city editor thought was good, either for herself or Ihe child. A hush of expect at ionseemed to fall upon the little household, as the time drew near. The tiny garments were all made and laid away in ixxse leaves and lavender. Mary would sit by the hour now with her hands folded, while Paul worked in silence; npw and then looking up to smile at her and nod his head, as if to say: "It's all right, sweetheart!" Tn the evening when he could not work, he would read to her, while she sat at his feet, with her head against his knee. One morning, a few clays before Christ mas, a let ter came to Paul, that brought the color to his face and the light to his eyes. "I knew things would turn," he said, gaily, to Mary, who was looking over his shoulder at the letter. "The Boston Institute of Science wants a portrait of its founder, John Fggleston—you've heard of him—you remember his picture, a queer old fel low with a very pairotable head—deep lines, rugged features—all that sort of thing. The baby shall have a silver mug now, and what you call 'em rattles, and everything an orthodox youngster ought- to have, and you shall have a pink ten gown—well, all I can say is, the city editor's wife won't be in it." Mary laughed. "And you shall have a new overcoat, iiul we'll go to the Hotel Martin fordin ncr, and invite those dear, kind people downstairs to go with us—won't we, "Oh. everything! German opera, later no standing-room tickets—real two dollar seats in the family circle." "But who'll mind the baby?" Mary asked, and then they both laughed, and said they hadn't thought of that. "\\ ill \ 011 go to Boston before Christ mas, Paul?" Mary asked, with a sudden anxiety in her voice. "I'm afraid so, dear, ll's best to re spond immediately—give 'em noehance to make other arrangements. I ought to take the night train—l won't be gone more than a day. The sittings can't begin until alter Christmas, but I ought to show up at c: ce." Paul started that night.. Both he and Mary assumed a gayety that neither of them felt, as they ate their little dinner together. When he said good-by to her, she clung to liim in silence, and put her cheek against his, and would not let hi in go. He went downstairs sad and anx ious, but before he opened the house door 'Mary called to.him from the first landing. He turned and saw her stand ing there, with the gasl'glit falling on her fair face and on her white silk gown j —a relic of her girlhood's—that she put on in his honor. "Good-by again, dear," she cried, "I'm going to be good and brave. You must not worry." He rushed up the stairs again, to kiss her in reply. The Christinas snowstorm of that year was long remembered. It began gently and people only said: "It will be a white Christmas," but, after a few hours, it grew colder, a high wind came up, the snow increased. Great, drifts tilled the city streets and blockaded the trains that, uegan with crawling irreg ularity in and out of town, and ended with not, moving at all. Boston and New York for all practical purposes were 1,000 miles from each other. Paul wished himself in Boston that he might, at least telegraph to Mary; as it was, lie was stalled up 50 miles from New York, with nothing in sight but huge drifts and in the distance a lonely farmhouse. Added to his impatience was a bitter sense of disappointment. He had failed to obtain the commission held out to him. At the last moment, a better- Known artist had been chosen to paint the portrait. German operas, new tea gowns and silver rattles vanished like a dream, "Poor Mary! Poor baby!" ho said, and then reproached himself for pitying them, and told himself to be a man. and go to work again fiercely. lie was wild to be at home, and at work. He found a relief to his over-stained feeling in go ing out into the storm, and aiding in shoveling the snow from the engine's Ck/Vi MM ) kTS I' . Ifctl'Y A ——- IN TIIE EVENING HE WOULD READ TO HER. track. Christmas morning found the train dragging itself wearily towards New York. Paul was half frantic with impatience. Christmas night fell when the goal was reached. The tired passen gers hastened to their homes, feeling that they had been cheated out of their holiday. Paul ran up the steps of the house only pausing to glance up at the windows of the studio. "She only has a lamp burning," he thought. "My little girl! What a day for her—alone! anxious!" In the hall he met the janitor, whom he greeted with a hearty "Merry Christ mas," but the man seemed surly, and mumbled something under his breath, when Paul spoke of Mrs. Fen ton. But the young man was too excited to notice his manner. At the se-cond landing he met a strange woman who looked grave and important, and behind her stood 1 lie city editor's wife. Her face was white and livid, and her eyes were red with recent weeping. Iler gay, crum pled tea-gown contrasted oddly with her look of grief. "For God's sake! Mrs. Wilson," Paul cried, "what has happened. Is Mary ill? Tell me—quick!" The little wom an who had spoken prose all her life, now veiled her words. She could not tell the naked truth. She laid a timid hand on Paul's sleeve. "She's asleep," she whispered, "and her baby's asleep, too, 011 her breast. Come, come with me." She led the way upstairs. Down below her hus band, who had been afraid to face Paul, felt the tears roll down his cheeks. "God bless my little woman! She's 110 coward! Good God! To tell a man his wife is dead! I couldn't, do it." The city editor's wife had reached the door of the studio. As she threw it open, she burst into passionate weep- \ "There's only one comfort," she j sobbed. "She thought you were with j her when she died." Paul stood 011 the threshold, turned j by the shock Into a passive spectator j of t lie swinging lamp before the picture 1 of the Madonna. Underneath on a low couch, Mary lay with a little golden head close against her cheek. If she had suffered there was 110 trace of suffering on her still face, but a look of hope. She senned to be dreaming of the child, who lay on her breast, as if there alone it could 1 enjoy everlasting tranquility. ' not dead. Paul knew that. He knelt by her couch, and laid his head by hers on the pillow. "Mary, it's Paul—your Paul. Won't you speak to him, beloved? Are you thinking only of your little baby? Speak to Paul!" A few hours later, the city editor, keeping watch outside, the door, was moved to a strange fear by the utter stillness within, and crossed the thresh old, to find Paul prostrate and uncon scious beside the couch of his wife. In a New York daily's notice or the spring exhibition n few months later, was this paragraph: ''The fame of Paul Fenton, a hitherto obscure portrait-painter, is established by a painting of his, which is by far the chef d'vetine of the exhibition. It is a representation of the Nativity, but the treatment Is novel and poetical, There are few of the conventional ac cessories—only a suggestion of a stable In the straw of the bed, 011 which Mnrv lies In the Sleep of exhaustion— but It Is an Inspired sleep, for her face is lit with dreams, as if she beholds the high destinies of the babe In her arms. Jo seph Is represented—strangely eno. gh —not as an old, but as a young man, who has turned awa v from the sleeping I pair, and with bowed head Is going j out Into the night." MISCELLANEOUS ITEMS. —A well-seasoned old colored won an Ls Wary Marks, who re-sides in Urenhrni, j Tex. She was born in the West Indies in 1770, and is therefore 120 years of age. j —Six six-footed pigs, the progeny of a ; six-footed yearling pig, are to lie seen 011 ! the form of Jesse tarry, of Marion, lnd. A seventh pig of the same litter hue* seven feet, but It did not live. I —Russia will henceforth supply its Baltic fleet with eoal from the Donetz region, instead of from England; 1 he | minister of finance having arranged to cheapen the railroad freight charges. This is a serious blow to England's coal trade with St. Petersburg.—Military 1 Gazette. ; —Vandals destroyed the saddles of all members of the congregation of ! Crooked Creek church, near Marion, Ivy., who rode horseback to worship one | night, and when service was over they j fired from ambush a broadside from • shotguns at the church building and 1 riddled all the windows. I —During the family's absence a thief | entered a Memphis (Tenu.) house and | stole a bottle of beer and half a dozen j pairs of socks. That night the so. ks ! were returned with a note saying that I the caller's feet were not of museum size and asking why more than one bottle of beer wasn't kept 011 ice. —An uncontrollable desire to tramp, a preference for barns rather than a comfortable home in which to sleep, and supreme satisfaction in begging or stealing food have caused 12-year-old Willie King, of Syracuse, to give his parents so much trouble that they have been obliged to have him arrested. —Atlantic City scorns the press agent, to be sure, but it semlis out a story of a beautiful young woman of Pittsburgh, whose hat, which was ornamented with a diamond buckle, was blown into the sea by a puff of wind and was brought ashore by a faithful dog, ns the owner was mingling her snlt tears with Nep tune's. —There was a despondent bride in Ilillsboro, Ore., because the groom foiled to appear at the hour named for the marriage ceremony. Half an hour passed, and then the bride's spirits re vived as she beheld the belated one scorching toward her on his bicycle, lie had missed the train, and used his wheel as a substitute. NO MORE TIGHT GLOVES. Because They Give the Hand an L'gly Shape in Time. The latest article of wear dear to the feminine heart that the health ad vocates have set the seal of their dis pleasure on is the tight-fittir.g glove. This will be distressing news to many women who would willingly deprive themselves of expensive lingerie in or der to wear gloves that make mere out ward show. Women pride themselves on exhibiting a neatly-gloved hand al most as much as encasing their feet in shoes which are ruinous to the nuturul shape of the feet. They arc perhaps unaware that wom en of the stage who pride themselves on the appearance of their hands when ungloved, us well ns when encased in costly gloves, do not approve pinching tlieni with tight gloves. Bernhardt and Terry, who are famous for the beauty of their hands and arms, wear long, loose-wristv d gloves. Miss Ter ry has a large hand, but it is propor tioned to her figure, and she does not squeeze either into tight com presses. Next to wearing tight shoes and tight corsets, the habit of squeezing the hands into tight gloves is perhaps the most foolish of feminine weaknesses. And yet interviews with prominent glove dealers all prove that about two thirds of their customers will insist upon purchasing gloves from one-half to one full size too small for their hands, and resent any remarks that the clerks may make that would suggest the abandonment of this hobby. "Why, we a *e even forced to suggest smaller sizes, and make delicate remarks about their tiny hands, in order oftentimes to secure their favors," one prominent dealer stated smiling!v. The wearers of tight gloves are not always ignorant people by any means, but they arc invariably of a vain and shallow type, who have no regard for artistic beauty and who are martyrs when it comes to physical suffering. For there is certainly nothing much more uncomfortable* in the way of dress than tight, .squeezing, ill-titting gloves, with buttons straining to their ut most tension and with the palm fairly bulging out in a mass of almost purple llesh, which has been forced into this unnatunQl position. H W omen with very long fingers near ly always buy short-fingered gloves," the glove seller stated, "and then, when 1 lie sharp,pointed noils have cut through t he ends of t he fingers, t hey bring them back with all manner of complaints and there is absolutely nothing to be said if we wish to retain their custom. A very fine quality of kid is always more flexible than a cheap quality; conse quently a lnd.v who wears a No. G in a one dollar glove can frequently wear a five and three-quarters in $5.50 quality, just as ope cay \vif*nr two or more si/.ca of shoes in different makes and have each fit. satisfactorily. It is mostly large, fleshy women who per sist in wearing tight gloves. They have had email hands originally, before they gained their superabundance of adi pose, and because they wore No. G gloves at IS they insist upon wearing them at 40; and, although the terrible pressure on the llesh and bloodvessels makes the hands clumsy and benumbed, they will not relinquish this bit of feminine vanity." Tt is a well-known fact that women who possess the whitest and most beau tiful bands always wear loose gloves. To keep the skin soft and pliable the blood must have perfectly free circula tion, and this cannot be when the wrist is encircled with a merciless band of hid and when thumb and fingers are tramped into unnatural positions.— Washington Star. EFFORTS OF THE POETS. livening Son?. When all the weary flowers. Worn out with sunlit hours. Droop o'er the garden beds Their little sleepy heads, 1 he dewy dusk on quiet wings comes steal- Ing; And, as the night descends. The shadowf troop like friends To bring them healing. So, weary of the light Of Life too full and bright. We long for night to fall i To wrap us from It all; Then death on wings draws near and holds us. And, like a kind friend come To children far from home. With love enfolds us. Put when the night Is done, Fresh to the morning sun. Their little faces yei With night's soft dewdrops wet The flowers awake to the new day's new graces. And we—ah! shall wo, too, Turn to a dav-dawn new Our tear-wet faces? —Pall Mall Gazette. An Antnmu Night. Some things are good on autumn nights, When with the storm the forest fights And In the room the heaped hearth lights Old-fashioned press and rafter; Plump chestnuts hissing In the heat, A mug of cider, sharp and sweet. And at your side a face petite With lips of laughter. Upon the roof the rolling rain, And, tapping at the window-pane, The wind, that seems a witch's can© That summons spells together; A hand within your own awhile, A mouth reflecting back your smile. And eyes, two stars, whose beams exile All thoughts of weather. And, while the wind lulls, still to sit And watch her fire-lit needles flit A knittin* und to feel her knit Your very heartstrings in It; Then, the old clock ticks, 'tis late, To rise, and at the door to wait Throe words, or at the garden gate A kissing minute. —Madison Cawein, In Century. | A Song of the Fields. The reapers—they are singing In the fields of golden grain, And a merry song is ringing o'er the mountain and the plain: And it's ho! for love and living, since no blessing He denies, And the sweetest song's thanksgiving from the glad earth to the sklesl The reapers—they are singing; for the harvest smiles to God, Where His heavenly benediction gave the color to the clod; There is a gladnes? in the morning; there Is gladness in the night; For the corn is hanging heavy and the cot ton fields are white. The reapers—they are singing; for the summer days are past. And tell is crowned with plenty, and sweet reward ut last; And it's ho! for lovo and living, for no blessing Ho denies; And songs of sweet thanksgiving go 1: music to the skies! —F. L. Stanton, in Atlanta Constitution. Canoeing. The white clouds race across the blue; The white foam flecks the bay: Who would not float and follow, lads, As fast and far as they! Off coats and kneel, alert to meet Each impulse gay or grave, And cleave a rippling line of light Athwart the wind and wave! Sometimes the idle paddle owns The sheltered Inlet's charms; Sometimes the urgent rapid strains Against our tireless arms; Sometimes through drowsy afternoons Those river reaches gleam Wherever weary willows nod And whisper in their dream. And though, the dreaded portage past, Our camp-fire gibls the brakes. We scarcely fall asleep before A fresh, new morning wakes. Push of!. then! Leave this gray old earth To milder men than Full brothers of the open sky, Near kinsmen to the sea! —Walter L- Sawyer, in Youth's Companion Cheer Pp. Clicer up, ye toilers of the earth. And pray, peruse my rhyme; The millionaire can only eat One dinner at a time' One bed a night alone can rest That form wo envy so. And Just one journey at a time Is all that he can go! Ills clothes and hats and shoes may be Superb beyond compare; But just one set of each at once la all that he can wear. Tliore ore so many, many things His money cannot buy And when he's 111, he's just as 111 As either you or I. —N. Y. Recorder. The Introspective Scorcher. I am the scorcher I Please observe The curve That appertains unto my spine! With head ducked low 1 go O'er man and beast, and woe Unto the thing That fails to scamper when 1 ting-a-ling! Lot people jaw And go to law To try to check my gait, If that's their game! 1 liato 1 o kill folks, but I'll do it Just the same. 1 guess. Unless They clear the track for me; Because, you see, i am the scorcher, full of zeal, And just the thing 1 look like on the wheel! —Cleveland Leader. Hack to Town. At_d Mow they're flocking homeward . rom mountain and from sea— The pretty girls, the witty girls, The girls of high degree; The girts who flirted day and night; The girls demure and shy, Who thought flirtation wasn't rlirht— When 110 young man was nigh. They all are flocking homeward. To theater and buH, To cloaks anil gloves one l other loves Which come with frosty fall. They're summer girls no longer now— They'll never bo again, For summer girls are sure, somehow. To marry winter men! —Kansas City World. The Home Coming. In glad green fields sweet bHlsare ringing; In woodlands dim a thrush Is singing. Ar.J fountains at thy feet aie springing. vine Had cots the lights are shining, •v here rise no songs of sad repining, end roses for thy rest are twining. And one awaits thy kiss—thy greeting: Thy heart her dear nam©, is repeating I And times thy footsteps wfih its beating. f'woet is Iby toll—thy strong endeavor, j And neither life nor death shall sever Thy heart from love that lives forever! —IT. L- idtanton. In Chicago Timcs-lieralA*, f 0L F r N "i gVb, gV'j, .cTOj, .jWp, tfnuj xCiWj F 3 ft . * 8 Salendaps g X —=* © |I T9 ftT? £OQ|TI O 5 LUUI k o ? 3 ft fg BEAUTIFUL, catchy designs ft rO/A fylv II THAT MILL BE AN ORNAMENT © ft X X 7Y; 77/ A' HOME or office for U F 3 ft X THE WHOLE YEAR. %f if * H ft l| X tl © M W if The enterprising, progressive © ft ■ . ft X business man is usually alive to X pi '-i, | 7 | all forms of advertising, and may © well afford to class Calendars © #1 ft X among the successful mediums © CI . _ ig ft for keeping his name before the ft %J public. As an all-the-year Ad © © ft X the Calendar holds a high place, X if jj because of its peculiar qualities © © which compel it to be kept in a © ft ft X convenient place for reference at %f alf . c f H all tihnes. No more appreciable f'>| © novelty could be given to patrons © ft ft at the beginning of the new year w r f(t v. P ft than a Calendar. It has a value © If V II outside of its advertising features © ft ft X which will in itself cause the do- © tlf P p ft nor to be remembered. nl |€ %? © We have as pretty a line of %. J ft f" 6 X Calendars as any man would wish f ft to select from. The stock com- ft ft • tf prises numerous designs in half ft ?t X tone engraving, handsome litho- X tf ? p ft graphs and the most beautiful ft X to? II embossed work imaginable. The © ft ft X greater number of designs are X ''A _ © ft appropriate to any business, © ft . cw © whilst some are specially adapted © © ft lit to certain branches of trade. X © CJ ft Samples can be examined at f\ ft X © the Tribune office. f 3 ft ft tf H ,7> 'ftl? tf tf tf ©tftf r 'a A r <<t±> r <(uo 'c, cf ff t f r c a C tf
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