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dog of J. C. Craft, coal merchant.
Craft died and willed the use of his
handsome house to his housekeeper
to be used as a home for "Pete" so
that "he may pass his days in a
household where fbereare no chil
dren or boarders." Every day is a
dog day, now, for "Pete." He gives
parties to which only children are jn
vited and he lives like a lord on his
income of $1,200 a year.
And now for little Otto Gerlach,
one of "Pete's" .neighbors. Otto
spent most-of'his days in a nursery,
because his mother had to work for a
living. Otto is 12 now and lie helps
his mother to arrange the ' colored
strips of cotton which "mother" sews
into little colored animals and sells
to a factory.
In the picture Otto is seen carrying
a bundle of colored strips to the fac
tory. Otto- and his jmother earn $16
a month between them. Charity has
to pay for most of the food and
clothes they use.
Queer, isn't it, that such things
happen m big cities? Little Otto, half
starved, overworked, no time to play,
no chance to study "Pete" Craft, a
mongrel dog, has $1,200 a year to
pay for his dog-biscuits and his dog
Doesn't it seem a pity that John C.
Craft had never .heard of Otto and
his mother? He MIGHT have de
prived "Pete" of a few caramels or
an occasional bow of silk ribbon, so.
that Otto might have an hour or two
of play, sometimes, mightn't he?,
THE CONFESSIONS OF A WIFE
WAS MARY WICKED?
f Chapter CXXXVU
(Copyright, 1914, by the Newspaper
I cannot understand how anyone
can find-life monotonous. Every day
brings me a new interest, and for the
last week things have certainly been
happening. 'With Kitty MaTram going
to many heVpreafcher man; Eliene
adopting twins and finding out about
her husband, and,-last but mot least,
the announcement of Jack's secret
marriage to Mary Djunlap, I have
hardly had'turie tothink of myself.
Yesterday morning I started out to
find Mary. '
"Miss Dunlap will be in this morn
ing for her mail, I am sure," said the
polite clerk, "and if yoji care to wait
you will surely see her."
"I will wait," I answered, because
I knew if I did not see Mary here I
would never be able to find where she
had hidden herself.
I sat down and had almost given
her up for it was nearly an hour be
fore she came in. Poor child! She
looked so pale and unhappy.
A deep blush dyed her face clear
up to her hair when "she saw me. I.
hastened forward and said: "Did.
you' -think you could lose yourself
from me, little sister?" She started
and her face that, had been so pink
became very white.'
"Then you know?" she asked.
"Jack wrote and told me day before
yesterday, my dear. He asked me
to look you up, but so many start
ling things happened that I was not
able to 'come immediately. "
r'Do Jack's people know?" :'
"No, dear, not yet," I assured her.
"Please, please, don't tell them un
til after he graduates. I -am sure I
can, get along,. and it would be ter
rible to have Jack, fail now when he
is s"o near."
"We will talk about that later,
dear. Where are you stopping?"
Again she flushed as she answered i
"I have a little room on'' a side
street." , t
"All right, let's go over there and
talk it out." A y
I could see "he did not want me
to go to her rxom, and when I had got"
there I found that I had guessed the
reason. It was a poor-little hall bed
room, with no fire and the plainest