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CONFESSIONS OF A WIFE
I TELL ELEANOR FAIRLOW
(Copyright, 1915, by the Newspaper Enterprise Association.)
I am rather discouraeed. little
book, this morning. I have only sat
up about twenty-four hpurs in three
weeks. "- -
The whole world seems to be rush
ing on, and I well, it seems that only
the drift and drizzle of time has come
to me while I lie here at this station
of my life. Everyone seems to think
that the realities and problems of life
are not for me. I think, perhaps, I
would be more at peace if I were not
physically unhappy. I have not been
able to even purchase or prepare one
little thing of my baby's wardrobe.
Aunt Mary, Mother Waverly, even
Mollie, are all frantically sewing for
"little Dick," as they persist in call
ing him, and I have not had as yet
one word to say about the layette of
my very own baby, and it looks to
me now as if I would not. And, lit
tle book, I expected to have such a
good time sewing dreams into the
dainty seams and hiding hopes
among the gathers. If you could
talk, little book, you would probably
be saying: "Margie, Margie, you are
getting foolishly morbid, just be
cause you are ill. Remember, Dr.
Atwater promises that in 'a very
short time you will be over this try
ing period and able to enjoy your
hopes and fears.' "
I wonder what he meant by enjoy
ing fears? I get perfectly cold when
I think that possibly I might die and
my baby handed over to some other
woman that Dick will marry prob
ably Eleanor Pairlow.
Yesterday she was here. She had
evidently not heard that I was ill.
I told Aunt Mary that I would see
her, for, although I was feeling worse
than usual, I wanted to see her face
when she first heard the news.
"Why, my dear Margie!" she ex
claimed as she came quickly forward.
" don't understand why Dick did not
tell me that you were not well. I
saw him last night over at the Sy-
mone's, where we danced a little after
the men had had their conference
over the school-book situation."
"Well, you see, Eleanor, men don't
usually tell their young women
friends that their wives are in deli
cate health."
Eleanor Fairlow's face went gray
white the color of a piece of paper
that had been burned. "Margie!" she
exclaimed, "you don't want me to
think"
"That is just what I want you to
know, my dear Eleanor," I said.
Do you know, little book, I would
have given much to know Of what
Eleanor Fairlow was thinking. Over
her face she had drawn a mask that
was as" cold and impenetrable as ice.
But her eyes gleamed and it almost
seemed to me with hate.
"That was the reason you fainted
the other night," she said.
"I suppose so," I answered.
"You must hate to give up your
social life."
"Why, I shall love it I have al
ways wanted a baby."
"I never thought that Dick cared
much for children."
"He is crazy about the prospect of
this one."
"Well, I do hope, Margie, you will
get along fine, and if you want a
baby I'm glad one is coming to you."
"I am glad, Eleanor, for I have al
ways felt that two people are never
truly married until a child is born to
them. We shall be knit together
closer than ever before."
I wonder why I am always want
ing to flaunt my marriage lines in
Eelanor Fairfax's face and I won
der why Dick did not tell me that he
saw Eleanor Fairlow at the Symones',
(To Be Continued Tomorrow.)
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A child is born every sixteen sec
onds in Germany;
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