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JN THE FITTING ROOM
By OLIVE WENQLER.
"No, I have not been waiting very
[long. At least, lt has not seemed
Eong, for I have my book with me, and
can even forget clothes when I have
i good novel. Yes, I almost always
(take a book with me when I go for a
[fitting, and, really, the books I have
Igot through with while waiting for
Klreas makers would fill a library.
"It's funny how some of my dresses
(suggest certain books. I never put on
liny lavender chiffon without thinking
(of 'Burled Alive.' By brown velvet ls
Associated with 'Under the Greenwood
'Tree.' I Just can't bear to wear an old
'white voile of mine, because lt re
?minds me of the sad end of 'Anna Ka
"Oh, is that my dress T I thought
?mine was a lighter shade of blue. I
.think this dark blue makes my eyes
.looked kind of washed ouL But never
.mind: I can wear a jabot next to my
?face and that will relieve the strong
"No, don't make lt too hobbly. I
may be old fashioned, but I do like a
.dress that I can walk in and sit down
iin, though I know it's the style now to
.have your dresses made so that you
Kan do either.
"I have a friend whose new spring
isuit is so tight about the ankles that
Mie simply can't take a step without
holding It up. She says she does't
care, for her shoes are so tight that
there's no comfort in walking in them,
so she might as well sit still. I think
women are perfect geese about
clothes, or, rather, they are like sheep,
.and where one goes the others follow.
"Well, I think you have got that
.skirt a little bit too full. One doesn't
want to be so old fashioned that one
'looks like a scarecrow, and, of course,
this ls an easy dress to hold up In case
.1 can't walk In lt easily.
"Don't you ever get tired of sticking
'pins into women? Or, rather, dont
:you ever long to stick pins into them
instead of just into their clothes? That
would give them something to be fus
?8y about: I often wonder that we
.don't hear of shocking crlmeB com
mitted in fitting rooms by maddened
.modistes. So far as I know", no woman
has ever met with foul play when she
went for a fitting. It seems strange,
"This reminds me of my book. I
mad just got to an awfully exciting
Don't Make lt Too Hobbly.
.part in 'Clayhanger' when you came
in. It was where the hero suddenly
learns that the girl he's engaged to
?has just married another man, and I
i&m crazy to know why she did iL But
probably I will be as long in finding
ont as I will ia getting this dress. I
.'have learned that there are two class
?es of people you never can hurry, and
?they are novelists and dressmakers.
:ReaUy, though, they both give one
-such delicious suspense that one
idoesn't mind th? waiting.
"Make the collar a little tighter,
?please; I like my collars very tight
[and very high, for my neck ls so long.
.Yes, you may make the skirt two
'inches from the floor; that's one thing
jl won't do, and that is clean up Chi
cago streets with my dresses. It real
ly makes me Ul to hear women rave
[about sanitation and hygiene, and go
'into fits about microbes In unwrapped
(bread, while all the time they are de
fying the rules of health and gather
ing up all the microbes in sight with
itheir long skirts.
"No, I'm not a bit tired, thank you.
1 know that some women always get
feint when they are being fitted, but
.somehow lt seems to brace me up.
"Perhaps this is because my book
sort of fortifies me for a fitting. But I
know I shall never wear thiB dress
?without thinking of that uphappy hero.
J do hope that he will turn out well, so
thac I may have some pleasant
thoughts about my gown while I'm
"Oh, yes, I'm sure the dress win
turn ont well, and you needn't mind
1f it is a wee blt hobbly-Just enough
.to allow me to take decent steps. You
.will try and send the dress tomorrow
night? Well, good morning.
"Oh, I mustn't forget my poor 'Clay
hanger.' "-Chicago Dally Newa
Making Cotton Goods.
More than a million persons are em
ployed in the textile mills of Great
Are You an Average?
The b'.ood of an average maa
.welghe twenty pounds.
HIS GREAT KNOWLEDGE
By NELLIE MULHERN.
Mrs. Pollard looked up from tue
I closely written, transparent sheets she
' was reading at the breakfast table.
. "Adelaide says that if I write her im
' mediately after getting this letter I'll
be able to catch her in London before
1 she sails. She says to address her in
' care of the British Linen bank. Odd
name, isn't it?"
"British Linen!" repeated Pollard.
"That can't be right, Jane. That's
a highly feminine name for a bank."
He laughed indulgently.
"Feminine or not, that's what she's
written quite plainly."
"Quite plainly!" scoffed Pollard.
"Adelaide was never known to write
plainly. And why in the name of all
that's legible does she use such dia
phanous paper? I suppose she ?B try
ing to save enough on her postage to
pay the duty on the Paris outfit she's
bringing home. It would take a Phila
1 delphia lawyer to decipher that letter
j of hers. No wonder you imagined
; that absurd name for a bank!"
"Imagined!" It's perfectly plain.
! Look at lt yourself. Perhaps with
j your superior masculine intelligence
you can make something else out of
it besides British Linen bank."
"Shouldn't wonder." replied Pollard,
entirely unperturbed by his wife's
good natured Irony. "Why, now, let's
see. British London bank-that's
what it is."
"British London! Do you think
that's a more reasonable name? Why,
British London is perfectly ridiculous.
Everybody knows London is British.
Can you imagine a bank called the
United States Chicago?"
"Um-well that's different. Oh, I
Bee now. It's British Line bank.
That's it, of course."
Mrs. Pollard took the letter back
Into her own hand and scrutinized the
disputed address carefully. "It doesn't
look like 'Line' to me, Jim, and be
sides, what possible meaning could
British Lino have? That's not a plau
sible name at all."
"It's vastly more plausible than
'Linen,' my dear." Pollard rescued his
newspaper with the air of having said
the final word.
For a few moments Mrs. Pollard
allowed the subject to rest. Then she
said: "I should be dreadfully an
noyed If I misdirected my letter to
Adelaide, for she is counting on hear
ing from home before she sails. I
wouldn't disappoint her for the world.
Tm So Glad You Thought of IL"
I wish I knew what the silly old ad
dress really ls."
"Well, if you're not willing to take
my word, call up the Kayes or some
of our other English friends and ask
Mrs. Pollard adopted the suggestion
at once, and Just as Pollard was light
ing his cigar in the hall, preparatory
for his departure for the day, she
Joined him with the letter in her
"Violet says that Reg declares he
never heard of a British Line bank in
London, nor a British London bank,
"Did you call up Tucker?"
"Yes. and he says we muBt have
misread the address, as he is sure
there 1B no bank In London with
either of those names. I wish I had
asked him if he knew whether there
was a British Linen bank."
"I think, Jane, that as you are en
deavoring to convert Tucker to the
suffragist's estimate of woman's abil
ity, lt's Just as well that you refrained
from making that inquiry."
"Well, what shall I do? I must get
my letter off tonight."
"I might take Adelaide's hieroglyph
ics down to our bank and ask the for
"Yes, do. I'm so glad you thought
"I can usually be trusted to find a
way out of difficulty." Follard kissed
hiB wife complacently and left the
At six o'clock that evening, when he
returned, Mrs. Pollard looked at him
expectantly. "Did you find out about
the bank?" she asked.
"Yes, lt was a severe case of much
ado about nothing, my dear," he re
plied with elaborate carelessness.
"Well, what ls the right name?"
"Why, lt's the-the British Linen
bank. If you hadn't raised the ques
tion, Jane, we should never have
thought of Its being anything else."
Mrs. Pollard opened her Hps, then
closed them tight, only to open them
again for the escape of a hearty
'augh. Whereupon Pollard marched
away In dignified silence to prepare
or dinner.-Chicago Dally News.
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July 29, 16i3.
HER LAST LONG SIGH
By GRACE G. BOSTWICK.
"It isn't as though she had cared,"
Atherton said, in a tired voice, turn
ing the letters and telegrams over
listlessly. "It isn't as though she had
cared," he repeated, dully, opening
and closing the small drawers, one by
one. He was searching for a photo
graph that she had kept on her desk
-a likeness taken in her early girl
hood, long before he had met her.
As he felt clumsily about among
the papers a letter fell out. He start
ed to replace it, but caught sight of
his own name in the familiar writing
and paused. He opened it with trem
"I did the best I could," he said,
slowly to himself. "I couldn't help
not caring. I thought I could-at
first I thought it would come with
time. God! how hard lt has been,
how bitter hard!" He passed his thin,
nervous hand wearily across his col
orless face. "At least, she never
knew, never suspected, nor cared,
either way," he said, bitterly. "She
was as indifferent as-as I was."
"I wonder if she knows now," he
breathed. "I wonder if she knows
and understands. She never seemed
to understand anything. I used to
wonder how anyone could feel so lit
tle and live. I tried once to tell her
how I felt and she laughed. Said
I needed something to tone me up.
Perhaps she was right. Perhaps I am
a morbid chap. Poor Helen 1" he
sighed as he pored over the letter in
the falling light. He sat up, startled.
"Dear," he read, "I couldn't hope
ever to make you understand how I
love you. You have Just left me
cold, unloving, careless, as you always
are-and I (poor foolish, loving thing)
put my starved arms about your chair
and laid my lips passionately against
the spot where your dear head has
lain. Dearest, no man was ever loved
more deeply, more tenderly, than you
are. 0, the sadness, the heartbreak
of it alli
"I want you to know If you are left
-.and you will be-that I have always
cared. D?ar, I know how it is with
you. I know that the bonds have be
come so irksome that they have worn
into your very soul. If you had cared.
John, we should have been very hap
py. I love your work, your interests,
but I have not dared voice it for fear
-0 that look! that cruelly indifferent,
hard, careless look! It burns into me
as I write and I writhe under the
torture of iL"
He sat with his head on his arms
for hours. Once he cried out in
agony: "My God, if I had known!
If I had known!"
At last he climbed the heavy, dark
Btairway to the room above to face
his dead. He turned back the white
coverlid with hands strangely steady
after his long vigiL
Her face was oddly girlish as it
was in the little photo. He felt a vast
tenderuess welling up within him as
"If I could tell her just once and
see her smile as she used to smile
before!" He buried his face in the
clothes at her side at the recollection.
He remembered suddenly that she
had been possessed of a horror of
burial with life still existant. He
started and looked again, piercingly,
Into her still face. It was not mar
ble-like as the faces he had seen in
death. A sudden hope clutched at his
"Heien," he cried, "come back!
You are mine, child; I have always
loved you-always. I didn't know.
I O child, open your eyes to me!" His
face went gray with the effort of his
life. He was straining, striving
against death, the conqueror himself.
He prayed by all he held sacred. By
his mother's memory. By his belief
in love, by the prayers of the long
gone dead, and holding her two cold
hands in his own, he chafed and
warmed them unweariedly, repeated
ly, calling to her, pleading with her.
begging her to come back.
The passionate warmth of his ap
peal softened the cold stillness of her
fl agers. They seemed to him to be
growing pliant, human.
"Helen," he called for the last time,
"Helen child, lt is I-open your eyes
to me!" If ww the impassioned ap
peal of soul to souL
Then a. owly, wearily, unwillingly,
as of some child waking from a sleep
of deep exhaustion, the cold, white
lids lifted and the familiar eyes
looked into his own, though faintly
as from a long distance. The shadow
of a smile parted the gray lips-the
lips of death.
"You are going to live!" he cried,
loudly. "You are going to live-for
me" He felt her cold, cold face
against his own hot cheek. He heard
her sigh-a long sigh of rapture that
was almost a sob-then blackness.
In the little study below the sick
room-the room of resurrection-a
few hours later Atherton again fum
bled about his wife's desk for the lit
tle photo. Again his awkward hands
tumbled the contents of the drawers
in reckless confusion, but at last they
closed on the treasured picture. Tears
of joy, the great tears that rise out
of the deepest feeling of a strong
man's heart, fell thickly, unrestrained
ly, on the child-like face of the woman
who had been his wife for four long,
(Copyright by Dally Story Pub. Co.)
She Knew lt
Mr. Gazip-That romantic Miss
Passe says there ls a secret connect
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Miss Pickles-Bo I've heard. Ifs
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