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New Sports Sweater for Fall
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No outfit is quite complete in these
days without a sweater of some sort.
And there is a wide and varied choice
In sweaters, for they ar claiming more
attention than ever before in their
history.
There are finely woven sweaters of
silk, in gay colors, which one sees at
the afternoon concert, at the country
club, on the beaches and the golf
links, and in any other outdoor meet
ings of fashionables. There are sweat
ers considerably like them, made of
artificial silk, usually in more vivid
colorings than the all-silk variety.
Then there are the practical wool
sweaters, similar to that shown in the
picture, and belonging to the same
class.
The new models are carefully de
signed to the end that they may em
body Just the right style. In the ex
ample picture nero, for instance, it
will be noticed that the sleeves are
well shaped and linished with a cuff
Three New Models for Fall
T
Of all things, millinery requires
careful choosing, and, after it is
bought, the hat requires careful plac
ing on the head, if it is to fulfill its
destiny. According to an old millin
ery maxim that destiny Is to improve
the appearance of the wearer. “You
rnusf look better with your hat than
without it” —that is the exacting test
to which each new mode is to be sub
jected.
The three new models for fall,
which appear here, are types that will
repay a little study on the part of
those who consider things before buy
ing them. They include a small tur
ban, a turban with extension crown
which forms a halo brim, and one of
the graceful wide-brimmed hats to
which fashion is extending welcom
ing hands.
Quite a number of these wide
brimmed hats are shaped with brims
turning upward at the back. This has
brought in the underbrim trimming
again and it Is not confined to wide
brimmed shapes. Short, curling
ostrich plumes fit into the trimming
of the underbrim in the most graceful
way.
The small turban is made of corded
and button. The patch pockets leave
a turnover flap, and the new order of
things in belts is recognized. The col
lar may be turned up close about the
neck if required.
Because this is a sweater for real
comfort in cool days it is rather heavy.
Us usefulness begins with fall, and
continues to the coming of another
summer, for it reinforces the too light
wrap in the depths of winter. It is
an excellent model to choose for the
young girl to wear to school during
the autumn months, and nothing could
be better designed or arranged for
sports wear.
Sweaters of wool stand the rough
handling which they are likely to get
from young people, and continue to
look none the w r orse for it. Now that
they are made in beautiful colors and
with so much attention to style, the
field of their usefulness is wonderfully
increased.
silk, and would be equally effective In
panne velvet. The material is covered
with corded tucks and serves for the
covering of the hat and for its trim
ming. The edges are finished with a
silver tinsel braid which has the effect
of needlework. It looks like close-set
overcast stitches, and needlework
decoration is a feature of the new’ fall
millinery.
The turban with extension crown is
made of black velvet and white
chiffon. A bead work ornament trims
the front and Is made entirely of
white beads.
The soft and graceful brim of the
third hat bespeaks for it, and for
many others of the same character,
first place in the favor of young
women. It is made of velvet in black
or one of the dark shades of fash
ionable colors. The trimming is of
white fancy ostrich and looks like a
bit of fireworks, done in frost. It
throws its sprays in front of the left
eye of the wearer with an abandon un
known to ornaments hitherto. But it
is strong in the knowledge that it is
less in the way of vision than many a
veil.
JULIA BOTTOMLEY.
TT ,r '‘ noiTGLAS ENTERPRISE, DOUGLAS, GEORGIA.
An Awkward
Situation
By* JAMES OLIVER
(Copyright, 1915, by W. G. Chapman.)
“Ha! Very capable work. What is
that name in the corner?” inquired St.
Clair, the famous painter, inspecting
the work curiously with his short
sighted eyes.
“Rennie, Mr. St. Clair.”
“Rennie? I never heard of him. But
he’ll make his mark some day, if he
j keeps on like that."
It was at the annual exhibition of
j the Amateurs’ club. Rennie had been
painting for five miserable years. His
works had gone to the Fifth avenue
dealers, and brought him just enough
to keep him from starvation. Patient,
loving Muriel, in their home town,
might have to wait indefinitely before
he could send for her to be married.
For three years Rennie had exhib
ited at the club, but never before had
his painting even been noticed. This
year St. Clair, kindly old man, had ac
cepted an invitation to attend. His
words filled Rennie, who was waiting
near, with joy. St. Clair had noticed
the worth of his work. A word from
St. Clair would make him famous.
The next day he carried his picture
back to his garret. And he sat down
and thought over the scheme that had
been hatching in his brain.
He was desperate. Things had been
going worse than ever with him. Mu
riel. faithful as she was, had begun to
grow impatient. She wanted to come
to him, to share his poverty, she said.
It was the letter of a lonely girl, be
ginning to doubt her lover’s loyalty.
For the first time she had begun to
doubt —Rennie could read that be
tween the lines.
He would take his picture to St.
Clair —not the one the famous painter
had praised, but his masterpiece of
the wild horses, over which he had
spent five months. It was unsigned,
it was unfinished—only he knew that
he had managed to catch the vital
Things Had Been Going Worse Than
Ever With Him.
spirit of the steeds. St. Clair could
not but praise.it. He had heard ex
travagant reports of his generosity to
struggling artists. A word from him,
and fame would be his, and money,
and Muriel.
Filled with the inspiration, he gath
ered his big picture under his arm and
hurried through the streets to the
painter's studio on Madison avenue.
But when he reached it he saw that
St. Clair was holding some sort of
reception. People were flocking in
and out, women fashionably dressed
and men attired in silk hats and frock
coats.
Rennie stood upon the sidewalk in
indecision, holding his picture. He
knew’ that if he turned back he would
never gather courage to repeat his ex
ploit. Emboldened by his need, he en
tered, and, in the hall, standing among
a crowd of guests, was St. Clair.
Tho old man appeared to take in the
situation at a glance, for he came up
to Rennie and held out both his hands
cordially.
“Won’t you come into my studio?”
he inquired, and, dismissing his
guests for the moment with his court
ly manner, he led the way into the
elevator, which ran swiftly up to the
top of the house, where it stopped in
front of an open door.
“Now, sir?” inquired St. Clair,
blandly, yet looking keenly upon his
guest.
“Mr. St. Clair,” the young man burst
out impetuously, “you were kind
enough to praise my picture. ’Lantern
Light,' at the Amateurs’ club yester
day.”
“Indeed, I remember it very well,
Mr.—Mr. Rennie," said the old man.
Then Rennie was amazed at the tor
rent of words that flowed from his
lips. He told him everything, about
his desperate struggle, even about Mu
riel, and ended by saying how a few
words of praise from him would make
his fortune. "And I have brought you
my masterpiece.” he ended naively.
St. Clair was much moved. He laid
his hands in a fatherly manner on
Rennie's shoulders. i
“I won’t offer an opinion now,” he
said, “because I am under the influ
ence of the story that you have told
me. I want to get the dispassionate
view of a critic. Will you intrust your
picture with me until tomorrow?”
Stammering out his gratitude, Ren
nie withdrew. His last memory was
of the old man’s kindly smile and the
warm shake of the hand. All that
afternoon he trod upon air.
He hardly slept that night, and the
next morning waited feverishly for
the postman. St. Clair had promised
to write him a note as soon as he had
examined the picture. Of course the
letter could not by any possibility ar
rive till afternoon, but Rennie was in
that state of elation when the impos
sible seems certainty.
He paced the streets after the post
man had gone, waiting for the next
delivery. At the news stand he picked
up his morning paper. On the front
page he read the news of St. Clair’s
death. The old man had had a stroke
of apoplexy the evening before.
Rennie let the paper fall from his
hands and tears of mortification
streamed down his face. His last
hope gone! St. Clair dead, on whom
all had depended!
It was three days before he recov
ered sufficiently to go for his picture.
But, to his amazement, he was refused
admission. The butler referred him
to St. Clair’s lawyer, who listened to
his story with a quiet smile.
“You must realize, Mr. Rennie, that
unless you can bring some proof that
the picture is yours . . have you
any proof? You did not sign it, you
say?”
“But it was not finished,” cried Ren
nie.
The lawyer shrugged his shoulders.
“All Mr. St. Clair’s paintings are to be
sold,” he said. “You will have to take
legal action In the matter. And,
frankly, young man, no jury will be
lieve you unless you have some evi
dence to bring forward. More than
that, you will run the risk of a prose
cution for perjury.”
Rennie went out in a daze. He saw
the truth of the lawyer’s words. There
was nothing that he could do.
A week later the auction came. Crit
ics were enthusiastic over the large
number of paintings that was to be
put on the market. But of them all
none excited greater enthusiasm than
the Yinfinished work to which the crit
ics gave the name “The Wild Horses.”
Rennie attended the auction. The
bidding quickly passed the average of
five thousand dollars, at which the
other pictures had gone. A dealer
from the West offered seven thousand.
Finally, after a spirited competition
between him and Rennie’s own dealer,
the picture fell to the latter for twelve
thousand.
And Mac Drew had paid Rennie an
average of fifteen dollars apiece.
Rennie went out of the auction room
and w-rote a letter to one of the pa
pers. The newspaper refused to print
It. It had no doubt that Rennie was
an impostor, and, anyway, the editor
felt that such a case should be aired
in the law courts.
Rennie tvaited another day. Then
he sat down and wrote a long letter to
Muriel. It was the hopeless letter of
a man who has been bowled over by
the buffets of fate. He told her the
facts of his struggle, culminating in
the loss of his painting, and released
her from their engagement.
But before he had risen from the
table there came a knock at the door.
Rennie opened it, to find an elderly
woman, attired in black, standing be
fore him.
“I am Mrs. St. Clair,” she said. “Mr.
Rennie, a terrible injustice has been
done you, and it would have slipped
from my mind had not our lawyer told
me about your claim. He thought you
were an impostor, but as soon as he
told me I remembered.
“Mr. Rennie, my husband was the ;
best and justest man in the world. On
the night he died —the stroke came
very suddenly, you know —he was try
ing to speak to me. He was paralyzed
and he could only mumble, but I man
aged to make out what me was trying
to say. He said that a picture in his
studio had been painted by—l couldn’t
catch the name, but it was yours—and
that, in case he died, he didn’t want
It to be sold as his, especially since
you had left no address, and he had
given you no receipt for it.
“I have written a letter to the news
papers, and meanwhile the money for
the painting must go to you.”
Rennie did not know how he replied.
He remembered taking her hands in
his and thanking her a thousand times.
And when she left it was with the un
derstanding that Rennie was to con
sider her his friend —always, she said.
Hardly had she gone before the
postman brought a letter—from Mu
riel this time. Opening it, Rennie
read that she loved him, he must
never think otherwise, and she would
wait a dozen more years if necessary.
“Only I hope to see you, dear, al
most as soon as you get this letter.”
she said, "because my uncle has left
me five hundred dollars, and I am
taking the morning train to New York,
and I want you to meet me at seven
o’clock in the evening at the station.
And, dearest, remember that five hun
dred dollars will go far, and what is
mine is yours.”
Rennie had never been so happy as
when he was wildly sprinting to meet
the seven o’clock train. And he knew
in his heart that Muriel would never
return, alone, to Freeport.
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The frankness with which a sev
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