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' VO. 4 BEHIND CLOSED DOORS One of the Greatest Mystery Stories Ever Written Playing With Cupid—and After By ANNA KATHARINE GREEN. (Copyright, 1913, by Anna Green.) TO DAY’S INSTALLMENT. “No—yes ” she murmured, looking down at his hand with a sudden and violent change of color. "I—I ” She turned away and laid her hand on her husband s arm “Do you wish to stay any longer?" snc asked. “It seems to me we ought to he going." There was confusion In her tone, while her manner to the doctor had certainly savored of rudeness, but Dr. Molesworth seemed neither to notice the one nor the other “I am In no hurry," said he, “to lose the doctor’s company, especially as I have another case here which I am sure it will Interest him to see “ And he looked af Dr Cameron, who at once cried: *‘I am on hand for anything of that kind.” “Come, then," cried the other. “But first excuse me while I take off my cuffs. 1 can do nothing at a bedside with them on." And while the two waited this strange man pulled off his cuffs and put them In the pocket of his overcoat, after which operation hi# brow looked lighter and he passed with thorn up the hall, chatting quite genially Genevieve felt sick at heart. This business was not as pleasant In reality as In anticipation, but she kept by their side, thankful that she was not ex : pected to say anything. On their re turn she again expressed a wish to leave, and this time no demur was made. But Just as they turned to go a startled cry made them look back It was from Dr. Molesworth, and the word he had uttered was: “Tg>st!“ “What Is lost?*’ Tt was Dr. Cameron who spok<»; his wife scmed incapable of uttering a word. Dr. Molesworth laughed “Excuse me." said he. “I did not mean to be so tragic; but in our short absence my cuffs have been taken out of my over coat pocket, and though the loss Is not great, it Is certainly annoying.” •T know who did it,” cried a voice near them “It was that slim small man who came in aft?r ” But Dr. Cameron did not keep his wife waiting any longer to hear these simple explanations, the affair seemed altogether too puerile Would he have thought any more se riously of it had he known that written on the inside of one of those cuffs the one which had been on the hand which Dr. Molesworth had extended to Gene vieve—were written In large characters these words “Beware! I was not released to sud denly without a motive.” Husband and Wife. I T must not be supposed that the sud den and remarkable change which had taken place In Mrs. Cameron’s physical appearance had passed un noticed or uncommented upon by so ciety. It was only too widely discussed, ami while it formed the basis of innu merable compliments, it also awakened an equal number of surmises and ques tionable remarks. They were sitting in the parlor, and Dr. Cameron, anxious to behold her smile again, was talking gaily. Sud denly he paused and asked her a ques tion about some one they had seen. She answered but vaguely Her thoughts were elsewhere. Judging from the di rection of her gase. they were on her self. She sat where she could see her own image mirrored in the glass before her. and it was upon this elegant figure, clad In gray velvet and pearls, that her eyes were fixed with an Intentness which might have suggested the pres ence of innate vanity, if the disdain which curled her Up had not shown that she half despised the beauty which re quired ao much splendor to adorn it. Her husband’s eyes followed hers and glistened merrily. “An imposing figure.” he smiled. “Did you think you would ever be a famous beauty. Genevieve"’’ She rose lip with an Instantaneous impulse, and. coming to his side, knelt down at his feet. “Am I pretty,” she asked, “to you?" “No.” he returned, "you are not pret ty, you are beautiful, and Just a lit tle awe-inspiring I love you. and T wonder at you. You arc so different—" She did not wait for him to finish “You love me." she murmured "How much do you love me, Walter" Enough to care more for me than for my beau ty? Would your heart still glow and your arms still embrace me if. instead of pleasing your eye. 1 only appealed to your sympathies and your affections" Do not say yes carelessly, Walter. How deep have I sunk into your heart? Past the first boundary or not, Walter? Speak! I am strong enough to hear.” Affected deeply, for h«r look was even more earnest than her words, he drew her to his side, and answered gravely: "You are my wife; you are the woman I have chosen and would choose again out of all I have ever seen for my own. I love your beauty- bow can 1 help it!—and 1 love what gives that beauty life. Had I to choose, were it given me to have this lovely form, these brilliant eyes, this whole harmonious and speaking figure, with a cold and treacherous soul within It; or to have your heart, your intellect Hnd your na ture In a faded or marred body, I should take “ “Which?" Her eyes were burning, her lips were parted: she was breathless. “Your heart and nature; I know I should, and 1 rejoice in it. You have charmed me. Genevieve; I cannot re sist your spell nor do I try any longer to do so Were these features all over- there would still be your person- personality which I do not which holds me and k>re f) ,in any an; ni’ •{ could do.” an enigma, only me ’you. When I am solved ” ever he solved. Genevieve?" 11 depth of her regard, which was always remarkable, never struck him more forcibly, than at this moment; while the smile that Just touched and sweetened the corners of her lips possessed a melancholy for which he could find little reason, save in the strength and fervor of her fully aroused feelings. “I think the day will come.” she re marked, “when you will no longer won der at me. Will It he also true that you will no longer love me?" She did not seem to expect a reply, ami he did not give any. He felt sure of himself, but why rej*»at asseverations that were as old as love He merely J smiled at her and waited for the new question that hovered on her lips. It I seemed to be a serious one, more se rious than any which had gone be fore. It looked as If she dreaded to j put it. He encouraged her w r ith a kiss j on the hand that lay In his. "I see. you want to know what I am going to ask next,” she pursued “Well, I may be a foolish woman, but I have a fancy to probe your heart to the bottom. Would you love me”— she dropped her eyes from his face— "if you found that I had kept some thing back from you which i ought to have told; that that I had ever been Fn love before, or or thought I was; that I was not Just what you Imagined me to be when you married me, ami that — that I had a secret in my life, as many ! women have, which, while It argues nothing wrong In my heart, still lends I to my hours many regrets, and to my thoughts a shadow which all the pres- [ ent brightness cannot quite charm away?” “Genev!eve , “ His face had changed; his iif*H took a hard line. “Have you i any such secret In your life? Did you ever love another man?” She looked up. met his eye and quak ed “Do you demand to know?” she asked. His brows contracted; he thought of the promise she had given him to al ways te.II him the truth, and hesitated What If she said yes; would it in crease their happiness? «,They were married; she loved him now. and any such raking up of old bygones was cer tainly unwise as it was unpleasant, j Besides, who could expect to have the first love of a Genevieve Oretorex? A woman who has counted her suitors by scores might be pardoned for having yielded one Jot of her pent-up woman ly emotions In return. He would not press his question; he found he loved her too well. “I demand nothing." was his reply. “The past is past; and we no longer have anything to do with it. As long aa your heart is all mine now—and I am sure It is what Is it to me that you once smiled for a week or a month upon some on© else* 1 would dare wager that no one hut myself ever touched these lips.” Her smile Hashed out bright and dar kling "No one ever did," said she. and at that word and at that smile his brow cleared ami he almost laughed. “Most every life has had some harm less flirtations in it." he remarked “I adored a girl myself once—for a fort night But that does not make me tin- happy now. On the contrary, I think It acids a little to my satisfaction. The value of true gold Is more apparent after some slight bundling of dross.” She drooped her head. There was a far-away look in her eyes. She did not seem to hear what he said. “I wish I could see you really cheer ful again,” he ventured. "You arc not ill enough to look so sad." Brought back to realities, she moved a little farther from him. while a reck less gleam shot from her eyes. "I have read," she began slowly, and as If pursuing her own train of thought, “that love Is powerful with some men That no amhltlon Is considered too dear, no hope too precious to stand in the way of their passion. Is there truth In such tales? Is there a man among your acquaintance, for instance, who would be willing to sacrifice any really good thing he possessed for the sake of an unfortunate woman win* was dependent upon him for happiness?" “I hope ’’ he commenced. But she stopped him with an impe rious gesture “Do you know of one man,” she asked, "who would share disgrace with a woman cheerfully?” “Disgrace is a hard word," he assert ed. "and cheerfully does not readily go with It ” “But " - "1 am thinking of an extreme case Perhaps you did not mean positive dis grace Such does not come often to a man from a woman It is more apt to come to a woman from a man " “You speak of an extreme case,” she softly whispered. “Let us put It at its extreme*!. Say that l had done an uot which if known would brand me wifli infamy; that you became aware of it and also knew that the heart which prompted it was not bad, only untu tored and Impetuous, would your love be so slight that it would give way under the revelation, or would it hdld firm. and. though changed, remain to solace and encourage one who who— never realised “ Her voice sank to nn unintelligible murmur; her eyes, which were fixed on his, turned glassy, for his brow had grown threatening and his regard stern. "Genevieve," he cried, "these are not the questions of an excited fancy. There is meaning back of all this What mean ing'* Is there disgrace lurking in the air for us? Have you done anything—" But here her laugh broke, out merrily and shrill A transformation seemed to be worked in her which made his words sound incongruous and absurd. He stopped in his turn and looked at her in a sort of cloudy amazement She arose and made him a mocking lit tle courtesy; then she suddenly grew grave. “Forgive me,” she entreated. “I had a nation to test the extent of your love. I I think there is yet opportunity for it to deepen and broaden. But perhaps 1 do not understand men 1 have never cared to study them until now. I did not know my happiness would hang upon your regard Your regard,” she repeated, “not the world’s, Walter.” To 3* Continued To-morrow. This Is the Way the Game with Cupid Begins— “L . One Woman’s Story . By VIRGINIA TERHUNE VAN DE WATER By BEATRICE FAIRFAX. OVE cornea like a summer I aigh.” goes an old song, and those who have known nothing of I»ve. or know it only in Its begin ning, think, culm-eyed, that Dove is always a summer sigh—a lutelike strain, j sweet, so thing, telling a story of flow ers shaking their heavy, honey-bur-' dened heads drowsily In the sun; of birds giving sleepy twitters from un der the shade of the leaves, and of lazy streams, droning and crooning their way between warm, mossy banks, and giv ing no hint in their songs that they were ever turbulent. That, the summer sigh is followed by tempestuous winds and devastating floods that tear down and sweep de struction where all was lazy peace, is never credited by those who do not know Dove. The girl whose love tale Is In the be ginning regards l^ove as she would a plaything She tosses him in the air, sometimes catching him with fervent arms and loving kisses, and as often letting him fall that site may laugh at his woe-begone, face and make merry over his bruises. She tweaks, pinches, slaps and throws the little g«*l about, finding renewed merriment in every moan and protest. "Love,” she sings, “Is more than a sum mer sigh. He, is a game. He is the greatest Joy in the world.” First hot, then cold; first loving, then disdainful; the plaything in her hands would be driven mad entirely did he not know that, just aa surely as to-mor row’s sun follows to-day’s, hts time will come. He is the plaything to-day. He knows who will be the juggler to-morrow, and with a face which bears no sign of the malice in his heart he submits to every torture she Imposes. And bides his time! What hour murks the beginning of the new game where Dove is the Juggler and the plaything In his hands is the bruised and aching heart of his tormentor no one knows. The inexperienced declare that that hour never strikes. The love-scarred I know that it struck when they were j merriest, and that in a twinkling they | found themselves the sport of that which But It Ends So. 60. had been their game. The girl who is playing witli Dove grows tired and bids Dove go. He turns to depart, and there comes to her a swift revelation of the dreariness of life without him, and she commands him to stay. The hour has struck! He refuses, and then she drops to her knees and begs for that which she once scorned. “Only stay,” she implores, “and you may do with me as you will.” And Dove stays, and for every tear that she has made him shed he makes her shed a torrent. Every little pinch and bruise on his bods lias made a mark on his heart that is charged to her account, for which she must pay in humiliation and anguish. No cold-blooded, calculating enemy who starts out to destroy and lets nothing under heaven interrupt or change or balk or defeat his plans, was ever more ruthless than this little God of Dove. Dove is, as the young hope, the only real joy life holds. And only those who have kr.uwn it know the depths of de spair and sorrow. In the beginning it is the plaything, in the end the hearts of men and wom en are its toys. , i, I he Cry of the Heart By BEATRICE FAIRFAX. i he One You Didn’t Marry BY DOROTHY DIX. “L OVE, courtship and marriage are not passing sentiments or accident*. Romance and silence must become fast friends. Sentiment and reality must meet. 1 want the young man and woman to know each other and to greet each other sanely and well under the best influence I know of—the church.” The Rev. John R. Gunn, who made this statement Is pastor of the North Baptist Church, No. 234 West Elev enth street. New York. He has heard the Cry of the Heart. He has learned through his associa tion with young people that in the civilization and salvation of tills gray old world the heart must he reck oned with as well as the soul, the body and the brain. It is not enough to throw open the church doors to save souls. The work does not end with establishing schools to train the fingers and brain The public clinics that teach the care of the body accomplish wonderful re sults. but this and all these are not enough. The man with perfect lungs and liver, skilled hands, a fcell-trained brain and a soul that he believe* Is saved is of no more account than a collection of dry bones if his heart has a longing that neither mental nor physical tiring can still. He wants to love and he loved. He wants the greatest gift life holds, and the same longing is implanted In the breast of every woman. In a small town where every one knows every one else meeting and mating are easy. A man sees a girl he admires and the next day a mu tual friend Introduces them. In a large city he may see The Girl every day for an eternity, and the rules which were made for her protection prevent them from speaking without an introduction and there is no one in the world who knows him and her who cares. Their Cries. The Kiri a nice man W’ants for a wife is not the girl who lets a street corner stand sponsor for him. The girl who will let a wink or a smile serve as an introduction is not the girl he wants to marry. He wants to meet and marry the nice, modest kind of a girl he knew “back home." and he knows, as every one knows, that the city is full of them. He also knows that his chances for meeting her are not any better than if she were stranded on an island in the North Sea. and he were a nomad in the Sahara Desert. Dove is too priceless to be lost through formality and too precious to he risked through its lack The re formists mast in time recognise this and open social centers where decent young men may meet decent young women in a sane, decent way. On this the happiness of the world de pends. “I am a young girl nineteen years of age.” writes one who signs herself ‘Anxious,’ “and have no chance what ever to get acquainted with young men. While 1 have girl friends, they are selfish and would not introduce me to any young man. Anyhow, they are the kind of men they meet in public dance halls, and I don’t care to know them. Will you ten me of a way to meet a few nice men?” i am m with * young girl/* writes another, “who is working near the place' 1 work. She is looking at me all day long with a great deal of interest but she never says anything because we have not been introduced. I try to make her understand with my eyes that 1 love her. but she keeps silent, just looking at me all the time. Is there a way I can meet her and get acquainted?” "I am eighteen”—this time it is a girl—"and every day meet a nice young man who says ‘How do you do?’ and passes on. I like him very much, but have never been intro duced to him. Tell me how I may know him.” "I am a young man of nineteen and am very very bashful. When with young ladles I do not know what to converse about. Dately I have been corresponding with a medical institu tion that offered to permanently euro me of my bashfulness In twelve les sons but I have an idea I could be cured quicker if T could meet more girls and be with them oftener. But. I live in a large city and never meet any girls, and am in despair.” One Way. It is the Cry of the Heart for love, and the cry is universal. The man ir woman who fails to heed tt or who stills it pays the penalty all through life. Only through satisfying this hunger for love may happiness be se cured. The Rev. Gunn, recognising this de mand. has opened a parlor in his church for the purpose of making 1' possible for well-intentioned young men and women to meet. He will act as the Intermediary of Cnpld, and the | poor tittle god of’Love needs more In termediaries these days than at any | previous time in his troubled exist- | ence. I.et others who claim they want to do good emulate the Rev. Gunn. Sat- I isfy this longing for love first of all. and ambition, achievement, and all that counts In the progress of human ity will follow. Harum 2d. Two farmers stoped to talk crops and the price of potatoes. “Say. Jim " finally remarked one of the agriculturists, “are ye in the market i fer a good hoss?" ! “Wouldn’t mind buyin’ a hoss if it suited me. Jake.” responded Jim “What kind of a hoss is it?” 1 “It’s thet little roan mare o’ mine," i answered Jake. “Guess you’ve seen her i hain’t ye?” “Think I hev,” reflectively returned Jim. “Yes. T know her, all right.” “Mighty good little hoss," declared Jake, with a hopeful glance at Jim. "An’ she’s yours cheap fer a cash deal.” "It’s jes* this way. 4ake." said Jim. picking up his lines and preparing to start. “Id like to have her. all right, an’ I’d buy her this mornin’, only I hate to i bust a dollar.” T ^^NCXi" said the woman who I likes to philosophize above her tea. “that there are very few of us, either men or women, who do noi cherish the memory of some rare and radiant being that we have met some where in the past, and who do not have moments in which we speculate upon what life might have been if only we had married the ideal. Instead of the individual that we did marry. “Of course, for the most i>art, we are fairly well satisfied with our own par tlcular Darby or Joan, but in times of domestic strife we recall with a sad, sweet pleasure, the face of Angelina or Edwin, and reflect that lje or she never would have been such a goose, or so pig-headed, or raised such rows about nothing as does the wife or husband to whom wo are tied. “Ah. no! Angelina would always Jiave been fair and beautiful, and slim and young, a perfect housekeeper, and a marvel of economy, far different from our own fat and grizzled middle-aged Joan, who is a hit-or-miss cook, and apparently thinks a man can gather money off the trees. Our Edwin, too, would always have been a romantic hero, who could make us thrill at his touch, who would murmur beautiful sentiments of affection, couched in Booth Tarkington language for forty years at a stretch, and who would have lived on such a high plane that he wouldn't even have perceived when the coffee tasted like dish water, and the soup was cold, and the ices hot. And he would have been utterly incapable of saying such things under such circum stances. as does the commonplace Dar by to whom we are united. The Retrospect. “As the years go by, and we get far ther and farther away from Edwin and Angelina and the gilt rubs more and more off of the gingerbread of matri mony that we are daily forced to con sume. the picture* of our early loves grow brighter and brighter, with a more and more roseate halo, until at last we come to the place where we privately consider ourselves blighted beings, who have made fatal mistakes !n matrimony. “1 am convinced that a great deal of domestic unhappiness arises from this cause, and I think that ten years after marriage there ought to be a com pulsory excursion back to the scene of one's early romance, »o that husbands and wives could get a near view of their first love. Take my word for it, that it would do more to make men and women satisfied with the life partners they did got than anything else on earth, for If there Is one thing that makes you want to go out and burn joss sticks to luck it is to meet up with the one you didn’t marry. “1 have just been seeing a most illu minating example of the value of my theory. I have a friend, whom I will call Susie, because that isn’t her name, who. when she was a young girl, fell in love with a good-loo king and attrac tive young fellow who was one of those youths who live upon their mothers. “Fortunately for Susie she had a sen sible, hard-headed father who repre sented to her that a man who had never supported himself was! not likely to support a family, and as Susie had too much independence to want to set tle down on a poor mother-in-law to be taken care of, she was kept from marrying the young man, and, of course, in time got over her girlish fancy. “Eventually she made an excellent match. She married a thrifty business man in a distant city, who was able to give her a beautiful home, fine clothes, an automobile, and every luxury that wealth can supply. Also her husband is a man of weight in his community, looked up to, and deferred to.. “But always her early love has loomed in Susie’s mind as a fairy prince, and she has contrasted her husband unfavorably with him, and said to her self how blissful she might have been with it man who understood her poetic yearnings, and her grasping at the whatness of the what, instead of with a sordid business man, whose soul was not on material things.. "Well, last month Susie went back home for the first time in many years, and saw’ her early love. Also hi* wife and children. The shiftless ne’er do w’ell had gone down, and down, ! until he had become the village loafer. People spoke of him with sneering con tempt. His wife was a poor, pitiful, j overworked drudge who supported him by taking boarders. Half a dozen dirty little children clung to her skirts. The Outcome. “You never saw such an instan taneous cure as that sight of the man she didn’f marry worked on Susie. She scuttled back home as fast as she could go, and she’s been so busy ever since scattering roses in the path of the man she did marry that she has got him guessing as to what has happened.” “That’s right,” said the other woman | coolngly, ”1 never miss an opportunity of inviting my husband’s early loves to dinner. They are sure to be fat and frowsy, or living skeletons, and I can see his ideal crumbling to pieces as he contrasts them in propria persona with the way he remembered them.” “But w r e also have changed since we inspired love’s young dream,” suggest ed a third woman. “Oh. our husbands are used to us.” rerlied the woman philosopher, com fortably. “And they’ve quit looking at us, anyway.” CHAPTER XXV. A S Boon as Herbert Fletcher was engaged he brought his mother to call upon his future wife. That was the only time that Mary Danforth saw her soon-to-be mother-in-law until after her marriage. Mrs. Fletcher was a large-boned, stout woman, florid of face and with a voice that was masculine In quality. She shook hand* with Mary and eyed her critically “How do you do?” sne said, adding, as in duty bound, “My son has told me about you.” “And he has talked to me often about you,” Mary rejoined timidly. “I am glad to know you. 'it is kind of you to call." "Bert insisted on my coming," re turned Mrs. Fletcher bluntly. “I was willing to humor him to keep the peace.” She Was Surprised. Mary was surprised to hear herself talking with assumed lightness of trifling matters—the weather, the noise of the city streets at this time of the year when the windows were open, the many impersonal matters that make what is known as “small talk." Fletcher sat by and looked at her with uncon cealed admiration; her mother seconded her efforts to keep the conversational hall rolling, but Mrs Fletcher said lit tle. Her quick feyes were taking in every detail of the simply-furnished room, and Mary felt that her gaze was an appraising one. She looked often at the embarrassed girl, and at last voiced her thoughts: “I guess you’re not very strong, are you?” Mary flushed hotly. “Why, yes," she said, trying to laugh, “I have never been really ill in my life. Perhaps the first warm weather may make me look a little pale, but I am very well, thank you!” Fletcher spoke up quickly. "Tt isn’t always the big women that are the strongest, ma,” he said oracularly. "You, yourself, ain’t quite up to the mark sometimes.” “I know that,” said his parent as she rose to leave. “But,” turning to Mary, “my son tells me that you and he have decided to get married, and I think it only fair to say to you thai, as he hasn’t a fortune, any girl that mar ries him may have to work. But I guess you’re used to that here in your own home. And,” as an after-though T “T hope you both will be happy.” Mary did not return Mrs. Fletcher's call—indeed, was not asked to do so. But she wrote a pretty little note to Bert’s mother asking her to come to the wedding, explaining that it was to be the quietest affair Imaginable. To this invitation the older woman sent a verbal acceptance by her son. Herbert Fletcher had always wanted to live In the country, and Mary was willing to get away from New York and from all the old associations. She and her husband took a wedding trip down to Atlantic City and staying in an inex pensive boarding-house over Sunday. Then the young couple returned to the Danforth flat and began preparations for moving out of town. Decided on Small Town. Fletcher had decided upon a small village in New Jersey, the distance of three-quarters-of-an-hour from New York, making it convenient for him to commute daily. He and Mary* went to Middlebrook one Saturday afternoon and chose the little house in which they were to live. It had seven small rooms and a diminutive bath, but to the girl who, for two years, had lived in a cheap flat, the cottage looked quite large. All the w'ater used in the bathroom and kitchen must be pumped by hand into the tank at the top of the house, the pump being close to the kitchen sink. "A good job for a fellow that’s get ting too stout—eh, Mamie?” Bert re marked jocosely. (He had insisted that “Mary” was “too formal” a name for a man to call his wdfe by. Mary had suggested that she preferred it to any nickname, but her husband had his way.) "When I don’t feel like pumping the water, the girl can do it,” he said later as the two sat together on the train taking them back to New York. "Are you sure I can get a maid?” Mary asked timidly. *7 nave heard that it is sometimes difficult to secure one in a country place.’’ "Well, we’ll get one from town then,” said the master of the house loftily. “I don’t mean that you should do rough work in my home—at least, if you can hire a girl whose wages make it pos sible for us to keep her.” "Ma Says You Were Right.” It was evident that he discussed this matter with his mother, for the next evening he remarked to his wife: “Ma tells me that you were right in saying that it’s hard to get good help in the country. You know she never keeps a girl, and she seems to think that you and your mother could do a good deal of the work of that little house yourselves. Perhaps you could.” Mary hesitated. “I do not want moth er to do housework, Bert,” she de murred. “She is not strong, and work in a house is harder than in a flat. If you can not afford a maid, the house muM be attended to by me—but 1 would prefer keeping a servant, if pos sible.” She tried to speak firmly, but there was a tremor in her voice and her hus band noted it. “Well,” he said, “let’* hope we can get a girl cheap somewhere. If not, my dear, I guess you’ll just have to put up with matters as lot* of other women do, and as you and your mother have done lately and as my mother has al ways done. Your husband ain’t rich, you know.” His wife made no reply. She seemed these days to be slowly awakening from a stupor in which she had lived since the night on which she received the news of Craig’s engagement. She had not allowed herself to look a day ahead, nor an hour backward. That was the way, she reminded herself, that she had lived through the past three months. She Aroused Herself. She aroused herself to listen to her husband again. "Ma says she’ll help me choose any furniture w-e need,” he was saying. “She’s a crackerjack at finding bargains. I never knew such an economical buyer.” “I thought,” ventured his wife, “that we might choose our furniture to gether ”- “Oh," the man returned easily “you’re bucy packing, so you’d better let ma and me attend to that. I saw r a real bright and cheerful blue sofa on Four teenth street the other day, and I’ll see what we can get it for for our parlor. I’ll let ma make the deal.” Suddenly the wife appreciated that if she would not protest too much she must keep silence. Sixth City. The city of Cleveland has a citizen who is a great bopster. When he *t<$p* at a hotel he invariably registers “Sixth City” instead of Cleveland. He is anx ious for every one to know that Cleve land is the Sixth City in the United States. His zeal in this respect nearly cost him a lot of trouble last week. One of his New York business acquaint ances called up the Waldorf, where he had been told Mr. Hose was stopping, and asked for him. “I want to speak with W. G. Bose, of Cleveland,” said the New Yorker. After a. long wait the clerk told him that there was no W. G. Hose, of Cleve land, stopping there. The New Yorker insisted that Mr. Rose was there an^i asked the clerk to make another in quiry. “No,” answered the clerk, after an other long wait. “There is no Mr. | Rose, of Cleveland, here. But wc have J a W. G. Rose, of Sioux City.” Hereafter Mr. Hose is going to regis ter “Cleveland—Sixth City” to avoid mistakes. That Reserve. Boob—What’s this federal reserve that they're talking about? Simp—Why, that’s the Wilson policy about doing nothing in Mexico. 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Eotnf women omfht to . -°eopled Common Son— H \tt*r be R.V Pterte, /Vi .—■ H onstDon q utellone w Tear ho* mol hen ho» to cqre for their 'hildren and then«a«Jwi. ft'i Ihe emer- <ncp doctor In pour o»n home. Send KcnltlomfM to £>* Pierce on ehooe. 17 /' l \ i!