Evening Star Newspaper, November 18, 1893, Page 13

NEW WRAPS OF FUR. Some Stylish Effects for Winter Wear. MARTEN AND HUDSON BAY SABLE Muffs Will Be Much Larger This Season. TO FOLLOW 1880 STYLES. ey ‘“pecial Correspondence of The Evening Star. NEW YORK, November 17, 1893. - URRIERS MUST BE eartless men, for azain this winter they plan to bedeck the throats of fair ard gentle women with those dreadiul whole “beasties” which were so popu- lar as tippets last winter. They are no longer little, but are so big now that one wonders how th2 wo- men dare put them on. They come at all prices, too, from a cheap marten, which, alas, is really pussy cat, to Hudsoa bay sable. These last are deep furred and soft and comprise the whole animal, two little paws dangling in front with the head and two at the back with the little tail, any one of them enough to make a woman cry for pity. But what has a woman to do with pity where furs are concerned! Doesn't she delight in Persian lamb, soft as velvet and flexible as fine wool? What does she care that softness and flexibility mean that the poor little lamb ever saw the light of @ay, poor baby! killed with its mother that some gentle dame might have fur soft enough to please her? But how nico the fur looks! An odd feature of fashionable fur usage ts that the amount of fur displayed in any one costume is wholly at the discretion of the wearer. Thus, a woman may be envel- oped in a wrap that comes almost to the ground, and cover her head with a hat lib- erally trimmed with the same pelt, or she may, as in the costumie of the initial pi ture, let the only bit of fur in her make-up appear in a narrow band about the brim of her felt hat. In general, the latter meth- od, is perhaps, more in accordance with current acceptances, but both are permis- sible. The garment which the fur-trimmed hat accompanies, is a coat of red cheviot. £ consists of a coat proper, which buttons visibly in front, to which is attached a VES | AWS a. ns Muffs About This Size. circular cape which leaves a yoke-like por- tion of the coat exposed. This yoke ered with black all-over embdroi le: so appears on the collar. The latter is iffened with crinoline and has a roliiny edge. The lace cape is one hundred and thirty-five inches wide and eighteer inches deep and the seam that joins the ace and cloth capes to the coat is covered with a full ribbon ruching. Besides the edging of fur the hat, which is in a shade of Paris green, has its low crown encircled by a Velvet band and two velvet points and a pale green bird’s head are placed in front. Behind these come two black and green changeable mercury wings with a fan-like a@igrette. A Wearer whose choice is for more dis- lay of fur than can be put upon a hat She of the second illustration. Her huge, handsome boa and muff are of Russian seal, soft, fleecy and beautiful. Muffs are Promised which shall so closely follow 1330 Styles as to be simply huge, but it is not | likely that the early winter will sce many | such, although the wee cold things which Paraded as muffs in the recent past will surely be abandoned. Sable remains the choicest fur next to ermine and is made up in handsome deep gapes, with or without butterfly collars. | There is a great difference in the price of sable, and almost a corresponding differ- ence in length of fur and softness of text- ure and color. Sealskin always holds its Place. This season it is darker and silkier than ever and that means that it has been extraordinarily subjected te dyeing and Scraping. That in turn means that your | sealskin will hardly look well a season| through. Therefore, if you really want a| seal, you'd better have it made into a cape, because a cape gets less wear than does a coat, having no sleeves to rub, no outside pockets to wear and also escaping @ gvod deal of wear in sitting down that a coat gets. If, however, your only idea is to spend money and help your husband to weather the present “financial crisis” by Wearing the best and so inspiring his cred- A Coat Fur-Edged. Mors (all but the one who sold you the coat) with confidence. then have a sealskin frock coat. Let the skirts be very full, the sieeves very large at the shoulders, and the Fevers either faced with astrakhan or er- mine., Any one would know that the little girl of the next picture was new to her muff, for she is not content with holding it in its Proper place, but must lift it to her eyes to admire its pretty shade of tan, rub it against her chin to test its softness and blow into it to satisfy herself of its thick- ness. Many times must the muff go through these approving processes, and many con- ve before it be- gins to age in its young wearer's apprecia- tion. The fur here beaver. and a nar- ii of it is seen about the hem, and cape of the coat. Some strip of It to the hat, but all euch matters are left to personal choice. The coat itself is of cloth and lined with THE EVENING STAR: quilted pink sat the tin, fronts and back being plaited to a yoke. The back has a In E Ermine is being used chiefly in combina- tion with other furs, notably with seal. Very elegant frock coats of dark seal have vests let in of ermine, and the shoulder puff and collar of the same. An ermine muff, too, should be carried. Ermine also comes in sets consisting of the big old time muff of our grandparents, a tippet also like the ones the old-time es wore, and cuffs. Such a set is worn with a velvet or seal cloak. Ermine is also used to line opera cloaks, the outside in delicate shades of soft silk or velvet. A regal cape of seal redching generously be- low the hips {3 lined with ermine, and can be worn either side out, the dark side out- =—— the street, and the reverse for the er. In the fourth sketch there is another fur- trimmed wrap, worn with a boa and muff to match. In this model, juitable one for young matrons, the material is black cloth made up without lining. The circular dou- ble collar consists of cloth on the lower, and gros grain on the, bay od side, the upper collar coming down the fronts of the wrap and being trimmed with jet. This collar = fitted fronts are garnished with the A Protection and an Ornament. Astrakan is te be much worn, and the Persian comes very high. The hair is lon- ger than ever,and loosely curled. One won- ders if the cultivators of furs have been dosing and rubbing their astrakan animals all summer with hair tonic stuffs. Astra- kan is made up in frock coats and capes, and is to be much used for trimming cloth gowns. To meet the craze for “black and white,” it is made up wth ermine, but somehow it does not look just right, for the astrakan seems too common for the er- mine. Monkey is still used, and is cheaper than it was last year, but {t is most awfully ugly now, as always, and after all, not much nicer than its own frequent imitator, dyed goat fur. Marten, not unlike sable, of the commoner quglity, is a good standby fur, and inexpensive. A fur lately intro- duced is called Janet, and is for lining jong cloaks. It is soft, almost too soft to stand well the wear that comes on-a lining, of a delicate brown color, and not expensive. It would be hard to say whether the fur- red front of the plush jacket in the final pic- ture is more for ornament or for protec- tion. it has such a fragmentary appearance that at first glance it would seem worthless as a security against the cold, but it still is a protection for the chest, while being a decided addition to the jacket’s appearance. That garment is made of black plush, is thinly wadded and lined with black satin mierveilleux. The fur is Persian lamb. The novelty of this season is the little butterfly cape, gotten up in sable, ermine, astrakan or seal. It is made with a high flaring collar, and is so full that it stands out in scallops, which are so deep that the lining shows. These little affairs are made with great attention to detail, two or three kinds of fur being put inte ‘them often, as a seal one that has vandykes of astrakan about the edge and a lining of ermine, the tails set about the lower edge with just the black tips projecting. These little capes cost extravagantly, and there is little warmth to them. Tails are much used for trimming fur cloaks and dresses. Mink tails are set together and used for fringes, and so are ermine tails. Of course there are few good imitations of really fine and very costly sealskin, but one, the “‘cony’’ or Paris seal, comes pretty near ft and is much cheaper. For $70 a long cloak to the hips and a little below can be bought which will look for all the world like its $4 neighbor. The fur ts the same color, a shade deener than the seal, perhaps, and lacking a bit in the flexibility of the seal. but to all practical purposes just as handsome as the seal, and so just like It that !t will fool any one but a wo- man who fs attemnting the decention her- self. Resides, it will outlast the real article by two seasons. —___—__4s His Wit Saved Him. From the Boston Home Journal. Although it is a familiar saying that an Trishman {fs always spoiling for a fight, still there fs one kind of fighting to which even the brave sons of Erin are sometimes averse—that is, dueling. A story well fl- lustrating this fact has recently come to us. A certain Irishman, having been chal- lenged to fight a duel, accepted the condi- tions after much persuasion on the part of his friends, who felt confident of his suc- cess. His antagonist, a lame man, walked on crutches. When the place for the shooting had been reached, the lame man’s seconds asked that he be allowed to lean against a milestone which happened to be there. The privilege Se and the lame man took his stand. The Irishman and his seconds drew off to the distance azreed upon—ten feet. Here Pat's courage suddenly failed him, and he shouted to the lame man: e a small favor to ask of ye, sor.” “What is it?” asked the cripple. Pat answered: “I told ye thot ye might lean ag'in’ the milepost, and now I would like the privi- lege of leaning ag'in’ the next one.” The laughter which followed led everybody's desire for a fight, and the Whole party went home without a shot hav- ing been fired. +o+—____ Not Acquainted. From Truth. Chappie—“T believe that wild man is a common negro, you know.” Brady—"You're off, young mon; 1 never saw him before.” HERE SHE STOOD, mute and white, with the lamplight in the hall making her pret- ty yellow hair look still more yellow. Her whole young figure drooped. She was like a slight pithless flower stalk weighted with the forlorn burden of a single white blossom. Mrs. Slatterly surveyed the girl with a | very distinct sense of annoyance, and as she took in those lax lines, that spiritless air, it dimly occurred to her that per- haps beauty entails on its possessor a cer- tain weakness of character, just as a too lavish output of blossom enfeebles a plant. Mrs. Slatterly’s own determined wrinkles and uncompromising solidity of frame were @ sort of negative justification of this idea. She herself had never been pithless and drooping. She had never been handsome, either. Yet she had married to some ad- vantage. Here was Sophia, her own daughter, a girl who in this Indiana town was called beautiful, who had been away to a finish- ing school, who had studied music and art here was she blanching ands trembling, all because the most influential man in the place had asked her hand in marriage. “It is too absurd,” declared Mrs. Slatterly, in the piping small voice which seems a special endowment of large women. “You can have no possible objection to Mr. Clay- pool. He is only middle-aged, he is not bad looking, he is a man of notable piety and he owns more property than any other man in the county. He will make a kind and considerate husband.,I never heard that his deceased wife was other than happy.” ‘ “I know,” breathed Sophia, faintly. A vivid picture of Mr. Claypool rose before her miserable eyes. She saw a tall man, with a frame inclining to joints, which made themselves obvious in the limp broad- cloths affected by Mr. Claypool. She saw a lean, smiling face, a thin black beard. Mr. Claypool’s nasal tones, his habit of haranguing at prayer meeting, his manner of clearing his throat, these details seemed to give Sophia a spasm of desperate cour- age. “I never expected to marry a man 1 didn’t care for,” she faltered. The plea had an illogical sound. Sophia felt this. To avoid her mother’s eyes she looked be- yond her at the growing dusk which the open door revealed. It was not quite dark, but gas was flaming prodigally at the street corners, Long unglobed tufts of flame wrapped the heads of the iron standards as with ringlets of fiery snakes. Further off other standards lifted these smoky crests of orange and crimson. The gas burned unrestrictedly as yet. It was easier to use it than to manage it in the pipes. The town thoroughfares, which only @ year before had worn the faint and frugal illumination of occasional dim lamps, now blazed in a perpetual gala attire of light. Even by day it was not uncommon to see weird mists of violet hovering spec- trally above the iron posts of street cor- ners. The mere sight of the outer brilliancy ave Sophia a new pang. The very gas itself suggested Mr. Claypool. He owned many of the wells. And as Sophia’s mind took in the full import of his financial merits, and a complete sense of her lack of tangible reasons for refusing him, she felt as if chains were riveting themselves upon her wrists. “Sophia,” said her mother, severely, “your remark surprises me. I—well, it ives me a suspicion. You had better be ik with me, Sophia. If you've foolishly allowed your affections to rest on some one else—" She paused with an excited air. “I—really I must beg you to be frank with me, Sophia!’ Her tone was very insistent. Sophia's face, however, wore the same éxpression of tranquil despair. Even de- spair with Sophia had a certain inertness, “I don’t see what difference it would make,” she murmured. “Perhaps it would only make things a little worse. No, mother, I have no confession to make. 1 Suess it’s just as well that I haven't.” “See here, Sophia!’ demanded Mrs. Slat- terly. “Am I an ogress? Am I a—a—ghoul, or anything resembling those fabulous creatures? Do you suppose I should ask you to consider Mr. Claypool if you love Some one else? You horrify me. I'am your mother, Sophia. I ask you again to be frank with me, and tell me just—’ She came to a discreet pause, being suddenly aware that her tone was exponential of ex- cited feelings, and that there was a step on the porch outside. She gave a sigh of relief as a man’s fig- ure, appearing in the doorway, disclosed the proportions of Mr. Slatterly himself. “Good evening, my dears,” he said, not seeming to notice the overcharged state of the moral atmosphere. Indeed, he was used to atmospheres of this nature, being a law- yer whose practice had not been attended with success of a notable sort. His whole Manner was apologetic. His mild face re- duplicated as with a leathern mask the soft passivity of Sophia's features. “I suppose you've heard about young Clinton?" he asked, putting his hat on the rack. “There is considerable excitement about it dowtown. I'm not sure that they did well to keep it quiet these three days. But his aunt, Mrs. West, is a most conservative person—most conservative.” “What are you talking about?" asked his wife, with connubial directness. “What has he done? You mean Miles Clinton, I sup- er" = “Certainly,” agreed Mr. Slatterly, in the concillatory tone of one addressing the bench. “He has disappeared.” “Disappeared?” “Most mysteriously. He's been missing for three days. Had they at once sought legal advice some clue might by this time have been forthcoming. But they did not. Instead of searching for him they examin- ed his accounts. He kept books for the pulp mill, you remember—a position of some trust. But Clinton’s books were found by his employers to be straight— quite straight. So they now judge that he has been foully dealt with. His sole living relative, Mrs. West, the aged aunt with whom he boarded, is certain that he has been foully dealt with. They are going to dreg the river tomorrow. He's probably been sandbagged and robbed. There is a very tough element down around the new bagging factory. If the municipal author- ity of this town would seek legal advice as to the proper means of dealing with this low and—" “He was a person of a great de: method,” meditated Mrs. Slatterl last person on earth to disappea: ‘If he was sandbagged—you see, my dear, @ perfectly irreproachable man may be sandbagged.” “But he never seemed to me the sort of erson to be sandbagged,” protested Mrs. latterly, as she remembered Mr. Clinton's looks. He had been a tall young man, with a long upper lip, a stiff manner afd a sleek head. He had been inclined to take him- sélf very seriously, and since anything of a gracefully frivolous character was utter- ly lacking in him his friends had been obliged also to take him seriously. But though nature had evidently not modeled him with a view to the adornment of light social scenes, Mr. Clinton had been a fig- ure of some moment in the town. He be- longed to the ante-gas epoch—a period which, though only a year or so removed, was beginning to take on an air of illus- trious antiquity. To count back to it was to have family distinction. Decidedly Mr. Clinton had been very respectable. He had been progressive, too, and hac belonged to the Literary Club and to the Chautauqua Circle. Mrs. Slat- terly remembered the last circumstance, be- 4 cause he had sometimes escorted Sophia to these learned gatherings. “Why, he was week!” declared tributing a powe: fact of his disappearance, here at the house only last Mrs. Slatterly, as if con- rful argument ugainst the “Sophia, you re- don’t you, his being here last Thursday evening? She faced about, dir her daughter, who ecting her remark to the stale. Still stood nalf way up Sophia’s face wore a stran; ‘ange look. Her head was no longer drooping, but had an erect poise, as if some stern rigor had pass- — into the slender neck. Her eyes were —- She seemed unaware of the iWo peo- ple in the hall. She did not evea appear to notice her mother’s question, "eri Slatterly, sharply. She herself had begun vo temble, and ae were paling. Sophia rtarted, her mother’ sly. Then she turned, and, without’ sresuee went slowly up the stairs. Mr. Slatterly grasped his wife's sleev: Was there something between hee « v" her and Clinton?” he questioned. ‘Good. heave Martha! why wasn’t it told?) What Jid vou Jet me blurt it all ou: How ‘ns rtpnne it right before her for? = n't know myself,” said i breathlessly. “I never dreamed of any inte I’ve been scolding her all afternoon becuust she seemed so blind to the wisdom of mar- tying Mr. Claypool. Oh, dear!” She Btayed herself against the wall. “Something she said made me Suspect that perhans--oh, ‘she was just on the point of telling me all when you came in, Henry. I sup- pose nothing was really settled between her ann Soret an understanding.” hastily y Phia’s door. “It was locked” “"@ {led So- “Sophia, let me in,” She besought. “I— understand all about z torn ut it, dear. 1’m not going There was a little sound oa ul rather be alone just now,” id Sopnin” r Well, dear,” said Mrs. Slatterly, feeling awed. In some strange way her daughter seemed to have entered a solemn sphere of passion and sorrow. A majesty of bereave- ment encompassed her. “It shall be as you hfs my child,” said Mrs. Slatterly, hum- “I wish you had told me about it all. Then ‘culd not have mentioned Mr. Claypool ig — ‘ Sue gees to him at once, Sophia. will tell bim that it witht cannot be as he “Well, mother,” said Sophia, in the same voice. Her tones had a sort of co traint which moved Mrs. Slatterly to tears. “If she would give way, if she would con- fide in me, I should feel different,” she told Mr. Slatterly. “I guess she'll feel different tomorrow,” said Mr. Slatterly. He had taken his coat off, and he looked round for it. Shirt sleeves appeared a sort of wanton affront to the tragic spirit which had descended upon his roof. He'll probably turn up be- fore long. I'm not perfectly sure that any- ee happened to him. Statistics prove at— “I beg of you not to sobbed his wife. “It shows very little feel- ing, Henry. He was your daughter s chvice. I will not sit by and hear him disparaged!” “But, my dear—" “No, Henry. Do not attempt justity yourself. Mr. Clinton's cruel murder may mean little to you. It means everytaing to Sophia. A first love, Henry. I do not ask you to try to understand what a delicate girl's feelings may be when the assa: tion of her betrothed is heartlessly rela to her—I do not attempt this, Heary. But perhaps when Sophia’s health gives way from brooding upon this awful tragedy— perhaps 'then you'll reflect that it was you who maliciously bere the cruel tidings, and who afterward sought to injure the char- acter of the blameless dead!’ “Martha, I—" “Let it pass, Henry. Let us hope that Sophia's grief may be as light and passing a thing as you predict. Let us hope that she will feel d'fferent tomorrow.” But if Sophia's feelings had udergone ahy change over night there was nothing in her manner rext day to show it. A stub- born sort of reserve seemed to possess her. She was very calm, but a furtive uneus:- ness haunted her blue eyes—an uneasiness which. however, found no expression at Sophia's lips. “You know, dear, that my sympathies are entirely yours,” Mrs. Slatterly vent red to remind her daughter. “I'm sure } should have been very fond of—of Miles, as soon as I had got better acquainted with him.” Sophia's brows drew painfully together. “Do not,” she said, with an effort—“do uot ling Sophia,” speak of him.” “The suspense is said Mrs. Slatterly to her husband. It was the seventh day of Ciinton’s dis- appearance, and there was still no clue. The river had disclosed nothing. But Mr. Slatterly, as he neard of Sophia's despat state of mind, seemed to revolve in brain an idea he had not meant to commu- nicate. “I had decided not to mention this to you, Martha, till more evidence was forthcutn- ing. But perhaps I'd better tell you that an old fellow has turned up who claims to have seen Clinton spring on the platform of a moving train—the very tail end of it. His memory is not good, but he thinks it was on the very night of Clinton's disap- pearance. I sincerely trust they have put the matter into competent legal hands. You will know best about informing So- hia.” Pre might waken false hopes,” mused Mrs, Slattery. “But perhaps I might hint around just enough to rouse her « little. She's as pale— And she hasn’t any appe- tite.” “I think you'd be justified in suggesting— not stating, of course; as a legal measure I could not advise the absolute statement of a mere surmise—but in suggesting that Clinton will undoubtedly turn up soon.” Mrs. Slatterly went up to Sophia's room in rather a cheerful state of mind. Sophia Sat much by herself in these days. She was listlessly working at a bit of embroidery. At her mother's rap, she started and glanc- ed up with a vague troubled expectancy in her eyes. The window was open, and the blossomy blue of the June sky leaned low upon a dis- tant line of fields which disclosed a single moving object. This object, as the sun smote it, seemed to be a plough which w: being used to turn up clods for a ne’ street. Smoke-stacks rose black and nai row to the southward, all of them breath- M as if no great fires burned below. Your father feels real hopeful today,” hinted Mrs. Slatterly, coming into the room. “He didn’t tell me to say anything-- but from a word he dropped—I don't know. He didn’t just say so, Sophia, but Clinton’s friends seem to have got hold of something which makes them think it won't be long till they get word—" her voice flagged. Sophia had risen. Her eyes looked oddly dark and big. She thrust out her hand. “You are saying that to comfort me,” she said. “Tell me the truth. Tell me they haven't heard anything—anything. I can hear that best.” Mrs. Slatterly felt scared. true, Sophia,” she faltered. child, I would not deceive you. Sophia gave a little sob, the first sound of the sort which her mother had heard on her lips during all this trying time. “Mother,” she said, hoarsely, “your goodness to me hurts me; !t hurts me.” And then in some inexplicable way Mrs. Slatterly found herself in the outer hall again with Sophia's closed door confronting her. Sophia had seemed to motion her to go. There had been a little beseeching touch on her arm, as if Sophia softly swept her from the room. Not a sound broke the stillness as Mrs. Slatterly paused to listen. Evidently So- phia's small sob had not been the prelude to that hysterical outburst which Sophia's mother half expected. Sophia's sternly calm way of bearing her sorrow made it seem the more tragic. Not a tear, not a word. Nothing but this inflexible restraint, broken only by such startings and trem- blings as a haunted thing might have that hears the baying of hounds in the rustling of forest leaves. The very house seemed to be oppressed with a stifling breath of suspense. Mrs. Slatterly cast the hall door wide, let- ting in a sweep of yellow sunshine. It was a day of startling clearness, insomuch that the new cement walks Stretched away like lengths of white ribbon. Their gleaming expanse was broken in places by spaces, in which the old brick paving still showed quote statistics,” “It’s really “My poor @ cheerful and unabashed cherry color. Old houses, weli built and plain; new hous- es, poorly built and pretenuous of peaks and paint and porches; outlying factories; green neids cut through with a railway in | Saree of buiiding—these things came dim- to Mrs. Siatierly’s conrused percep- tions. People were passing. Mrs, diatter- ly rememovered that it was avout the nour of noon, ana that these human creatures were probably gomg home to dinner. A heat utue woman in a lilac print gown called out a greeting as sne paused outside Mrs. Siatterly’s rence. “How you been’ she ‘asked, surveying the solidity poised old ngure with the gmm. tace. “4 naven’t seen you or Sophia tor @ week. All well? Tnat’s good. Kind of fun- ay ‘bout Miles Clinton, ain't ity” Mrs. Slatterly’s eyes grew piercing. “Fun- ny!” she repeated. “I must say I don’t see anything very funny about a sad and mys- terious disappearance.” “Law, weil!” laughed the other; “you haven't heard, then? She opened the gate and with small cautious steps came confi- dentially closer. ‘He's back,” she said. Mrs. Slatterly’s face assumed a wild sort of look. “Back?” she stammered. “Yes'm. And the funny part is that he’s brought a wife with him—a little bit of a black-eyed thing. I saw ‘em pass in the *bus. They came on an early express this morning. From what his aunt says, it seems that Miles met her last fall in Texas, the time he was down there on business for the pulp mill. Case of love at first sight, I guess. Her folks own a ranch down there. It seems that the girl has a step-mother she didn’t get along with; and from what Miles’ aunt says things got real serious be- tween the two women. ‘They had a misun- derstanding, and the girl she wrote for Miles. I suppose he thought things were worse than they were, for he just stopped long enough to drop a line to his aunt and then rushed off to the train. But the boy he gave the note to never delivered it at all. They say that Miles was completely took back to find what a tow-row folks had been making over him. He thought his aunt would send word to the pulp mill and every- thing would be all right. They say he’s completely wrapped up in his wife—little Mexican-looking thing she is! You're look- ing real pale, Mrs. Slatterly. The heat's real strong out here. Maybe you better go in where it’s cool.” Mrs. Slatterly made an effort to speak steadily. ‘I—believe I will,” she said. The little woman in lilac tripped away. Mrs, Slatterly watched her go. She felt overpowered at the hideous complication af- fairs were manifesting. How should tell Sophia? For Sophia must be told, a told at once, of Clinton’s perfidy. If the tidings had been a definite assurance of his death Mrs. Slatterly felt that her task would have been easier. But a wife! A wife! How should she tell Sophia? She moved heavily toward the door, staying her- self by the porch rail as she went. Every- thing seemed as if moving. Strange whir- ring noises sounded in her ear. A blur of burning crimson appeared to rise before her as she drew herself over the door-sill. And that—was that a figure rushing down stairs—a light, buoyant figure in a whirl of mmer muslin? Mrs. Slatterly stared up at it with a sense of dreaming. Sophia, coming nearer, wore a beaming se cheeks were swept with pink. lips were smiling; Sophia's eyes— Her mother drew a quick breath. “Sophia,” she said, “listen. Listen to me, Sophia.” cried Sophia. “I've heard it all “My window was up. I've heard it all. He's back. Oh, mother— “Sophia, listen. You don’t understand. Oh, I can’t tell her! I can’t. Sophia, he’s—he's martied.” “Yes, mother. I told you I heard it all. It's you who do not undepstand. Mother, I have deceived you. I'm ashamed to say ‘it, but I have. I'am a very wicked girl, but I've suffered for it terribly this last week, I couldn't have kept ft up much‘ longer. Mother, don't you see how it was? I didn't want to marry Mr. Claypool. And when you said that if I cared for any one else— don’t you remember? And just then father came in, and it darted into my mind that {f Clinton was dead I might pretend that I'd cared for him. And before I'd considered the idea you jumped to your own conclu- sions. And afterward I was so afraid he'd come back I began to feel absolutely guilty— almost as if I wished that he was really sandbagged and thrown into the river. And you—oh, mother, when you were so kind and gentle to me that nearly killed me! And when I heard he was back and mar- ried, my heart leaped, fer I knew then I must tell you everything—” “Sophia— verything, mother. For I wasn’t going to see you grieve because you thought my heart was broken. Are you angry? Are you, mother? Are you? Oh, don’t be!” She gave a little nervous sob, and flung her arms against her mother's shoulder and hid her face there. Mrs. Slatterly drew a breath. T'll be angry after a while,” she just now it seems as if I was more. than anything else. ly, copyright 1893 by Harper & Bros. ~ a YELLOW AND GOLD PARLOR PAPER. How It Brought nhappiness Into a Household = Previ: ly Contente: “Oh, Kitty! You really should see the stunning gown I have just been trying on at the dressmaker’s,” cried Miss Bobbins, rushing up to a friend of hers on Connecti- cut avenue.“You will be filled with envy when I wear it to church on Sunday. The material {is that new cloth called hop sack- ing, which is so very stylish, you know, and it is the most lovely shade of plum you ever saw. But what is your winter dress to be, dear?” “My winter dress,” said Mrs, Tomkins, her voice full of melancholy, “is my old green gown from last year, with new vel- veteen sleeves. Have you not heard of my troubles this fall?" “What do you mean, Kitty? Is it possible that you are suffering from the fashionable complaint of hard times?” “Not at all, dear. The whole trouble has been caused by our new parlor paper.” “Your new parlor paper!” cried the as- tonished Miss Bobbins. “How is that pos- sible? If you are not in a hurry, suppose we step into this confectioner’s and have a chat over a plate of ice cream and some chocolate eclairs The ladies entered and seated themselves at a table near the window, whence they eculd keep an eye on the throng which passed up amd down outside. “When we came home from the country this autumn,” began Mrs. Tomkins, “Mr. Tomkins and I decided that we really must have the parlor repapered, for the old paper was quite shabby, besides being so dread- fully old-fashioned. This determined, we went down town to select the paper. It was really a very trying ordeal. Some of the papers Mr. Tomkins thought charming and I did not like at all, and when I found one that seemed to me perfectly lovelyMr. Tcmkins said it was the most hideous thing he had ever seen in his life. We were both of us getting quite discouraged and cross when the man brought out a paper that cagised us both to exclaim at once: ‘That is the very thing!" It was of yellow and gold. A few days later the paverhangers came, and when the room was finished Mr. Tom- kins and I went in to take a look at it.” “ This,’ said Mr. Tomkins, ‘is my idea of what a paper should be. It almost furnishes the room by itself.” “I was equally pleased, particularly when I found that it looked just as well by gas- ight. The next morning I had the furniture moved back. It is several years since we bought that parlor set. It had always look- ed very nice, we thoucht, but now it seemed to have grown suddenly shabby, and looked quite dirty against the brilliant wall. We were very sorry, but it was evident that all the pleces would have to be recovered. “It was the same way with the carpet, which looked surprisingly faded considering how short a time it had been down. The heavy curtains and portieres had also to be replaced by new ones, as they were some- what on the old gold shade, and when we hung the pictures it was immediately ap- parent that all the frames would have to be regilded. It_is needless to go into further details. Suffice it to ray that everything in that room, except the bric-a-brac and plano, has had to be renewed, and that is why I have to wear my last winter's gown this year. To add to my chagrin, T am perfectly aware that when I appear in that gorgeous yellow and gold room in my passee gowns I look absolutely shabby.” —eoo—____ An Egyptian Lotus, Jeanie Gould Lincoln in Peterson's Magazine. Ch, royal Lotus, bearing on thy breast The subtle fragrance of the mystic Nile, Before thee silent centuries stand confess'd And mirror Time o’er Egypt's ancient pile! O'er such as thou, perchance, the vessel swept In which imperial Beauty slumb‘rous lay: Beside her couch, Love and Ambition wept— So fair a thing’ should be such wanton clay! Mayhap the noble Antony from thee Hath quaffed the cup where dreamy languor Nes, And deemed the world were naught, if only be Could reign a king in Cleopatra's eyes. Thon art her flower, O sorceress supreme, Like her, thy glowing life, thy golden crown; Thy petals floating on the turbid stream Are but the lure to drag thy victims down, A spell from other ages, other climes, Within thy rosy bosom lingers yet; Give us the draught, the lotus-laden wine, And, like the ancients, teach us to forget! WASHINGTON, D. C, SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 1s, 1893-TWENTY PAGES. INGALLS AT HOME. A Pen Picture of the Famous Man From Kansas, THE MAN'S MANY FADS AND FANCIES. Always Fond of Doing Something Dramatic. HIS POLITICAL PROSPECTS. —_.—_____ Special Correspondence of The Evening Star. TOPEKA, Kan.) November 8,189. OHN J. INGALLS is a statesman out of @ job, but there is no politician in the coun- try In enforced retire- ment from public life who is more content- ed with his lot, or who gets more out of Ufe. While the oppor- tunity to make a for- tune was coming his way he improved each shining hour, and his wealth, al- though made during the eighteen short years he was in the United States Senate, is beyond the estimate or guess of his neigh- bors. He, therefore, begins his old age with the bread question out of the way and is free to enjoy life as it comes to him. En-| his vious people who knew him in the begin- ning of his career sometimes refer to the time he borrowed money to make his first journey to Washington, a little more than twenty years ago, and wonder how a man on a salary of $6,000 a year could gather about him such a great share of the world’s goods. But this does not disturb him; he is not built that way. He has got it and his mind is easy. His object in life is to get through with it with as little personal dis- comfort as possible, and he is doing that very thing, regardless of criticism, public or individual. He works, travels, lectures, writes, reads, rides or walks as the fancy strikes him. Everything with him is a recreation, and nothing compulsory. Mon- ey’s only value is the good or comfort that it may buy for himself or his family, and as the supply seems to be abundant, he spends without stint, buying a horse or let- ting @ contract for a business block with equal indifference. His home in Atchison is a model of elegance, comfort and con- venience, and perfect in all its appoint- ments.. It was originally built by a fellow townsman at a cost of $20,000, who was com- pelled to offer it for sale at half price to save it from the sheriff. Ingalls had, e short time before, been burned out of his home, and having the ready money he, with that good luck which had been follow- ing him ever since he became an accidental United States Senator in 1873, scooped in the bargain. It was a handsome place to begin with, but not grand enough to suit its fas- tidious new owner, who immediately gave an architect carte blanche to enlarge and change the style of the mansion so as to conform to the Ingalls idea of the proper thing in architecture. Then he found that the grounds were not extensjve enough, and he bought an adjacent tract. The services of a landscape gardener were next required, and now, after three years’ ownership, the property has become perfect in every detail, and it is the pride of the local population to point it out to strangers as the finest home in Kansas. It is in town, but at the edge of it, away from and above the com- mon herd of people, and so far from the nearest neighbor that there is no back door visiting, All this was planned and in pro- gress on the eve of the election of 189, when a cyclone struck the republican party and gave the people's party enough votes in the legislature to turn Ingalls down and elect William Alfred Peffer to succeed him. As th republicans managed to pull their state ticket through at that election, there were some people mean enough to say that pos- sibly the pride of house building went be- fore the Senator's fall. Regal Style in Kansas. Ingalls lives like a prince, and his family Set the pace of the local four hundred. They have a stable full of horses, carriages to fit any occasion, and a house full of servants. They have hardly educated the community to stand a coachman in livery yet, but their trim little housemaids are the wonder and delight of the matrons of the place, who have not yet got beyond the good old cus- tom of one “hired girl” for all work. They have brought Washington manners and customs into their western life, and when they entertain it is with all the stilted solemnity, state and dignity which they ac- quired while the head of the family was in the Senate chamber. All this was at first somewhat wearing upon western simplicity, and guests sometimes responded to invita- tions with fear and trembling, but the com- munity has in a measure become used to the gait, and among the younger well-to-do families six o'clock dinners with evening dress accompaniments are now considered the proper thing. The first man to make the venture was a prosperous citizen, who had not the Ingalls’ complement of help, but by calling in his stable boy and putting a white jacket on him to wait on table he managed to get through the ordeal with flying colors, and soon thereafter organized a “dining out club,” a sort of school of in- struction, whereby ambitious people learned to eat with their forks, which in the wild and woolly west is considered the sum of a ag oe eo ex-Senator’s career in Washington, erefore, mot have been in vain after all. amd Ingalls is a very domestic man, although not by any means @ recluse; when in town he is generally to be found at home. He reads and writes a great deal, but he finds plenty of time for hospitality, visiting and ercise. When people call he is t home,” and unless time is pressing nothing delights him more than an after- noon's visit with an intelligent man or woman. There is not a more interesting conversationalist in world. To the newspaper interviewer he is a mine of in- formation. He has a habit after giving his views with the greatest of freedom of concluding an interview with an injunction of confidence, but the interviewer who knows him pays no attention to this, and prints the story as he gets it. Of course Ingalls will promptly deny it all, but that is to be expected; no interview with Ingalls is complete without a denial afterward. At odd hours Ingalls works on a book of memoirs. It may, like his much promised novel a few years ago, never get beyond a beginning, but he has begun in all seri- ousness and will probably complete it. He says it is a laborious work and he disliked to undertake it, but now that he has made a start he has promised himself to com- plete it. When he works he writes about 500 words a day. The book will contain about 182,000 words, or nearly 50 pages, and there will not be a date or figure in it, except the numbers over the chapters. Personal Habits of the Man. In his dress Ingalls is a fashion plate. He keeps up with the modes as with litera- ture. He is invariably clad in a suit of Priace Albert style, usually of light color, and rarely is seen in the same suit twice in succession. He affects gay colors in neckwear, as was his practice in Washing- ton, and his example leads the local fur- nishers to fill their windows with all the colors of the rainbow. Usually he wears a silk hat, subdued by a modest band of nd always of the latest block, but also a supply of slouches, crushes and even caps, which he jes on occa- sions. He is always doing the dramatic, and sometimes when he wants to remind ee} the people that he is one of them and of the earth earthy, he gets himself up in fough attire, which is easily accomplished wrapping his wasp-like frame in @ rough gray overcoat, which became in his political campaigns. This with a peaked white slouch hat completes the transformation, and his appearance on the treets is a signal for an ovation at every street corner. Everybody knows him and he knows everybody, and he never passes whe yea without his familiar and le “how are you?” There more bublic-spirited and more papules man in Atchison than Ingalls, but not one so ereat- ly admired. Unfortunately this man, 80 sifted, has no sympathy with the common People. Had nature erdcwed him with this one missing element, there had been no people's party in Karsas row; no Peffer in the United States Serate. Sometimes we hear it said that the republican party was defeated in Kansas in 189. It was John 1e eX. back riding. He likes to ride alone, fi after all that be said about his ‘good: fellowship id his delightful social quale ties, to the most com- : the tract, although he had taxes on it faithfully. Return: he related thi ~ 3 ship republican. It was a native of this democratic bottom region, Jonathan Lang, whom Ingalis Subject of his magazine article, “Ca ee him to write his still more “Blue Grass.” Ingalls and His Family. None of Ingalls’ children inherit his gen- jus or his peculiar intellectual qualities. In- galls admits this himself, although his old- est daughter makes some pretensions to his style as a writer and one of his sons affects his mannerisms. But they are like him in nothing. He is of his own kind, and there will never be another like him. His wife and are naturally very proud of him. He has given his children ali the ad- vantages of education. Four have already graduated and are out of school. Three are Stull in school, and will be given the same careful instruction. While Ingalls’ time hes been given much to public affairs and the rostrum, he has had persona! supervision the intellectual training of his children. He ry Brigand of the Buchanan Hills” until their bedtime. It was the spontaneous creation of his own imagination, and portrayed the life and ad- ventures of 5) characters it is said to be as thrilling in interest romances of ancient times. He yg fect discipline among his children, in as the consequence it is an ideal family. The older boys have adopted the protaston at law. None of his children have and all live under the parental roof one son, who is locateat Topeka. ‘What is to become of Ingalls He is not a dead man by any means, nor on the shelf. He is only sixty, and his is as alert, active and keen as when tled in the Senate with such giants Hill, Blackburn and V: and still takes an interest in public manifested by his frequent utterances the new issues which have risen ce was turned down by the people in one thing In the way of his return to = yA is his vf a ys ~ this he is probably in no hurry to remove. He may not consistently be a democrat, and he has turned his back on the republi- can party, although the door is open for him to return to the fold. But the crowd seems in the west to be going in another direction, and in the short time he has yet to live and perform new deeds, it stant him in hand to go with the crowd. He is in a state of transition. This is proved by one of his utterances when the silver mines of Colorado shut down. He said, if the At- chison Globe quoted him correctly, that the country was fast tending toward a revolu- tion, which would result in a redistribution of property. “The day is not far distant,” he said, “when the millionaire will occupy the hut of the pauper, and the pauper will ride in the chariot of the millionaire. Denver the piteous cry goes up for bread. In New York city the cry goes up When these two panicky conditions the great Mississippi anarchy will follow.” This puts line with Mary E. Lease and Jerry son, although he does not now affiliate with that crowd. His opportunity will better come when the Be has the faculty of turning foes into friends by the power of his matchless oratory, un- one tn Kansas since Jim Lane, whom he so fiercely hated and to whom he re- fused to surrender when that famous poll- lician ruled the republican party in the state. This power was illustrated in the state house here in Topeka, scarcely years ago, when it was fashionable among republicans to rail at him. The occasion was the annual meeting of the Republican an tion of young He was invited to address the he came. The old i leaders of the party tried to adjourn the meeting before criticise him. Then he said, “But it is young men’s meeting. I have heard eg eal about the old and the young would to God that I were young my head, but the fires of youth on the altar of my soul. Of men into politics.” As he period, it was the signal for an the man who, an hour before, viled, was a hero. In the followed, he took a lively interest, a welcome speaker everywhere. sent to the Minneapolis convention, though he was in the movement to pede the delegates to McKinley, he spoke afterward in all the doubtful states in be- half of Harrison. What he has done in the republican party he could do in any other political organization, even in the demo- cratic party, if he chose to affillate with it. He can shift his views to suit any party or politcal creed, and when he finally set- tles in the new party, he will outHerod Herod in his clamor for “reform.” ——__+e-+ Sans Reproche. Lord De Liverus (proudly)—And the es cutcheon of my family has always remain- ed untarnished. Mr. Hogaboom (of Chicago)—You don't say! It would pretty soon get black in Chi- cago. suppose you have the hired girl polish her up every morning. —————.90— No Anise Bag. From Truth. Englesh—“Yesterday’s hunt was a dead failure.” Crosswater—“What was the matter?” Englesh—“They tried a live fox, and the hounds were afraid to chase it”