The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, July 12, 1903, Page 4

THE SUNDAY CALL., but it stays still. Now remember onomy and feel the earth turn. » actually see it mowe—whirl- like a child’s ball because It help ‘tself, and then there's the er motion around the sun, and the other, the rushing of everything through space, and who knows how many others, and yet we plan our futures and think we do finely this way or that, and al- ways forget that we're taken along in spite of ourselves, Sometimes I think I shall give up trying; and then 1 see la@@r at even that feeling was one of the un- ywn motions that I couldn’t contr®. wing we know is that we are ved in spite of ourselves, so what is e use of bothering about how many s, or where they shall fetch us?” Miss Khayyam, I've often read r father's verses.” “No relation whatever: he was L.” t don’t forget you can see the earth £ by a rising as well as by a setting watching a sun rige—" you wish,” re with perfect from us e only we're the same she said, candor to go back in the quick- ntain dusk. downward an Garden,” ith hers: did eag d she sang Per nd he blend- his voice his wes &l at like water a1 ng you—and er?—in New York,” parted, *and 1 am when we're wn to each i were the ¢ ght of you e of any other tc w it vl other. e now, when je no small eam to come true.” haven’t we been sen I'm never like I've rea r with its after a stoy like us are e young vigor of men easonable with t m to have their owr and the Infirmities were hastily =aid, and ttled dow the canyon th: or of the car hed her while the glist- ed to be pushing her TSP ive. EBhe stood inscrutable to the last, ng steadily toward him—al- it seemed to him once. sald cheerfully to Uncle Peter. You know, son, 1 don't like to cuss ut except one or two of them folks I'd the middle kittle of hell the place that turns ‘em out le me—that talk about ‘people in umbler walks of life.” Of course I mble, but then, son if you come down to it, as the feller said, I demned Lumble!™ CHAPTER ght ain’t =0 THREE LETTERS, | CONFID MR. PERCIVAL BINES TO MISS PSYCHE BINES, MONTANA CITY Car at Skiplap Tuesday When you kept nagging Who is the girl?” and 1 said you couid search me, you wouldn’t have it honestly, until this morn- know her myself. Now that next, here goes One night last March, after I'd come back from tue other side, I happened into little theater Broadway where a e was running. It's a rowdy lit- ce—a music hall-but nice people though it's stuffy, it's e p g0 there bec kept decent Sbe was in a box with two men—one old one young—and an older woman. As as 1 saw her ghe had me lashed to the mast in a high sea, with the great salt waves dashing over me. I never took much stock in the tales about it happen- ing at first sight, but they're as matter- fact as market reports. Soon as 1 oked at her it seemed to me I'd known her alway I was sure we knew each other better than any two people between y and Yonkers, and that I 't acting sociable to sit down there from her and pretend we were gers yet. Actually, it rattied me so I had to take the full count. If I hadn't been wedged in between a couple of peo- ple that filled all the space, and then some, it isn’t any twenty to one that I wouldn’t have gone right up to her and asked her what she meant by cutting me. 1 was ugly enough for it. But I kept ooking and after awhile I was able to sit up and ask what hit me. Bhe was dressed in something black and kind of shiny and wore a big black t fussed up with little red roses, and her face did more things to me in a min- ute than all the rest I've ever seen. It was full of little kissy places. Her lips were very red and her teeth were very white, and I couldn’t tell about her eyes. But sbe was brec up to the Jat notch, I could see that, k "ell, 1 watched her through the tobacco emoke untfl the last curtain fell. They were putting on wraps for a minute or so, 2d 1 noticed that the young fellow in the party. who'd been drinking all through the show, wasn’t a bit too steady to do an act on the high wire. They left the box and came down the stairs and I bunched into the crowd and let myself ooze out with them, wondering if I'd ever see her 2gain. I fetched up at an stroct, and thers they weve. Gtrsiy o front of me. I just naturally drifted to one side and continued my little private corner in crude rubber. It was drizzling in a beastly way, the street was full of carriages, numbers were being called,cab- drivers were insulting each other hoarse- ly, people dashing out to see if their car- riages weren't coming—everything in a whirl of drizzle and dark and yells, with the horses’ hoofs on the pavement sound- ing like castanets. The two older people got into a carriage and were driven off, while she and the young fellow walited for theirs. 1 could see then that he was £00d and soused. He was the same lad they threw on the screen when the “Old Homestead” quartet sings “Where is My Wandering Boy To-night I could see she was annoyed and a litt'> worried, be- cause he was past taking notice The man kept velling the number of thelr carriage from time to time, while the others he'd called were driving up— it was 249 if any one ever tries to worm it out of you—and then I saw from her face that 249 had wriggled pretty near to the curb, but w 1 kept away by an- other carriage. She sald something to the drunken cub and started to reach the car- riage by going out into the street behind the one in Its way. At the same time their carriage started forward and the inebriate, instead of going with her, start- ed the other way to meet it, and so, there she was alone on the slippery pavement in this muddle of prancing horses and velling terriers. If you can get any bets that T was more than two seconds getting out there to her, take them all 1 give better than tr odds if necessary. Then I guess she got rattled, for when 1 wouid have led her back to the she made a d the but slippe team of bays a 3 claw the roses off her hat helpless irned around,’ naturally grabbed her and she frightened by this time that she me, and the result was that I « to the sidewaik and set h carriage still stood gle Rumlets screa iriver to go on. 1 had her in a jiffy, and they were off. Not a word sbout My Preser- ver!” though, of course, with the fright and noise and her mortification, that was natura Afte she w seeing rabbed her can belleve it or n ~nd 1 never dreamed ce but New York a Well, g when 1 came up fr below at the mine she was standiug the as if she had been waiting f is Miss Avice Milbrey, of New ¥« fine people, the with her, memb er has with I been her had lunch that u s the & with they on »n- She your height, 1 s i judge, )t 80 plump They've all \ the mine; later a walk with ler 30 for the E: We got s a w ou about five feet at 1 can t that near as any a rose-pink glve you her eyes. You only see fi they're deep and clear, but as anything they are the warm slatish lav- ender blue you see | little fall as- ters. She ha it makes her head look ght chestnut, with w Tran arent is another word for her right through ar. Her natu kind, “step in trouble to show goods, she is so bea beauty that it gave me a qu ing older at the g» than she can't be a da that's because she's been around in clety so much. Probably she'd be called the typical New York girl if you wanted to talk talky talk Now T've told e 80 1k, open stock; no 1 that, and 15 of her times she Iam over 20; but so0 vou evervthing exeept that the people all asked kindly after vou, especially her mother and Mrs Drelmer, who's a four-horse tea herself. Oh, yes! No, I can't re v wel ome Kind of a brown w skirt, short, and high ooking kind, and when we went to walk a red plaid golf cape; and for general all- around dearness—say, the other entries wouid all turn gre and have to be with- drawn. If any one thinks this thing is going to end here make a book on it right away: take you can get. Little Wi Lushiets was her ther-—a lovely boy if you get to talking love to Lady Abercromble T ting. my dear Countess, to have the pleasure of meetl tnight hence, 1 remain, ially . E. . 'R ST. TREVORS, and Notary Public. rec From Mrs. Joseph Drelmer to the Hon Cecil G. H. Mauburn, New York: ROT August 28 My Dear Mauburn—Ey hear of the tribe of Bines? If not, you need to. The father immensely wealthy, died a bit ago, leaving a widow and two children the latter being a marriageable in more than the merely 1 sense. There is also a grandfather, now a littl descended into the vale of years, who, they teil me, has almost as many dollars as you or I would know what to do with, a queer old chap who lounges ahout the mountains and looks as if he might have 2nything but money. We met =on and the old man at one of their mines vesterday. They have a private large as Shepler's and ever ritic, and they'd been m a inspection over their properties lunched with ue. Knowing the Milbreys, you will divine the warmth of their be- havior toward the son. It was too fun at first. Avice was the only one to st pect at once that he was the very siderable personage he is, and so she promptly sequestered him, with a skill born of her long praetice, in the depths of the earth, somewhere near China, I fancy. Her dear parents were furio Dressed as one of the miners they took him to be an employe. The whole party, taking the cue from outraged parent- hood, treated him icily when he emerged from one of those subterranean galleries with that tender sprig of girlishness. That is, we were icy untll, on the v up, he remaining in the depths, Avice's dear mother began to rebuke the thoughtiess minx for her indiscretion of strolling through the earth with a working person. Then Avice, sweet chatterbox, with joy- ful malice revealed that the young man, whose name none of us had caught, was Bines, and that he owned the mine we were in, and she didn't know how many others, nor did she believe he knew hir.- self. You should have felt the tempefa- ture rise. It went up faster than we were going. By the time we reached the sur- face the two Milbreys wore looks that would have made the angels of peace and good-will look full of hatred and distrust. Nothing would satisfy them but that we wait to thank the young Croesus for his courtesy. I waited because I remembered the daughter, and Oldaker and the Ang- stead twins waited out of decency. And when the genius of the mine appeared from out his golden catacombs we fell upon him in desperate kindness. Later in the day I learned from him that he expects to bring his mother and sister to New York this fall, and that they mean to make their home there hereafter. Of course that means that the girl has notions of marriage. What made me think so quickly of her is that in San Francisco, at a theater last winter, she one of 1ghter technic the con- out to me, and while not the injustice of supposing it would make the least difference to you, she is rather a beauty, you'll find; figure fullish, yel- low hair and a good-natured, well-fea- tured, pleasing sort of face; a bit rococo in manner, 1 suspect; a little too San Francisco, as so many of these Western beauties are, but you'd not mind that, and a year in New York will tone her down anyway. Now if your dear uncle will only confer a lasting benefit upon the world and his title upon you, by paying the only debt he is ever liable to pay, I am persuaded vou could be the man here. I know nothing of how the fortune was left, nor of its ex- tent, except that it’s sa’d to be stiffish and out Fere t.at means a .if round sum. The reason 1 write promptly is that you may not go out of the country just now. That sweet little Milbrey chit—really, Avice is far too old now for ingenue parts —has not only grappled the son with hooks of steel, but from remarks the good mother dropped concerning the fine qualities of her son, she means to convert the daughter's dot into Milbrey prestige, also. What a glorious double stroke it would be, after all their years of trying. However, with vour title, even in pros- pective, Fred Miibrey is no rival for you to fear, providing you are on the ground s soon as he, which is why I wish you to stav in New York. 1 am indecd gratified that you have broken off whatever affair there may have been between you and that music-hall person. Really, you know, though they talk so about us, a young man can't mess t with that sort of thing in New he can in London. So I'm glad back, and as she is in no posi- 1 shouid pay no atten- tion to her threats. What under heaven did the creature expect? Why should she have wanted to marry you? 1 shall see you probabiy in another fort- night You know that Milbrey girl must get her effronterv direct from where they 1ake it. She pretended that at first she ok voung Bines for wnat we all .took n. an emplove of the mine. You can st catch them winking at each other, when she tells it, and dear mamma with beautiful resignation, says, “My Avice fis so {impulsively democratic.” Dear Avice, you know, is really quite as ive as the steel bridge our train t rattled over. Sincerely, SPHINE PR<STON DRELMER. From Miss Avice Milbrey to Mrs. Cornella . New York. Mutterchen. dearest, 1 feel like that green hunter you had to sell last spring— the one that would go at a fence with the most perfect display of serious in- tentions, and‘then balk and bolt when f{t nping. Can it be that I, who Leen trained from the cradle to the idea of marrying for money, will bolt the gate after all the expense and pains lav- ished upon my eaucation to this end; after the years epent In learning how to enchant, subdue, and exploit the most of all animals, and the most agree- rring a few? And vet, right when > fittest—24 years old, knowing all my good points and just how to coerce the most admiration for each, able nicely to calculate the exact disturbing effect of the ensemble upon any poor male, and feeling confident of my excessively eligli- ble part! when I decide for him—in this situation, striven for so earnestly, I feel like bolting the bars. How my trainer and jockey would weep tears of rage and despalir if they guessed ft! There, there—I know your shrewd gray eyes are crackling with curiosity and you want to know what it's all about, whether to scold me or mother me, and will T please omit the entrees and get to the roast mutton. But you dear, dear old aunt, you, there is more vagueness than detall, and 1 know I'll strain your patience I've done. But, to relieve yvour mind, nothing at all has really happened. After all, it's mostly a troublesome state of mind, that I shall doubtless find gone when we reach Jersey City—and in two waye this Western trip is responsible for it. Do you know the journey ftseit has been fascinating. Too bad so many of us cross the ocean iwenty times Lefore we know anything of this country. We loi- ter in Paris. do the stupid German water- ini-places, the Norway flords, down to Italy for the museums, see the chateaux of the lLoire, or do English race- tracks, thinking we're 'mused; and all the time out here where the sun goes down is an intensely Interesting and beau- tiful country of our own that we over- look. You know I'd never before been even as far as Chicago. Now for the first time I can appreciate lots of those things in Whitman, that 1 think herofc deeds were all concelved in the open air, and free poems, also Now 1 see the sscret of making th: best per- sons It 1s to grow in the open air and to eat and sleep with the earth 1 mayn't have quoted correctly, but you know the sort of thing I mean, that sounds so breezy and stimulating. And they've helped me understand the im- mensity of the landscapes and the ideas out here. the big, throbbing, rough young life, and under it all, as Whitman says, “a meaning—Democracy, American Dem- ocracy.” Really it's been interesting. the jest time of my life, and it's got me unsettied. More than once m watch- ing some scene typical of the region, the plain, busy, earnest people, I've actually thrilled to think that this was my coun- try—feit that aueer little tlckiing that locates your spine for you. I'm sure there's no ennui here. Some cne said the other day, “Ennui is a disease ymes m living on other people’s money.” 1 ald no, that I'd often had as “ne an at- tack as If 1'd been left a billion, that ennui fs when you don’t know what to do next and wouldn't do it if you did. Well, here they always do know whut to do next, and as one of them told me, “We always get up early the day before to do it. ‘Auntie, dear, the trip has made me more restless and dissatisfied than ever. 1t makes me want to do something—to risk something, to want to want some- thing more than I've ever learned to want. That's one reason I'm acting badly. The other reason will interest you more. Jt's no less a reason than the athletic young Bayard who cheated those cab- horses of their prey that night Fred didn't drink all the Scotch whis.ev in New York. Our meeting, and the mater's treatment of him before she discov- ered who he was, are too deliclous to write. 1 must wait to tell you. 1t's enough to say now that though I heard his name it recalled nothing to me, and 1 took him from his dress to be a workingman in the mine we were visiting, though from his speech and manner of a gentleman, some one in authority. Dear, he was so dear, and so Westernly breezy and progressive and enterprising and so appallingly candid. I've been the ‘“one woman” to him, ‘‘the unknown but re- membered ideal,” since that encounter. Of course that was to be said, but strangely enough he meant it. He was actually and unaffectedly making love to me. He's not so large or tall, but quick end springy, and muscled like a panther. He's not beautiful. either. but pleasant to was pointed I do you she's g tion to harm vou such before , one of those broad, high-cheeked faces one sees so much in the West, with the funniest quick yellowish gray eyes, and the most disreputable mustache I ever saw, yellow and ragged. If he must eat it, 1 wish he would eat it off even clear across. And he's likely to talk the most execrable slang, or to quote Brown- ing. But he was making real love, and you know I'm not used to that. I'm ac- customed to go my pace before sharply calculating eyes, to show if I'm worth the asking price. But here was real love be- ing made off down in the earth (we'd run away from the others because I liked him at once). I don’t mind telling you he moved me, partly because I had won- dered about him from that/ night, and partly because of all I had come to feel about this new place and the new people, and because he seemed such a fine, active specimen of Western manhood. 1 won't tell you all the wild lawless thoughts that scurried and sneaked through my mind— they don’t matter now—for all at once it came out that he was the only son of that wealthy Bines who died awhile ago—you remember the name was mentioned that night at your house when they were dis- cussing the exodus of Western million- aires to New York; some one named the father as one who liked coming to New York to dissipate occasionally, but who was still rooted in the sofl where his mil- lions grew. There was the son before me, just an ordinary man of millions, after ail—and my little toy balloon of romance that I'd been floating so gayly on a string of sen- timent was pricked to nothing in an in- stant. I felt my nostrils expand with the excitement of the chase, and thereafter I was my coldly professional self. If that yYoung man has not now a high estimate of my charms of person and mind, then kave my ways forgot their cunning and I be no longer the daughter of Margaret Milbrey, nee Van Schoule. But, Mutterchen, now comes the dis- graceful part. I'm afraid of myself, even in spite of our affairs being so bad. Dad has doubtless told you something must be done very roon, and I seem to be the only one to do it. And yet I am shying at the gate. This trip has unsettled me, I tell you, letting me, among other things, see my old sc.f. Before I always rather Iiked the idea of marriage, that is, after I'd been out a couple of yegrs—not too well, but well enough—and now some way I rebel, not from scruples, but from pure selfishness. I'm beginning to find that 1 want to enjoy myself and to find, further, that I'm not indisposed to take chances, as they say out here Will you understand, I wonder? And do women who sell themselves ever find any real pleasure in the bargain? The most elo- quent examples, the ones who sell them- selves to many men, lead wretched lives. But does the woman who sells herself to but one enjoy life any more? She's sure- ly as bad, from any standpoint of morals, and I imagine sometimes she Is less nap- PY. At any rate, she has less freedom and more obligations under her contract. You see I am philosophizing pretty cold- ly. Now be horrified if you will. I am selfish by good right, though. “Haven't we spent all our surplus in keeping you up for a good marriage?’ says the mater, meaning by a good mar- riage that I shall bring enough money into the family to “keep up its tradi- tions.” 1 am, in other words, an invest- ment from which they expect large re- turns. 1 told her I hoped she could trace her selfishness to its source as clearly as 1 could mine, and as for the family tradi- tions, Fred was preserving those in an excellent medium.. Which was very ugly in me, and I cried cfterward and told her how sorry I was. n Are you shocked by my cold calcula- tions? Well, I am trying to let you un- derstand me, and I —have no time to waste In patching fig leaves for the naked truth. I am cursed not only with consistent feminine longings and desires, but, in spite of my training and the examples around me, with a disinclination to be wholly viclous. Awhile ago my marriage meant only more luxury and less worry about money. 1 never gave any thought to the husband, certainly never concerned myself with any notions of duty or obli- gation toward him. The.girls I know are taught painstakingly how to get a hus- band, but nothing of how to be a wife. The husband in my case was to be an in- convenience, but doubtless an an ng one. For all his oppression, if there were that, and even for the mere offense of his existence, I should wreak my spite mer- vulgar dollars. T like the pres- ent eligible, the trouble. I like him so well T haven't the heart to marry him. When I was I could have loved him devotedly, 1 believe. Now something seems to be gone, some freshness or fond- 1 can still love—I know it only too well night and day—but It must be a dif- ferent kind of man. He is so very young and reverent and tender, and in a way so unscphisticated. He is so afraid of me, for -all his pretense of boldness. Is it because I must be taken by sheer force? I'll not be surprised if it is. Do we not in our secret soul of souls nourish this beatitud is the man who destroys all barriers?” Florence Akemit sald as ch one day, and Florence, poor soul, knows somethiug of the matter. Do we not sit deflantly behind the barriers, insolently chulienging—throatening caplital punishment for any assauit, relasing not everfty, vet ialling meek and sub- ssive and giad to the man who bruially p v beats them down and de- stroys them uiterly? So many fail by merely beating them down. Of course, if an untiay litter Is left we make a row. We reconstruct the barrier and that par- ar assailant Is thenceforth deprived ant’s rights. What a dear you are that [ can say these things to you! Were girls so frank in your time? Well, my knight of the *golden cross™ (joke:; laughter and loud applause, and cries of “Go on!”) has a little, much in- deed, of the impetuous in him, but, alas! not enough. He has a pretty talent for it but no genjus. 1f I were married to him to-morrow, as surely 1 am a woman | should be made to inflict pain upon him the next day, with an insane stress to show him, perhaps, 1 was not the ldeal woman he had thought me—perhaps out of a jealousy of that very idea] I had in- spired—rational creatures, aren't we?—beg pardon—not me, then, but I. Now he, be- ing a real likable man of a man, can [ do that—for money? Do I want the money badly enough? Would I not even rather be penniless with the man who coerced every great passion and littlest impuise, body and soul—perhaps with a very hate- ful insolence of power over me? Do you know, I suspect sometimes that I've been trained down too fine, as to my nerves, I mean. 1 doubt if it's safe to pamper and trim and stimulate and refine a woman In that hothouse atmosphere—at least if she’'s a healthy woman. She's too apt some time to break her gait, get the bit of tradition between her teeth and then let her impulses run away with her. Oh, Mutterchen, I am so sick and sore, and yet filled with a strange new zest for this old puzzle of life. Will I ever be the same again? This man Is going to ask me to marry him the moment I am ready for him to. Bhall I be kind enough to tell ness. him no, or shall I steel myself to go In and hurt him—make him writhe? And yet do you know what he gave me while I was with him? I wonder if women feel it commonly? It was a desire for motherhood—a curiously vivid and very definite longing—entirely irrespective of him, you understand, although he inspired it. Without loving him or being st all moved toward him, he made me sheerly want to be a mother! Or is it only that men we don't love make us feel motherly? Am I wholly irrational and selfish and bad, or what am I? I know you'll love me, whatever it is, and I wish now I could snuggle on that soft, cushiony shoulder of yours and go to sleep. Can anything be more pitiful than “a fine old family” afflicted with dry- rot like ours? I'm always amused when I read about the suffering in the tenements. The real anguish is up in the homes like ours. We have to do with- out so very many more things, and mere hunger and cold are easy compared to the suffering we feel. Perhaps when I'm back to that struggl for appearances, I'll relent and “barter my charms’ as the old novels used to say, sanely and decently like a well brought- up New York girl-with certain reserva- tions, to & man who can support the family in the style it wants to become accustomed. Yet there may bLe a way out. There is a Bines daughter. for ex- ample, and mamma, who never does one half where she can as well do two, will marry her to Fred if she can. On the other hand, Joe Drelmer was putting in words for young Mauburn, who will be Lord Casselthorpe when his disrcputable old uncle dies. She hasn't yet spent what she got for introducing the Canovas prince to that olcdest Elarton girl, so if she secures this prize for Mauburn, she'll be comfortable for a couple of more years. Perhaps I could turn my hand to sometning like that. 1 know the ropes as well as she does. There, it is a punishment of a letter, isn't it, dear? But I've known every bad place In it, and I've religiously put in your “Come, come, child!" every time it be- longed, so you've not still to scold me, for which be comforted a little: and give me only a few words of cheerful approval if your consclence will let you. I need that, after all, more than advice. Look for us in a week. With a bear-hug for you, AVICE. d P. 8. Is it true that Ned Ristine an his wife have fixed it up and are (0£eter again since his return? Not that et terested especially, but I chanced !: pie:~ it gossiped the other day hers on the AU Indeed, I hope you know how thoroug’ 1 detest that man! CHAPTER X THE PRICE OF AVERTING A BCAN- DAL. S As the train resumed speed after -tofle ping at a station, Grant, the porler.;?::’ back to the observation room of the = car with a telegram for Uncle Peter. s old man read it and for & time ™ e himself into seeming oblivion. Across b car, near by, Percival lounged in & wic! ~ armchalr and stared cheerfully out ln.? the gathering night. He, too, Was lum‘sn ing, his thoughts keeping pleasantly e time with the rhythmic click of t wheels over the rail joints. After & day in the open air he was growing sleepy. Uncle Peter aroused him by making hl: way back to the desk, the rolltop © which he lifted with a sudden rattle. He called to Percival. Sitting down at th; desk he read the telegram again an handed it to the young man, Wh}o ready o ‘Party will try to make good; no b'u,' Won't compromise inside set lmit. H'n»e seen paper and wish another interview before following original instructions. Party will walt forty-eight hm:rs'bef«yr‘e acting. Where can you be seen? W X.r:. of- fice to-night. TAFE & CO?LEA X The young man looked up with mild in- terest. Uncle Peter was writing on & tel- lank. .‘r':::‘-ba Copien, Butte, Montana: Due Butte 7:30 a. m. to—marmv;‘. .‘Y::;: gn‘:yon on ) car nought sixteen, §0 ?ETEB R “D.H.F 742." To the porter who answered his ring he handed the message to be put off at the rst stop. fl"éu! :hl 's it all about?” asked Per- cival, seeing by Uncle Peter's manner that he was expected to show concern. Uncle Peter closed the desk, lighted one of his best cigars and dropped into a ca- pacious chair. The young man seated himself opposite. (Continued Next Sunday.) & %o azs-rzm/‘/o/lqtf bty at 1he fttcoatsab \ af Fe 777% ,d/am’w? g All our petticoats ara made with a new shaped top. By a clever use of darts at the waist a perfect fit is as- sured. Petticoats nowa- days must fit snug- ly over the hips to \ insure a perfect fitting outer skit, and that is the way these are mads. TRUTH MUST PREVAIL, OR YOUR MONEY BACK. LADIES’ PETTICOAT Made of Fast Black Sateen, trimmed with a wide graduating accordion pleated flounce, tailoy stitched seams, also dust ruiffle. kind that hang and fit as they should ................ci.0. PETTICOAT Made of Fast Black. Stainless Italian Cloth. trimmed flounce finished with two braid-trimmed ruffles, width and length. Only to be LACIES’ Generous iu That $1.00 T with a ten-inch tailor stitched hands. had at ; “ $1.00 money-savitig store foF. . cccecittonicaidarsncecacnancsnce . LADIES’ PETTICOAT Nade of Fast Black Near Silk, in white and polka dotted effects. Fin- ished with an extra wide accordion pleated flounce, trimmed with a ruffle. Perfect in hang and fit. prices as these...... LADIES’ Joe Rosenberg’s for such low PETTICOAT $1.00 Made of Fast Black Italian Cloth, trimmed with a deep “flounce, fin- ished with three braid-trimmed ruifles, maSe to order they could not be better. make us SO busy........... LADIFS’ tailor-made throughout. I Our l?w prices $1.15 PETTICOAT Made of Fast Black Berlin Sateen, satin finish, trimmed with a ten-inch flounce, finished with a hemstitched and tucked ruffle: ds. Money could not buy a more service- able skirt than this.. g ;- 23 PETTICOAT tailor stitched bands. LATIES’ also dust ruifle, $1.50 Made of Fast Black English Moreen. trimmed with an eight-inch accor- dion pleated flounce finished with a ruffle; Perfect in every detail. stitched seams. at this price......... LAD ES’ PETT also dust ruifle. 5 1 Tailor- Your opportunity $1.50 COAT Made of Fast Black Iron Frame Alpaca. finished with a deep flounce and trimmed with a flounce of hemstitched tuck Our price . S store for such values as these. The one $2.50 JOE ROSENBERG 1erricecurier 816 Market Street. 1l O'Farrell Street. MAIL ORDERS SOLICITED.