The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, December 11, 1904, Page 5

SAN ure of courage. Blake might blarney as he would about awakened conscience, but Caylesham had put his finger on the sore spot. Pleasures potentiality of tragedy had asserted itself. It had beer supremely discencerting to dis- cover and recognize its existenc Yeeng Blake was for morality now— not so much because its eyes were turned aupward as for the blameiess security of its embrace. He had.suf- fered such a scare. He really wondered how Caylesham had managed to stand the strain of pleasing himself—with the sudden tragic potentialities of it. He paid unwilling homage to the qual- ities necessary for vice—for candid un- masquerading vice; he knew all about the other species. Yet he was not hard on Sibylla. He recognized her temperament, her un- hap~ - circumstances, and his own per- sonal attractions. What he did not recognize was the impression of him- self which that night in the Sailors’ Rest might leave on her. He copceived an idea of his own magnanimity rest- ing in her mind—yes, though such a notion could gain no comfortable foot- ing in his. Caylesham let him go without more advice—though he had half a mind to tell him not to marry a pretty woman. “Oh, well, in his present mood he won and it would do him lofs of good if he did,” the impenitent, clear- sighted, good-humored sinner reflected, with all the meaning which Lis experi- ence could put into the words. He was of opinion that for certain people the only chaace of salvation lay in suffer- ing gross injustice. “If what a fellow brings on himgelf is justice,” he used to say. He always maintained that fel- lows brought it on themselves—an ex- piring gasp of conscience, perhbaps. Gossip and conjecture had played so much with Walter Blake's name that Mrs. Selford had at first been shy of his approackes and chary of her wel- come. “We must think of Anna,” she had said to her husbanda. But think- ing of or for Anna was rapidly becom- ing superfluous. The young woman took that department to herself. Her @tylishness grew marveloysly, and im- posed a voke of admiring submission. It was an extraordinary ehange from the awkward, dowdy, suppressed girl to this excellently appointed product. The liberty so tardily conceded was making up for lost time, and bade fair to trans- form itself into a tyranny. [The parents were ready subjects, and cast back from the theories of to-day a delusive light on the practices of the past. They conciuded that they had always in- dulged Anna, and that the resuit was Then thev must i So Blake's visits went and welcome became cordial. Anna was quite ciear that she at t had nothing against Blake. His for her was not.what had charm in Sibylla’s ey Her very much by assuming persistently that the dictates of her heart called her toward him, and that worldly consider- ations alone inspired her refusal. “Oh, you're silly!” she cried. you jt's nothing of the sort.” The dusk of the afternoon softened her “zatures; the light of the fire threw up in clear outline the stylish well- gowned figure. Poor Alec. in his shab- by mustard suit, stood opposite her, his hands in his pockets, in dogged misery and resentment, with all the heipless angry surprise of a first ex- perience of this kind, fairly unable to understand how it was tHat love did not call forth love, obstinate in cling- ing to the theory rf another reason as the sole explanation. Things did not exist in vain. For what was his love?” “But—but what am I to do?” he stammered. . Rather puzzled—after all, rather flat- tered—Anna prayed him io be sensible and friendly. He consented to hcpe for her happiness, though he was obvious- ly not sanguine about it. For himself all was over! So he sald as he flung out of the room, knowing nothing of what lay before him on the path of life; dis- cerning nothing of a certain daughter of a poor old political writer—a little round wom.n who made her own gowns, was at once very thrifty and very untidy, was inclined to think that the rulers of the earth should be forcibly exterminated, and lavished an unstinted affection on every being, hu- man or brute, with which she was ever brought into contact. And if she did not greatly influence the trend of public opinion—well, anyhow she tried to. Just now, however, Alec knew nothing about her; he was left to think hopelessly of the trim figure and the lost ideals—the two things would mix themselves up in his mind. To his pathetic stormy presence there succeeded Walter Blake, with all his accomplishment in the art of smooth love making, with his aspirations again nicely adjusted to the object of his desires (he was so much cleverer than poor Alec cver that!), with his power to flatter not only by love but still more by relative weakness. He, of course, did not run at the thing as Alec had done. That would be neither careful of the chances nor eco- nomical of the pleasure. Many a talk was needed before his purpose became certain or Anna could show any sign of understanding it. He dealt warily with her; he was trying, unconsciously, perhaps, to per- form the task Caylesham had indi- cated to him—the t: of learning her paces and adapt{ng his thereto. It was part of his theory about her that she must be approached with great cau- tion; and of course he knew that there was one very delicate bit of ground. How much had she heard about him- self and Sibylla? It as long before he mentioned Sibylla’'s name. At last “I tell £9000000(000000000800000205006600000006900 807 ANNOUNCEMENT. For the purpose of encouraging California and Western writers, by offering a consideration for short stories equal to that paid by the best magazines, and for the purpose of bringing young and unknown writers to the front. the Sunday Call announces a weekly fiction con- test in which a cash prize of $50 will be paid each week for the best story submitted. There is no section of America more fertile in ma- terial for fiction or more prolific in pens gifted to give spirit to the material at hand than is California and the West. Therefore the Sun- day Call offers $50 for the best story submitted each week by a West- ern writer. Stories of Western rule, be given the preference, but all life and Western characters will. as a strong stories, and especially strong stories by new writers, will receive careful consideration. Each story will be judged st rictly upon its literary merit. Type- written copy is the easiest to redd 2nd will receive the first consider- ation from the editor. but do not hesitate to send a story in hand- writing if you cannot afford to have it tynewritten. Fifty dollars in cash for a s tory of not less than 2500 words and not more than 3500 words is approximately $17 per thousand words, or 1.7 cents per word. The high est price paid by the leading magazines for the work of any but the very best writers is ‘rarely more than two cents a word, more often one cent arnd a half, and generally one cent. With the maijority of magazines the writer, after his story is ac- cepted, is compelled to wait. until the publication of his story before he is paid, .a period of seldom I nine months to a year. The sto: paid for immediately upon publi ess than six months, and usually from ries accepted in this contest will be cation, and will be published on the first Sunday following the judring of the week’s manuScripts. not to reform;, it was to But gossip and conjecture as 10 his past life were as good incentives to the one task as to the other. His good looks, his air of fashion, his comfortable means, helped the work. He widened the horizon of men for her, and made her out of conceit with her first achievements. She was content that Jeremy should ppear from her court; she became contemptuously impatient of Alec Turner's suit. She was fastidious and worldly wis Again Mrs. Selford rejoiced. She had been in some consternation over Alec Turner's now obvious attachment, coming just at the time when Anna had established the right to please Suppose her firstgmse of lib- had been to throw hfiff away? For to what end be stylish if you are going to marry on £190 a year? But Anna was quite safe—strangely safe, Mrs. Selford thought in her heart, though she rebuked the wonder. Al- most unkindly safe, she thought some- times, as she strove to soften the blows which fell on poor Alec—since, so soon as he ceased to be dangerous, .he be- yna is so sensible,” she said to Selford. “She’s quite free from the hed just a little as she spoke. he'd make a good wife for any man,” declared Selford proudly—g general declaration in flat contradic- tion to Caylesham’'s theories about double harness. Anna paid -no heed to opinions or comments. She went about her busi- ness and managed it with instinctive skill. It sometimes puzzied poor Alec Turner to think why his prgsence was sc often requested, when his arrival evoked so little enthusiasm. He did not realize the part he played in Anna’s scheme, nor how his visits were to ap- pear to Walter Blake. Anna’s general- ship had thought all this out. The ex- hibition of Alec was a subsidiary move in the great strategic conception of capturing Walter Blake on the re- bound from Sibylla. But the pawn was not dccile, and obje ted violently so soon as its func- tion began to be apparent. Anna pre- cipitated what she did not desire—a passionate avowal in which the theme of her own gifts and fascination was intermingled with the ideal of influenc- ing " trend of public opinion from a modest home and on a modest income. She was told that she could be removed from the vanities of life and be her true, her highest seif. When she showed no inclination to accept the op- portunity thus indicated, Alec passed through incredulity te anger. Had he cast his pearls before—well, at inappre- clative feet? At this tone Anna became excusably huffy; to refuse a young man is not to deny all the higher moral obligations. Besides Alec annoyed her S =< Qfij’fi% WA tured on throwing cut a feeler. s-unrufiled composure persuaded him that she ki v nothing of the faets, but her shrewd analysis of Sibylla shewed, in his judgment, that sle quite understood the woman. It was the dusk of the afternoon again (Anna rather affected that time of day), and Blake, with a sigh which might be considered as in the nature of a con- fession, ventured to say: “I wish I could read peorle as you can. 1 rhould have avoided a lot of trouble.” “You can read yourself, can't you?” asked Anna. - Jove, that’s good—that's very good! No, I don’t know that I can. But I expect you can read me, Miss Selford. I shall have to come to you for lessons, shan’t I?” ‘11 tell you all the hard bits,” she laughed, “You’ll have to see a lot of me to do that!" Anra was not quite so sure of the need, but she did not propose io stop the game. £ “Do I seem so very reluctant to see a lot of you?” she inquired. Blake’s eyes caught hers through the semi-dcrkness. She was aware of the emotion with which he regarded her. It f und an answer in her, am answer which for the moment upset both her coolness and her sense of mastery. She had a revelation that her dominion, not * seriously threatened, would be pleasantly checkered by intervals of an instinctive submission. This feel- ing almost smothered the element of contempt which had hitherto mingled in her liking for him and impaired the ~pride of her conquest. “I was judging you by myself. Com- pared with me, you seem reluctant,” he said in a low Vvoice, coming a little nearer to her. “But then it does me a lot of good to come ard see you. It's not only the pleasure I come for, though that’s very great. You keep up my ideals.” “I'm so glad. The other day I was told I'd ruined all somebody’s ideals. Well, I oughtn’t to have told you that, I suppose; but it slipped out.” Things will slip out, if one takes care to iéRve the door open. She was standing by the table and Blake was now close by her. “Since I've known you—" “Why, you've known me for years, Mr. Blake!” “No. I only knew a little girl till—till I came back to town this time.” He referred to that yachting cruise on which he had ultimately started alone. “But since then I've been a different sort of fellow. I want to go on being different, and you can help me.” His voice trembled; he was wrapped up in his emotion and abundantly sure of its sincerity. Anna moved away a little, now rather nervous. since no instinct, how- anyhow, ever acute, can give quite the assur- ance that practice brings. But she was very triumphant, too, and moreover a good deal touched. That break in young Blake's volce had done him good service before; it never became arti- ficial or overdone, thanxs to his facul- ty of coming quite fresh to every new emotional crisis; it was always most happily natural. 5 “Anna!” he said, holding out his hands, with those skillfully appealing eyes of his just penetrating to hers. With a long drawn breath she gave him her hand. He pressed it and be- gan to draw her gently toward him. She yielded to him slowly, thinking at the last moment of what she had de- cided she would never thigk about and would show no wisdom Yn recaliing. The vision of another woman had shot into her mind and for a few seconds gave her pause. Her hesitation was shert and left her self-confidence un- broken. What she had won she would kezp. The dead should bury its dead —a thing it had declined- to do for Christine Fanshaw. “Anna!” he said again. “Do vyou want me to say.more? Isn’t that say- ing it all? I can't say all of it, you know."” She let him draw her siowly to. him; but she had spcken no word and was not yet in his arms when the door opened and she became aware of a man standing on the threshold. Young Blake, all engrossed, had noticed noth- ing, but he had perceived her yielding. X my Arna” he whispered rap- h” she hissed, drawing her hand sharply away. “Is tinat you, Rith- ards Richards was the Scifords’ vant. man ser- man laughed. “If you'd turn the light on, you could not mistake me for any ¥ 80 respec- table as Richard: i 've been with your father told me I would find your mother Anna recognized the voice. “Mr. lmasun, I didn’t know you were in London.” “Just up for the day and I wanted to see your father.” Anna moved to the switch and turned on the light. She glanced hastily young Blake. He had not moved; face was rather red and he look; happy. Anna’s feeling wa: nounced anger against Grantley scn, His appearance had ail the effect of purposed malice; it made her feel at once jealous and absurd. But it was on her own behalf that resented it. She was not free from a that Blake shouid be made uncomfort- he Each Week SHORT $5 voice: he liked to be told that any such confession was unnecessary, and wculd have welcomed such an assurance even from Grantley's hostile lips. “Certainly; and equally unnecessary that I shculd tell Anna anything.” He paused a moment and then went on. “In a different case I might think I had a different duty—though, being what Yyou might call an interested party, I should consider carefully before I al- lowed myself to act on that view. But 2s matters stand you -yourself have made any’ action on my part superflu- ous.” “I have?” “Oh, yes! You so far injured the fame of the woman for whom you had not afterward the pluck to fight that it's not necessary for me to tell Sel- ford ihbat you were in love with her a few months before you made love to his daughter, nor that you tried to run away with her, but that in the end you fiinked the job. I needn’t tell him, because he knows—and his wife knows. You took care of that. Young Blske said ncthing, though he ak. just as nd mother know.” he knows nothing, I tell you. She e her face when she s vas ards?" you— was embarrassed, ourse—pu “Ehe kncws not the datall She knows that ve made no duty incumben othing thea?"” wthing at all.” ntley relapsed into side elf-possessed silernice. were on young Biake ne.mcre, but rest- ed placidly on one of Selford’s best pic- tures on the opposite wall. Blake clear- throat and shifted uneasily from weli, Biake. Oh, the main thing. ite well. - And she ¢ decigion. There's uite shall say asked Grantley be better to con- our interview with Anna e Mrs. Seiford’'s coming in h Biake broke ¢ “God knows, Tr me to say a word to ¥ Grantley raised “It's impossible, can be no words betv about that. And what does it matter to you what I thi I shall hold my And you'h sure I've no se of complaint—quite sure if hold my tongue. And I think $20 for the Best. STORY 0§ only I Submitted to them————— SUNDAY CALL 1350 g ‘.00.0“0.‘” 290000 able; so much discipline would be quite wholesome for him. For her own part, though, she wanted to get out of the room. “May I ring for the real Richards and— Oh, 1 beg your pardon, Blake, how are you? May I ring for the real Richard d send word to your mother, Anna?” Grantley was, as usual, urbane and unperturbed. “I'll go and find her for you. she's lyinz down.” “Oh, well. then—"" “Nc, I know she’ll want to see you,” and Anna ran lightly out of the room. Grahtley strolled to an armchair and sank into it. He did not look at Blake, nor, his formal greeting given, appear to be conscicus of his presence. Young Blake was in a turmoil. He hated to see Grantley; all the odious thought of his failure and defeat was brought back. He hated that Grant- ley should have seen him making love tc Anna Selford, for in. his heart he was conscious that he could not cheat an outside vision as he could manage to cheat himself. But both these feel- ings, if not swallowed up in fear, were at least outdone by it. His greet de- sire phad been to settle this matter finally and irrevocably before a hint of it came to the ears either of Grant- ley or Sibylla. What would Grantiey do now? “You saw us?” he asked in a sullen anxious voice. “I couldn’t help it. I'm sorry,” said Grantley in colorless politeness. “Well?” “I really don’t understand your ques- tion, Blake. At least you seem to mean it for a question,” “You do know what I mean. I'm not going to ask any favors of you. I only want to know what you intend to do?” “About what?” “About what you saw—and heard, too, 1 suppose?” Grantley rose from his chair in a leisurely fashion and stood with his back to the fire. He was looking at young Blake with a slight smile; Blake grew redder under it. “Oh, I can't beat about the bush,” Blake went on impatiently. ‘‘¥You might, if you chose, tell Miss Selferd what you know.” “Well?” said Grantley in his turn. “And—and oh, you see what might happen as well as I do. I—I meant to —to explain at my own time; but—-" “I shouldn’t let the time come in a hurry, Blake. It'll be a very awkward quarter of an hour for both of you, and quite unnecessary.” “Unnecessary 2" There was a ring of hope in Blake's I think Anna will hold her tongue. Then you'll forget she knows and go on posturing before her with entire satisfaction to yourself.” He turned his eyes on him and laughed a little. *“As long as you can humbug yourself or anybody else, or even get other people to let you think you’re humbugging them ycu're quite happy, you know.” Blake looked at him once or twice, but his tongue found no words. He turned and walked toward the door. “Wait in the dining-rcom,” said Grantle, Blake went out without turning or seeming to hear. After a moment or two Anna’s step came down the stairs. “Mamma'll be down directly, Mr. Im- asoh,” she called as she reached the door. Then her eyes tcok in the room. “Mr.—Mr. Blake?”’ she asked, with a sudden quick rush of color to her cheeks. “I think you will find him in the din- ,ing-room,” said Grantley, gravely. She understood—and she did not lack courage. She had enough for two—for herself and for Blake. sShe met Grant- ley’s look fair and square, drawing up her trim stylish figure to a stiff rigid- ity, and setting her lips in a resolute line. Grantley admired her attitude and her open defiance of him. He smiled at her in a confidential mockery. “Thanks, Mr. Imason, I'll tvok for him. You'll be all right till mamma comes?” “‘Oh, yes, I shall *e all right, thanks, Anna.” He sn.iled still. Anna gave him an- other look of defiance: “I intend to go my own way; I know what I'm about. I don’t care a pin what you think.” TkLe glance seemed to Grantley as eloquent as Lord Burgh- ley's nod. And no more than Lord Burghley did she spoil its effect by words. She gave it to Grantley full and square, then turned on her heel and swung jauntily out of the room. Grantley's smile vanished. He screwed up his lips as if he had tasted something rather sour. CHAPTER XXIIL A Thing of Fear. Grantley Imason had Intended to go down to Milldean that same evening, but a summons from Tom Courtiand reached him, couched in such terms that he could not hesitate to obey it. He sought Tom at his club the moment he received the message. Tom had been sent for to his own house in the morning, and had heard what had happened there. He had seen the { infi wounded child and the other two ter- rified little creatures. Suezette Bligh gave him her account. The doctor told him that Sophy was no longer in danger, but that the matter was a grave one—a very serious shock and severe local injury: the child would recover with care and with auiet, but would always bear a mark of the wound, an ineffaccable scar. That was the conclusion, half good half bad, reached after a night of doubt whether Sophy would not die from the vio- lence and the shock. “Did you see.your wife?”’ Grantley asked. “‘See her? I should kill her if I saw her,” groaned Tom. “But—but what's belig done?” he's In her room—she’s been there ever since it happened. Suzette's seen her—nobody else. Nobody else will go near her. Of course while there was a doubt abodt Sophy—well, the doctor made it a condition that she should corfine herself to her room till the thing tiok a definite turn. I hope he's frightened at last. I don't know at to do. The woman ought to be hanged, Grantley.” but wrath and horror at his wife were not the onlv feelings in Tom's mind; the way the thing had hap- nened raised other thoughts. He was prostrate under the sense that the fury which had smitten poor little Sorhy had been aimed at him; his acts had inspired and directed it. had made his children’s love for him a-crime in their mother” All his excuses,~both false and real, failed him now. His own share in the tragedy of his home was heavy and heinous in hi e I ought to have ren children,” he kept repeating 'y. He ought to have s foucht the battle for and however hard the battle wa But he had run away—to Mrs. Bolton—and left them alone to endure the increa: fury of Harriet’, I'vy damned coward over it, this is what comes of it, It was all true. Tom had not thought of the children. Even though he lo them, he had deserted them treache because he had considered only wrongs. and had been wrapped 1 his own personal quarrel with his wife. What he had found unendurabi himself he had left those helpless lit- tle creatures to endure. All the argu- ments which, had se ed so strong to Justity or to liate 5 sort to the Bolton refuge sounded k and mean to him ncw—and to Grantley too, who had been used to rely on them, lightly i them with a man of the sy philosophy. His friends almost encouraged in his treacherous d rtion of hi en; they too had lo z but the me; his E smber the desperate- yed and with them, h h Tom chi quarrel manent question remains. Isn’t it all hopeless, Mr. Imason?" 2 a terrible business for you to be involved in.” nly thank heaven I was ! But for me I believe she'd have killed the child. “What state is she in now?"” “I really don’t know. She won't speak to me. She sits quite still, just staring at me. I try to stay with her, but it’s too dreadful. I can’t help hat- ing her—and I think she knows it."” Grantley had some experience of com- ing to know what people feel about him. “1 expect she does “What, will happen, “J don’t know—except that the chil- dren mustn't stay with her. Is she afraid of being prosecuted, do you think?” She hasn’t said anything about it. No, she doesn’t seem afraid; I don't think that’s her feeling. But—but hee eyes look awful. When I had to teill her that the doctor had forbidden her to come near the children, and said he would send the police into the house if she tried to go to them—well, I" never seen such an expression on any human face before. She looked like— ebody in hell, Mr. Imason.” 1" groaned Grantley with a jerk head, as though he turned from ful spectacle. T've just been with her. I persuaded her to go (o bed—she's not slept since it happened, I know—and got her to let me help her to undress. Her maid won’t go to her, she's too frightened. I hope she’ll go to sleep, or really I think she’ll lose her senses.” She paused and then asked: “Will this make any differ- ence in—in the proceedings?” “Well, it gives Tom something to bar- gain with, doesn’'t it? But you can't tell with her. The ordinary motives may not appeal to her, any more than the natural ngs. I hope it may be pagsible to frighten her.” Anyhow, the children won't have to ¥? You're sure of that?” , We must try hard for that,” Grantley. But Tom had made even that more difficult, because he had considered only his own quarrel, and not thinking of the children had run away to refuge with Mrs. Bolton, saving his own skin by treacherous flight. Suzette bade Grantley good-night. She, too, must sleep or her strength would fail. “You'll keep the door open?" she asked. “And her room is just over this. You'll hear if she moves, though I don't think She will. It is good of wou, Mr. Imasqn. We shall all sleep quietl night.! Oh, but how tired you'll be “Not 1.” he smiled. “T've often till daylight on less worthy oc You're the hero! come through this finely.” he nodded. Mr. Imason?" said No story wiil be considersd that is less than 2500 nor more than 3500 words in length. The length of the story must be marked in plain figures. I In the selection of stories names will not count. The unknown writer will have the same standing as the popular author. As one of the objects of the Sunday Call is to develop a new corps of Western writers no stories under noms de plume will be considered. If a story earns publication it will be well worth the writer’s name. I be returned at once. Stories not accepted will will be published one each week. Those selected This fiction contest will be cordtinued indefinitely. Vi An_author may submit as many manuscripts as he desires, but no one writer will be permitted to win more than three prizes during the contest. wvii No manuscripts will be returned Always inclose return postage. unless accompanied by return postage. wvins Write on one side of paper onl pu* name and address legibly on last page, and address to the SUNDAY EDITOR OF THE CALL, SAN FRANCISCO, CAL. putting that by itself in a false isola- tion from the total life of the family, of which it was in truth an integral indivisible part. So Grantley meditated as he listened to Tom's laments; and the meditation was not without mean- ing and life for him also. Tom had a request to make of him— that he would go round to the house and spend the evening there. ren’t trust myself near Harriet,” “agnd I'm uneasy with oniy crvants there. They're all afra of her. She was cowed, Suzette says, while there was danger; but she may break out again—anything might start her again. If you could stay till she's safely in bed—"" “I'll stay all night, if necessary, old fellow,” said Grantley promptly. “It'll take a weight off my mind— and I've got about enough to bear. I'm going to stay here, of course; so you'll know where to find me if I'm wanted, though I don't see what can happen now."” Terror brooded over the Courtlands’ house. Grantley rejoiced to see how his coming did something to lift the cloud. The two children left Suzette's side ,(they loved her, but she seemed to them a defense all too frail), and came to him, standing on either side of his knee and putting their hands in his. The listening strained look passed out of their eyes as he talked to them. Presently little Vera climbed up and nestled cn his knee, while Lucy leant against his shoulder, and he got them to prattle about happy things, old holi- days and bygone treats to which Tom had taken them. At last Lucy laughed merrily at some childish memory. The sound went straight to Grantley's heart: a great tenderness came upon him. As he kissed them, his thoughts flew to his own little son—the child who had now begun to know love, to greet it and to ask for it. How these poor children prized even a decent kindness! Grantley seemed to himself to have done a fine day’s work—as fine a day’s work as he had ever done in his life— when he sent them off to bed with smiling lips and eyes relieved of dread. “You won’t go away to-night, will you?” Lucy whispered as she kissed him good night. “Of course he's not going!” cried 1it- tle Vera, bravely confident in the strength of her helplessness. “No, I'll stay all night—all the whole night,” Grantley promised. He made his camp in the library on the ground floor, and there presently Suzette Bligh came to see him. She gave a good account of the wounded child. Sophy slept; the capable cheery woman who had come as nurse gave her courage to sleep. “We must get her away to the seaside as soon as possible, and she'll get all right, I think; though there must be a mark always. And of course the per- N e 007 o = 55 Suzette's cheeks flushed at this praise. “I do love the poor children,” she said, as Grantley pressed her hand. He sat down to his vigil. [Continued Next Sunday.] JOE ROSENBERG’'S. Wise Mothers AND ObservingFathers Have Their Children Wear Teddy Roosevelt, or The Rough Rider STOCKINGS Made of the best double- twisted American Thread; rein- forced heel and toes and knee; extra length; Jersey ribbed; in summer and winter weight; vel- vet finished; stainless black; made right and fit right; a com- fort giver to sensitive feet. . Should be called everlast- ing; they wear that way. 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