The Abbeville press and banner. [volume] (Abbeville, S.C.) 1869-1924, 1910-03-16

| ly, bare-necked beings, with flowers
in their hair, silken trains, fans, loV.
| ers, instead of watchipgthem forlorr.
[ ~ from without, as she did to-nigha.
| How would she look bare-neckest
with flowers in her hair, with a traiE,
a fan, lovers? How if she should
| attempt a rehearsal of the effect "lov-
| ers excepted" with such rough ma
| terials as she may have at hand!
Miss Burke, as it chances, has left
| the key of her travelling case in the
lock-alas, the frame of miEd for
wrong-doing given, and when doe the
| demon opportunity fail any OF us?-
and in Miss Burke's travelling case
lies, neatly folded, that lady's best
| black silk dress. In shorter time than
it has taken me to write, Belinda, can
die in hand, glides into the arjoining
room, the sanctuary Of Miss Burke's
maiden charms, opens the case. gazes,
| vacillates-handles!
The skirt is too long, for Miss
| Burke is of loftier stature than her
Sell. OO HULL luC 6loAoSh "N
her train. And the sleeves hue be
tucked up, and the bodice pinned
| down, and white lace, also of Miss
Burke's, added here and there, for
| liehtness. Never in her life before
had Belinda touched thread OF needle
save under stress of direst necessity.
But with the very first awakening OF
love in a young girls heart awaken
the instincts of millinery. She COL
lects together such dislocated sewing
| indictments as the household can
boast, with absorbed interest stitches
down a fold here, FUCKERS up a plat
there; finally skips lightly out of her
own dingy Cinderella frock, and a
minute later stands radiant, in the
majesty of rustling silk, short sleeves,
bare throat, and train-a young lady.
She is not an ugly girl, after all.
So much the furnished glass on Miss
Burke's dressing table assures her
promptly. Her neck and shoulders
look lily fair, compared to the sun
tan of her face; her arms are deli
cately fashioned and tolerably plump
for seventeen. But the pig-tails! She
snatches off the hideous frayed-out
green ribbons, unplaits them, I'M be-
hold the ill-kempt, neglected hair
falls around her slender figure in
wave of silky chestnut. A pair OF
gloves of Miss Burke's supplies an
impromptu cushion, over which she
colts it high above her forehead, as
the little Spanish blonde in pink (the
blonde Roger Temple admired) was
coiffed tonight. A scarlet passion
flower, wet with dew from the bal
cony, finishes the picture.
Not ugly? Why, she is pretty al
recdy-a year or two hence will be
admiringly so, prettier than even
Rose in her prime, thinks Belinda,
gazing at her own TRANSPORTED self
in a kind Of rapture. The only thing
she lacks now is jewelry-earrings,
bracelets, a necklace for her throat;
the Jones diamonds, in short. Pend
ing the possession of these, could no
substitute be found to give one some
imperfect foreshadowing of their
splendor?
To the female conscience, once
fairly deadened by vanity, all success
sive downward steps come easily
enough. If a necklace be wanting, a
necklace must be got; honestly, If
one can, but got!
On the landing Of the second floor
stands, as we know, the life-size fig
ure of a saint; martyred, satin-slip-
pered, glittering with gorgeous paste
adornments. If the good old Beata
would only lend that necklace Of hers
for half an hour, ten minutes, long
enough to yield n some faint fore
taste Of the sweets of brilliants? II
assuming her permission one
were to borrow it, say! The glass
case can be opened by a cunning
hand from the back; this fact Bel
india discovered when the first floor
lodger presented the saint with a new
lace handkerchief at Easter. And no
living soul is about; and it could not
surely be much Of a sin, considering
that the saint is but a big wax doll
with bead eyes-and indeed if it were
a sin, Is it not all-important, Mr..
Jones and his suit impending, for
Belinda to ascertain, practically,
whether diamonds are becoming to
the complexion, and so worth the sac
rifice of a life or not?
She creeps down the echoing stone
stairs, her heart beating, her unac-
customed feet entangling themselves
at every moment in her trailing
skirts; she reaches the landing on the
second floor. There stands the Beata,
her livid hands crossed on her breast,
her eyes awfully wide open. There
are the paste brilliants. A stray
Cling moonbeam rests on them; they
glitter with a deathly, horrible fas-
cination. Belinda's heart and cour-
age wax chill.
IT. ha Tont;n,od