The Manitowoc pilot. [volume] (Manitowoc, Wis.) 1859-1932, 1912-07-11
DRESSING
UP

by Elizabeth Armstrong

copyright. 1911. by Associated Literary 1ress)
rainy day Ia early summer sent
Jim Bomar's motherless girls to the
attic to rummage In the capacious
chests for old.fashioned dresses, in
which they arrayed themselves with
great glee.
"Oh. but aren't we fine?" cried
Mamie Lets go down and show
father"
Father might make US take EN-
off," rejoined practical Grace; hes
feeling sad anyway"
II spose the house bothers him
cause it's SO kind Of mussy since
Mrs. Mott left, but | tried to scrub
that kitchen just last Saturday. and
father washes the dishes himself
whenever we leave 'em long enough"
And Mamie sighed over house
keepers trials
Poor Jim Bomar was used to cold
meals and a general lack of cheer.
Even before his wife's death, the
house had borne down-at-the-heels
aspect. and Jim had been wont TO
escape to the harness room in the
barn, where he could find order and
peace.
AS a refuge the harness room was
exceptional. Besides being clean, it
was warmed in winter by small
wood stove, and made airy in sum-
mer by two enormous windows. The
west window had the advantage OF
looking toward the homestead where
Mary Andrews had lived alone since
the death of her mother. Mary's
younger sister Jennie was Jim's wife
He had never understood just how 1t
happened. that she had supplanted
Mary, If not In his heart. still to all
intents and purposes in his lie. He
and Mary had been sweethearts Tor
years, and at last he had written
asking her to tell him where he
might see her for most particular
talk. He knew that Mary would I'M
derstand, and he had laughed. when
he gave her the note, at his little
suDrerfuge, when he might so easily
have told Mary he loved her then
and there. But Mary craved ro-
nance, and Jim was doing his hum
BILE best in arranging this dark plot
for her entertainment.
Mary ran up the steps with his
note in her hand waved her hand at
him in good-by-sn nj he had not seen
her again in months. She did not
answer the note, and gave Jim no
chance to ask an explanation Of her
strange conduct. Deeply hurt. he
learned the next day that she had
gone for long visit to her aunt in
the city.
Jim took his dismissal hard, and
Jennie was full of sympathy when he
came, night after night for news OF
Mary. She did not tell him outright,
but limited delicately that Mary had
been counting only in fun and had
taken this way of letting him down
easy. Anc after a time Jennie's
sweetness won Jim to believe that
her heart was pure gold and 1t was
his fault II he could not appreciate
her as he should. So on the night
she told him that Mary was to wed
a man in the city whom she had
known for several years. Jim asked
Jennie If she would care for what
was left of his life. and Jennie ad-
mitted that she would.
Mary did not return for Jennie's
wedding, nor did she make any prep
arations for her own; and when she
had lived quietly with her mother
for a number Of months doubts as
sailed Jim concerning the truth of
his wife's story Of her engagement.
During the ten years of Jim's mar
ried life Mary went In and out OF his
home and his children took their
griefs to her more readily than to
their mother. But Jim had seldom
seen her, and for several years he
had not crossed the threshold of the
Andrews home.
As he looked over the fields green
with sprouting grain and saw the ap-
pie orchard at the homestead In
bloom, he imagined that he could
see Mary herself walking among the
trees In the sun that had just come
out and was coaxing the earth to
bloom and laughter. He knew
that her brown head would be barred
in the breeze and her eyes filled with
love for all growing and blooming
things. He recalled the last time he
had walked along the orchard path.
when, after Mother Andrews's death.
he had gone to Mary in an impulse
of sympathy, but had unfortunately
managed to convey some expression
of his long repressed love. Then did
Mary's brown eyes fash and her
gentle mouth stiffen to rebuke.
Jim Bomar. never let me hear
such words from you. There can be
nothing between you and me after
what has passed And cannot bear
the sight of your deceitful face"
Jim, sorely wounded, was roYSed
to reply in anger. Very well. Mary,
| will never enter your door until
you send for me-"
While Jim was dreaming In the
harness room, Mamie and Grace. dis
porting In their attic finery, had
grown tired Of admiring themselves
alone.
Let's 80 over to Aunt Mary's."
Mamie was adventurous. Lets
wear 'em over"
II don't believe father'd want us
to-" objected Grace.
/. Huh, fathers In the harness
room, and it's no harm II he didn't
tell US not to. Besides. he don't care
very much what we do. 30 long az