Genre Romance. Page - 9

the electric dynamo and moves her fingers only to keep the threads in order. If she wishes to weave a pattern in the cloth, no longer does she pick up threads of warp now here, now there, according to the designs. It is all worked out for her on the loom. Each thread with almost human intelligence settles automatically into its appointed place, and the weaver is only a machine tender.[Illustration: FLY SHUTTLE HAND LOOM. The Pulling of the Reed Automatically Throws the Shuttle Back and Forth

of him was as near murder as Wearycould come. Glory had been belabored with worse things than hatsduring his eventful career; he laid back his ears, shut his eyes tightand took it meekly.There came a gasping gurgle from the hammock, and Weary's hand stoppedin mid-air. The girl's head was burrowed in a pillow and her slipperstapped the floor while she laughed and laughed. Weary delivered a parting whack, put on his hat and looked at heruncertainly; grinned sheepishly when the humor of the thing

, but darkly hinted at the little rift within the lute, and somehow after that night the glamour seemed to have departed from this honeymoon pair, and the fair seeming was regarded with suspicion.As regards the matter of distance, it took an easy two minutes to cover the space between the front doors of the two houses, and there seemed an endless number of reasons why the members of the different families should fly round to consult each other a dozen times a day. Darsie and Lavender, Vi and

--just enough to have made Connery believe, at first, that probably he had seen the man meeting some passenger at the station."You are--" Connery ventured more casually. "In private employ; yes, sir," the man cut off quickly. Then Connery knew him; it was when Gabriel Warden traveled on Connery's train that the conductor had seen this chauffeur; this was Patrick Corboy, who had driven Warden the night he was killed. But Connery, having won his point, knew better than to show

e than any other of the owner's treasures. It was, curiously enough, to this little heap of literature that Wid Gardner presently turned.Forgetful of the hour and of his waiting cows, he sat down, a copy in his hands, his face taking on a new sort of light as he read. At times, as lone men will, he broke out into audible soliloquy. Now and again his hand slapped his knee, his eye kindled, he grinned. The pages were ill-printed, showing many paragraphs, apparently of advertising nature, in fine

ey wouldn't," she objected. "You don'tknow how noisy I am."The lawyer stirred restlessly and pondered. "But, surely, my dear, isn't there some relative, somewhere?" hedemanded. "How about your mother's people?" Billy shook her head. Her eyes filled again with tears. There was only Aunt Ella, ever, that I knew anything about. Sheand mother were the only children there were, and mother died whenI was a year old, you know." "But your father's