Jewel Weed

The gates of the delectable world, it seemed to Lena, opened very

slowly, and the mild fragrance and warmth that dribbled out to her

through their narrow crack intensified her outer dreariness. Once in a

while Mrs. Lenox or Miss Elton did her some little kindness.

Occasionally Mr. Percival came to see her, but her shame of her mother

and her home made these visits a doubtful pleasure. The sordid monotony

of her work oppressed her every morning and depressed her every night.

The little money that she earned fell like a snow-flake into the yawning

furnace of her desires. Bitter is the fate of her to whom the goods of

this world are the final good, and to whom those goods are denied.

There came a night when a certain great lady gave a dance, and Lena was

deputed by the feminine head of the staff of the Star to report these

doings of society. At first the chance looked to her delightful. She was

to have a peep into the world of charm which was her dream and her

ambition. She walked through the wide empty rooms with their soft lights

and masses of flowers. She surveyed the dining-room, a wilderness of

candles, orchids and maiden-hairs. She felt her feet sink luxuriously

into the rugs, oh, so different from the threadbare ingrain carpet at

home! She peeped into the ball-room, smilax-draped and glowing as if

eager to welcome the guests to come. Through it all she carried a prim

air, making businesslike notes on her little pad; but beneath her very

demure exterior raged a storm of rebellion that these things should be

and not be for her. The world was one huge sour grape; and yet she must

smile as though it tasted sweet. There were blurs in her eyes as she

stumbled up the back stairs, whither her way was pointed, that she might

stand in a corner of the dressing-room where the now fast-arriving

ladies were laying off their wraps. She swallowed a lump in her throat

and winked hard in the attempt to forget or ignore the careless looks

thrown at her by these ladies, as the maids removed the long cloaks made

more for splendor than for warmth, or drew up the gloves on bare arms

less lovely than her own. Many of the women looked twice at her, and

she thought, and resented the fact, that they were surprised to see so

much beauty. She could not be impersonal like the other

reporters,--sensible girls, taking all this as a part of the day's work,

and whispering names to one another, which Lena, too, must catch and

treasure for her reportorial harvest. She must glance with swift

inclusiveness at the more striking gowns, that later she may serve them

up in the technical slapdash of the social column.