Democratic Sentinel, Volume 14, Number 11, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 4 April 1890 — AN EASTER BONNET; OR WHY Mrs. Philemon Kesterson Was Worried. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

AN EASTER BONNET; OR WHY Mrs. Philemon Kesterson Was Worried.

Why Mrs. Philemon Kesterson Was Worried.

BY KATE M. CLEARY.

haven’t tried a muffin, dear,” k said Mr. Kester■VaV hOn - Ij'C’ “No,” dismalJbj* ly. “Nor touched If your chop.” W “No,” more dismally. Jr yyj “Nor tasted your coffee.” “ N o,” most jv" dismally. J It was a very

pretty room, that in which the Kestereons sat at breakfast. A big Persian rug partly covered the polished floor; there were sash curtains of China silk on the windows; the table was a miracle of snowiness, sparkle, and tempting viands; a bowl of violets stood on the low, tiled mantel, and over on a broad lounge in the baywindow kicked a little dimpled, rosy baby, Philemon Kesterson, Jr. “My love, what is the matter?” “Oh, nothing!” “You are ill, Augusta, or you are worried. Which is it ?” Mrs. Kesterson rolled between her slim white fingers one of the ribbons of her old-rose morning gown. “I’m w-worried,” she replied, with quite a pathetic tremble in her voice. “Well?” queried her lord. “I haven’t any money!” broke out Mrs. Kesterson. Philemon stared. “Why, my dear Augusta, it is only five days since you drew $50.” “I—l know, darling; but I saw such lovely faille selling at an absurdly low price. I thought it would be swindling you not to buy it. You’d have to pay so much more, if I should happen to need some in the future. Don’t you see, love?” Mr. Kesterson put his hands in his pockets and leaned back in his chair. He had not been married long enough to make him either callous or irritable regarding requests for money. “Well, no, my dear; I can’t exactly say I do. What is it you need?” “A new hat to wear Easter* Sunday.” Mr. Kesterson laughed. “Now, why in the world do women always want a new bonnet for Easter ? I don’t buy a new hat because Lent is over. Well, well, how much will the bonnet cost ?” “I don’t want a bonnet,” corrected Mrs. Kesterson. “I want a hat. A bonnet makes,one look so old.” Philemon smiled benignantly on the dimpled wild-rose face across the table, and thought it would be a peculiar head-dress which could impart to its curves and color an appearance of *ge. “Well, a hat, then. H6w much?” “I don’t know, but I did see just the very one I want. It was in Palmer’s window—the loveliest hat, all sagegreen velvet and surah, and the cunningest little curly tips.” Mr. Kesterson smiled more broadly. He rose. He kissed his wife. “Money is very scarce, my dear, but I’ll see—l’ll see!” And he shrugged himself into his light spring overcoat .and betook himself down-town. If not exactly an old man’s darling,

Mrs. Kesterson was the adored wife of . a man considerably older than herself. But than she was barely 20. It was quite a chilly morning, and the draught circled through the car on which Mr. Kesterson rode to his place . of business at a positively rheumatic rate; but Philemon was oblivious of : such small discomforts. The con- ; sciousness of a kind deed contemplated . seemed to keep his feet as well as his . heart warm. “Wonder if sha thought me indiffer-

ent to her request. She’ll know better this evening. Won’t she be delighted, though?” And he rubbed h*-e bearded chin in an ecstasy of anticipation. Arrived at State street he turned in the direction of Palmer’s millinery store. Within half a block of his destination he was startled by a slap on the shoulder. “Hallo, Kesterson! Where are you bound for ?” A reddish glow, the very parody of a

blush, passed over Philemon’s honest face. Then he recollected that Charley Kent was probably as indulgent a husband as himself, because a much more recent one. “To tell you the truth, Kent, I’m going to buy my wife a bonnet—no, a hat.” Charley first laughed and looked quizzical, then grew suddenly serious as the possibility of his Dora being at that moment sighing for suitable head covering occurred to him. “Women always do want new bonnets for Easter, don’t they ?” From the standpoint of a longer mat-

rimonial experience, Philemon, with decision, answered. “Yes.” “Funny, ain’t it ?” “Very.” “Guess I’ll go with you. How do you know you’ll get what toot wife will like?” “That’s as easy as rolling off a log. She told me.” “Oh! Not a surprise, then?” “No.” When the two gentlemen -entered Palmer’s, Mr. Kesterson explained to the saleslady who waited upon them the particular features of the particular chapeau his wife desired. At least, he endeavored to describe them. 1 “The color had two names,” he said, “and, though I can’t exactly remember them, I know I would if I were to hear them again.” * “Crushed strawberry?” she suggested. “No.” “Harrison blue?” ‘-No-o.” “Terracotta?”

Mr. Kesterson wiped his forehead. He feared his friend was laughing at him, and he was becoming desperate, • “Yes,” he murmured, “I think that’s it—terracotta.” “Oh, then, this must be it,” and she brought from the showcase a trim little bonnet. ... ‘‘Has it.tips? She said the one she pref erred had tips.” “Dear me, yes,” replied the Saleslady, as she smilingly revolved the bonnet before his ignorant eyes. “All right, then. Give me a couple of cards.” On one he wrote the address and on the other, “With my dear love. Philemon.” “How much?” “Twenty-five dollars.” Kesterson gasped, but he went heroically down in his pocket and counted out the sum. “Think I’ll take that one for Dora,” said Kent, indicating an aesthetic hat in the window. And when he had paid

for it and given the address he and Kesterson walked out and over to Kinsley’s, where on the strength of their good deeds they treated themselves to a very choice luncheon. Meanwhile the intelligent and discriminating saleslady boxed and forwarded Mrs. Philemon Kesterson’s terra-cotta bonnet to that lady, but inclosed Mrs. Philemon Kesterson’s card with Mrs. Charley Kent’s green velvet hat.

“Not at home ?” “No, ma’am, but she will be soon. Won’t you step in and wait?” Mrs. Kesterson hesitated. She was fatigued. The parlor beyond with its ruby portieres, its sparkling little fire, its general air of comfort and cosiness, was most inviting. So she went in. “Mrs. Kent said she would be back by four,” said the servant, and then she drew the portieres and went away. Mrs. Kesterson, seated by the piano, pretty as a picture, in her moire street suit, looked critically around the room, as women have a trick of doing when alone. Her glance fell on a peculiarshaped parcel on the sofa. “A new bonnet!” She got up and walked toward it. “From Palmer’s. How I should love to see it! I believe I shall take a peep. Dora and I are so intimate she won’t mind.” So, accordingly. two small gloved hands snapped the cord, removed the paper, took off the cover, and unswathed from its tissue-paper wrappings a green velvet hat all trimmed with surah and curly tips. “Oh!” she cried, “my hat!” For in imagination it had already been hers. She stooped to pick up the card which had fallen, on the rug. In blank astonishment she read the line thereon. In wild suspicion she re-read it. In an agony of doubt, bewilderment, misery, she perused it again. Her husband had sent Dora the very hat she had described to him! Hadn’t she heard rumors of his having been attentive to Dora long ago ? But now! that was

his writing—and his name! with his dear love —oh! But Dora would be returning soon! In a feverish hurry Mrs. Kesterson restored the hat and card to their places in the box and tied up the latter. Then she drew down her veil, let herself softly out of the house, and hurried home. There she found awaiting her the terra-cotta bonnet. “He didn’t inclose any card to me!” she commented, bitterly! “Oh, no! Just sent me this ugly old thing.” When Philemon, radiant at the prospect of his reception, entered his home that night he was confronted by a red-

eyed, irresponsive, and resentful little lady. “ W—what is it, dearest ? Didn’t you get the—the hat?”' “No, I did ; nt get the hat,” retorted his wife, with a stinging emphasis on the pronoun, which was quite lost on her innocent spouse. “J got a hideous little bonnet.” “Wasn’t it the ohe you described?” queried Philemon, aghast. A look of crushing scorn was the only answer he received. That very evening, aS mate and miserable they sat in the parlor, who should be ushered in but Mr. ind Mrs. Charles Kent.

And Mrs. Kent wore her new hst. She to come! And wear it! The insolence of it made Mrs. Kesterson grow white as death. But what was that Charley Kent was saying in that rollicking voice of his? “Look here, Kesterson, the card you wrote your wife to-day when we bankrupted ourselves on Easter bonnets, thev sent home in Dora’s box.” “Eh ?” cried Philemon. Mrs. Kesterson gasped. The blood

came back from her heart with a rush. She went up to Dora and began talking to her rapidly, cordially, affectionately. She could hear the gentlemen jesting over the mistake, their purchases, and her husband saying how he had bought the wrong hat after all. The evening passed delightfully. Philemon looked at his wife in surprise. She was so full of vivacity, of mirth. When the guests were gone she went up to her husband, and leaning over the back of the chair wherein he sat bent and kissed him several times. “You dear old Phil! I was cross to-night—wasn’t I? And I didn’t thank you for that beautiful bonnet!” “But ” stammered Kesterson.

“It is exactly the shade of the failfey and I’ll have my dresS of that made up' right away. It is a charming bonnet! You darling boy!” Beamingly Mr. Kesterson received his delayed caresses. But he made up his mind at that moment that one never could understand a woman, and that it was no use trying to do so.

YOU HAVEN'T TOUCHED YOUR

BUYING THE BONNET.

“MY HAT! ” SHE EXCLAIMED.

IT EXPLAINED EVERYTHING.