088 
IShe RURAL NEW-YORKER 
AuRUst 18, 1917. 
In An Old White Linen Dress 
By Grace Norcross Allen 
tious of it. It had done something else, 
too; it had increased her concern as to 
what she should wear on the auspicious 
day. After all she had but one dress, 
suitable—a i)retty blue floulard with 
sprays of tiny white flowers over it. The 
dressmaker had said it was a mighty styl¬ 
ish dress. She w'ould certainly wear the 
foulard to the reunion. 
Saturday always brought additional 
things to do. There w’ere butter and 
eggs to deliver to Bemis customers and 
.Tulia had given a special order for Spring 
chickens for the reunion dinner. Emmy 
decided that she must make her rounds 
as usual, but as the roads were very 
dusty she concluded to drive in her old 
white linen dre.ss and carry her foulard. 
She would change her dress at .Tulia’s. 
One of the first thing.s which she did 
that Saturday morning was to pack her 
foulard very carefully in a suitcase and 
l)ut it in the back of her buggy. Then 
she loft Dan to put in the butter, eggs 
and chickens beside it, while she hurried 
linen standing beside the up-to-date 
(Jladys, .she tried to invent an excu.se 
for not remaining to dinner after she 
had delivered .lulia's chickens, but in¬ 
venting excu.ses was not in her line. 
Women can meet adversity and sorrow 
with amazing fortitude. They suffer 
pain and face danger without a murmur 
for tho.se they love, but nine chances out 
of ten the .same women will fret and 
fume over batches of i)oor bread and have 
nervous prostration when their fruit re¬ 
fuses to jelly or when spots get on their 
best dresses. 
Emmy had always refused to cla.ss her¬ 
self with the fretters; but now as she 
continued on her way, her philosophic 
command, “Make the best of things!” 
fiiiled to support her as it usu.ally did. 
She mu.st go to the reunion in her old 
white linen dress, but she Avould keep in 
the background ; her dn'ss would be less 
conspicuous there; she was used to a back 
seat anyway, and she would Indd her 
tongue about leaving her foulard; she 
Emmy Karnes had just flni.shed ironing 
her old white linen dress. Two Summers 
previous, it had been her new white linen 
dress, but now, while it showed little 
evidence of wear, the prevailing style of 
Summer gowns plainly stamped it as de¬ 
cidedly unfashionable and passf‘e. 
With a sigh of relief as she glanced at 
the empty clothes-basket, she sat down 
for a minute to read Julia Thompson’s 
letter, which the rural mail carrier had 
just left. 
.Tulia w’rote: 'I’ve asked all of the 
girls of the old Kemis High School crowd, 
with their husbands and children, to din¬ 
ner Saturday noon to help John and me 
celebrate our wedding anniversai'y. The 
circle won't be complete without you. 
Now don’t say that you are too busy to 
leave the farm. Kemember, dear, yon 
are only twenty-seven and entitled to a 
little recreation once in a wdiile.” There 
was a post.script: “Kobert writes, T’in 
coming, too.’ ” 
As Emmy read this message from 
.Tulia’s bachelor brother, Kobert Hardy, 
a heightened color crejjt into her clu'eks. 
Everyone around Kemis knew and liked 
Robert, and all had proudly watched his 
career as he had made his way up to the 
office of an a.ssistant district attorney in 
o far-off Western city. He had been 
back to Kemis but once since he had 
left, and had gone immediately to 
Emmy’s, only to find her away caxdng 
for a neighbor’s child in quarantine with 
ecarlet fever. Emmy wondered if Kobert 
would come to see her this time. 
She must answer .Tulia’s invitation. 
Would she accept? With pen poised 
over her paper she pictured the reunion 
at Julia’s. All of her dearest school 
friends would be there, wearing their 
smarte.st clothes, for Kemis women prided 
themselves on keeping up with the styles. 
Gladys was home on a visit; she would 
be there, too, Gladys w'as a widow and a 
year older than Emmy, but she 
passed for much younger, so well had 
she managed to pi’eservc her doll-like 
j)rettiness and so carefully did she em¬ 
phasize her good points with expensive 
clothes. The girls had nicknamed Gladys 
“Kitten” because she purred when she 
had her owm wmy, which was most of the 
time, but Gladys’s sweet wor(J.s, like a 
kitten’s velvety paws, often left smarting 
scratches. flhe had motored out to 
Emmy’s and their conversation had been 
mostly about old school days. 
“You can’t imagine how kind and 
thoughtful Kobert Hardy has been to me. 
since my dear husband’s death,” Gladys 
had said. “We were Kobert’s favorites 
among all the girls at school, weren’t we, 
Emmy?” 
Then Gladys had recalled the dances 
and i)arties which she hud attended with 
Kobert, and as she talked'her hands flew . 
back and forth over a dainty piece of em¬ 
broidery. Gladys’s hands were soft and 
white and faultlessly manicured, Emmy’s 
hands were brown, and there were two 
little callous places in the palm of the 
right one, but people in the neighboi-hood 
said that no one could put on a bandage 
or rub away a headache like Emmy 
Karnes. They did not guess that Emmy’s 
fingers fairly itched at times to handle 
gay silks and soft wools. There was no 
time for fancywoi’k, howevei', at Moun¬ 
tain View Farm. Every day brought its 
rounds of pressing duties and hard task*; 
but Emmy had met them cheerfully and 
M'ell. Since her parents’ deaths she had 
paid off the mortgage on the farm and 
put Dan and Will, her two younger 
bi’others, in the agricultural college. They 
xvere home now on their Summer vaca¬ 
tion. 
“Dear me! I belong more to the 
kitchen and the sick-room than a party !” 
Emmy exclaimed, but nevertheless she 
brought down her pen and told Julia that 
she would come. She fairly flew about 
the house, sweeping, baking, churning, 
during the next three days. Kobert 
Hardy’s intention to be present at the re¬ 
union had trebled her happy anticipa- 
Emmy was busy trying on bibs and getting each youngster in his proper place. 
away to hxdc after some chicks just out 
of the incubator. It was a beautiful 
morning and her spirits rose and bubbled 
over in snatches of humming song as she 
jogged along. Half way to town .she went 
over a rough stretch of road. Things in 
the back of the buggy had rattled con¬ 
siderably ; she w'ould get out tind inspect 
them ; Dan was inclined to be careless 
with his packing. She lifted the canvas 
cover. The eggs were all right, the but¬ 
ter and chickens were secure ; but w'here 
—where ican ihe suitcase containing her 
foulard dressf 
Excitedly she moved things about; 
looked under the seat and even shook the 
cajnvas cover. ^Kut no suitcase was re¬ 
vealed ! 
Could it have fallen out? No! Dan 
had removed it when he put in the but¬ 
ter-crocks and egg-baskets and had for¬ 
gotten to put it back! 
She must have it. She would go back 
for it! She turned her horse homeward 
and looked at her watch. It wuis eleven 
o’clock! .Tulia must have the chickens 
by noon. There was barely time to get 
them to her! 
“Oh, I can’t, I just won't be seen in 
this old white linen dres.s,” she wailed. 
“Of course it is clean and respectable 
enough, but my blue foulard is so pretty 
and so stylish—and blue—is— Robert's — 
color!” 
For the rest of the W'ay, tormented by 
the vision of herself in the old white 
didn’t want Gladys’s pretended sympa¬ 
thy for her mishap. 
It was well that no one turned a men¬ 
tal X-ray on Emmy that noon or he 
would have discovered that she was only 
assuming the smile and forcing the gay 
answers with which she returned the 
greetings at Julia’s. 
A table was S(‘t on the porch for the 
hungi'y kiddies, and .Tulia’s five-year-old 
Tommy led the procession to it. 
“Emmy, will you seat the children? 
You can manage them better than any' of 
us,” called .Tulia from the kitchen. 
For the next 10 minutes Emmy was 
busy tying on bibs and getting each 
youngster in his proper place. Suddenly 
Tommy shouted, “Uncle Kobert is here!” 
and Emmy found herself looking straight 
into Kobert Hardy’s meri-y eyes. 
“Emmy Barnes and not changed a 
bit!” he said, taking her hand. 
“You’ve changed, Kobert, but I should 
have known you anywhere.” 
She saw, as they talked, that the years 
had done much for him. He bore the in¬ 
delible stamp of the successful man of 
affairs, but his laugh had the same ring 
and his speech was as frai^k and his voice 
as kind as in the old days. 
Gladys came up. She held out a slim, 
white hand to Robert and with the other 
tapped Emmy on the shoulder. That tap! 
It made Emmy aware of her old dress, 
her plain little collar and lack of lace 
and jewels. From the top of her head to 
the tip of her toes Gladys was the exem¬ 
plification of the latest mode. Her hair 
was fashionably coiffed; her slippers 
twinkled with rhinestone buckles; her 
gown was of taffeta—and it wms blue. 
Under pretense that she had been asked 
to bring him to the dining-room, Gladys 
led Kobert away, and all of Emmy’s phil¬ 
osophy did not prevent her from experi¬ 
encing hot resentment at so bold and suc¬ 
cessful an invasion. More tban once dur¬ 
ing tbe afternoon .she heard the girls say 
that it would not be surprising if liobert 
capitulated to Gladys’s charms. 
All of the men had gone down town 
after dinner, but were coming back at 
five. Emmy planned to slip away before 
they returned. It was now four and she 
rose to go. 
\ moment later a .shrill cry of pain 
pierced the air. It was Tommy’s voice, 
and the boy with his clothing on fire ran 
across the lawn. .V bunch of sputtering 
fii'c-crackers on the ground where he had 
been playing told the cause of the acci¬ 
dent. 
“Tommy! Oh, Tommy!” .shrieked 
.Tulia ; and the other mothers ran to their 
children. 
Emmy did not follow them. Instead 
she rushed into the house, tore an Indian 
blanket from .a couch, ran out of the 
b.ack door, and wrapping Tommy in the 
blanket, smothered the flames. Rhe car- 
I’ied him into the house, api»lied remedies 
and had a physician called. 
“No one could have rendered first aid 
better,” the doctor said. 
“Oh, she w'as perfectly cool. I don’t 
believe Emm.v has an.v nerve.s, but I wa.s 
so frightened.” Emmy heard Gladys re¬ 
mark to Kobf'rt as he came to the bed¬ 
room door with an anxious face. 
The day seemed like a confused dream 
to Emmy as she went about the fami in 
the quiet evening. Graduall.v, however, 
each incident assumed its proper jxerspec- 
tive in her mind. She was not sorry that 
she had gone to .Tulia’s, but somehow she 
W'as not as happy as she had been in the 
morning—and far more lonely.. 
It was getting late; she must go in. 
Near the steps of the side porch she 
stumbled over something among the 
W'oodbines. It was the suitcase, holding 
her blue foulard—just where Dan had 
put it down and forgotten it when he had 
taken it out of the buggy ! She heard the 
.sound of wheels. 
“Emmy,” called a voice. 
“Oh, Robert, is Tommy worse?’’ 
“Not a bit of it. Tommy i.s going to 
get all right, thank.s to you aud the doc- 
ter. No, Emmy, I’m not going into the 
house jior are you,” Kobert went on in 
answ'er to her invitation. 
“We’ll sit right here on the porch, for 
I’ve to say to you something of tre¬ 
mendous importance to me. I.ike in our 
school days I’m going to present my case 
to you, and you are to be both judge and 
jury.” 
The.y sat down on the topmost step. 
“Emmy, when a man has bucked up 
against the w'orld as I have, he comes to 
know life pretty much as it is, but, even 
so, he holds fast to some of his ideals; 
those about- women. There have been 
women in my life, good, bad, and indiffer¬ 
ent, but always the memory of one 
woman has stayed with me. Often I 
have told myself that years of absence 
paints halos around the heads of friends 
one makes in his youth, and that I would 
come back and find the real girl unlike 
the girl of my day-dreams. Too, I would 
find that she had ideals and that I fell 
short of them. 
“To-day I saw her, so sweet, so gentle, 
so helpful, immeasurably dearer than the 
day-dream girl to me, I wanted to tell 
her right there, before them all, of my 
deep and abiding love, 
"Emmy, you are the girl of my 
dreams! How unpretentious, how lovely 
you were in your simple dress among the 
fuss and feathers of all the rest! When 
I looked into your eyes aud heard your 
(Continued on page 997) 
