idea was to frame up a Romeo and Juliet story in which Lester should appear as an ardent, self-sacrificing lover, and Jennie as a poor and lovely working-girl, lifted to great financial and social heights by the devotion of her millionaire lover. An exceptional newspaper artist was engaged to make scenes depicting the various steps of the romance and the whole thing was handled in the most approved yellow-journal style. There was a picture of Lester obtained from his Cincinnati photographer for a consideration; Jennie had been surreptitiously “snapped” by a staff artist while she was out walking. And so, apparently out of a clear sky, the story appeared—highly complimentary, running over with sugary phrases, but with all the dark, sad facts looming up in the background. Jennie did not see it at first. Lester came across the page accidentally, and tore it out. He was stunned and chagrined beyond words. “To think the damned newspaper would do that to a private citizen who was quietly minding his own business!” he thought. He went out of the house, the better to conceal his deep inward mortification. He avoided the more populous parts of the town, particularly the down-town section, and rode far out on Cottage Grove Avenue to the open prairie. He wondered, as the trolley-car rumbled along, what his friends were thinking—Dodge, and Burnham Moore, and Henry Aldrich, and the others. This was a smash, indeed. The best he could do was to put a brave face on it and say nothing, or else wave it off with an indifferent motion of the hand. One thing was sure—he would prevent further comment. He returned to the house calmer, his self-poise restored, but he was eager for Monday to come in order that he might get in touch with his lawyer, Mr. Watson. But when he did see Mr. Watson it was soon agreed between the two men that it would be foolish to take any legal action. It was the part of wisdom to let the matter drop. “But I won’t stand for anything more,” concluded Lester. “I’ll attend to that,” said the lawyer, consolingly. Lester got up. “It’s amazing—this damned country of ours!” he exclaimed. “A man with a little money hasn’t any more privacy than a public monument.” “A man with a little money,” said Mr. Watson, “is just like a cat with a bell around its neck. Every rat knows exactly where it is and what it is doing.” “That’s an apt simile,” assented Lester, bitterly. Jennie knew nothing of this newspaper story for several days. Lester felt that he could not talk it over, and Gerhardt never read the wicked Sunday newspapers. Finally, one of Jennie’s neighborhood friends, less tactful than the others, called her attention to the fact of its appearance by announcing that she had seen it. Jennie did not understand at first. “A story about me?” she exclaimed. “You and Mr. Kane, yes,” replied her guest. “Your love romance.” Jennie colored swiftly. “Why, I hadn’t seen it,” she said. “Are you sure it was about us?”