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Rh bear, if he slept, but sicking him on to her afterwards!

Constance dreaded another attack of depression and despair. She dreaded France too, but perhaps France with its unseen terrors was to be preferred.

It wasn't however until after she had signed her name to her note of congratulation to the exalted Myrtle that she made a final decision, and then she made it hastily, on the spur of the moment, as her feelings took a sudden downward dip, before she had recovered from the physical sickening effect of it.

"Oh, I might as well go as stay, I guess," she said with a little shrug, and leaning over her letter to Myrtle, she had added, "P. S. I'm sailing for France two weeks from Wednesday. Wish me luck."

"Now I've got to!" she whispered.

Afterwards she put on her hat and coat, and almost ran to the telegraph office to clinch her decision by ten words clicked over the wires to New York.

Any one who has ever dabbled in photography to the extent of shutting himself up in a tight little closet, its pitch darkness tempered slightly by a dim red glow, and dipped dark,