[Editorial] Modernize spelling on new stories

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@@ -10,7 +10,7 @@
 			<h2 epub:type="title">A Mystery of Many Centuries</h2>
 			<p>Up to a few years ago man regarded the means of locomotion possessed by the fair sex as a sacred areanum into which it were desecration to inquire.</p>
 			<p>The bicycle costume has developed the fact that there are two⁠—well, that there are two. Whereas man bowed down and worshipped what he could not understand nor see, when the veil of mystery was rent, his reverence departed. For generations woman has been supposed in moving from one place to another to simply get there. Whether bornelike Venus in an invisible car drawn by two milk white doves, or wafted imperceptibly by the force of her own sweet will, admiring man did not pause to consider. He only knew that there was a soft rustle of unseen drapery, an entrancing frou-frou of something agitated but unknown and the lovely beings would be standing on another spot. Whereat-he wondered, adoring, but uninquisitive. At times beneath the lace-hemmed snowy skirts might be seen the toe of a tiny slipper, and perhaps the gleam of a silver buckle upon the arch of an instep, but thence imagination retired, baffled, but enthralled. In olden times the sweetest singers among the poets sang to their lutes of those Lilliputian members, and romance struck a lofty note when it wove the deathless legend of Cinderella and the slipper of glass. Courtiers have held aloft the silken slipper of the adored one filled with champagne and drank her health. Where is the bicyclist hero who would undertake the task of draining to the good health of his lady love her bicycle gaiter filled with beer?</p>
-			<p>The mysterious and love-lorn damosel no longer chucks roses at us from her latticed window and sighs to us from afar. She has descended, borrowed our clothes, and is our good friend and demands equal rights. We no longer express our admiration by midnight serenades and sonnets. We slap her on the back and feel we have gained a good comrade.</p>
+			<p>The mysterious and lovelorn damosel no longer chucks roses at us from her latticed window and sighs to us from afar. She has descended, borrowed our clothes, and is our good friend and demands equal rights. We no longer express our admiration by midnight serenades and sonnets. We slap her on the back and feel we have gained a good comrade.</p>
 			<p>But we feel like inserting the following want ad in every paper in the land:</p>
 			<blockquote>
 				<p><b>Lost</b>⁠—A maiden dressed in long skirts: blushes sometimes, and wears a placard round her neck, which says, “hands off.” A liberal reward will be paid for her return.</p>

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@@ -24,7 +24,7 @@
 			<p>Homeward flit the trim shop girls, the week’s work over, intent on the rest and pleasure of the morrow; threading their straightforward and dextrous way through the throng. Homeward plods the weary housekeeper with her basket of vegetables for Sunday’s dinner. Homeward goes the solid citizen laden with bundles and bags. Homeward slip weary working women, hurrying to fill the hungry mouths awaiting them. Respectability moves homeward, but as the everlasting stars creep out above, queer and warped things steal forth like imps of the night to hide, and sulk, and carouse, and prey upon whatever the darkness bringeth to them.</p>
 			<p>Down on the bank of the bayou, beyond the car shops, the foundries, the lumbermills and the great manufactories that go to make Houston the wonderful business and trade center she is, stands⁠—or rather, leans⁠—a little shanty. It is made of clapboards, old planks, pieces of tin and odds and ends of lumber picked up here and there. It is built close to the edge of the foul and sluggish bayou. Back of it rises the bank full ten feet high; below it, only a few feet, ripples the sullen tide.</p>
 			<p>In this squalid hut lives Crip. Crip is nine years old. He is freckled-faced, thin and subdued. From his knee his left leg is gone and in its place is a clumsy wooden stump, on which he limps around at quite a wonderful pace. Crip’s mother cleans up three or four offices on Main Street and takes in washing at other times. Somehow, they manage to live in this tottering habitation patched up by Crip’s father, who several years before had fallen into the bayou one night while drunk, and what was left of him by the catfish was buried upon the bank a hundred yards farther down. Of late, Crip had undertaken to assist in the mutual support.</p>
-			<p>One morning he came stumping timidly into the office of the Post and purchased a few papers. These he offered for sale upon the streets with great diffidence. Crip had no difficulty in selling his papers. People stopped and bought readily the wares of this shrinking, weak-voiced youngster. His wooden leg caught the eye of hurrying passers-by and the nickels rained into his hand as long as he had any papers left.</p>
+			<p>One morning he came stumping timidly into the office of the Post and purchased a few papers. These he offered for sale upon the streets with great diffidence. Crip had no difficulty in selling his papers. People stopped and bought readily the wares of this shrinking, weak-voiced youngster. His wooden leg caught the eye of hurrying passersby and the nickels rained into his hand as long as he had any papers left.</p>
 			<p>One morning Crip failed to call for his papers. The next day he did not appear, nor the next, and one of the newsboys was duly questioned as to his absence.</p>
 			<p>“Crip’s got de pewmonia,” he said.</p>
 			<hr/>

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@@ -14,7 +14,7 @@
 				</blockquote>
 			</header>
 			<p><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Jessamine lives in Houston. You can meet any number of ladies every day out walking on Main Street that resemble her very much. She is not famous or extraordinary in any way. She has a nice family, is in moderate circumstances and lives in her own house. I would call her an average woman if that did not imply that some were below the average, which would be an ungallant insinuation. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Jessamine is a genuine woman. She always steps on a street car with her left foot first, wears her snowiest lace-trimmed sub-skirts on muddy days, and can cut a magazine, wind a clock, pick walnuts, open a trunk and clean out an inkstand, all with a hairpin. She can take twenty dollars worth of trimming and make over an old dress so you couldn’t tell it from a brand new fifteen dollar one. She is intelligent, reads the newspapers regularly and once cut a cooking recipe out of an old magazine that took the prize offered by a newspaper for the best original directions for making a green tomato pie. Her husband has such confidence in her household management that he trusts her with the entire housekeeping, sometimes leaving her in charge until a late hour of the night.</p>
-			<p><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Jessamine is thoughtful, kind-hearted and an excellent manager. She has two children, a little boy of 7 and a little girl of 4, of whom she is extravagantly fond. The Jessamines are going to keep a cook as soon as <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Jessamine’s salary is raised, but just at present <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Jessamine is doing her own work.</p>
+			<p><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Jessamine is thoughtful, kindhearted and an excellent manager. She has two children, a little boy of 7 and a little girl of 4, of whom she is extravagantly fond. The Jessamines are going to keep a cook as soon as <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Jessamine’s salary is raised, but just at present <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Jessamine is doing her own work.</p>
 			<p>While she is attending to her duties she gives the children a paper of needles, the scissors, some sample packages of aniline dyes and a box of safety matches to play with, and during the intervals of baking and sweeping the rooms she rushes in, kisses and cuddles them and then flies back to her work singing merrily.</p>
 			<hr/>
 			<p>One afternoon last week <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Jessamine was lying on the bed reading a Sunday paper. The children were blowing soap bubbles with some old pipestems of <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Jessamine’s that he had discarded because they were full of nicotine.</p>

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@@ -8,7 +8,7 @@
 	<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
 		<section id="a-strange-case" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
 			<h2 epub:type="title">A Strange Case</h2>
-			<p>A <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Post</i> reporter met a young Houston physician the other afternoon, with whom he is well acquainted, and suggested that they go into a neighboring cafe and partake of a cooling lemonade. The physician agreed, and they were soon seated at a little table in a quiet corner, under an electric fan. After the physician had paid for the lemonade, the reporter turned the conversation upon his practice, and asked if he did not meet with some strange cases in his experience.</p>
+			<p>A <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Post</i> reporter met a young Houston physician the other afternoon, with whom he is well acquainted, and suggested that they go into a neighboring café and partake of a cooling lemonade. The physician agreed, and they were soon seated at a little table in a quiet corner, under an electric fan. After the physician had paid for the lemonade, the reporter turned the conversation upon his practice, and asked if he did not meet with some strange cases in his experience.</p>
 			<p>“Yes, indeed,” said the doctor, “many that professional etiquette will not allow me to mention, and others that involve no especial secrecy, but are quite as curious in their way. I had one case only a few weeks ago that I considered very unusual, and without giving names, I think I can relate it to you.”</p>
 			<p>“By all means do so,” said the reporter, “and while you are telling it, let us have another lemonade.” The young physician looked serious at this proposition, but after searching in his pocket and finding another quarter he assented.</p>
 			<p>“About a week ago,” he began, “I was sitting in my office, hoping for a patient to come in, when I heard footsteps, and looking up, saw a beautiful young lady enter the room. She advanced at the most curious gait I ever beheld in one so charming. She staggered from side to side and lurched one way and another, succeeding only by a supreme effort in reaching the chair I placed for her. Her face was very lovely, but showed signs of sadness and melancholy.</p>

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@@ -10,7 +10,7 @@
 			<h2 epub:type="title">A Tragedy</h2>
 			<p>“By the beard of the Prophet. Oh, Scheherezade, right well hast thou done,” said the Caliph, leaning back and biting off the end of a three-for.</p>
 			<p>For one thousand nights Scheherezade <abbr>No.</abbr> 2, daughter of the Grand Vizier, had sat at the feet of the mighty Caliph of the Indies relating tales that held the court entranced and breathless.</p>
-			<p>The soft, melodious sound of falling water from the fountain tinkled pleasantly upon the ear. Slaves sprinkled attar of roses upon the tessellated floor, and waved jeweled fans of peacock’s feathers in the air. Outside, in the palace gardens the bul-bul warbled in the date trees, the hoo-doo flitted among the banyan branches, and the dying song of the goo-goo floated in upon the breeze from New York.</p>
+			<p>The soft, melodious sound of falling water from the fountain tinkled pleasantly upon the ear. Slaves sprinkled attar of roses upon the tessellated floor, and waved jeweled fans of peacock’s feathers in the air. Outside, in the palace gardens the bulbul warbled in the date trees, the hoodoo flitted among the banyan branches, and the dying song of the goo-goo floated in upon the breeze from New York.</p>
 			<p>“And, now, oh, Scheherezade,” continued the Caliph, “your contract calls for one more tale. One thousand have you told unto us, and we have rejoiced exceedingly at your narrative powers. Your stories are all new and do not weary us as do the chestnuts of Marshall P. Wilder. You are quite a peach. But, listen, oh, Daughter of the Moon, and first cousin to a phonograph, there is one more yet to come. Let it be one that has never before been related in the Kingdom. If it be thus, thou shalt have 10,000 gold pieces and a hundred slaves at thy command, but if it bear whiskers, then shall thy head pay the forfeit.”</p>
 			<p>The Caliph made a sign, and Mesrour, the executioner, stepped to the side of Scheherezade. In his dark hand he held a glittering scimeter. He folded his arms and stood like a statue as the Caliph spoke again.</p>
 			<p>“Now, oh, Scheherezade, let her go. If it be that thou givest us something like that tale <abbr>No.</abbr> 475, where the Bagdad merchant was found by his favorite wife at the roof-garden concert, with his typewriter, or <abbr>No.</abbr> 684, where the Cadi of a certain town came home late from the lodge with his shoes off and stepped upon a tack, all will be well, but if you work off a Joe Miller on us, verily you get it in the neck.”</p>

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@@ -12,7 +12,7 @@
 			<p>“Oh, moon, and darkening river, ye are wondrous strong;</p>
 			<p>Yet lovely in your strength as is the light of a dark eye in woman.”</p>
 			<p>The reporter turned and saw a magnificent specimen of the genus tramp. He was attired in a garb to be viewed with wonder, and even awe. His coat was a black frock, fallen into decay some years ago. Under it he wore a jaunty striped blazer, too tight to button, and the ghost of a collar peered above its intricacies. His trousers were patched, and torn, and frayed, and faded away at the bot- tom into ghostly, indescribable feet shod in shapeless leather and dust.</p>
-			<p>His face, however, was the face of a hilarious faun. His eyes were brilliant and piercing, and a god-like smile lit up a face that owed little to art or soap.</p>
+			<p>His face, however, was the face of a hilarious faun. His eyes were brilliant and piercing, and a godlike smile lit up a face that owed little to art or soap.</p>
 			<p>His nose was classic, and his nostrils thin and nervous, betokening either race or fever. His brow was high and smooth, and his regard lofty and superior, though a bristly beard of uncertain cut and grisly effect covered the lower part of his countenance.</p>
 			<p>“Do you know what I am, sir?” asked this strange being. The reporter gazed at his weird form and shook his head.</p>
 			<p>“Your reply reassures me,” said the wanderer. “It convinces me that I have not made a mistake in addressing you. You have some of the instincts of a gentleman, because you forbore to say what you know well, namely, that I am a tramp. I look like a tramp and I am one, but no ordinary one. I have a university education, I am a Greek and Latin scholar, and I have held the chair of English literature in a college known all over the world. I am a biologist, and more than all, I am a student of the wonderful book, man. The last accomplish- ment is the only one I still practice. If I am not grown unskilled, I can read you.”</p>

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@@ -15,7 +15,7 @@
 			<p>The hunter stopped for a while, then went his way more slowly up the mountain path, and he sang no more. As he went he pressed the flowers frequently to his lips.</p>
 			<hr/>
 			<p>The wedding was to be one of the showiest, and the society of the metropolis was almost begging for invitations.</p>
-			<p>The groom-elect brought the ancient lineage of the Van Winklers and a position at the top notch of society for his portion. The bride brought a beauty that was flawless, and five million dollars. The arrangement had been made in a business-like manner. There had been no question of love. He had been courteous, and politely attentive, and she had acquiesced listlessly. They had first met at a fashionable summer resort. The family of the Van Winklers and the money of the Vances were about to unite.</p>
+			<p>The groom-elect brought the ancient lineage of the Van Winklers and a position at the top notch of society for his portion. The bride brought a beauty that was flawless, and five million dollars. The arrangement had been made in a businesslike manner. There had been no question of love. He had been courteous, and politely attentive, and she had acquiesced listlessly. They had first met at a fashionable summer resort. The family of the Van Winklers and the money of the Vances were about to unite.</p>
 			<p>The wedding was to be at high noon.</p>
 			<p>Pelham Van Winkler had had a fire built in the ancient tiled fireplace of one of his rooms, although the weather was warm. He sat on the edge of a writing table, and tossed handfuls of square-shaped letters, some tied with ribbons, into the fire. He smiled a little ironically as they flamed up, or as here and there among them he would find a withered flower, a scented glove or a lock of beribboned hair.</p>
 			<p>The last sacrifice to the flames was a dried and pressed cluster of blue gentians.</p>

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@@ -1,13 +1,13 @@
 <?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?>
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 	<head>
-		<title>Barber Shop Adventure</title>
+		<title>Barbershop Adventure</title>
 		<link href="../css/core.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
 		<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
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 	<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
-		<section id="barber-shop-adventure" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
-			<h2 epub:type="title">Barber Shop Adventure</h2>
+		<section id="barbershop-adventure" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
+			<h2 epub:type="title">Barbershop Adventure</h2>
 			<p>When the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Post</i> Man entered the shop yesterday the chairs were full of customers, and for a brief moment he felt a thrill of hope that he might escape, but the barber’s eye, deadly and gloomy fixed itself upon him.</p>
 			<p>“You’re next,” he said, with a look of diabolical malevolence, and the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Post</i> Man sank into a hard chair nailed to the wall, with a feeling of hopeless despair.</p>
 			<p>In a few moments there was a rattle and a bang, the customer in the chair was thrown violently on his feet, and fled out of the shop pursued by the African who was making vicious dabs at him with a whisk broom full of tacks and splinters.</p>
@@ -36,7 +36,7 @@
 			<p>“It did,” said the barber. “I don’t ask you to take my word for it. I can prove it. Do you see that blue mug on the shelf, the third from the right? Well, that’s the mug I carried with me that day. I guess you’ll believe it now.”</p>
 			<p>“Speaking of bald heads,” went on the barber, although no one had said a word about bald heads, “reminds me of how a man worked a game on me once right here in Houston. You know there’s nothing in the world that will make hair grow on a bald head. Lots of things are sold for that purpose, but if the roots are dead nothing can bring them to life. A man came into my shop one day last fall and had a shave. His head was as bald and smooth as a tea cup. All the tonics in the world couldn’t have started one hair growing there. The man was a stranger to me, but said he ran a truck garden out on the edge of town. He came in about three times and got shaved and then he struck me to fix him up something to make his hair grow.”</p>
 			<p>The barber here reached back upon a shelf and got a strip of sticking plaster. Then he cut a gash along the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Post</i> Man’s chin and stuck the plaster over it.</p>
-			<p>“When a man asks for a hair tonic,” continued the barber, “in a barber shop he always gets it. You can fix up a mixture that a man may use on his head for a long time before he finds it is doing him no good. In the meantime he continues to shave in your shop.</p>
+			<p>“When a man asks for a hair tonic,” continued the barber, “in a barbershop he always gets it. You can fix up a mixture that a man may use on his head for a long time before he finds it is doing him no good. In the meantime he continues to shave in your shop.</p>
 			<p>“I told my customer that I had invented a hair tonic that if its use were persisted in would certainly cause the hair to grow on the smoothest head. I sat down and wrote him out a formula and told him to have it prepared at a drug store and not to give away the information, as I intended after a while to have it patented and sell it on a large scale. The recipe contained a lot of harmless stuff, some salts of tartar, oil of almonds, bay rum, rose water, tincture of myrrh and some other ingredients. I wrote them down at random just as they came into my head, and half an hour afterwards I couldn’t have told what it was composed of myself. The man took it, paid me a dollar for the formula and went off to get it filled at a drug store.</p>
 			<p>“He came back twice that week to get shaved, and he said he was using it faithfully. Then he didn’t come any more for about two weeks. He dropped in one afternoon and hung his hat up, and it nearly knocked me down when I saw that the finest kind of a suit of hair had started on his head. It was growing splendidly, and only two weeks before his head had been as bald as a door knob.</p>
 			<p>“He said he was awfully pleased with my tonic, and well he might be. While I was shaving him I tried to think what the ingredients were that I had written down for him to use, but I couldn’t remember the quantities or half the things I had used. I knew that I had accidentally struck upon a tonic that would make the hair grow, and I knew furthermore that that formula was worth a million dollars to any man if it would do the work. Making hair grow on bald heads, if it could be done, would be better than any gold mine ever worked. I made up my mind to have that formula. When he was about to start away I said carelessly:</p>

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@@ -24,7 +24,7 @@
 			<p>The <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Post</i> Man gave a sigh of relief; the glasses were filled and emptied; filled again, and the cigars were lit, and the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Post</i> Man awaited with impatience the narrative of his strange entertainer.</p>
 			<hr/>
 			<p>“My name is Binkley,” said the ragged man. “I am the founder of Binkley’s Practical School of Journalism: the dollar I have just spent is the last dollar I have in the world, and the man I licked up town is the last one of the editorial and reportorial staff of my newspaper that I have treated in the same manner.</p>
-			<p>“About a year ago I had $15,000 in cash to invest. I could have invested it in many things that would have been safe and paid a fair per cent, but I unluckily conceived an original idea for making a good deal more.</p>
+			<p>“About a year ago I had $15,000 in cash to invest. I could have invested it in many things that would have been safe and paid a fair percent, but I unluckily conceived an original idea for making a good deal more.</p>
 			<p>“I understood the newspaper business, as I had served eight or ten years on a first-class journal before I fell heir to the $15,000 on the death of an aunt. I had noticed that every newspaper in the country is besieged with ambitious youths who desire a position in order that they may learn journalism. They are for the most part college graduates, and a great many of them care little for the salaries connected with the positions. They are after experience.</p>
 			<p>“The idea struck me that they would be willing to pay handsomely for situations where they could imbibe the art of practical journalism as found in a first-class newspaper office. Several Schools of Journalism had already been started in the country and were succeeding well. I believed that a school of this nature, combined with a live, prospering newspaper that had a good circulation would prove a gold mine to its originator. In a school they could only learn a theory, in my school both theory and practice would walk hand in hand.</p>
 			<p>“It was a great idea.</p>
@@ -67,7 +67,7 @@
 			<hr/>
 			<p>“ ‘Run!’ he gasped out. ‘The women are coming.’</p>
 			<p>“I looked out the window and saw that the sidewalk was full of them. I made a break for a back window, jumped off onto a shed, and never stopped until I was a mile out of town. That was the end of Binkley’s Practical School of Journalism. I have been tramping about the country ever since.</p>
-			<p>“The fellow I attacked on the street today was a special Houston correspondent I had engaged. I had a little grudge against him on account of the first communication he sent the paper. I gave him carte blanche to send in what he thought best, and he wired us 40,000 words the first day about the mocking-birds singing in the trees by the court house, while the snow was three feet deep in Dakota. Do you not think I have had some hard luck?”</p>
+			<p>“The fellow I attacked on the street today was a special Houston correspondent I had engaged. I had a little grudge against him on account of the first communication he sent the paper. I gave him carte blanche to send in what he thought best, and he wired us 40,000 words the first day about the mockingbirds singing in the trees by the court house, while the snow was three feet deep in Dakota. Do you not think I have had some hard luck?”</p>
 			<p>“I must tell you,” said the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Post</i> Man, “that I don’t believe your story at all.”</p>
 			<p>The ragged man replied sadly and reproachfully: “Did I not pay my last dollar for refreshments while telling it to you? Have I asked you for anything?”</p>
 			<p>“Well,” said the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Post</i> Man, after reflecting a while, “it may be true, but⁠—”</p>

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@@ -20,7 +20,7 @@
 			<p>Among the guests was the Vicomte Carolus de Villiers, a distinguished French nobleman, who had been forced to leave Paris on account of some political intrigue, and who now worked on a large strawberry farm near Alvin.</p>
 			<p>The viscount stood near a portiere picking his teeth, when he saw <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> <abbr>St.</abbr> Bibbs enter.</p>
 			<p>He was at her side in a moment, and had written his name opposite hers for every dance.</p>
-			<p>George looked over and saw them, and gasped in surprise: “Je-rusalem, that’s Molly!”</p>
+			<p>George looked over and saw them, and gasped in surprise: “Jerusalem, that’s Molly!”</p>
 			<p>He leaned against a velvet cul-de-sac near the doorway and watched them. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> <abbr>St.</abbr> Bibbs was the belle of the evening. Everybody crowded about her, and the viscount leaned over her and talked in his most engaging manner, fanning her with an old newspaper, as she smiled brightly upon him, a brilliant stream of wit, persiflage and repartee falling from her lips.</p>
 			<p>“Mon dieu!” said the viscount to himself, as his ardent gaze rested upon her, “I wish I knew who she is.”</p>
 			<p>At supper <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> <abbr>St.</abbr> Bibbs was the life of the gang. She engaged in a witty discussion with the brightest intellects around the table, completely overwhelming the boss joshers of the town. She conversed readily with gents from the wards, speaking their own dialect, and even answered without hesitation a question put to her by a man who had a sister attending the State University.</p>

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@@ -18,7 +18,7 @@
 			<p>After his mother had gone Willie put on his hat and slipped out the front door.</p>
 			<p>“I want to do something to help my good, kind papa, who is sick,” he said to himself.</p>
 			<p>He wandered up to Main Street and stood looking at the tall buildings that his poor father owned.</p>
-			<p>Passers-by smiled when they saw the little flaxen-haired boy, and many a rough face softened at the sight of his innocent blue eyes.</p>
+			<p>Passersby smiled when they saw the little flaxen-haired boy, and many a rough face softened at the sight of his innocent blue eyes.</p>
 			<p>Poor little Willie. What could he do in the great, busy city to help his sick father?</p>
 			<p>“I know what I will do,” he said to himself presently. “I will go up and raise the rent of several offices and that will make my papa feel better.”</p>
 			<p>Willie toiled up three flights of stairs of one of his father’s largest buildings. He had to sit down quite often and rest, for he was short on wind.</p>
@@ -31,7 +31,7 @@
 			<p>Willie walked boldly into the room.</p>
 			<p>“I’m not a girl,” he said. “My name is Willie Flint, and I’ve come to raise the rent.”</p>
 			<p>“Now, that’s kind of you, Willie,” said the young man called Bob, “to come and do that, for we couldn’t do it if we were to be electrocuted. Is that your own hair, Willie, or do you ride a bicycle?”</p>
-			<p>“Don’t worry the little boy,” said the other young gentleman, whom Bob addressed as Sam. “I’m sure that this is a nice little boy. I say, Willie, did you ever hear a gum-drop?”</p>
+			<p>“Don’t worry the little boy,” said the other young gentleman, whom Bob addressed as Sam. “I’m sure that this is a nice little boy. I say, Willie, did you ever hear a gumdrop?”</p>
 			<p>“Don’t tease him,” said Bob severely. “He reminds me of some one⁠—excuse my tears⁠—those curls, those bloomers. Say, Willie, speak quick, my child⁠—two hundred and ten years ago, were you standing⁠—”</p>
 			<p>“Oh, let him alone,” said Sam, frowning at the other young gentleman. “Willie, as a personal favor, would you mind weeping a while on the floor? I am overcome by ennui, and would be moved to joy.”</p>
 			<p>“My papa is very ill,” said Willie, bravely forcing back his tears, “and something must be done for him. Please, kind gentleman, let me raise the rent of this office so I can go back and tell him and make him better.”</p>

src/epub/text/in-mezzotint.xhtml

@@ -13,7 +13,7 @@
 			<p>“Oh, Ralph,” she said, her voice quivering and plaintive, “you are so late. You can’t think how I miss you when you don’t come at the usual hour. I’ve kept supper warm for you. I’m so jealous of those patients of yours⁠—they keep you from me so much.”</p>
 			<p>“How fresh and sweet and wholesome you are, after the sights I have to see,” he said, smiling down at her girlish face with the airy confidence of a man who knows himself well beloved. “Now, pour my coffee, little one, while I go up and change clothes.”</p>
 			<p>After supper he sat in the library in his favorite arm chair, and she sat in her especial place upon the arm of the chair and held a match for him to light his cigar. She seemed so glad to have him with her; every touch was a caress, and every word she spoke had that lingering, loving drawl that a woman uses to but one man⁠—at a time.</p>
-			<p>“I lost my case of cerebro-spinal meningitis tonight,” he said gravely.</p>
+			<p>“I lost my case of cerebrospinal meningitis tonight,” he said gravely.</p>
 			<p>“I have you, and I don’t have you,” she said. “Your thoughts are always with your profession, even when I think you are most mine. Ah, well,” with a sigh, “you help the suffering, and I would see all that suffer relieved or else like your cerebro⁠—what is it?⁠—patient, at rest.”</p>
 			<p>“A queer case, too,” said the doctor, patting his wife’s hand and gazing into the clouds of cigar smoke. “He should have recovered. I had him cured, and he died on my hands without any warning. Ungrateful, too, for I treated that case beautifully. Confound the fellow. I believe he wanted to die. Some nonsensical romance worried him into a fever.”</p>
 			<p>“A romance? Oh, Ralph, tell it to me. Just think! A romance in a hospital.”</p>
@@ -21,7 +21,7 @@
 			<p>“Oh, how horrible,” said the doctor’s wife, slipping her arm between his neck and the chair.</p>
 			<p>“It seems,” went on the doctor, “as well as I could gather, that some girl had discarded him to marry a more well-to-do man, and he lost hope and interest in life, and went to the dogs. No, he refused to tell her name. There was a great pride in that meningitis case. He lied like an angel about his own name, and he gave his watch to the nurse and spoke to her as he would to a queen. I don’t believe I ever will forgive him for dying, for I worked the next thing to a miracle on him. Well, he died this morning, and⁠—let me get a match⁠—oh, yes, here’s a little thing in my pocket he gave me to have buried with him. He told me about starting to a concert with this girl one night, and they decided not to go in, but take a moonlight walk instead. She tore the ticket in two pieces, and gave him one-half and kept the other. Here’s his half, this little red piece of pasteboard with the word ‘Admit⁠—’ printed on it. Look out, little one⁠—that old chair arm is so slippery. Hurt you?”</p>
 			<p>“No, Ralph. I’m not so easy hurt. What do you think love is, Ralph?”</p>
-			<p>“Love? Little one! Oh, love is undoubtedly a species of mild insanity. An over-balance of the brain that leads to an abnormal state. It is as much a disease as measles, but as yet, sentimentalists refuse to hand it over to us doctors of medicine for treatment.”</p>
+			<p>“Love? Little one! Oh, love is undoubtedly a species of mild insanity. An overbalance of the brain that leads to an abnormal state. It is as much a disease as measles, but as yet, sentimentalists refuse to hand it over to us doctors of medicine for treatment.”</p>
 			<p>His wife took the half of the little red ticket and held it up. “Admit⁠—” she said, with a little laugh. “I suppose by this time he’s admitted somewhere, isn’t he, Ralph?”</p>
 			<p>“Somewhere,” said the doctor, lighting his cigar afresh.</p>
 			<p>“Finish your cigar, Ralph, and then come up,” she said. “I’m a little tired, and I’ll wait for you above.”</p>

src/epub/text/led-astray.xhtml

@@ -13,7 +13,7 @@
 			<p>Kathleen was engaged to be married to Fergus O’Hollihan, a stalwart and handsome young man, who came to see her every night, with exquisitely washed hands and face, and wet hair, brushed down low upon a forehead that did not exactly retreat, but seemed to rather fall back for reinforcements. On Sunday nights Kathleen and Fergus would wander arm in arm over to the Gesundheit Bier Garten, and while the string band in the pavilion played the dear old Fatherland melodies they would sit at a little round table in some dark corner and click glasses in the most friendly and lover-like manner. The marriage was to come off in June, and Kathleen, after the custom of her people, had already prepared her bridal trousseau and housekeeping effects. In her wardrobe were great piles of beautifully embroidered things in fine linen and damask; heaps of table cloths, napkins and towels, and in the big drawers of her bureau were piles of dainty, lace-trimmed garments that Kathleen, being a modest Irish maiden and not a New York millionairess, kept shyly hidden from view, instead of having their description printed in the Post. Kathleen had made these garments herself, working with loving care and patience, and they were intended as a guarantee of good faith, and not for publication. The girls in the neighborhood all envied Kathleen her good luck, for Fergus was a fine-looking young man, and his business was prospering. He could drink more whiskey, tell funnier jokes and sing “The Wearin’ of the Green” so you could hear it farther on a still night than could any other young man of their acquaintance.</p>
 			<p>So, dark-haired Kathleen was happy, bending over her work with rosy cheeks and smiling lips, while, alas! already the serpent was at work that was to enter her Eden.</p>
 			<hr/>
-			<p>One day Kathleen was sitting at her window, half hidden by the climbing honeysuckle vines, when she saw Fergus pass down the street with another man, a lowbrowed, treacherous-looking person, with shifty eyes and a snake-like manner.</p>
+			<p>One day Kathleen was sitting at her window, half hidden by the climbing honeysuckle vines, when she saw Fergus pass down the street with another man, a lowbrowed, treacherous-looking person, with shifty eyes and a snakelike manner.</p>
 			<p>It was with a deep foreboding and a strange sinking of the heart that she recognized Fergus’ companion as a notorious member of the Young Men’s Christian Association of Houston. From that moment Kathleen’s peace of mind fled. When Fergus came to see her that night he seemed abstracted and different. His hand trembled when he took the glass of rye she handed him, and when he sang for her</p>
 			<p>“Let the huntsman graze his hounds</p>
 			<p>As the farmer does his grounds,”</p>
@@ -49,7 +49,7 @@
 			<p>“Hold on,” said Fergus; “don’t be so fast. Give me a glass of water, please.”</p>
 			<p>“You owe me ein dollar und five cents,” he said. “Blease, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Hollihan, bay me now pefore you go py yourself too much grazy to him remember, und I pe mooch obliged.”</p>
 			<p>Fergus then threw the money upon the counter and staggered out of the saloon.</p>
-			<p>He did not go to see Kathleen that night⁠—he was feeling too badly. He was wandering about in an agony of thirst, when he saw a piece of ice as large as a cocoanut fall from an ice wagon. He seized it in both hands, and hiding himself behind a pile of lumber sucked the ice greedily, with blood-shot eyes and trembling hands.</p>
+			<p>He did not go to see Kathleen that night⁠—he was feeling too badly. He was wandering about in an agony of thirst, when he saw a piece of ice as large as a coconut fall from an ice wagon. He seized it in both hands, and hiding himself behind a pile of lumber sucked the ice greedily, with bloodshot eyes and trembling hands.</p>
 			<p>After that he kept a jug of water in the store behind some barrels under the counter, and when no one was looking he would stoop down, and holding up the jug, let the cursed stuff that was driving the light from Kathleen’s dark eyes trickle down his burning throat.</p>
 			<hr/>
 			<p>It was Kathleen’s wedding night. The parlor of the little cottage was brilliantly lit, and roses and evergreens were draped upon the walls. Cape jessamines filled the house with their delicious perfume and wreaths of white lilies were hung upon picture frames and the backs of chairs. The ceremony was to take place at 9 <abbr>p.</abbr> m., and by 7 o’clock the guests had begun to assemble, for the smell of the good things <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> O’Malley was cooking pervaded the whole neighborhood.</p>

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@@ -9,7 +9,7 @@
 		<section id="paderewskis-hair" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
 			<h2 epub:type="title">Paderewski’s Hair</h2>
 			<p>The <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Post</i> Man had the pleasure of meeting Colonel Warburton Pollock yesterday in the rotunda of the New Hutchins.</p>
-			<p>Colonel Pollock is one of the most widely known men in this country, and has probably a more extended acquaintance with distinguished men of the times than any other living man. He is a wit, a raconteur of rare gifts, a born diplomat, and a man of world-wide travel and experience. Nothing pleases him so well as to relate his extremely interesting reminiscences of men and events to some congenial circle of listeners. His recollections of his associations with famous men and women would fill volumes.</p>
+			<p>Colonel Pollock is one of the most widely known men in this country, and has probably a more extended acquaintance with distinguished men of the times than any other living man. He is a wit, a raconteur of rare gifts, a born diplomat, and a man of worldwide travel and experience. Nothing pleases him so well as to relate his extremely interesting reminiscences of men and events to some congenial circle of listeners. His recollections of his associations with famous men and women would fill volumes.</p>
 			<p>Colonel Pollock has a suite of rooms permanently engaged in a Washington City hotel, where he passes, however, only a small portion of his time. He always spends his summers in Europe, principally in Naples and Florence, but he rarely stays in one place more than a few weeks or months.</p>
 			<p>Colonel Pollock is now on his way to South America to look after his interests in some valuable mahogany forests there.</p>
 			<p>The colonel chatted freely and most interestingly about his experiences, and told to an admiring and attentive group of listeners some excellent stories about well known people.</p>
@@ -47,7 +47,7 @@
 			<p>“During years when these rabbits are unusually destructive, the sheep men suffer great losses by not having sufficient range for their sheep. At the time of our visit the rabbits had almost ruined the country. A few herds of sheep were trying to subsist by nibbling the higher branches that the rabbits could not reach, but many of the flocks had to be driven far into the interior. The people were feeling very sore and blue, and it made them angry to even hear anybody mention a rabbit.</p>
 			<p>“About noon we stopped for lunch near the outskirts of a little village, and the prince’s servants spread a fine cold dinner of potted game, pati de foie gras, and cold fowls. The prince had ordered a large lot of wines to be sent along, and we had a merry repast.</p>
 			<p>“The villagers and sheep raisers loafed around by the hundred, watching us; and a hungry-looking, starved-out lot they were.</p><hr/>
-			<p>“Now, there isn’t a more vivacious, genial and convivial man in the world than Hermann, the great prestidigitateur. He was the life of the party, and as soon as the prince’s wine began to mellow him up, he began to show off his tricks. He threw things in the air that disappeared from sight, changed water into liquids of all colors, cooked an omelet in a hat; and pretty soon we were surrounded by a gaping, awe-struck lot of bushmen, both natives and English born.</p>
+			<p>“Now, there isn’t a more vivacious, genial and convivial man in the world than Hermann, the great prestidigitateur. He was the life of the party, and as soon as the prince’s wine began to mellow him up, he began to show off his tricks. He threw things in the air that disappeared from sight, changed water into liquids of all colors, cooked an omelet in a hat; and pretty soon we were surrounded by a gaping, awestruck lot of bushmen, both natives and English born.</p>
 			<p>“Hermann was pleased with the open-mouthed attention he was creating, so he walked out into an open space where he could face them all, and began drawing rabbits out of his sleeves, his coat collar, his pockets by the half dozen. He threw them down, and as fast as they could scamper away the great magician kept on pulling out more rabbits to the view of the astonished natives.</p>
 			<p>“Suddenly, with a loud yell, the sheep raisers seized clubs and stones and drawing their long sheath knives, rushed upon our party.</p>
 			<p>“The prince seized my arm.</p>

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@@ -15,7 +15,7 @@
 			<p>This young gentleman climbed nervously upon an electric car that was pointed out to him as going into the center of the city, and held his carpet bag upon his knees, clasping it with both hands, as if he distrusted the other people upon the car.</p>
 			<p>As the car started again with a loud hum and scattering of sparks, he grasped the arm of the seat in such a startled way that the conductor could not repress a smile.</p>
 			<p>When the young man was approached for his fare, he opened the carpet bag, pulling out a lot of socks and handkerchiefs, and after searching for some time drew forth an old-fashioned beaded purse from which he drew a nickel and handed it to the conductor.</p>
-			<p>When the car arrived at Main Street the young man requested that it be stopped, and climbed off. He wandered up the side walk, stopping to look with awe and admiration in the jewelers’ windows, and his long boot heels and awkward, mincing gait caused much amusement to passers-by.</p>
+			<p>When the car arrived at Main Street the young man requested that it be stopped, and climbed off. He wandered up the side walk, stopping to look with awe and admiration in the jewelers’ windows, and his long boot heels and awkward, mincing gait caused much amusement to passersby.</p>
 			<p>Then it was that a well-dressed gentleman wearing a handsome light Melton overcoat happened to pass, and his beautiful Malacca gold-headed cane accidentally touched the elbow of the verdant-looking young man.</p>
 			<p>“I beg a thousand pardons,” said the well-dressed gentleman.</p>
 			<p>“It’s all right, pardner,” said the young man with a friendly smile. “You ain’t done no damage. You can’t faze a Texas cow man with no plaything like that. Don’t mention it.”</p>
@@ -70,7 +70,7 @@
 			<hr/>
 			<p>I shall not undertake to describe the locality of the apartments to which our visitors next went. Gambling houses are almost unknown in Houston, and as this is a true story, the attempt to give a definite location to such an institution in a city of the well known morality of Houston would meet with incredulity. Neither is it clear how they managed to find such a place, both of them being strangers, but by some accidental blunder, Captain Clancy led <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Simmons up a brightly lighted and carpeted stair into a large apartment, where a goodly crowd of men were gathered, trying their luck at the different games usually found in a well appointed gambling house.</p>
 			<p>The stairway opened into the room nearly at the end farthest from the street. Immediately in front of the two gentlemen when they entered was a room in which were two or three round tables and chairs, at that time unoccupied.</p>
-			<p>Captain Clancy and <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Simmons walked about the larger room for a while, gazing upon the players as they won or lost in the vicissitudes and fortunes of the games. The men in the room viewed <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Simmons with illconcealed hilarity. His carpet bag seemed to create a vast deal of merriment, and every man in the room, while betraying much amusement, still gazed upon him with longing and hungry eyes, as upon some choice tit-bit upon which they fain would feast.</p>
+			<p>Captain Clancy and <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Simmons walked about the larger room for a while, gazing upon the players as they won or lost in the vicissitudes and fortunes of the games. The men in the room viewed <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Simmons with illconcealed hilarity. His carpet bag seemed to create a vast deal of merriment, and every man in the room, while betraying much amusement, still gazed upon him with longing and hungry eyes, as upon some choice titbit upon which they fain would feast.</p>
 			<p>One fat man with a dyed mustache nudged Captain Clancy in the side and said:</p>
 			<p>“Gad! Jimmy, can’t you let me in on it?”</p>
 			<p>The captain frowned and the fat man moved away with a sigh. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Simmons was interested almost to excitement. Presently he said:</p>

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@@ -11,7 +11,7 @@
 				<span epub:type="title">The Legend of San Jacinto</span>
 				<span epub:type="subtitle">The Hermit of the Battle Ground Relates an Ancient Tradition to a <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Post</i> Man</span>
 			</h2>
-			<p>The battle ground of San Jacinto is a historic spot, very dear to those who make the past reputation of Texas a personal matter. A Texan who does not thrill at the mention of the locality where General Sam Houston and other gentlemen named after the counties of Texas, captured Santa Anna and his portable bar and side arms, is a base-born slave.</p>
+			<p>The battle ground of San Jacinto is a historic spot, very dear to those who make the past reputation of Texas a personal matter. A Texan who does not thrill at the mention of the locality where General Sam Houston and other gentlemen named after the counties of Texas, captured Santa Anna and his portable bar and side arms, is a baseborn slave.</p>
 			<p>A few days ago a <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Post</i> reporter who has a friend who is a pilot on the tug boat Hoodoo Jane went down the bayou to the battle ground with the intention of gathering from some of the old inhabitants a few of the stories and legends that are so plentiful concerning the events that occurred on that memorable spot.</p>
 			<p>The <i>Hoodoo Jane</i> let the reporter off at the battle ground, which is on the bank of the bayou, and he wandered about under the thick grove of trees and then out upon the low flat country where the famous battle is said to have raged. Down under a little bunch of elm trees was a little cabin, and the reporter wandered thither in the hope of finding an old inhabitant.</p>
 			<p>A venerable man emerged from the cabin, apparently between 15 and 80 years of age, with long white hair and silvery beard.</p>
@@ -27,7 +27,7 @@
 			<p>“ ‘ “ ‘ “Child, for the first time in many years a human tongue is about to reveal the secret that this silent spot holds in its eternal bosom. I will now tell you the legend of San Jacinto as told me by my father’s half-brother. He was a silent, moody man, fond of reading and solitary walks. One day I found him weeping. When he saw me he brushed the tears away from his eyes and said gently:</p>
 			<hr/>
 			<p>“ ‘ “ ‘ “ ‘Is that you, little one? Come and I will tell you something that I have kept locked in my breast for many a year. There is a mournful legend connected with this spot that must be told. Sit by my side, and I will tell it you. I had it from my grandmother’s sister, who was a well known character in her day. How well I remember her words. She was a gentle and lovely woman, and her sweet and musical tones added interest to the quaint and beautiful legend.</p>
-			<p>“ ‘ “ ‘ “ ‘ “Once upon a time,” she said, “I was riding with my uncle’s step-father across this valley, when he gazed upon that grove of trees and said:</p>
+			<p>“ ‘ “ ‘ “ ‘ “Once upon a time,” she said, “I was riding with my uncle’s stepfather across this valley, when he gazed upon that grove of trees and said:</p>
 			<p>“ ‘ “ ‘ “ ‘ “ ‘Have you ever heard the legend of San Jacinto?’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘ “ ‘ “ ‘ “ ‘Nay,’ I said.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘ “ ‘ “ ‘ “ ‘I will tell it thee,’ he said. ‘Many years ago when I was a lad, my father and I stopped in the shade there to rest. The sun was just setting, and he pointed to the spot and said:</p>

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@@ -19,7 +19,7 @@
 			<p>“The⁠—ah⁠—oh! the mirage?” said the young man.</p>
 			<p>“No,” said the sheep man, “it wasn’t no mi-rosh; this was a mi-ridge, and the plainest one I ever seen. They happened somethin’ queer about this one, too, and I don’t often tell it, after seem’ that incredoolity generally waits upon the relatin’ of it.”</p>
 			<hr/>
-			<p>“Light up,” said the druggist, reaching for the tobacco sack, “and let us have your yarn. There are very few things a man can’t believe now-a-days.”</p>
+			<p>“Light up,” said the druggist, reaching for the tobacco sack, “and let us have your yarn. There are very few things a man can’t believe nowadays.”</p>
 			<p>“It was in the fall of ’80,” said the sheep man, “when I was runnin’ sheep in La Salle County. There came a norther that scattered my flock of 1500 muttons to thunderation. The shepherd couldn’t hold ’em and they split up right and left, through the chaparral. I got on my hoss and hunted all one day, and I rounded up the biggest part of ’em during the afternoon. I seen a Mexican ridin’ along what told me they was a big ‘tajo of ’em down near the Palo Blanco crossin’ of the Frio. I rode over that way, and when sundown come I was down in a big mesquite flat, where I couldn’t see fifty yards before me any ways. Well, I got lost. For some four or five hours my pony stumbled around in the sacuista grass, windin’ about this way and that, without knowin’ any more than I did where he was at. ‘Bout 12 o’clock I give it up, staked my pony and laid down under my saddle blanket to wait till mornin’. I was awful worried about my wife and the kid, who was by themselves on the ranch, for I knew they’d be scared half to death. There wasn’t much to be afraid of, but you know how women folks are when night comes, ‘specially when they wasn’t any neighbor in ten miles of ’em.</p>
 			<hr/>
 			<p>“I was up at daylight, and soon as I’d got my bearin’s I knowed just where I was. Right where I was I seen the Fort Ewell road, and a big dead elm on one side that I knew. I was just eighteen miles from my ranch. I jumped in the saddle, when all at once, looking across the Frio towards home, I seen this mi-ridge. These miridges are sure wonderful. I never seen but three or four. It was a kind of misty mornin’, with woolly gulf clouds a-flyin’ across, and the hollows was all hazy. I seen my ranch house, shearin’ pen, the fences with saddles hangin’ on ’em, the wood pile, with the ax stickin’ in a log, and everything about the yard as plain as if they was only 200 yards away, and I was lookin’ at ’em on a foggy mornin’. Everything looked somewhat ghostly like, and a little taller and bigger than it really was, but I could see even the white curtains at the windows and the pet sheep grazin’ ’round the corral. It made me feel funny to see everything so close, when I knew I was eighteen miles away.</p>

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@@ -13,7 +13,7 @@
 			</header>
 			<p>Will you go, Penelope?” asked Cyrus.</p>
 			<p>“It is my duty,” I said. “It is a grand mission to go to Texas and carry what light I can to its benighted inhabitants. The school I am offered will pay me well, and if I can teach the savage people of that region something of our culture and refinement, I shall be happy.”</p>
-			<p>“Well, then, good-bye,” said Cyrus, offering me his hand.</p>
+			<p>“Well, then, goodbye,” said Cyrus, offering me his hand.</p>
 			<p>I had never seen him so passionately aroused.</p>
 			<p>I took his hand for a second and then got upon the train that was to bear me to my new field of duty.</p>
 			<p>Cyrus and I had been engaged to be married for fifteen years. He was professor of chemistry in the Massachusetts State University. I had received an offer of $40 a month to teach a private school in a little town in Texas, and had accepted it. Cyrus received $20 per month from his chair in the university. He had waited for fifteen years for me to save up enough money for us to get married. I seized this chance in Texas, resolved to live economically, and in fifteen more years, if I kept the school that long, we could marry.</p>
@@ -23,9 +23,9 @@
 			<p>While we were driving along a shady road, Pete suddenly burst into tears and sobbed as if his heart were breaking.</p>
 			<p>“My friend,” said I, “will you not tell me what is the matter?”</p>
 			<p>“Ah, missie,” he said between sobs, “I happen to look at dat busted link hangin’ down from dat trace chain en it remind me of Massa Linkum what am in heb’n, what gib us po’ slaves freedom.”</p>
-			<p>“Pete,” said I, “do not weep. In the mansions of the blessed above, your god-like liberator awaits you. Singing among the hosts of heaven, Abraham Lincoln wears the brightest crown of glory.”</p>
+			<p>“Pete,” said I, “do not weep. In the mansions of the blessed above, your godlike liberator awaits you. Singing among the hosts of heaven, Abraham Lincoln wears the brightest crown of glory.”</p>
 			<p>I laid my arm gently across Pete’s shoulder.</p>
-			<p>The poor, soft-hearted, grateful man, whose dark skin covered a heart as pure as snow, still sobbed at the remembrance of the martyred Lincoln, and I made him lay his head upon my breast, where he sobbed unrestrainedly as I drove the mules myself the rest of the way to Vereton.</p>
+			<p>The poor, softhearted, grateful man, whose dark skin covered a heart as pure as snow, still sobbed at the remembrance of the martyred Lincoln, and I made him lay his head upon my breast, where he sobbed unrestrainedly as I drove the mules myself the rest of the way to Vereton.</p>
 			<hr/>
 			<p>Vereton was a typical Southern home. I had been informed that the DeVere family were still very wealthy, in spite of having lost a great deal during the rebellion, and that they still lived in the true aristocratic planter style.</p>
 			<p>The house was two-storied and square, with big white pillars in front. Large verandahs ran entirely around the house, about which climbed dense masses of ivy and honeysuckle.</p>
@@ -62,7 +62,7 @@
 			<p>When the supper bell rang I was invited into a long, lofty room, wainscoted with dark oak and lighted by paraffine candles.</p>
 			<p>Aubrey DeVere sat at the foot of the table and carved. He had taken off his coat, and his clinging undershirt revealed every muscle of a torso as grand as that of the Dying Gladiator in the Vatican at Rome. The supper was truly a Southern one. At one end was an enormous grinning opossum and sweet potatoes, while the table was covered with dishes of cabbage, fried chicken, fruit cake, persimmons, hot raw biscuits, blackhaws, Maypops, fried catfish, maple syrup, hominy, ice cream, sausages, bananas, crackling bread, pineapples, squashes, wild grapes and apple pies.</p>
 			<p>Pete, the colored man, waited upon us, and once in handing <abbr>Mr.</abbr> DeVere the gravy he spilled a little of it upon the tablecloth. With a yell like a tiger, Aubrey DeVere sprang to his feet and hurled his carving knife to the handle in Pete’s breast. The poor colored man fell to the floor, and I ran and lifted his head.</p>
-			<p>“Good-bye, missie,” he whispered. “I hear de angels singing, and I sees de bressed Mars Abraham Linkum smilin’ at me from near de great white th’one. Good-bye missie, OP Pete am goin’ home.’></p>
+			<p>“Goodbye, missie,” he whispered. “I hear de angels singing, and I sees de bressed Mars Abraham Linkum smilin’ at me from near de great white th’one. Goodbye missie, OP Pete am goin’ home.’></p>
 			<p>I rose and faced <abbr>Mr.</abbr> DeVere.</p>
 			<p>“Inhuman monster!” I cried. “You have killed him!”</p>
 			<p>He touched a silver bell and another servant appeared.</p>