[6s&7s] [Editorial] every one -> everyone

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 			<h2 epub:type="title">A Ghost of a Chance</h2>
 			<p>“Actually, a <em>hod</em>!” repeated <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Kinsolving, pathetically.</p>
 			<p><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Bellamy Bellmore arched a sympathetic eyebrow. Thus she expressed condolence and a generous amount of apparent surprise.</p>
-			<p>“Fancy her telling everywhere,” recapitulated <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Kinsolving, “that she saw a ghost in the apartment she occupied here⁠—our choicest guestroom⁠—a ghost, carrying a hod on its shoulder⁠—the ghost of an old man in overalls, smoking a pipe and carrying a hod! The very absurdity of the thing shows her malicious intent. There never was a Kinsolving that carried a hod. Every one knows that <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Kinsolving’s father accumulated his money by large building contracts, but he never worked a day with his own hands. He had this house built from his own plans; but⁠—oh, a hod! Why need she have been so cruel and malicious?”</p>
+			<p>“Fancy her telling everywhere,” recapitulated <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Kinsolving, “that she saw a ghost in the apartment she occupied here⁠—our choicest guestroom⁠—a ghost, carrying a hod on its shoulder⁠—the ghost of an old man in overalls, smoking a pipe and carrying a hod! The very absurdity of the thing shows her malicious intent. There never was a Kinsolving that carried a hod. Everyone knows that <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Kinsolving’s father accumulated his money by large building contracts, but he never worked a day with his own hands. He had this house built from his own plans; but⁠—oh, a hod! Why need she have been so cruel and malicious?”</p>
 			<p>“It is really too bad,” murmured <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Bellmore, with an approving glance of her fine eyes about the vast chamber done in lilac and old gold. “And it was in this room she saw it! Oh, no, I’m not afraid of ghosts. Don’t have the least fear on my account. I’m glad you put me in here. I think family ghosts so interesting! But, really, the story does sound a little inconsistent. I should have expected something better from <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Fischer-Suympkins. Don’t they carry bricks in hods? Why should a ghost bring bricks into a villa built of marble and stone? I’m so sorry, but it makes me think that age is beginning to tell upon <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Fischer-Suympkins.”</p>
 			<p>“This house,” continued <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Kinsolving, “was built upon the site of an old one used by the family during the Revolution. There wouldn’t be anything strange in its having a ghost. And there was a Captain Kinsolving who fought in General Greene’s army, though we’ve never been able to secure any papers to vouch for it. If there is to be a family ghost, why couldn’t it have been his, instead of a bricklayer’s?”</p>
 			<p>“The ghost of a Revolutionary ancestor wouldn’t be a bad idea,” agreed <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Bellmore; “but you know how arbitrary and inconsiderate ghosts can be. Maybe, like love, they are ‘engendered in the eye.’ One advantage of those who see ghosts is that their stories can’t be disproved. By a spiteful eye, a Revolutionary knapsack might easily be construed to be a hod. Dear <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Kinsolving, think no more of it. I am sure it was a knapsack.”</p>
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 			<p>“You are a good boy, Terence,” said <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Bellmore, sweeping her silks close to one side of her, “not to beat your mother. Sit here by me, and let’s look at the album, just as people used to do twenty years ago. Now, tell me about every one of them. Who is this tall, dignified gentleman leaning against the horizon, with one arm on the Corinthian column?”</p>
 			<p>“That old chap with the big feet?” inquired Terence, craning his neck. “That’s great-uncle O’Brannigan. He used to keep a rathskeller on the Bowery.”</p>
 			<p>“I asked you to sit down, Terence. If you are not going to amuse, or obey, me, I shall report in the morning that I saw a ghost wearing an apron and carrying schooners of beer. Now, that is better. To be shy, at your age, Terence, is a thing that you should blush to acknowledge.”</p>
-			<p>At breakfast on the last morning of her visit, <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Bellmore startled and entranced every one present by announcing positively that she had seen the ghost.</p>
+			<p>At breakfast on the last morning of her visit, <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Bellmore startled and entranced everyone present by announcing positively that she had seen the ghost.</p>
 			<p>“Did it have a⁠—a⁠—a⁠—?” <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Kinsolving, in her suspense and agitation, could not bring out the word.</p>
 			<p>“No, indeed⁠—far from it.”</p>
 			<p>There was a chorus of questions from others at the table. “Weren’t you frightened?” “What did it do?” “How did it look?” “How was it dressed?” “Did it say anything?” “Didn’t you scream?”</p>

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 			<p>Wherever there happened a calamity that left people destitute⁠—a fire, a flood, a tornado, a strike, or a famine, there would go hurrying a generous consignment of the “Aglaia” at its “nothing” price. It was given away cautiously and judiciously, but it was freely given, and not a penny could the hungry ones pay for it. There got to be a saying that whenever there was a disastrous fire in the poor districts of a city the fire chief’s buggy reached the scene first, next the “Aglaia” flour wagon, and then the fire engines.</p>
 			<p>So this was Abram Strong’s other monument to Aglaia. Perhaps to a poet the theme may seem too utilitarian for beauty; but to some the fancy will seem sweet and fine that the pure, white, virgin flour, flying on its mission of love and charity, might be likened to the spirit of the lost child whose memory it signalized.</p>
 			<p>There came a year that brought hard times to the Cumberlands. Grain crops everywhere were light, and there were no local crops at all. Mountain floods had done much damage to property. Even game in the woods was so scarce that the hunters brought hardly enough home to keep their folk alive. Especially about Lakelands was the rigour felt.</p>
-			<p>As soon as Abram Strong heard of this his messages flew; and the little narrow-gauge cars began to unload “Aglaia” flour there. The miller’s orders were to store the flour in the gallery of the Old Mill Church; and that every one who attended the church was to carry home a sack of it.</p>
+			<p>As soon as Abram Strong heard of this his messages flew; and the little narrow-gauge cars began to unload “Aglaia” flour there. The miller’s orders were to store the flour in the gallery of the Old Mill Church; and that everyone who attended the church was to carry home a sack of it.</p>
 			<p>Two weeks after that Abram Strong came for his yearly visit to the Eagle House, and became “Father Abram” again.</p>
 			<p>That season the Eagle House had fewer guests than usual. Among them was Rose Chester. Miss Chester came to Lakelands from Atlanta, where she worked in a department store. This was the first vacation outing of her life. The wife of the store manager had once spent a summer at the Eagle House. She had taken a fancy to Rose, and had persuaded her to go there for her three weeks’ holiday. The manager’s wife gave her a letter to <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Rankin, who gladly received her in her own charge and care.</p>
 			<p>Miss Chester was not very strong. She was about twenty, and pale and delicate from an indoor life. But one week of Lakelands gave her a brightness and spirit that changed her wonderfully. The time was early September when the Cumberlands are at their greatest beauty. The mountain foliage was growing brilliant with autumnal colours; one breathed aerial champagne, the nights were deliciously cool, causing one to snuggle cosily under the warm blankets of the Eagle House.</p>

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 			<p>Such clothes were surely never made within fifty years. The major was tall, but whenever he made that wonderful, archaic genuflection he called a bow, the corners of his frock coat swept the floor. That garment was a surprise even to Washington, which has long ago ceased to shy at the frocks and broadbrimmed hats of Southern congressmen. One of the boarders christened it a “Father Hubbard,” and it certainly was high in the waist and full in the skirt.</p>
 			<p>But the major, with all his queer clothes, his immense area of plaited, ravelling shirt bosom, and the little black string tie with the bow always slipping on one side, both was smiled at and liked in <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Vardeman’ s select boarding house. Some of the young department clerks would often “string him,” as they called it, getting him started upon the subject dearest to him⁠—the traditions and history of his beloved Southland. During his talks he would quote freely from the “Anecdotes and Reminiscences.” But they were very careful not to let him see their designs, for in spite of his sixty-eight years, he could make the boldest of them uncomfortable under the steady regard of his piercing gray eyes.</p>
 			<p>Miss Lydia was a plump, little old maid of thirty-five, with smoothly drawn, tightly twisted hair that made her look still older. Old fashioned, too, she was; but antebellum glory did not radiate from her as it did from the major. She possessed a thrifty common sense; and it was she who handled the finances of the family, and met all comers when there were bills to pay. The major regarded board bills and wash bills as contemptible nuisances. They kept coming in so persistently and so often. Why, the major wanted to know, could they not be filed and paid in a lump sum at some convenient period⁠—say when the “Anecdotes and Reminiscences” had been published and paid for? Miss Lydia would calmly go on with her sewing and say, “We’ll pay as we go as long as the money lasts, and then perhaps they’ll have to lump it.”</p>
-			<p>Most of <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Vardeman’s boarders were away during the day, being nearly all department clerks and business men; but there was one of them who was about the house a great deal from morning to night. This was a young man named Henry Hopkins Hargraves⁠—every one in the house addressed him by his full name⁠—who was engaged at one of the popular vaudeville theatres. Vaudeville has risen to such a respectable plane in the last few years, and <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Hargraves was such a modest and well-mannered person, that <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Vardeman could find no objection to enrolling him upon her list of boarders.</p>
+			<p>Most of <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Vardeman’s boarders were away during the day, being nearly all department clerks and business men; but there was one of them who was about the house a great deal from morning to night. This was a young man named Henry Hopkins Hargraves⁠—everyone in the house addressed him by his full name⁠—who was engaged at one of the popular vaudeville theatres. Vaudeville has risen to such a respectable plane in the last few years, and <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Hargraves was such a modest and well-mannered person, that <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Vardeman could find no objection to enrolling him upon her list of boarders.</p>
 			<p>At the theatre Hargraves was known as an all-round dialect comedian, having a large repertoire of German, Irish, Swede, and blackface specialties. But <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Hargraves was ambitious, and often spoke of his great desire to succeed in legitimate comedy.</p>
 			<p>This young man appeared to conceive a strong fancy for Major Talbot. Whenever that gentleman would begin his Southern reminiscences, or repeat some of the liveliest of the anecdotes, Hargraves could always be found, the most attentive among his listeners.</p>
 			<p>For a time the major showed an inclination to discourage the advances of the “play actor,” as he privately termed him; but soon the young man’s agreeable manner and indubitable appreciation of the old gentleman’s stories completely won him over.</p>

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 			<p>“Never knew but one case in Topaz City,” said the man from the West. “Jim Bailey, our mayor, had his watch and chain and $235 in cash taken from his pocket while⁠—”</p>
 			<p>“That’s another matter,” said the New Yorker. “While you are in our city you should avail yourself of every opportunity to see its wonders. Our rapid transit system⁠—”</p>
 			<p>“If you was out in Topaz,” broke in the man from there, “I could show you a whole cemetery full of people that got killed accidentally. Talking about mangling folks up! why, when Berry Rogers turned loose that old double-barrelled shotgun of his loaded with slugs at anybody⁠—”</p>
-			<p>“Here, waiter!” called the New Yorker. “Two more of the same. It is acknowledged by every one that our city is the centre of art, and literature, and learning. Take, for instance, our after-dinner speakers. Where else in the country would you find such wit and eloquence as emanate from Depew and Ford, and⁠—”</p>
+			<p>“Here, waiter!” called the New Yorker. “Two more of the same. It is acknowledged by everyone that our city is the centre of art, and literature, and learning. Take, for instance, our after-dinner speakers. Where else in the country would you find such wit and eloquence as emanate from Depew and Ford, and⁠—”</p>
 			<p>“If you take the papers,” interrupted the Westerner, “you must have read of Pete Webster’s daughter. The Websters live two blocks north of the courthouse in Topaz City. Miss Tillie Webster, she slept forty days and nights without waking up. The doctors said that⁠—”</p>
 			<p>“Pass the matches, please,” said the New Yorker. “Have you observed the expedition with which new buildings are being run up in New York? Improved inventions in steel framework and⁠—”</p>
 			<p>“I noticed,” said the Nevadian, “that the statistics of Topaz City showed only one carpenter crushed by falling timbers last year and he was caught in a cyclone.”</p>