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Show boy's bangs last time?" sue asked. "Yes'm; want 'em cut again?" "No, not this time. I want his hair cut short all over. And won't you try to cut each curl off separately, for I want to send some of them out of town and one to his grandmother." She had a pasteboard box in her hand in which to takeaway the gold that was more precious to her than any that has come from Klondike. She said she wanted the little boy's hair cut. It was probably the lad's father who wanted it; she had only acquiesced. Several of the ebony-hued artists gathered around to watch, while the hid took his seat in a big chair, as proud as Punch, for he was to be a "mother's little Lordy Fauntleroy" no longer. lie smiled, but there was a suspicious tremor about his mother's lips as she took a brush, and for the lust time curled his beautiful ringlets about her slim and tapering linger. Snip, snipl went, the scissors, and one by one the curls were carefully laid away in the box. Before the last one was gone the young mother was huddled hud-dled up in the bootblack's chair crying as if her heart would break. There was no doubt now that she was the child's mother. He was a baby no linger. It was much more comforatb.c lor the child, and it was time it wus done, and all thatr-but Just the? same l.e would never be mamma's little baby again, and she could not see the wealth of falling gold for the tears in her eyes. Not a man in the place sir.iltd, and even the "Shine, mister," seemed to tee a bit of pathos in the scene. The barber over in the corner had to uop a moment mo-ment while t heman he was shaving wiped a sudden tear from his own eye. The man, gray-haired and somewhat crusty, was thinking of u lock of gold tucked awa3' in the back of his desk in a busy downtown office, and his memory had gone back to the time when he tucked that strand beneath his blue soldier's blouse- und with musket on his shoulder had started for the front. "Next ! "Washington Star. PASSING OF LORD FAUNTLEROY. The Mother Tried to Be Brare When the Golden Curia Fell. The scene was in a Ninth street bar ber shop and the time was a morning earlier in the week. The "tonsorial artist" art-ist" nearest the door had just called out "Next!" when there entered a very pretty young woman leading by the hand a four-year-old boy, with long, golden ringlets. He was a manly looking look-ing little fellow, and his hair was just the shade of the young woman's, although al-though she looked almost too young to be his mother. "Are you, the iaan who cut this little |