hen, though his chief duty was to make an impression on
old Mr. Pemberton, his sons, and the other big chiefs. Still, he did
condescend to "put his O. K." on pictures, on copy and proof for
magazine advertisements, car cards, window-display "cut-outs," and he
dictated highly ethical reading matter for the house organ, which was
distributed to ten thousand drug-stores, and which spoke well of
honesty, feminine beauty, gardening, and Pemberton's. Occasionally he
had a really useful idea, like the celebrated slogan, "_Pemberton's_
Means PURE," which you see in every street-car, on every fourth or fifth
bill-board. It is frequent as the "In God We Trust" on our coins, and at
least as accurate. This slogan, he told Una, surpassed "A train every
hour on the hour," or "The watch that made the dollar famous," or, "The
ham what am," or any of the other masterpieces of lyric advertising. He
had created it after going into a sibyllic trance of five days, during
which he had drunk champagne and black coffee, and ridden about in
hansoms, delicately brushing his nose with a genuine California poppy
from the Monterey garden of R. L. S.

If Mr. Ross was somewhat agitating, he was calm as the desert compared
with the rest of Pemberton's.

His office, which was like a million-dollar hotel lobby, and Una's own
den, which was like the baggage-porter's den adjoining the same, were
the only spots at Pemberton's where Una felt secure. Outside of them,
fourteen stories up in the titanic factory, was an enormous
office-floor, which was a wilderness of desks, toilet-rooms, elevators,
waiting-rooms, filing-cabinets. Her own personality was absorbed in the
cosmic (though soapy) personality of Pemberton's. Instead of longing for
a change, she clung to her own corner, its desk and spring-back chair,
and the insurance calendar with a high-colored picture of Washington's
farewell. She preferred to rest here rather than in the "club-room and
rest-room for women employees," on which Mr. Pemberton so prided
himself.

Una heard rumors of rest-rooms which were really beautiful, really
restful; but at Pemberton's the room resembled a Far Rockaway cottage
rented by the week to feeble-minded bookkeepers. Musty it was, with
curtains awry, and it must have been of use to all the branches of the
Pemberton family in cleaning out their attics. Here was the old stuffed
chair in which Pemberton I. had died, and the cot which had been in the
cook's room till she h