A "SARCH" FOR A CONJURE-BALL.

[APPENING to pass Uncle Cephas's cabin the other day I noticed that a tremendous digging had been going on thereabouts. Every inch of earth in the yard and garden had been torn up, while the spring path had been literally turned upside down.

What could it mean? The old man had never been noted for any great exploits with the hoe except when fishing bait was the object, and these excavations were too extensive to allow of that belief. Could he have struck a gold mine, or was he in quest of hidden treasures?

After a while I came across him down near the spring, wielding the grubbing-hoe with an energy that I had never dreamed was in him.

Sarvunce, Marse Dave," was his response to my salutation, without stopping his work. "Whut's I tarrin' up de face er de yearth dis way fer?"-the hoe still flying"S'archin' fer conjure-balls, chile, en whut's mo' dey's boun' to come 'fo' dat sun drap down ober dat hill er Cephus is er gawner.

"See we had er li'l' difficilty wid ole Suse Knuckles ober hyere, 'bout her chillun playin' in de spreng. En she gin us so much jaw en sass en one theng er n'er dat we p'inetedly 'fused to let um hab ar nuther drap er water out'n de spreng.

"Well, right dat day she made her brag dat she gwi' fix us 'fo' our ha'r growed mighty much lawnger. Yer see, ole Suse is one er dese hyere 'omans.

"I'spected some debblement, so I told Phleby, my ole doman (woman), dat she better keep er eyes skinned en fight shy er dat nigger. I hadn' done mighty much. er de jawin' back in de difficulty, so I neber 'spected she's gwi' try to trick me, but still I felt disreposed.

"All went awn puirty tolable well twel Cheusd'y 'fo' dis las'. Den I gan to hab de cu'isest sorter feelin's you eber see. I wus all right endurin' er de day, but des let dark come en nar bit er res' ner sleep could I git. En yer know when Cephus git so he ca' res' ner sleep thengs is gittin' cu'is.

Phleby sot in to doct'in' me. Fust en last she mus'er poured down me some er all de nasties' roots en yerbs dat grows in de Nunited States. Look lek dar wus er nough stink en bitter in dat truck to hab driv all de cumplaints out'n any body's consecution. But de las' drap un it des well been flung in de gulley. Fer stidder gittin' better I got wuss en wuss. In de start it hadn' been noth'n' but er sorter trimblin' en skyeerd feelin' ev'y time dark come awn. Den sumpner gan to move inside mer big toe. Fer de fus' night er two I 'lowed it mought be de dew-each en neber paid mighty much 'tention to it.

"But atter while it gun to wiggle. Den it gan to scratch en den to claw en den to bite. I woke up de ole doman en I sey, Phleby, dar's er lizzud in dis toe'.

"G'way fum hyere, Cephus, wid yer fool'shniss,' she sey, 'how in de name er God lizzud gwi' git in dat ole toe er yone. Skin too tough en thick fer gimlit to git th'u', much less er lizzud. 'Sides dat toe would skyeer er lizzud ef he met it in de road.'

"Phleby,' I sey, 'dar's er sho 'nough lizzud in mer big toe, en ole Suse wid er conjurin' put it dar. Hit's 'ginnin' to git libelier en libelier ev'y minute.'

"Well, sah, dat lizzud sot in to tryin' his se'f fum dat minute. Ub all de rarin', kervort'n' en ca'in' awn, dat lizzud done it right in de middle er de toe.

I tried ev'y

theng to kill 'im. I stuck thorns in de toe, squshed it twix' two rocks, dipped it in lye, hilt it to de fiyuh twel 'twus put nigh roasted, en tried er hunderd other thengs. None didn' do no good. 'Pear lek it des make him dat much de madder en ambitiouser.

"Bene how endurin' er de day-time he kep' still en berhabed his se'f, I 'lowed I'd step ober de river de nakes mawnin' en see ole An' Jinsey Rattler, dat dey sey wus so good fer dem sorter thengs.

666

Br'er Cephus,' she sey, soon as I 'splained de case, en gin her de pullet I ca'red her, ' Br'er Cephus,' she sey, 'you's conjured er fac', en dat de wuss sort. Dat outdacious ole Suse done gawn en got some er yer har en yer toe-nails en wrapped um up wid er lizzud-aigg in er pisen-oak leaf en buried it sommers erbout dar, en you's done gawn en step awn hit unberknownst. Den she's done gawn en kotch er libe lizzud en put 'im in er gourd. En when she shek de gourd en make her lizzud git erbout den yo' lizzud gwi' do precisely dat same theng. Go right pinetedly home-de pullet's in de pot, but don' eben stay hyere to dinner-en git yer ole grubb'n'-hoe, en go to digg'n' fer dat conjure-ball lek fight'n' snakes, en don' yer hole up twel yer fin's hit. Caze ef de full er de moon come en dat lizzud ai' got out'n' dat toe, he ai' gwi' stay still lek he done awn de dark er de moon. He gwi' 'gin to trabble fum one eend er yer to de udder, en den yer gwi' see stairs (stars) sho nough. Yes, Br'er Ceph', ef yer don' warn' dat varmunt to 'gin to crawl up yer en down yer, pizenin' yer meat fum yer ha'r to yer toe-nails, you better make fer home en put dat grubb'n'-hoe to flyin'. En be sho whut eber yer do to sen' dat t'er pullit by de nakes passin'.'

"Better b'lieve I made er bre'k fer home, kotch up dat grubb'n'-hoe en waded into de yard, gyarden, de cawnders er de fence, de spreng paf, en ev'y whar I could ricallec' gwine sence de difficilty at de spreng.

But

"De moon hit got bigger'n bigger en rounder'n rounder. De bigger hit git de faster en harder I hit. Fum day-bre'k twel dust I sca'cely stopped lawng ernough to grab er li'l' sump'm t'eat en fleng down er li'l' water. I neber eben tuk er chaw er 'baccer. no conjure-ball. "Las' night de full er de moon got hyere. Sho nough dat lizzud 'gun to work his way out'n' mer toe. tuk up in mer foot. Nakes he rooted en scratched his way up th'u' mer ankle. Den he gan to moobe awn up mer laig, bored squar th'u' mer knee-jints en made fer mer body. My God in heaben, warn' it turrible. trimble so I made de whole house shek, en I'm boun' yer coulder hyearn mer heart beat half er mile.

Fust he

I

So I

"But whut could I do? Ef hit had er been anytheng out side'n me, dat I coulder lef' berhint, Nick Doomer en all his dawgs would'n' er kotch me. But how yer gwi' runerway fum er theng borin' in yer own meat. had to stan' en take it, or ruther roll en tumble, en kick en rar en take it. I tried prayin', I tried sengin', I tried 'xortin', I tried ev'y theng ev' wus tried. Phleby perten' lek I tried er li'l' cuss'n', dough ev' body knows I ai' done no cuss'n' sence dat year de stairs fell. "But de mo' I done de mo' dat lizzud done. Up one side he went en down t'er; up one side en down t'er. Right awn th'u' meat, j'ints, bones, innuds, tongue, head en eyes. Soon es he toch de roots er mer ha'r back he'd go to mer toe-nails lek he wus libin' awn ha'r en toe-nails en had to hab er bite er bofe at ev'y je'k un er sheep's tail.

"Des es day cracked he hilt up en I grab dis grubb'n'hoe, en yer better b'lieve I'm gwi' fin' dat conjure-ball 'fo' er n'er night come, ef I has to dig up all er Norf C'liny."

The ole man's hoe had not ceased an instant throughout the whole interview. But now throwing his eye up at the sun, he went to work with such a vim that not another word could be got from him. So I was forced to take my leave, sincerely hoping that another night would find him master of the conjure-ball. DAVID DODGE.

GOOD AUDIENCES AND BAD.

MRS. SHERWOOD OUTLINES THE CHARACTERISTICS OF EACH.

"H

By Grapevine Telephone.

66 LALLOO, Mrs. Sherwood. As this is not one of the days set down for your charming lectures, perhaps you can talk for a few minutes to the WASHINGTON about parlor lectures and parlor audiences."

"Of course I can, particularly about the audiences. I have theories about the way audiences should treat the person who is laboring for their entertainment, and though a good deal has already been said on the subject, I cannot believe that it is half enough, or that it has been put so strongly as it should be."

"In what does the badness, or goodness, of an audience consist, from the point of view of the entertainer ?"

"There are at least three sorts of bad audiences. One is the apparently apathetic sort, and this is perhaps the special form of annoyance a parlor lecturer is oftenest called upon to meet. You never find the apathetic audience in New York or in Chicago, and I have surely not had to bear this affliction in Washington; but there are cities in the world where you can sit before a roomful of intelligent people, saying your best things in your best manner, and see upon the faces before you not one sparkle of appreciation, and hear not a murmur of approbation or the faintest sound of applause. These people are not so wholly without enthusiasm as they seem, as subsequent events often show, but if they could measure the effect of such behavior upon the reader I am sure they would try and manifest a little spontaneous interest."

"Isn't this, perhaps, a mistaken idea of the etiquette of the situation? These ladies would doubtless applaud a professional artist, but they may be in some doubt about expressing their enjoyment in the same way when it is another lady who is the source of their pleasure."

"Undoubtedly that is the case. I have had my hearers tell me that they thought they would be wanting in respect if they were guilty of applauding! In such a case I try to enlighten them as fast as possible. Bring your heaviest umbrellas,' I say, 'veritable gamps with stout sticks and brass ferrules, if you have them, and then when you hear anything that pleases you, pound on the floor as hard as you can.' The greatest disadvantage in talking to an audience of ladies is their conventional horror of making a noise."

"You spoke of some other sorts of bad audiences. Will you not tell us about them too?"

"They belong more especially to great public entertainments-the concert, the theatre, the opera-than to private lectures. There is first the indifferent, chatterbox audience, the sort that has caused so much trouble for several seasons in New York. When a woman has spent her whole life in cultivating the ability to produce a certain note it is very inconsiderate for Mrs. Nobody, whose sole title to importance is perhaps the beauty of her toilette, to drown the exquisite sound with her worthless and irrelevant conversation."

"Of course it is rude, but perhaps it arises from our National instinct of a bargain. The people who attend opera argue that they have bought so much music, and that they are at liberty to do what they please with it— to listen or to ignore it, as they choose."

"That argument might hold if music lovers, such as the WASHINGTON and I, who equally have paid to hear the music, were not prevented from enjoying it through the thoughtlessness and bad manners of the chatterers.

instantly remove the offender and restore order. Of all sorts of audiences the noisy one is the worst, as it not only insults the artist, but defrauds the hearers. It is even worse than the cruel audience, such as they have in Rome. In the Holy City they have hardly advanced in humanity since the days of the gladiators. Romans. still take their amusement in the same spirit, and treat a singer or actor who displeases them as ruthlessly as they did the Christian martyrs. The result is to greatly improve the character of stage art, but the means used should not be excused on that account."

"You have told us what the parlor audience should do. Won't you tell us something about the other side -just a hint of the methods which have made your lectures so uniformly successful?"

"A very essential point is that the lecturer should have something to say. People will not be interested and amused merely because an agreeable woman wants to gain a livelihood, and thinks this a good way to accomplish the end. accomplish the end. Then there is a great deal in the manner. A parlor reader is not an elocutionist-that is quite another art, and, charming as it is, should not be confused with parlor reading. But while there should be no declamation, no straining after elocutionary effect, and, above all, no affectation, the reader should pay the utmost attention to the cultivation of the voice. She should remember that she must in herself be the whole entertainment-scenery, lights, actor and all. She must hold the interest of the audience without outside aid, and a perfectly trained voice is an important agent in performing the difficult task."

"What about the subject-matter? Do you think the range of topics suitable to the parlor lecture a wide one?"

"The essential point is that the subject chosen shall be susceptible of treatment in a light and entertaining vein. It is a mistake to make these lectures the vehicle of serious instruction. The very shortness of the time would prevent this. A parlor lecture may be made suggestive and open the way to future study, but it should not attempt too much in itself. The reader should remember that her hearers cannot put ner aside as they would a book which had ceased to amuse. The awkwardness of leaving a lady's drawing room before the lecture is over, practically compels the audience to remain, so the lecturer should, above all, avoid being tedious or unintelligible. Now here come some face-toface visitors, and you will have to excuse me if I drop the telephone. Good bye." "Good bye."

"L

LIBERTY SILK.

IBERTY silk," so says Lucile.

How does she think the captives feel? I own it sometimes freely floats About the snowiest of throats; It seems a fragile scarf enough— This yellow, gossamer, cobweb stuff! But oh, it holds my heart secure, Could cord or cable-chain do more? Illusion's ghost by sunshine kissed, A golden dream dissolved in mist, It flies yards long or it curves in grace Close to the dimpled, piquant face. It's a quaint affair as such things go, But liberty silk, Lucile-oh, no!

MARCIA B. JORDAN.

some one should speak aloud while Coquelin was uttering some famous speech? Two stout gendarmes would

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KATE FIELD'S WASHINGTON, 39 Corcoran Building, Washington, D. C.

WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 13, 1892.

NE of the most painful things about the present crank epidemic is the pitiful lack of originality which it manifests. It must surely be true that a few individuals do the thinking for the whole race, and that this applies as well to evil enterprises as to good ones. There is nothing strikingly brilliant in asking a millionaire for a pot of money and threatening, if he refuses, to blow him up with some powerful explosive. The only thing about it that is in the least modern is the bomb, which the criminal can get ready-made if he wants to. The " your money or your life" argument is as old as the history of crime itself.

It is a melancholy thing that men must rely upon each other for the courage for their misdeeds, yet no psychological fact is better established. When the history of one successful crime finds its way into print the police at once begin to watch for a whole crop of similar ones, undoubtedly suggested by the one which first obtained publicity. A dozen bad boys will sit in the school-room for a whole morning and chew up paper balls, yet not dare to throw one. At last the boldest spirit selects a mark and lets fly; and in a second the air is thick with the little missiles. The same qualities which permit one brave man to lead a hundred volunteers on a forlorn hope, or a single generous one to head a subscription list which will add up to thousands, also prescribes that when one bomb-thrower has made himself known, all the potential bomb-throwers who hear of him will rapidly develop into the active stage.

They have been having some trouble in Columbus, Ohio, about the market value of prayers. The various clergymen in the city have been accustomed to open the sessions of the Legislature with brief and seemly petitions to a Higher Power, and have uniformly performed the service without money and without price. Now, however, they want some appropriation made and very properly, too-for paying them for this arduous duty. The sympathy of the public will undoubtedly be with the reverend gentlemen; for, in addition to the time and trouble involved, praying for a legislative house in session is a particularly discouraging and depressing duty, tending to unsettle the faith of the petitioner and lead him into long arguments with himself on the doctrine of the Efficacy of Prayer and the mysterious dispensations of Providence in apparently ignoring some most carefully framed petitions.

But, as the Ohio Legislature has proved by its recent

praying for, we would earnestly recommend the clergymen to go on in their labor of love, whether they get their appropriation or not. If they cannot get justice they can at least get satisfaction, after the fashion of a good man whom I once knew. He was "gifted in prayer," and whoever had the misfortune to displease him was sure to hear his misdeeds clearly and eloquently described the very next time an occasion for public prayer gave my old friend his opportunity. This system applied to the castigation of a legislative body would doubtless bring about excellent results. An infamous bill could be criticised, or a malodorous job receive its quietus, perchance, by the judicious turning of the morning prayer in its direction.

Wherever nature gives an inch, humanity may be relied upon to take an ell. If she provides some favored corner of the earth with a mild climate, the dwellers therein make no effort to prepare themselves for her surlier moods, and one chance cold day works more harm than a whole winter in a naturally severe region. English and Americans who shiver through the winter months in the vast chilly rooms of Italian dwellings bear ample testimony to this, but there is no need to go. so far for an illustration. Any snowfall of over an inch in our National Capital will afford abundant proof of it. The inhabitants are not expecting such a calamity, and they receive it every time precisely as if it never had happened before. It is hours before the snow is removed from sidewalks and crossings, and in many places an early thaw is so confidently looked for that it is hardly considered worth while to do any shoveling at all. Public conveyances go about under almost impossible conditions, and discomfort reigns for twice as long as in some busy northern city where a snowstorm is part of the order of things, and is treated accordingly.

Economy is a beautiful virtue, especially where it concerns the spending of public money. It is to be doubted, however, whether the action of the House last week in refusing to provide transportation for the generous gifts of grain to be sent to starving Russia was as good politics as a more liberal course would have been. To send food to a hungry nation when every once in a while people starve in our own country may be misdirected philanthropy, but nothing could be more certain than that this was the action which the public stood ready to approve. Generosity is rarely arrived at by a process of logic. In our private charities when we begin to weigh the comparative worthiness of persons to befriend, or to examine the absolute claims of every needy beggar, we are very likely to close up our purses and put them back in our pockets without giving anything. If we wait until Russia manages her state affairs exactly according to American ideals, or until the Czar puts down his army and runs his empire on the town-meeting principle, and in other ways proves himself worthy of American aid, we shall probably wait until his subjects have all attained material prosperity-or have, on the other hand, been starved quite to death.

We haven't many endearing National qualities, and that is all the more reason why we should try to keep up our reputation for generosity. Our National simplicity has escaped criticism as stinginess only through our consistent open-handedness in emergencies like this. As a Nation we have imitated some of our own best citizens the Peter Coopers and I. V. Williamsons-in living simply, but giving largely. This policy, whether in a country or an individual, leads to a dignity and honor which should not be lightly thrown aside from notions of petty economy. WASHINGTON.

THE

ALMOST A LOVE STORY.

BY S. ELGAR BENET.

'HE night came on in wind and rain; a fitful November wind and a gusty November rain. Above it all one heard the lap and gurgle of the water on the sand. Mr. Pronander of the Long Peint ducking shore had but one guest at present, an unusual state of affairs at this season, for sport at Long Point was famous.

It had been a bad day for ducks; and a canvas-back and a brace of mallards bore meagre evidence of the day's shooting. The young man had a vivid recollection of an involuntary plunge into the very cold water from a treacherous blind, and the chill journey in his dripping garments to the house. In the warmth of the fire and the depths of a great chair he was enjoying a delightful sensation of luxurious idleness, but the evening promised to be long. The fire leaped up and crackled on the hearth, overpowered the feeble light of the lamp with its ruddy hue, and sank into steady burning again. There was everywhere in the room that air of bare discomfort characteristic of a place given over entirely to men. It reeked of tobacco. Upon the mantel-shelf Upon the mantel-shelf pipes-accumulated mementos of seasons of departed sportsmen were heaped. An old-fashioned sofa covered in hair-cloth stretched its length across one end of the room, a table littered with newspapers of all ages the other. There were guns of various dates in every corner. The pattern of the carpet had long since become a matter of vague conjecture. Two great ducking dogs lay asleep under the table and a third curled. herself up upon the hearth, blinking at the fire with beautiful brown eyes.

"Lal," said Mr. Pronander's guest, holding out a languid hand, "good dog, come here, Lal."

Lal acknowledged the compliment with a faint motion of ears and tail, but made no motion to leave her place.

Now, that's kind o' quare," said Mr. Prenander, reflectively, ain't it? Lal'll obey yo' every gesture, all day, jes' as long as yo' got a gun in yo' hand, but when yo' sink into yo' private capacity like, seems as if she knows she's off duty; she'll serve yo' but she won't entertain yo'. Funny, ain't it? Lal, old girl, come here, then."

Lal came with alacrity and laid her head upon her master's knee, looking up into his face questioningly. "You know yo' master, don't yo', Lal?"

He drew her long ears through his hands lovingly, and stroked her head.

"It always seemed monst'ous quare to me how fond yo' dog is of yo'. Ever think about it?"

“Oh, yes.'

"Seems downright to love yo'."

"Yes."

"I got thirteen here, countin' the rabbit dogs, an' they all think a heap o' me, but none of 'em like Lal— eh, Lal? Well, well, love's a quare complaint any way. You've thought o' that, too, I reckon?"

"Oh, yes,

assented the guest, from the comfortable depths of the hickory rocker. He had thought so much -or so little-on the subject, that long ago he had forgotten to keep count of his affairs of the heart as they rapidly succeeded each other.

"Not that I know much about it," said Mr. Pronander, pushing Lal's head away and drawing his chair closer to the fire. "Lay down, Lal, lay down. I never fell in love; the nearest I ever come to an experience of that sort was long ago, when I was a young fellow, not as old as you, somewheres about twenty-four, or not so old, maybe, twenty-two an' a half."

He took up the poker and began to touch gently, here and there, the blazing logs, as was his fashion when interested in his recital. He was as fond of poking the fire as a woman is supposed to be.

"No, I never fell in love, else I don't suppose I would be a-keepin' bachelor's hall here, now, like this."

"This is a very good sort of a way to live," said the other; "I don't know that a man could ask anything better. No danger of being badgered to death by people, and no necessity to dress more than once a day." "It's pretty fair-pretty fair," answered Mr. Pronander, with the air of a man not altogether dissatisfied with his lot. "I ain't complainin'; an' in duckin' season an' when rabbits is plenty an' game, I wouldn't change my way o' livin' noway, now. No woman would be willin' to get on with thirteen dogs havin' the run o' the house, an' I couldn't get on without 'em. But when I was a young fellow, things was different around here. Pretty much all this Neck belonged to my father, an' the darkies wasn't free. Nobody cared very much for books an' things, an' there wasn't any work to do, nothin' 'cept enjoy yo'self ridin' round, goin' to see the girls an' to church an' visitin'. an' visitin'. We had a pretty good time. Lor! if a young man'd a-tied himself down to work like he has to do to-day he'd a thought life wasn't worth livin'. There was plenty o' girls, an' pretty girls, too. The ladies at Kilgrief an' the Marsdons an' the Suttons. But things is changed here since the war. All the ladies at Kilgrief are married, all but Margaret, the oldest ; she's there still, poor as a church mouse, but jest as proud as ever. Some of the others have gone West, an' South, an' I don't know where all, but that ain't what I started to tell you. When my cousin Lizzie come home from boardin'-school she brought a friend along with

her."

He ceased speaking, as if all had been said, and poked the backlog repeatedly until a batallion of sparks disappeared up the black throat of the chimney. In the silence the low swell of the wind and a sudden sweep of rain upon the window pane made themselves heard.

"Your cousin Lizzie's friend was a very pretty girl, no doubt," sleepily remarked the guest, who rather enjoyed the sound of his host's pleasant voice, with its soft Southern Maryland accent, the grammatical irregularities suggesting the charm of a dialect story.

Mr. Pronander let the poker rest idly in his hands; he looked musingly in the direction the sparks had taken, and spoke as if to himself:

She

"Now, that girl, of all I ever knew, was the most mystifyin'. When yo' set it down to yo' own satisfaction that she wasn't much to look at you was forced to 'low 'at no other girl could hold a candle to her. had a pale face, an' jes' before she said anything to yo', yo' could see a little pink a-creepin' up in her cheeks, an' sometimes she wouldn't speak at all, only the pink. would creep, creep up an' die away, so that what she didn't say was always o' more account to yo' than what all the other girls said over an' over again, an' set yo' a-thinkin' what she would 'a' said if she'd only 'a' spoken. Quare, wasn't it?"

"Very."

"Then her eyes-yo' had to ketch 'em unawares if yo' wanted to look in 'em. They always seemed covered up for fear they'd give out what she had a mind to keep to herself. I couldn't tell yo' to-day jes' what color they were. She didn't laugh; I never heard her laugh in my life; she only smiled. But if yo' said anything funny, an' that bright look didn't come around her mouth, 'twasn't no use at all for the rest o' the girls to laugh; yo' felt foolish. Understand?” “I think I do," answered the guest.

"Then, as for a figger-she hadn't any; but she al

"She had brown hair and talked small like a woman," quoted the guest, thoughtfully.

"Yes-yes,'' assented Mr. Pronander, "I reckon you'd call it brown, an' she certain'y did talk small, but not like any other woman I ever heard. Yo' couldn't 'a' hit it better. How'd yo' know? I wonder if yo' e ver met any of her kin? She come from up your way.' "Oh, no doubt, no doubt," murmured the younger man, many and many's the time."

"Well, yo' don't say? Her name was kind o' quare, too, had a old-fashioned sound about it. Anne-Anne Page. Yo' don't mean to say yo' knew Anne Page? Sho! now, yo' don't mean it?"

"My dear sir, in my time have I known many Anne Pages. The name has been popular in the family since fifteen hundred and something, I believe, and probably for a good long while before. Of course I cannot be positive as to the exact identity of your friend, but my impression is, that I have, at least, heard of her."

"Then I 'low yo' heard there was something different about her from other women? Why, if yo' come into a room where she set with ten others yo' knew as well as could be, yo' only said good mornin' or good evenin', as the case might be, to her; an' if yo' answered questions, no matter who asked 'em, yo' answered her.

To save

yo' life yo' couldn't help it. Whatever yo' did yo' did for her, even if she wasn't there, an' it never seemed to make no difference what anybody else thought."

He began again earnestly to break small embers from the backlog, which had almost burned through.

"Most of the boys come a-courtin'," he said, "for she staid a long time; mother an' Lizzie wouldn't let her go, an' she had no home of her own, jes' a guardian an' some cousins. But Jack Sutton was the maddest of all. He wouldn't take 'No' for an answer, an' asked me to speak a good word for him. I told him I would, but somehow it wasn't as easy as I thought. I do' know yet what made it come so hard. She stood right still

and listened, without lookin' at me, while I told her what a fine fellow Jack was, an' what a good husband he'd make, then the color come up in her face quicker an' pinker 'n I ever saw it before; she opened her mouth like she was a-goin' to speak, but didn't, an' went out o' the room, instead-this same room, an' that's the door. She had been standin' all the time with her hand on the knob. I wonder to this day what she would have said if she'd only said it; somethin' it would 'a' been worth while to hear, I know. Well, by-an'-by she went home. Lonesome? I reckon. When she had gone it seemed to me as if there wasn't nobody left. The whole Neck was empty. I can't account for it. Maybe yo' won't understand, but it was a blessin' to me when the war broke out an' give me somethin' to Occupy myself with, for time hung heavy, I tell yo'. Me an' Jack Sutton went off at the first. Poor old Jack! he was shot at Manassas-bullet hit him right alongside o' me. I come back here at the close o' the war an' took to farmin'; 'twas up-hill work, but as I was a-sayin', I don't know much about love, never had any experience that way; yet, if I'd 'a' had a mind to fall in love, I reckon I'd 'a' fell in love with Anne Page."

He turned confidentially to his companion, a half smile upon his face, evidently expecting some sympathetic assent, but with that selfish indifference characteristic of one man, where the love affair of another is concerned, Mr. Pronander's guest had fallen asleep. Two women would have drawn their chairs closer-have laid their cheeks together, perhaps; at all events, would

have held each other's hands; past midnight, the idea. of sleep would not have presented itself.

Mr. Pronander took into consideration the active exercise of the day and devoted his attention to the backlog, although the poker hung listlessly from his hands. Presently the guest sat up in his chair-yawned-threw out his arms and conjectured as to the time.

"I think I'll turn in," he said. "Shall I take the lamp?"

"Yes, the fire'll leave me light enough." "Good-night; call me in time in the morning." He took up the lamp and went toward the door. "Oh, wait a minute, will yo'?" called Mr. Pronander; "I wanted to ask yo' somethin'." "Well?"

"I don't reckon yo' know what ever become o' Anne Page?"

"Anne Page?"

The light shone upon his face, showing the puzzled expression consequent upon hearing an unfamiliar name. "Anne Page?" he repeated.

Yes, we was a-talkin' about her a while ago; you said yo' knew the family."

"Oh, yes-yes; sure enough, I remember. Well, the Anne Page of whom I was speaking-observe, if you please, I am not positive we mean the same person at all-married a man named Fenton." "Married a man named Fenton ?"

'Yes; she had several admirers.

There was one Slender, if I remember aright, and a doctor--a Frenchmanbut nobody thought very much of either."

"Quare, I never heard her speak o' him; but then she was different from other girls she never talked much, least of all about herself."

The guest's face in the circle of light was perfectly grave, extravagantly so, perhaps, as he looked over at the careless, elderly figure lounging with his dog upon the hearth. The fire threw grotesque shadows of them upon wall and ceiling, but it was too dark to see the expression of their faces.

"And she is dead; died some time ago, I heard.” "Dead-Anne Page dead."

"He has?'

"Yes. Good night," said the other.

He went out and closed the door.

Mr. Pronander sat looking after his guest, his hands upon his knees, until he heard him in the room overhead, then turned again to the fire.

He struck the log a sharp blow; with a hissing sound the pieces fell into the glowing embers and the sparks flew up the chimney. A brilliant light glowed and died away into a gentle radiance. He stood the poker awkwardly in its place in the corner; it fell with a rattling noise upon the bricks.

"Lal," he called, "good dog, good dog, come here." She came to him at once, put her paws upon his breast, and laid her head on his shoulder.

"She married a man named Fenton-Fenton." He stroked the dog's head as he spoke, and she whined sympathetically, reaching up to lay her soft muzzle against his cheek.

"An' she's dead-Anne Page, who was never like any other girl-she's dead."

Lal's whine rose to a howl; she flung herself down upon the hearth and laid her nose upon her paws, making now and then little plaintive, whimpering noises.