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and thread in gloomy silence for a time. The society young ladies said they did not see how they could ever notice Mr. Prior again; while several young lawyers saw no way out of it except through legal proceedings.

Prior kept much to himself, offering no defence for his conduct. This naturally had a depressing effect upon his social atmosphere and its temperature sank steadily.

As the town became more cold and virtuous, he became more morose. He felt that he had been badly treated, that old friends should not have been so ready to turn the cold shoulder, and he said to himself that he would never explain; he would leave the place and begin life elsewhere.

Now as a matter of fact he had never really begun life anywhere; he had simply been born. Up to this time he had never thought whether he was even happy; but he now realized that he was distinctly unhappy. He felt that his old friends and neighbors owed him an apology; and they felt that he owed them an explanation. He gave notice to his landlord that after a certain date his rooms would be vacant, though he offended the town still more deeply by thus dropping out of it.

As he moved about, his horizon widened, and his native town did not seem so large to him. As a consequence, the grievance associated with it grew less; and there were times when he even forgot that he had a grievance. But one effect which his growing world had upon him was that he felt his aloneness in it. As spring, with its restlessness and expectancy, eame on, this loneliness increased; and he flew from place to place in search of companionship and happiness.

It was on one of these journeys that he saw one evening, from the car, a young fellow flit along a country road upon a bicycle. He was not alone; beside him rode a young girl. They made a pretty picture against the setting sun, which remained with

Prior after long miles had intervened. Why had he never thought of a bicycle tour? Of course he knew that the purchase of a wheel would not include a girl with rosy cheeks, fluffy hair and jaunty cap; but it would mean swift motion and flight akin to that of the birds,—so he would get a bicycle and glide through the "glad light green" of spring.

There is such a thing in the world. as the logic of chance. A learned Scotch philosopher has written a book to prove it. There are a thousand chances to one against a certain thing happening; but by a mysterious logic life will now and again hit that one strange chance. It has sometimes been so in your life and mine; and the dice of destiny now dealt wonderfully in the case of Mr Prior.

A fortnight later, after he had bought and mastered his wheel, he was resting by the roadside late one afternoon. Before him stretched a peaceful landscape dotted with farm homes, and behind him stretched a forest untouched by the hand of man. From where he lay upon the grass he could hear swiftly rushing water; but the thick foliage hid it from his sight. He was just making up his mind to go and look at the stream when he heard a stealthy sound as of some one stealing through the undergrowth. Peering in its direction, he saw the figure of a woman making its way toward the hidden stream. The face he could not see, but the form was slight and girlish. In a moment it had vanished. It was all so like a dream that if the disappearance had not been followed by a splashing sound, he would have found it hard to believe that he had not been sleeping. He leaped to his feet and ran in the direction of the sound. Only the troubled water, dark and swift, met his gaze. Then two hands were flung up, and a terrified white face showed for a moment on the current and sank again. He flung himself into the stream, and a few strong strokes brought him to where she

would next rise; and as the water was once more parted, he caught the struggling figure and turned toward the shore. The dream still went onas a nightmare-through the combat in which the drowning arms strove to pull him under the treacherous water, and as he clambered up the steep bank and laid the dripping but still conscious girl upon the grass, she broke the spell by crying reproachfully:

"Why did you bring me back? Why did you not let me drown?"

"Oh, don't--don't talk like that." His voice seemed to him to come from a great distance, and he half wondered if he were speaking. The girl had risen to a sitting posture and was rocking herself to and fro. She made no answer save by the sobs which came from between her chattering teeth. She shivered and rubbed her thin, cold hands together.

"Let me put something warm around you - you are completely chilled," he said; and he ran to his wheel and unstrapped his warm coat and drew it around her shoulders. "Take a sip of this; it will warm you. There now, tell me where you live. I will take you home." She looked so small and young in her clinging garments that he almost added, “You poor little child!”

"I don't live anywhere-any more. I am going to die. Don't stop me,"and she tried to get upon her feet; but Prior threw restraining arms around her.

"Don't say such a thing! Don't think again of taking your life—it is terrible!" and he gathered her hands into his. "Tell me what trouble you are in-if you have no friend to tell it to; maybe I can help you."

"No, no, no-you cannot. Oh, I thought it would all have been over by this time!"-and she bowed her wet face upon her clasped hands and was silent. Then lifting her head she looked steadily at him; and something she saw in his face made her

ask: "Would you believe me? Oh, I wonder if I might tell you." "I will believe you-anything you tell me. You are a truthful, earnest girl."

"Oh, I'm not an earnest girl-I once thought I was-I'm not truthful. And yet I want to tell you the truth. I'm—I'm-oh, I am so wretched! Will you believe me?" "Yes, yes."

She clutched his hands pleadingly and then pulled them away. "What would you say if I were to tell you that you had saved the life of a thief? Oh, how my head aches and roars! Perhaps I had better tell you-for I think I am dying, and I must-must tell some one; it may save an honest person from being suspected."

"Tell me if it will relieve you—but not until I can get you somewhere where you can change these cold, wet clothes. I hear a wagon. You must let me stop it. You can't stay here."

"Oh, don't leave me-don't make me go away alone-I am the loneliest creature in the world."

and

"Of course I'll go with you," Prior answered, as he would have answered a lost child who had attached itself to him as its protector. He ran to the roadside, casting unseasy glances back as he ran, and halted the wagon. It contained an elderly man woman, and to them he made known the situation; and somehow, without planning to mislead, he spoke of the girl, who had so narrowly escaped drowning "by falling into the creek," he said, as his sister. "If you could keep her to-night it would be a great kindness; she is not fit to go on-on our journey," he added.

So, thought they, this young man and his sister were on a bicycle tour, and she just like a girl!-had ridden. too near the creek and had gone in. Yes, they could not only keep her, but they insisted that he too should accept their hospitality. So they took her into the wagon, while he followed on his wheel.

"Now, mother, find dry clothes for

her; and if her brother can wear any of my things he'll be the better rid of his wet clothes," said the farmer as he drew up at his door.

When they met again, an hour later, at the tea table, the young girl was pale and silent. She scarcely spoke; and Prior had noted with relief that she had not even smiled at his emaciated appearance in the stout farmer's clothes.

The supper done, the sympathetic hostess led the girl away into the sitting-room and tucked her snugly up on the old-fashioned lounge. When she returned she told Prior that his sister wanted to see him.

She opened her eyes as he entered the room, and held out her hand. He drew a chair beside the lounge and took her hand. As he would have released it, she said simply and without embarrassment:

"No, I feel better when you hold my hand-I am not so frightened when you are with me-and-I think I am going to die, so nothing matters now." After a pause, in which he felt her hand tremble, she began again: "Perhaps you think I said what I did -there in the woods-because I was unnerved. I was unnerved, but what I told you was true. I am a thief. I got money-it came into my hand unsought, and so far I was not to blame. It was a large sum, five times as large as I could have earned in a year in my little school. It came to me in a very strange way, and at a time when there was a great deal of distress and poverty all about me; and-fool that I was!-I presumed to think it had come to me because I knew so well the needs of the poor. Yes, I even had the presumption to think I had been appointed the Lord's purse bearer! Oh, what can you think of me?"

"I cannot think badly of you," answered the young man softly.

"Oh, but I think badly of myself. This money-it was a thousand dollars-oh, it makes me sick to think of it all my whole life has been a pre

tence since then. I had to pretend that what I was giving away was of my own earning; and sometimes the honest creatures I helped did not want to take it; and when I insisted, they called me generous and good. And I made mistakes sometimes. Once I gave money to a man who said his family would be turned into the street if he did not pay his rent, and he took the money and got drunk and tried to kill his wife; and last month he was sent to the prison. That was the kind of a purse bearer I was-I who thought I understood the poor, just because I was poor!" "But this money was given to you to distribute. It-"

But

"No, it was not given to me. it is too late to repent now; it is all gone. And people whom I've helped all winter keep coming to me, and I've woven such a web of lies about myself that I have no protection from them. When I say I have no more money to give, they don't believe me. But I am glad when they abuse me. I give away every cent I can spare, I go shabbily and thinly dressed,-and some days I'm hungry. Yet I can never atone for my dishonesty. I am glad I am going to die."

"Don't call yourself hard names; don't talk so dreadfully! I don't like. to question you, but I don't understand-"

"How I got the money? Oh, I went to stay over Sunday with a poor woman-oh, it seems so incredible, I can't expect a stranger to believe me -I can hardly believe myself when I think back to it-and it doesn't matter how I got it-my sin isn't there. It came to me. But I kept it-and I had no right to it. I kept it; I stole it."

Prior, greatly puzzled, said finally: "I think you blame yourself too severely. You say you did not benefit by the money yourself, and I have no doubt you spent it to the best advantage. You say it is all spent. Don't think any more about it or about the past. Think of the future. Have you no friends?"

I

"Yes, I have friends-among the poor; but I cannot go to them. have no relations. We were once a large family; but one after another went. Two years ago my last brother died; and since then I've been alone." Her voice trembled and her eyes filled with tears.

"I wish," said Prior tenderly, "that since I have been the means of thwarting you in your attempt to take your life, you would let me help you. Let me give you back this money you have spent, and you can restore it; and if you will tell me how, I will help you relieve the poor. The only time I ever tried to be charitable, I-well I made a fool of myself. But don't make plans to-night. You ought now to be sleeping. It has been a terrible day for you. Only you must promise me that you will not-not

"Yes, I know. I see now how wicked and cowardly it was. I ought to have taken what I brought on myself." She took away her hand and said: "I thank you for what you offer, -but-I cannot think to-night;" then starting up she cried out wildly: "What if I had drowned you! Oh, don't be so good to me-don't-"

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Prior went out into the night and walked under the blossoming locust trees, trying to think calmly of what had happened. He knew that the past was a closed chapter-that tomorrow a new one would begin. Yesterday he was alone, with no one but himself to consider. To-morrow he must become responsible for the life he had saved. Strangely he realized that it was a pleasurable sensation. It was a new and delightful feeling to think he was going to take care of a lonely, helpless creature. He thought of the mistake into which he had led the farmer and his wife in his excitement, and it seemed to him that it would be very nice if she really were his sister. Indeed it would be so pleasant if she were walking beside him now and he were still holding her hand. He stood still under the sweet

locusts, and her thin, pathetic little hand seemed to steal into his again. Poor little thing! What sweet brown eyes! and how utterly alone she was! Ah, well, for the matter of that, so was he utterly alone; and he felt dreary. It must be awful to be a woman, alone and poor. He resumed his walk, musing about the young girl

and also a little about himself. Suddenly he wondered how she would look if she were laughingwhether she would have dimples about her mouth and in her cheeks. He could not imagine her smiling. The brown eyes came back to him only through tears, and seemed to say, "I am too lonely to smile;" and his heart answered them, "I am lonely too," and he felt very sorry for her and for himself.

But to-morrow? What was he to do with her? It was in vain that the very little which was practical in him answered that he was simply to let her alone, that he was in no way responsible for her, that he had done quite. enough in risking his life to save hers. The sentimental part of him resented this cold answer with great warmth, and retorted that only a scoundrel would force a human being to stay in this hard world and abandon it to misery. When finally he went to his room, it was with the two sides of him still quarrelling. still quarrelling. The farmer's wife called to him that she had left a note on his table from his sister. Hastily lighting his lamp, he read:

"I could not finish what I wanted to say this evening. But I want to tell you how truly grateful I am to you for still believing in me, when you know how wicked I have been,— and for saving my life. From this on I will use it only for others. I have no right to it. How I wish I might some day repay you, some day do something to make you happy! Tonight, as I look forward to the coming years, I feel lonelier than I ever did before. If only I had one friend! That would give me courage. After to-morrow our paths may never meet

again; but I would like to feel that somewhere in the world, you would think of me now and then, and believe that the life you have given me was being rightly used."

The young man's eyes were dim as he finished, and he involuntarily pressed the letter to his lips. Poor, lonely little girl! Instead of rushing away when she broke down, why had he not still sat beside her and comforted her and held her hand? Why need their paths separate to-morrow -when they had so strangely come together? What could he do for her? How could he make her life happier? All that she needed, he said to himself, was sympathy-and protection and a home-poor, homeless little dove!-and some one to appreciate her and love her, as such a treasure of a girl deserved to be loved.

Just at this point the practical side of his nature interrupted him, and asked him bluntly why he did not sympathize with her, and protect her, and love her, and give her a home himself? He was stunned at the question. He walked to the window and looked out; and after a time he walked back.

"Why shouldn't I? I will-that is, if she'll let me dear little angel! Oh, no, she wouldn't give a blundering fool such as I am a thought!"

He picked up the letter again and read it through once more. Then he turned it over. There was more writing on the other side which he had not seen. He read:

"I ought to have told you exactly how I got that money. Can you believe me, when I tell you that I found it among the potatoes, which had been sent by the relief committee to the poor woman whose sick child I was nursing? I was preparing some. potatoes for their dinner when I came to one which was hard. Feeling to see why it was so hard, I touched a spring, and it opened in halves! It was a bonbon box, and in it lay a thousand-dollar bill! I ought to have taken it at once to the committee,but I did not. I have told you how falsely I reasoned. Where the money came from I never expect to know. You, a man, never acting upon impulse, may not be able to understand my course; but remember I am only a foolish, impulsive girl, and try still to think well of me, and believe that I meant to do right."

I.

THE INGRATE.

By Paul Laurence Dunbar.

R. LECKLER was a man of high principle. Indeed, he himself had admitted it at times to Mrs. Leckler. She was often called into counsel with him.

He was one of those large souled creatures with a hunger for unlimited advice, upon which he never acted. Mrs. Leckler knew this, but like the good, patient little wife that she was,

she went on paying her poor tribute of advice and admiration. To-day her husband's mind was particularly troubled, as usual, too, over a matter of principle. Mrs. Leckler came at his call.

"Mrs. Leckler," he said, "I am troubled in my mind. I-in fact, I am puzzled over a matter that involves either the maintaining or relinquishing of a principle."

"Well, Mr. Leckler?" said his wife, interrogatively.

"If I had been a scheming, calculating Yankee, I should have been

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