should stand erect on his feet; if he does not, but grovels on hands and feet like a quadruped, we say of him that he is an unnatural man. It is the law of a man's nature that he should think, that he should be able to make intelligent comparisons and draw conclusions from premises, and if he cannot we say he is an idiot. What does that mean? It means that he is peculiar, different from other folks, built not according to the laws of human nature. It is according to these laws that men should be moral in their dealings one toward another; that, for example, a mother should love her child; and if she does not, if she is indifferent to it, disregards it, is cruel to it, we say she is an unnatural mother. It is according to these laws that a husband should love his wife. If he does not, if he is cruel and brutal, if he beats her, we say he is an unnatural husband. And it is according to

the laws of human nature that men should love their God. This love for Ged is not the peculiar and exceptional mark of a peculiar and exceptional genus. God made men that they might love him. When he says, "Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind, and with all thy strength," what he says is this: "If you do not love God, you are something less than you were meant to be."

Do you love God? If you do not, it is for one of two reasons: Either you do not know him, or else you are an unnatural man. The world is full of men who do not know him. It is in vain for the preacher to say, Thou shalt love the Lord thy God, and then depict a God who is cruel, harsh, merciless, tyrannical, self-seeking. It is in vain to say to men, Thou shalt love the Lord thy God, and then represent a God who delights in the torments of his children. You cannot love that which is unlovely. But if you know God, if you have read the story of his life as it is written in the biography of Jesus of Nazareth, if you have come to understand anything of his patience, his long-suffering, his gentleness, his endurance, his strength-the father love, the mother love, the husband love, all mingled in one great Divine love and then you do not love him, what can you say of yourself except that you are an unnatural man? Love God's love !-all life seems to me, from the beginning to the end, to be teaching this. Not teaching us wisdom, not teaching us power, except the wisdom and the power there is in love. The babe whispers love to the mother. The child speaks love to the friend in school with clasped hands. The maiden utters love out of her suffused eyes as she looks into the eyes of the young man to whom she plights her troth. The mother speaks love to the babe that lies in her arms. Love sings at our wedding feast; love comforts us at our funeral. Love rings the wedding chime, and sounds in the funeral knell. We love while our children are about us, and just as soon as we have learned to love with largeness of love, then life takes the son and the daughter away from us and carries them off into some far country. And we still love the unseen in memory and in hope-love with expectation of folding them in our arms again. Finally death comes and takes them from us altogether. Yet still we love-love not merely the memory of the past, love not merely the hope of the future, love the one who is dead but has not gone, and try in vain to make ourselves hear the voice that never speaks and see the form that never comes back. But, though we see not, still we love. And so God is saying from the cradle, from the school-room, from the wedding feast, from the funeral, from child love, from mother love, that love is not sensual, that we love what the eye cannot see nor the ear hear; that the unseen can be loved, and God can be loved although unseen.

In the third place, you may take this text as a prophecy. It is the law of God's being, the one thing he desires, to make his children love him. It is the law of our own nature, the first law, the fundamental law. But it is also prophecy. "Thou shalt love the Lord thy God." All God's commands are promises and prophecies. When he says in the days of creation, "Be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth, and subdue it; and have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over every living thing upon the earth," it is not that Adam is to put his hand upon the lightning, and upon fire and water, and

control electricity and steam. What he says is this: "You can learn to do it; this globe is yours; I put it in your hands; by and by you will have supreme mastery over it and in it." The command is also a prophecy and a promise. So when he says, "Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart and soul and mind and strength," it is as if he said, I know you do not understand me now and do not so love me now, but you are going to love me. I know that you have hid yourself in fear from me, as did Adam in the Garden; but I also know that I at last will succeed. As a teacher comes into a lawless school of untaught and ungovernable children, and, after the first day's experience of insult and disobedience and anarchy, says to herself as she goes to her home, You shall all love me before the term is over; I can succeed and I will, so God says to us: When I have completed my work, selfish, indifferent, disobedient as you are now, you shall at last love me; I can and I will conquer. So He comes as the woman comes sweeping in the dust for the coin, as the shepherd goes into the wilderness seeking for the sheep which has strayed away, as the father goes out to meet the boy who is returning to him. So He comes, seeking our love and saying to himself, "It shall be; I will accomplish it-at last-at last." The time is coming when we shall know Him even as we are known, when we shall see Him face to face, when we shall wonder at our ignorance, and still more at our unnatural coldness, and shall love Him with all our hearts, and with all our soul, and with all our life, and with all our mind, and with all our strength.

In the British Museum at London, and in the Natural History Rooms at Central Park, New York, also in the Smithsonian Institution at Washington, may be seen large cases of birds and other small animals set in their natural environment of trees, rushes, prairies, or river-banks. The robin is at home in a fresh green apple-tree, amid blossoms and bursting buds, delightfully true to nature and lacking only the spring perfume to make them seem real; the sandpiper guards his rough nest on the beach; the thrush hovers near his dainty home in the midst of last year's grass, through which new shoots are stealing up; and seagulls are shown in their rock homes, while sedges and grasses by the riverside indicate the surroundings of the angler's sport, the trout or sturgeon or brilliant salmon being displayed in a fisherman's basket. Thus placed, the specimens have great value to the student and to all lovers of

nature.

The inventor and executor of this fine and beautiful work which is rapidly increasing in popularity for museums and private collections, is a middle-aged English woman, known at home as Miss Mintorn, of the celebrated Mintorn family of modelers, and in America by her married name, Mrs. E. S. Mogridge. The story of her life and the evolution of her invention are as romantic as a chapter from one of Mrs. Oliphant's novels, to which, indeed, they bear some resemblance. The story begins with the life of Miss Mintorn's mother, the young daughter of a wealthy old Gloucestershire family living at Wych Court, the ancestral home. A poor but gifted miniature-painter in the neighborhood, who was permitted to copy pictures in the great art gallery of the Court, rashly fell in love with the delicate young daughter, and the two were married in the face of strong family opposition. After a few happy years the husband was stricken with paralysis, and the young wife, looking about for some means of support for herself and little family, began to turn to advantage her knowledge of making wax flowers. Her deft fingers and exquisite taste, supplemented by the teaching of the invalid husband, soon brought abundant patronage and appreciation. She was the first woman to attempt making a livelihood by the art. children, the youngest of whom was Miss Mintorn, then a child of six, aided their mother by bringing ferns and

The

In

Mrs. Mintorn invented a fine kind of wax preparation of such delicacy that it was difficult to detect the wax flowers from the real. At the first grand banquet given At the first grand banquet given for Queen Victoria in London, after her coronation, Mrs. Mintorn had an order to furnish flowers for decoration. front of the Queen's plate was placed a great salver of gold, the gift of King Charles to Nell Gwynn, and on the broad gold border was laid a wreath of tiny flowers modeled by the little Mintorn daughter, now Mrs. Mogridge. The Queen took up one of the dainty roses to inhale its perfume, and when she discovered the deception, sent for the Mintorns and gave them the title of "Modelers to the Queen."

A year later the mother died, leaving the care of the family of four children, the youngest a baby and the oldest a lad of thirteen, with the invalid father, to the youthful modelers. They took up the burden bravely, inspired by the mother's example, and the eldest continued giving lessons as his mother had done.

The sister's work proved unusually delicate and pleasing, and helped to raise the family name into prominence. At a London Exposition a case of birds mounted amid their natural surroundings attracted the attention of a scientific gentleman connected with the British Museum. He sent for Miss Mintorn and asked, "Can you not invent some material more durable than wax in which to embody your ideas?"

The result was the making of the "Mintorn Art Fabric," a preparation of chemicals and wax applied to silk lisse, which may be molded and worked with perfect ease, and when cut on the bias furnishes the best possible edge for long, waving leaves. It is as durable as canvas, and is not affected by heat and cold. By means of oil paint it is made to assume any desired color, and when I visited Mrs. Mogridge in her studio, she was perfecting a cluster of wild iris with such delicacy and beauty of color and texture that it was almost impossible to distinguish it from the real flowers.

In preparing the home of a bird, Mrs. Mogridge first obtains, if possible, a branch of a tree containing a good nest. This she strips of its outer bark, and allows the branch to dry and shrink as much as it will. The leaves and leaf-buds are taken off, and a half-dozen or more of differing shape and size are molded in plaster of Paris, and from these molds are prepared leaves of the Art Fabric, carefully colored according to nature. On the dry branch are wrapped delicate sheets of fabric, colored brown or green, until a plump branch of the original size is secured, and to this are attached the various shapes and sizes of green leaves. The buds and blossoms are, of course, wrought and colored by themselves according to the modeler's taste, no molds being taken for them. The original nest manufactured by the bird is preserved in its own place, and eggs are collected for it, while a taxidermist supplies the birds.

The process is apparently very simple, but in execution great taste and skill are required in order to prepare a faithful imitation of the natural trees and flowers. Mrs. Mogridge studies the habits of the birds, their time of nesting, etc., and arranges her foliage and other accessories according to the season to be represented. The home of the thrush, for example, is built before new grass has quite driven out the trace of that of last season.

Mrs. Mogridge's first large commission came, as has been stated, from the British Museum. Here she has over one hundred handsome cases of native birds, song, game, and sea birds. One large piece of gulls from the Orkney Islands shows many strange and curious sea plants, in particular the brilliant yellow sea-poppy.

In connection with her only surviving brother, Mrs. Mogridge prepared several cases of the food-plants of the United States, together with their insect destroyers and traces of their devastations, for the Government at Washington, which were exhibited at the World's Fair and are now at the Smithsonian Institution. For this purpose the Government sent Mr. Mintorn to Louisiana, where he care

plant by the boll-worm.

For the past five years Mrs. Mogridge has been employed in arranging cases of birds and other small animals for the Natural History Museum at Central Park, New York, the expense being borne by the late Mrs. Robert L. Stuart. Over forty cases, together with many scattered exhibits, testify here to the beauty and excellence of her workmanship. Among the birds represented, all beautifully housed among the trees or shrubs in which they build their nests, are the scarlet tanager, the red-eyed and the white-eyed vireos, the cardinal-bird, several varieties of sparrows, the oven-bird, bluebird, wood-thrush, catbird, brown thrasher, and the rose-breasted grosbeak.

In addition to this collection of birds, Mrs. Mogridge also prepared a large collection of insects which destroy American trees, and traces of their ravages, for the Morris K. Jesup collection of native woods in the Museum.

The largest piece of work yet undertaken by the Mintorns is soon to be placed on exhibition at the Natural History Rooms in Central Park. In it is represented a broad prairie on which are growing prairie grasses and flowers, and in the midst a herd of buffaloes is grazing.

In a recently published English work on "Artistic and Scientific Taxidermy and Modeling" there is an extended notice of the work of the Mintorn family.

At present Mrs. Mogridge is preparing several cases of birds for the new Art Museum in Springfield, Massachusetts, the expense being borne by a liberal citizen, Mr. Gurdon Bill.

Aunt Clementine's Old Days

By Mary T. Earle

It was evening, and the family had just finished prayers. There was no one left of the family in these years except the Squire kneeling by the big Bible and Aunt Clementine bowing her turbaned head over a chair near the shadowy doorway. The lamp on the table beside the Squire was flaring a little, and as Aunt Clementine scrambled to her feet she saw it and trotted across to turn it down.

"When I gits ole," she said abruptly, while the Squire was rising, "I wants you to come in sometimes to little Clementine's, where I'll be sittin' in de chimbley corner, an' I wants you, please, sir, to kneel right down an' pray me dat same prayer. Dere isn't no minister, white or cullud. dat can pray any such a prayer as dat. I'se had it on my min' to ax you evah since I first comed hyar an' you prayed it, jes' like you prayed it evah since."

The Squire took his glasses off and polished them. When they were finished, he rubbed his handkerchief across the high dome of his head. It had never occurred to him before that he prayed in just the same words every night. "Why, certainly, Aunt Clementine, certainly," he assented in a puzzled tone. assented in a puzzled tone. It was passing through his mind that he might just as well read a prayer from a book, and that was a custom which he had been brought up to abhor. Then his eyes cleared. The great changelessness of our human needs rose before him, justifying the grand and changeless phraseology of his appeal. He did not go far enough to question if it justified the book as well; he was telling himself, "It is not repetition, it is inspiration, always the same inspiration-if I did not feel it I should be given other words." He reached behind him, tucking his handkerchief into the pocket of his long-tailed coat and smiling benignantly at Aunt Clementine. you expect to live with that niece who has just come North, do you, when you are-er-unable to work any longer?" he said.

He could not have brought himself to say, "When you are old," for Aunt Clementine was already unmistakably old, although her vigor promised to last a long time, he hoped. The Squire depended on Aunt Clementine, and had gradually accustomed himself to all her ways until they seemed the only ways in which a household could find comfort. He tried not to show how much it troubled him to look forward to the time of her outworn strength, and

he would gladly have arranged to have her cared for in the house, but Aunt Clementine had other cherished plans.

She stood across from him with her gnarled hands resting on the table and a look of unusual softness wrinkling the parchment of her face. Even the crusty indrawing of her chin was gone. The Squire had known her a good many years, but it was new to him to see her bespeaking prayers for herself instead of admonishing others.

"Yes, sir, thank you, sir," she answered, bobbing him a courtesy which stopped half way to grace because a rheumatic joint debarred it—" yes, sir, I've allus calculated on spendin' my las' days with little Clementine. You see, de You see, de way I allus studied it out, bringing up chillun is jes' like keepin' an insurance policy-dey pays you back in de end; an' so when I los' all of my own I was powahful glad to have my sister give me one o' hern. She was allus such a great, fine, vig'rous child dat it was a rale enjoyment to try to git enough for her to eat an' to watch her bustin' through her clo'es, an' whenever she settled down kin' o' weighty on my min' or my strength, I jes' tole myse'f, 'Doan' you shirk out'n you' bes' endeavors for dat chile, an' when you're old it'll be tuhn about an' she'll be wukkin' for you.'" The old woman's eyes wandered past the Squire, and her Arab face softened into still more unwonted gentleness. "You ain't seed my little Clementine yit," she said " such a great stroppin' fine woman as she has growed to be. An' she allus says the same thing as I does. Tuhn about is fair play, Aunty,' she says. "You've wukked for me, an' when you'se ole I'se sho'ly goin' to wuk for you.' You ain't nevah lived in de Souf, Squire, an' you doan' know how ole niggers takes deir ease. An' I'll do de same when I gits ole. I'll jes live with little Clementine an' sit by her chimbley, with nuffin in de worl' to do but move de ihons back an' fo'th to keep 'em hot so'st little Clementine won't lose no time, an' between movin' 'em I'se jes' as likely as not to doze off in de chair-my, my, but sometimes when I gits tired I gits to studyin' about it, an' I straitches out my feet, an' I can jes' feel de crinklin' of de heat about my knees. I tell you, Squire, I'se plumb glad I had de sense to put my earnin's into a chile, 'stid of any sort of insurance dat doan' begin to pay you back till after you is daid."

The Squire's eyes wandered about the room seeking all the faces which death and life had taken from him. "You are right, Aunt Clementine," he said, wistfully; "the best of all insurance is some younger person's love. Goodnight," he added, lifting the lamp as a signal; and the old woman said good-night.

The next morning when he came down to breakfast the Squire found Aunt Clementine wearing a white handkerchief tied beneath her turban and around her forehead. He knew that handkerchief well. Sometimes it meant that its wearer had headache, and sometimes it was a badge declaring increased rheumatic trouble or general misery, but it always signified that Aunt Clementine was approachable and open to kindly offices. "Headache, Aunt Clementine?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," said Aunt Clementine, and as she turned toward him he saw that her eyes had a glaze of pain. "I'se got headache an' bonesache an' feetache, an' a sort er triflin' feelin' 'bout de chest. I seems to be a-peterin' out all roun'." The corners of her mouth sank, as if her world felt heavy on her shoulders. "De batter-cakes feels it," she added, hopelessly; "dey isn't noways up to de mahk, but you mus' escuse 'em, please, sir, dis mawnin', Squire." "You're mistaken about them-they're fine," said the Squire, eying them cordially; "don't you suppose I know the color of a good cake? But I'll tell you what's the trouble with you, Aunt Clementine: you're feeling the hot weather; and I'm going to hire the washing done out of the house for a while and let you pick up strength."

Aunt Clementine set down the plate of batter-cakes with a sharp motion. "Does you think I'se gittin' too ole?" she demanded, with a tremor in her voice. Her cramped fingers locked themselves together before her, and she stared down at the Squire with a fierce beseeching in her eyes. "I grumbles an' scolds an' goes a-pokin' 'bout my wuk jes' like I was sick sometimes," she went on, eagerly,

"jes' because I'se a ole fool dat was made too much of an' spiled in de raisin'-nevah had to nose right into de pan with de oddah little pickaninnies, like a little drove o' shoats-no, sir; dey thought I was smaht, an' dey made of me, an' I got uster bein' muched an' noticed, so dat I keeps a-wantin' it now dat I is growed. But I ain't ole yit, Squire, an', what's mo', I ain't de sort to hang triflin' roun' in nobody's kitchen aftah my wukkin' days is past. No, sir; I'se jes' goin' to lay by an' take my ease like yaller corn dat's cut an' stacked in de field 'fore it's hauled away an' shucked an' measured out for jedgment "—her voice quivered again-"but, Squire, I'se strong yit; de time for layin' by ain't come.'

"Of course it hasn't," said the Squire, buttering his batter-cake restively, "but that's no reason why you should overwork beforehand, when the weather's hot and the neighbors' children out of school and running in and out making you trouble all the time. Do you know of anybody you could get who would do the washing something like as well as you do?"

The Squire prided himself as being a man whose every word was upon honor, and he also prided himself upon being able to manage Aunt Clementine, although no one outside of the house could ever have understood how he reconciled these two prides or what became of his conscience his dutiful, unswerving conscience-when he complimented the old woman so broadly. For to the eyes of the world her work would have shown undoubtable evidence of failing skillfulness and failing sight. But outsiders had not frequented the house in the ten years since Aunt Clementine had entered it, and they could not be expected to know how the Squire had found out and adjusted his mind to the necessary conditions of peace so gradually that he was never conscious of having become an arch flatterer and perverter of the truth.

Aunt Clementine chuckled softly somewhere within herself and forgot the sore question of age. "Little Clementine, she's a heap better washer an' ihoner dan I is," she answered graciously, "an' she'll be mighty proud to git de wuk."

"Capital!" said the Squire. "I wonder I didn't think of it myself. Tell me just where she lives, and I'll take the buggy and drive right over to her with the laundry-bag

now.

"No use puttin' youse'f out," said the old woman. "I'se goin' ovah dere dis evenin' anyhow. De bag ain't much size, an' I wants to tell her jes' how you wants you' shirtfronts starched."

"Better tell her about it and have her call round for the bag, then," the Squire advised; and he left the table with the genial feeling of having put his household into ways of

ease.

And it seemed at first as if he had, for Aunt Clementine went about her work singing like a bird-some very strange bird-and toward evening the signal of distress was missing from her forehead and the gray discoloration which with a negro answers for pallor had left her face. But, considerably later, when she came back from her visit to little Clementine, she looked worn again, and the Squire reproached himself for not having insisted on delivering the laundry-bag in person. "There seems to be no way

of helping a woman," he mused discontentedly as he watched her hobbling off to her room. "I've noticed it again and again through my life that a woman will always find some way of turning your help into an added burden. I wonder why it is."

Aunt Clementine could have told him that she was acquainted with a woman who knew how to take assistance, but he did not speak to her about it, and as the long weeks of summer filed slowly out from the realms of heat, bringing neither youth nor health to her in spite of her lessened cares, he began to wonder if it might be that she was a great deal older than she had ever given him to understand. Sometimes he tried to keep his mind from being so occupied with the thought of Aunt Clementine and her sufferings, telling himself that if she did not minister to his material comfort he would probably be thinking less about her, but at other times he realized with a sense of desola

tion that he was growing almost as old as she, and that if she were to die his daily life would become altogether strange.

One afternoon, reflecting on all these things, he was driving back from a day's absence outside the village. His road lay through a little negro settlement which he had not been near for years, and he looked about him with humanitarian interest in its progress since the first freedmen had built their cabins in this most southerly shadow of the great wing of the North. The only person whom he saw drew him back from general to individual speculation. It was Aunt Clementine standing outside a hovel, and washing with a furious energy which made the friction of the clothes across the board into a sort of tune. He drove straight toward her. The sound of the wheels did not seem to reach her ears, but as he drew near she turned, without looking up, and went into the house. The form of some one sitting by the doorway disappeared, and as she came out again she glanced his way and he spoke to her.

"Aunt Clementine," he said, sternly, "what does this mean?"

"Dis is little Clementine's house," the old woman explained, coming out into the road. As she stood beside him he could see through a veneer of pride and defiance into a broken look which was new to her face. His heart sank while it relented. He felt that she was hiding some trouble from him, and he waited for the clue. "I was feel

in' so smaht," she went on, gathering assurance from his changed expression, "dat I comed ovah hyah right soon dis evenin', an' I foun' dat it was tuhn about sho' 'nough, an' po' little Clementine was a-feelin' too po❜ly to wuk. Feelin' smaht like I did, I couldn't sit by an' see her give ovah you' washin' to somebody that would have spiled you' shirts, an' starched 'em stiff as pasteboa'd, so I jes' tuhned about an' did it myse'f, an' I doan' feel no wuss for it. I reckon I'se picked up a right smaht of strength."

The Squire shook his head. "You've not been doing right, Aunt Clementine," he answered. "Do you think this is acting fair to me when I'm trying to make you strong and well again?"

"I'se done the best I knowed," said Aunt Clementine, her face taking on a dogged look which, together with its lines of sorrow and of weariness, made it look as old and unconquerable as toil itself. Through what seemed a long and hopeless space of time she met and resisted the kind solicitude of his gaze, and then her defiance fell before it piteously. "You've had chillun, Squire," she said, with a catch in her voice, "an' mebbe you knows how it is to feel 'De chile is my chile,' an' not to git fur 'nough beyond it to see de oddah people in de worl'. I was studyin' mo' about de money for little Clementine dan about you' shirts, an' I reckon "

"Get in here and ride back home at once," the Squire interrupted, brusquely," and let the shirts-" he would have liked to say, "go hang," but, realizing that it would sound unseemly, and that in any case they could not do it without the help of Aunt Clementine, he substituted, "take care of themselves."

The system of "turn about" seemed to have some kind of a hitch in its working, for Aunt Clementine was undoubtedly very "po'ly" after that day, and yet she insisted that her niece was far too ill to be sent for to help her, or, later on, to take care of her when she had taken to her bed. The Squire wandered about the house disconsolately, going up again and again to ask her how she was, and avoiding the kitchen, where he had installed a young and sprightlymotioned black girl, whose swiftness enabled her to make more mistakes in a single day than the Squire had ever dreamed of. Sometimes he had a glimpse of a colored man slinking out of the house, and this he learned to be little Clementine's husband come to exchange reports as to the condition of the two invalids. The new girl in the kitchen told him so with a giggle, and when he asked her how little Clementine was getting on, she giggled again and said that she thought that little Clementine was pretty low—" actin' so, leastways," she added.

For a long time that night the Squire could not sleep. A suspicion of his own was confirmed by the new girl's

opinion, and the picture of Aunt Clementine sitting by her niece's fireside floated in many and hopeless variations before his mind. There could be no question now but that Aunt Clementine was approaching the "laying-off time," but little Clementine did not seem to be preparing any warm nook for her by the chimney-side.

"An ungrateful and idle generation," he muttered, staring into the darkness with the wide-eyed, impatient wakefulness of a child. He turned again wearily. "There must be some way to get asleep," he thought. "Mother used to tell me to count sheep jumping over a fence, but I like a stone wall best. One, two, three, four, five-' He held his face toward the rugged, moss-chinked wall which he had summoned before him, and smiled as he noticed how each sheep's tail and hind feet twinkled in the sun.

In primitive neighborhoods there is a summons which always sounds mournful or portentous when it comes through the darkness, and the last of the Squire's sheep was just losing itself in a pasture-land of dreams when he started up in alarm. Some one at his front gate was shouting "Hello-o-o!" in a loud, quavering voice.

Now the Squire, in days when the country was wilder, had often been called in the middle of the night to dispense offhand justice to disturbers of the peace, but in these later times, when he and the region about him had been growing more grave and dignified, it was an unheard-of matter to be roused like this, and it must mean personal ill tidings or else some public mishap of great importance. All this passed through his mind with the one step between the bed and the window, but, while he was fumbling with a rebellious window-bolt, another voice, full and rich and reverberant, added itself to the distressful calling out-ofdoors.

"Squiah Poole! Squiah Poole !"-it swelled up through the black shadows of the yard where the starlight did not penetrate, and something in its musical whole-heartedness relieved the tension which the Squire had felt to be absurd, although he could not free it from about his thoughts. The bolt yielded, and he threw open the window and looked out.

"Who's there and what's the matter?" he asked. "It's jes' me, Isaiah Oldfield," answered the voice of excitement, dropping to a more conversational pitch—“ jes' me an' my wife come roun' to ax you to light you' lampas quick as you can an' write us out some little papahs of divo'cement. Me an' her is boun' to quit, an' we wants de papahs for it jes' as quick as you can write."

"See here," said the Squire, "I can't write you any such papers, and it's no thing to wake a man up at night for in any case."

"Dat's jes' what I done tole him," said the richer voice. "I done says to him, ''Zaiah,' says I, 'de ole Squiah ain't got nobody to quar'l with like we-all has, an' he'll jes' about be takin' his soun'es' sleep.' I says to him, 'He's a right ole man, de ole Squiah is, an' he'd a heap ruther be rousted up by daylight an' tend to his divo'cements in de mawnin'.'

A chill night breeze was blowing through the Squire's scant garments, and the floor near the window was cold. He was uncomfortable enough to resent consideration on account of age. "I wish you to understand," he said, "that night or morning is not the question. A justice of the peace does not have the power of granting divorces. All that you can do, whichever of you is dissatisfied, is to wait and get a lawyer, and bring your case before the next session of the court."

The Squire had begun to pull down the window, but the man's voice stopped him. "Wait a minute," it besought; "do, please, sah, wait a minute, Squiah, an' study dat 'cision of you'n ovah agin. Sho'ly, sho'ly, you ain't a-goin' to sen' me back to wuk an' wuk faw dat big idolatrous woman dat is so powahful idolatrous she axes me to he'p her if she wants to shoo a fly. It's a mighty long time till court sets, faw I done axed about it, an' long befo' den 1 wants to git a woman what'll cook my suppahs faw me an my dinnahs an' my breakfas', an' I tell you, Squiah, I done got one all selected dat'll do it, too. You knows her. She's jes' as black as dese shadders, an' when you onct

see her wuk you believe it to be de jumpin' of a flea. I tell you, Squiah-"

"Don't you tell me anything of the sort," cried the old son of the Puritans, bringing his fist down upon the windowledge. "Take shame to yourself, Isaiah Oldfield, whoever you are, to be harboring such admiration for any other woman than your lawful wife. And you dare not only to think such thoughts but to speak them aloud for the world to hear, and in the presence of the woman you have promised to love and to cherish-" The Squire halted, awkwardly uncertain if he was speaking the exact truth, or if there might be some other formula for marriage vows among these negro waifs who kept drifting across the border from the South. The letter of the truth never stood between the Squire and its spirit, yet he was happiest when the spirit was embodied in the letter. A gurgling, care-free laugh from the injured wife filled in the gap.

"Doan' you worry you' old haid tryin' to make him see shame, Squiah," she counseled; "it ain't no sorter use, an' I done give it up long time ago. He doan' mean no harm, Squiah, noways, on'y he ain't got no eddication or fambly -I doan' see how I evah fawgot myse'f so fur's to take up with him in de fust place, an' I tell you what, Squiah, you needn't be backward on my account, faw I'll jes weah you' image in my heaht if you'll on'y light up you' lamp an' write out dem little papahs."

The Squire gave a sound of disgust that was almost a groan. The sense of humor which would have solaced him by daylight seemed to pertain in some degree to his clothing of the day, and his mind felt bare and irritable without it. "Go away," he cried out; "I tell you I have nothing to do with your little papers of divorcement."

"I call it a mighty po' no-count Squiah," the man broke out, "what can't prepare some simple little papahs when a gentleman an' his wife has quarreled an' de two applications is of de same min'!" The Squire let his window run down with a bang, but as he remained beside it he could hear Isaiah Oldfield's disapproval lift itself from scorn to vituperation and rush along its way, leaving a sparkling trail of adjectives behind.

A window above the Squire's flew up, and Aunt Clementine spoke from it in accents like edged weapons, so strong and clear and sharp that the Squire marveled, having thought her very ill that night. "Isaiah Oldfield !" was all she said.

Isaiah's voice fell into a sort of brisk meekness. "Yes, ma'am," he answered; "isn't you sick no mo'?" The Squire pricked up his ears. "Well," he thought, "Well," he thought, "what next?"

The next was law and order.

"You disgraceful, triflin' nigger!" said Aunt Clementine; "you an' you' wife ain't goin' to have no papah of divo'cement, not hyah nor nowheah else. You'se bofe goin' to shut you' blattin' moufes an' tuhn about for home, an' you'se bofe of you goin' to wuk decent an' stiddy, like quality, an' min' you' business an' keep you' hon'able name. Does you onderstand?"

"Yes, ma'am," said Isaiah Oldfield; "but little Clementine she won't wuk. I done begged an' imploreded her to stir me up a little corn pone faw suppah, an' she jes' laid back in de rockin'-chair you give her, an' allowed dat maybe if I was hongry I wouldn't mind stirrin' up some faw bofe of us, or maybe you-all'd be feelin' 'nough bettah to come ovah an' would feel like stirrin' one up.'

The woman down in the shadows had been chuckling softly beneath his speech. "Law yes, Aunty," she said, taking up the tale, "an' I never saw nothin' git so ridic'lously mad as 'Zaiah did when you didn't come. I done tole him, 'Tain't no use cuttin' no didoes like dat, 'Zaiah; you had ought to know dat Aunty is gittin' tolable ole, an' aftah her day's wuk is done, even when she ain't sick, she isn't allus honin' to make no sociable calls.' I tole him you'd been gittin' kind o' rheumaticky 'way long back, an' de ole Squiah wukked you pretty hahd-"

"Hesh you' big moufe," said Aunt Clementine. "Doesn't you have any depohtment at all to come hyah hollerin' fambly affairs out in de streets by night? Jes hesh you' two moufes an' tuhn about faw home." Her voice was so

tense that its very decisiveness suggested that it was near the point of breaking. The Squire noticed it, but he could not see how she leaned out to them through the darkness. "For de Lawd's sake," she went on, in a hoarse whisper which she hoped he could not hear, "has you forgotten you' promise to me, little Clementine?"

"Law no, Aunty," little Clementine answered, cheerfully. "You has wukked faw me, an' I is goin' to wuk faw you. I doan' nevah fawgit dat, Aunty, an' I tries not to weah myse'f out befo' de time. Look like 'Zaiah can't git dat much of gratitude through his low-down haid, but doan' you worry you'se'f, Aunty, little Clementine she won't fawgit."

"You'd bettah not," Aunt Clementine retorted with tremulous gruffness. "You'd bettah jes hesh you' moufe, an' tuhn about for home. I'se comin' ovah dere soon as I gits out to tell you a little of de trufe about you'se'ves, an' I'll bring along dat new green dress o' mine to see if dere isn't 'bout enough of it to cut you out a basque. I cain't use all de dresses I got, noways, an' I was plum mortified at de way you appeahed de las' Sunday I was to chu'ch you is certainly de mos' triflin' no-count-" There was a slight pause. No one knew that the old woman's strength was leaving her, and that she was sinking slowly down upon her knees, for her voice had seemed shaken with anger rather than with weakness. Her bent hands clutched the window-ledge, and a soft cry escaped from her "Little Clementine !"

The Squire threw open his window and leaned out to look at hers. It was empty, and seemed like a dim black shadow on the wall. Down below he could see the indistinct silhouettes of little Clementine and Isaiah. Something in that cry had frightened them, and they were standing hand in hand. The Squire turned hastily to dress himself. There was a moment more of silence, except that the wind kept whispering under the eaves, and then out of the darkness Aunt Clementine's voice went on. She had gathered her will for its control, but it was slow and sorrowladen. "If you won't come up hyah to me I mus' talk out for dem dat hears to hear," she began, "for, seein' you has come hyah so unseemly, I'se goin' to speak anodder wud to you befo' you goes, an' it may be de las' wud betwixt you an' me. You has given me you' faithful promise to take keer of me when I is old, little Clementine, an' I wants to ax you when you thinks dat time'll come ? been so proud of you, little Clementine, I ain't nevah let a livin' soul speak hahm of you in dese old eahs. An' de way I has loved you-why, nights when I sits alone I sits studyin' about you, an' right now when I been layin' hyah sick without de chance to look into you' face I laughs right out in my mis'ry like a fool, 'cause you' great stroppin' silly laugh keeps a-soundin' in de stillness of my heaht. I was so proud of you dat I done tole every soul I knowed how you was goin' to take keer of me, an' even when I kep' havin' to send back money to you it nevah come into my haid-dat it was because you was-triflin' an' no-count-" at the words which cut her heart most deeply her voice broke and ceased.

I

The Squire stood shivering beside his window before he spoke. Then he called down rather gently and told little Clementine to come into the house. He met her at the door with a light and went with her up the stairs. The lively young black girl was sleeping undisturbed on her pallet in the corner. Aunt Clementine lay on the floor by the window shaking with long-drawn, inarticulate gasps. "Little Clementine has come to put you to bed and to take care of you," the Squire began, but then he paused.

Great tears were running down the younger woman's face. She stooped and lifted her aunt in the strong arms which had refused so many burdens. "I allus tole youAunty," she said, brokenly, "dat I was goin' to take keer you when you was ole.'

of

"Hush!" the Squire said; "you are too late. Aunt Clementine's old days have come and gone."