Bates pulled out of the ruck at the turn, and fell in behind him, following orders. Round the track they swung, stringing out, one and another coming up and going back as if on wires, but Teddy and Bates holding the lead. My watch showed fifty-eight and three-quarters as they finished the first lap, a beautiful performance on Teddy's part, though I had expected it, for he was a connoisseur on time, if I ever saw one.

There followed them over, and close up, a cadaverous-looking man from one of the minor colleges, whose style I did not like, but who was going very strong, and whom I might have thought dangerous had I not been told he never finished. Sherman was twenty-five yards back, in the rear of the lot, and running in a very hopeless fashion.

I was relieved to see how well Teddy did his work, and noticed the slight flush on his cheeks as he passed.

I could see that Mollie Kittredge too had a little added color in her cheeks, but in no other way did she show any particular interest in the race.

For the first half of the second lap our programme was followed out all right, Atherton still leading at a lively clip, Bates right at his heels, and the tall outsider barely holding his own.

Then the unexpected happened. Bates began to show signs of tiring, fell back inch by inch, and the tall outsider came up at the same rate. Just before the lower turn they got together, and there was a short struggle; but Bates was as arrant a cur as ever wore a shoe, and he yielded the place, though he had strength enough to run another lap, had he the heart to go with it.

Teddy was, perhaps, five yards to the good when he swung into the stretch, and looked over his shoulder, expecting to see his college mate close up and ready to take up the running. Instead, he saw an unexpected contestant, coming fast, and Bates was full five yards behind, slowing, and evidently out of it.

Now Atherton was, of course, well-nigh spent; he had followed instructions to the dot, and was not expected to finish.

There was a half-second's hesitation and a look of fear; but as quick as he realized the conditions, the little fellow swung his face to the front and set his teeth with the evident determination of making a fight for the race.

A mighty cheer went up from the spectators, for Teddy had many friends, and the whole college knew under what

circumstances he was running; but I doubt if he heard anything but the crunch, crunch, crunch of the swift feet behind him. I knew it was a hopeless task, for his opponent was fresh as paint, and full of running. Gradually his longer stride drew him up, but when he tried to pass, Teddy still had a word to say, and met him with the most stubborn resistance. He was almost gone, his face white as death, his eyes glazed, and he kept his speed only by sheer force of will.

Somehow, I know not how, for I could hardly have taken my eyes from the runners, I knew that Mollie Kittredge was on her feet with a look of horror in her face.

Down the stretch they came, the little fellow with the drawn cheeks, and his opponent tall and strong and confident. Side by side they came, neither gaining, until perhaps fifteen yards from the finish, when the big fellow shot by.

Teddy staggered on, but lurched forward, and fell, a few feet short of the line, just as the winner broke the tape.

He fell without an effort to save himself, plowing through the cinders with his white face. There was a convulsive struggle to crawl over, and then he lay still, dead to the world, with one hand stretched out toward the line.

The half-dozen who finished ran by the motionless figure, and I was over it a second after. Tom Furness was almost as soon as myself, and together we lifted and placed it on the soft turf inside the track. We were surrounded by a crowd of contestants and track officials, but a cry, followed by a commotion in the grand stand, drew their attention, and we were left alone.

So full of agony was the cry, that I looked up myself, and was just in time to see the statuesque Mollie throw up her hands and fall back in a dead faint. Yes, blondes have hearts, after all.

We were not much troubled by the crowd, for they thought it was only a man "run out," and that he would be all right in a minute or two, and walk off as well as ever.

Alas! I knew better; it was a bad case, and I could find little sign of life in the limp body. We made an effort to revive him, but Tom could not get a drop from his flask through the clinched teeth, and one side of the face was bleeding, where it had slid over the cinders. The crowd was coming back, the spectators were beginning to notice us, so I told Tom to take the legs, and I took the head and shoulders, and we started for the dressing-room.

A pathetically light weight was it, and I was heart-sick, for though one hand was over the heart, I could feel no motion, through the thin jersey. "Doc" joined us at the door, and I was never so pleased to see any one in my life, for I knew that he would do all that could be done, and we need not experiment with some one we did not know.

When we got into a quiet room we placed Teddy on a rubbing-couch, and "Doc" immediately applied the most powerful remedies to revive him. They were at first unsuccessful, but by hypodermic injections of strychnine and brandy, the wearied heart and lungs were at last induced to start feebly on their accustomed tasks.

We were standing by the couch, watching the hint of color grow in the boy's cheeks, when suddenly the limp figure made a convulsive effort (consciousness taking up the thread where it had been broken, a few feet short of the tape), and he almost lifted himself to his feet before we could catch him. As he fell back in our arms, there came to his lips the bright-red bloodspots, precursors of a fearful hemorrhage.

It was almost impossible for us to check it, for the boy was delirious, would not lie still, and kept saying in a determined way, "I will win! I must win!"

He would turn his head, and call, "Bates! Bates!" in a frenzy of fear and disappointment. "Bates, where are you? My God, where are you? I'm sure I followed orders, and did not come too fast."

Then he would find Bates, and say contentedly, "There you are, old man, close up; I'll drop out now, I'm almost gone; push out and win."

Suddenly he would discover it was the outsider, and would cry out with fevered lips, and try to break away from us and

run.

Then he would lie still, but in his mind was going over the agony of the finish again and again. He would turn to me and say excitedly, "You told me I need not finish. I can't run the 'half,' and you know it. It's dark, and they have run off with the tape. I finished long ago, and still you make me run."

Sometimes he would drop his hands and say despairingly, "I cannot do it, I cannot reach the worsted; O God, I cannot!"

Then he would discover Tom, who was almost as crazy as Teddy himself, and had been utterly useless from the time the hemorrhage set in. He would say to Tom, "Don't look at me

like that, old man; I know I lost the race, but I did my best, my very best, and ran clear out. Look at my cheek, where I fell; you must see I was dead beat." He would try to argue with Tom, who had not a word to say, except of sorrow and selfreproach. He would look at Tom, and say, "Perhaps you're right, and I'll not complain, but why did you tell me to set pace, if you meant to make me finish?" Or he would say over and over again, “I was not strong enough; I did the best I could; I did the best I could."

Indeed, he did not cease talking all the time we were with him, until he was given opiates and taken to the hospital.

Here he spent many weary weeks, and was only pulled through after the most persistent care. But though he got on his feet again, he did not fully recover, and even a long trip to the Bermudas did not get his lungs in shape. He spent some months in Southern California, and settled finally among the Carolina hills, the nearest point to his old New England home where he could expect to prolong his days.

I have seen many gallant winners, many whose courage and determination made them such; but when I tell the story that comes closest to my heart, I tell of one a notch above them all. I tell of Teddy Atherton, of his last "half" which he lost.

LIVY (TITUS LIVIUS).

LIVY (TITUS LIVIUS, surnamed PATAVINUS, from the place of his birth), a great Roman historian, born at Patavium, the modern Padua, 59 B.C.; died there, A.D. 17. He went to Rome, where he became prominent as a rhetorician, and was one of the brilliant circle, of which Virgil and Horace were members, that adorned the Court of the Emperor Augustus, at whose suggestion Livy set about his great history, called by himself the "Annals of Rome."

The "Annals," when entire, consisted of one hundred and fortytwo "Books"; but of these only thirty-five are now extant, so that more than three-fourths have been lost. It was divided into "decades," or series of ten Books. The decades which we have are the first, the third, the fourth, a portion of the fifth, and a few fragments of others. The lost decades are those which apart from their quantity would have been far more valuable than those which remain, since they relate to the later history of Rome. This deficiency is, however, partially supplied by a very early abstract of the contents of the lost portions; and these abstracts are our only means of acquaintance with some of the most important periods of Roman history.

HORATIUS COCLES AT THE SUBLICIAN BRIDGE.

(From the Second Book of the "History of Rome.")

THE Sublician bridge well-nigh afforded a passage to the enemy, had there not been one man, Horatius Cocles (that defense the fortune of Rome had on that day), who, happening to be posted on guard at the bridge, when he saw the Janiculum taken by a sudden assault, and that the enemy were pouring down from thence in full speed, and that his own party in terror and confusion were abandoning their arms and ranks, — laying hold of them one by one, standing in their way, and appealing to the faith of gods and men, he declared "That their flight would avail them nothing if they deserted their post; if they passed the bridge, and left it behind them, there would soon be more of the enemy in the Palatium and Capitol than in the Janiculum; for