AVE GURNEY was a simple old man, as you shall see. He was six feet in height, stooped in the shoulders, and had a small hump upon his back between them. His hair was always long, complexion sallow, forehead fine and beautiful, teeth absent, and he had a scanty beard. The children laughed when he would touch the end of his drooping nose with his under-lip. Dave's eyes were black and bright, but sometimes it seemed as if something had been lost out of them.

I had not been long settled in Cliffboro before I knew Dave Gurney just as everybody else knew him; and I began to use him just as everybody else used him. He carried express packages, went upon errands, spaded gardens, mowed lawns, dusted carpets, nursed and doctored sick animals of all kinds and generally cured them.

One day a man asked him to kill an old horse whose days of usefulness were over, and he bluntly refused to do the deed. Everybody was astonished. He offered no excuse, but simply said, "If you want your old

horse killed, kill him yourself," and walked away. The men who loafed around the store could not understand it. Dave was supposed to do whatever was asked of him.

Nobody loved Dave, but everybody liked him-especially the boys. He owned a very old, very wise and very handsome mare, and he called her "Belle." Belle loved him. They both lived under the same roof-Dave in a little room finished off in one corner of the barn, and Belle in a large box-stall only a few feet away. There they had lived for many years, man and horse, when I came to Cliffboro, and nobody cared for that.

Dave assisted me when I moved into the parsonage. That was a dozen years ago. We became good friends at the very start, and on the very day I moved my furniture from the station I noticed that something or other had gone out of Dave's black eyes.

But the poor old fellow had his vices as well as his virtues-as most of us have. One day I wanted to see him. I went to Belle's stable, hoping to find him there; but Dave's little room and Belle's stall were empty. As I came away a small boy said to me,

"Dave's gone over to Gerrick." I knew what that meant. He was over at the "Old Pen," as the infamous old hotel over there was called. I knew by that that the old man was drinking.

It was a hot, sultry day in August; but I did not mind that. In a short time I was driving over the great hill, and soon stopped at the inn. As I did so, I saw Belle standing quietly in the shade of a large elm, now and then stamping and throwing her head to her side to frighten away the flies; for Belle had only the stump of a tailthe remainder having been removed years before and probably long since worn out in some blacksmith's shop, switching flies from other horses.

The landlord stood near the door, and I asked him if I might see Dave Gurney.

"I guess'o," replied the man, with a silly chuckle, "but I hain't so sartin' Dave'll be able to see you;"-whereupon he disappeared.

In a moment I heard the heavy step of the old man as he shuffled unsteadily along the great, bare hallway. As he approached to within a few paces of where I still sat in my phaeton, he suddenly stopped, squinted one eye and opened wide the other, while his chin kept moving up and down with ludicrous regularity.

Canting his head upon one side, he remarked, before I had time to greet him: "Parson-hic-is your horse sick?"

"I think not," I replied; "is he?" "Well, get into the shade, or you'll never drive that horse home alive."

And, sure enough, my horse was panting violently, and I saw he was almost overcome by the heat. Without waiting an instant, Dave took the horse by the bridle and led him to the large watering-trough, unfastened the check-rein with his uncertain hand, and then turned and began plashing my horse's legs with water, now and again forcing the animal's head aside as he persisted in thrusting his nose into the bubbling fountain. Dave would not listen to a word of my

message until the horse breathed freely and stood refreshed and cool. Then, blundering over several cobblestones, he came to the carriage and stood leaning against the wheel. It required only a moment to transact my business with Dave, and, as I turned to drive away, the old man began to retrace his steps.

I called to him again, and when he stood near me I bent over and said in a low voice: "Dave, take Belle and come home. Don't go in there again."

I thought he seemed a trifle annoyed at this suggestion, for he moved uneasily about. Then, clearing his throat, he looked straight into my eyes and said:

"Parson, whose business is it where I go?"

"Mine and-Belle's," said I, as just then I happened to notice the old mare looking at us with anxious interest.

Dave made no reply, but immediately turned away and went into the "Old Pen," and I drove slowly back to Cliffboro.

The next day, as I sat in my study, the door-bell rang with sundry little jerks and hitches, as if some small child had pulled at the knob. It was Dave Gurney.

As he entered he took from his head his old light-colored cap, and exposed a head matted with unkempt curly hair. When I saw Dave's face I knew he was in trouble. He held out his hard, rough hand and tried to speak. His chin, as usual, kept moving up and down, and one could see that the poor old man's tongue was trembling in his good-natured, toothless mouth, as if it were struggling with words that refused to be uttered. He did not shake hands with me, but just took mine in a listless, heavy-hearted sort of way and clung to it.

"Why, Dave!" I exclaimed, "what is the trouble?"

I led him to a chair, and he sat down and turned his face away and gazeď vacantly out of the window. After a little while he gained command of himself and said in a low, broken voice:

"Parson,-parson, Belle's dead!" The poor old man's heart was broken, and the fragments of it seemed to keep choking him. His chin moved all the while and a little rivulet of tears coursed down his weatherbeaten cheek, while his boot, which rested upon its heel, kept swaying from side to side.

Dave Gurney's intense love for animals, and for Belle in particular, was (as you will sometimes find it) much stronger than his love for human beings. The old man had spent most of his time for nearly twenty years with his mare. They were constantly together. He was negligent about his appointments with men, but never forgot to care for Belle. No animal had ever known a fonder master. What a mother is to a child Dave was to his horse. All this I had observed in the years I had known him, and the old man was the more interesting on this

account.

I turned to him and remarked: "Dave, I thank you for coming here in your trouble. I am sorry for you. How did it happen?"

"Parson," he replied, and as he proceeded his voice became clearer, "perhaps I ought to keep it all to myself-it seems foolish, I s'pose, to some folks, but it's a big loss to me, and all the greater because of the way it happened." I knew Dave wanted to tell me all about his misfortunewiser people do such things, you know. "Ah, parson, Belle was all I had, and she was all I wanted, and she was all I could lose. And I thought, when I knew she was gone, that I couldn't do anything, nor go anywhere, nor see anybody, and it was awful hard to stay there; so I came up here." He struggled again with the fragments of his broken heart, and it was some time before he could go on.

Finally he continued: "I'll tell you how it was, parson, if you don't mind. You saw me over there at the 'Old Pen.' I went over there to celebrate. You see I had just cured Belle, or thought I had. She'd been lame, and

I'd stayed and rubbed her and got her out of it. And then I felt so good about it that I was just fool enough to think I'd feel better to celebrate. When I left you I went back into the tavern, and somehow I was a little upset by what you had just said to me about going home, parson. But stay I did, and got pretty full. And the hostler gave Belle some meal,—'cause I s'pose I was too drunk to feed her myself. Then, you see, when I came home she would hurry, and I couldn't help it." He kept choking as he spoke. "I've had that mare going on now twenty years, and I always said I wanted to die first. And I might have if I hadn't been a fool.

"Well, I came home most of the way pretty fast; but when I got along up there by the Upper Dam I noticed something was the matter with Belle. I got out as well as I could and looked at her. I saw she was sick, so I walked her home. When I got her into her stall I saw she was getting worse fast. I couldn't rub her very well, but I managed to keep her on her feet till most morning, and I began to think she would come out of it all right. But, parson, I guess my eyes were as drunk as the rest of me. Just as the clock up there in the church struck four, all at once Belle shook all over. I had her on the barn floor then. I scattered some straw under her as quick as I could. She knew what that meant; but before she could get down herself she had another shake and fell in spite of me. Then she looked up just as if she wanted to speak, just as if she expected me to help her. I patted her neck and she rested her nose under my arm. But it was no use; she had another shake and her head fell out of my arms, and she just pushed out her nose, gave one or two little sighs, and-Belle was gone!

"Well, parson, when I saw she was dead, I was just as sober as I am now. But I couldn't stay there, and I couldn't leave her. I covered her up and walked 'round. But I can't eat

and I can't do anything, so I came up here. Now, parson," and he rose wearily to his feet and came to where I sat, and, putting his heavy hand on my shoulder, said solemnly: "I did not do it-I did not do it. It was rum, and nothing but rum. You are my friend, parson, and I swear to you that I am done with rum.”

We talked for a short time after that and then Dave slowly left the house. The next day was Sunday. I had promised Dave to come to the barn very early. The old man's love for Belle was very real. He was an odd old fellow and in what took place that morning he realized nothing extraordinary. It was all of a piece with the only world he seemed to know anything about. His love was human enough, but his intellect could carry that love no higher than brute life.

When I reached the barn I saw that Dave had made everything ready for the funeral. Belle lay stretched upon a bed of clean straw, covered with a fresh, white sheet. When Dave appeared, coming out of his own little room, he was neatly dressed, wearing a white shirt, and having his hair carefully brushed and his face scrupulously clean. In a little while, with numerous "gees" and "haws," a big fellow, an intimate friend of Dave's, came to the great door with a yoke of oxen and a stone drag in tow. Then the two men, the one backing the oxen and the other pulling the drag, placed it beside. the dead animal. Dave motioned mysteriously to me as he removed a thin blanket from the mare's head and pointed to a small scrap of paper which he had fastened about Belle's neck with a strong cord. I bent over and read it; and as I did so I knew why I had been requested to come to the barn so early. It was written in a large and clumsy hand:

"Dear old Belle:

"Forgive me. Rum did it. I swear on your dead body never to drink again. Your old Friend,

DAVE."

As soon as the body was rolled upon

the drag, the oxen were slowly started, and Dave followed. I watched the curious funeral procession until it passed out of sight. Dave did not change his position, for I could see his bowed head and stooping shoulders when everything else had passed out of sight over the summit of the little hill. Sam-the driver of the oxen-told me next day that when they reached the grave Dave insisted on being left alone to bury Belle. He was not seen again until the long summer day was over. At sundown he came sadly back to the old barn.

After this Dave went about the place as usual, but seemed less jovial and less able to do chores for everybody. He began to look white and old. I found that he was not eating proper food, and made arrangements to have him boarded near by. He was never known to drink after Belle died. He became very forgetful. People could see that his chores were almost done, and began to speak about it.

He lived just a year after the old mare's death. I was with him when he died. It was in his little room near Belle's empty stall. He had sent for me, but before I reached his side he had become delirious and kept muttering something to himself. I thought I overheard the word "Belle" several times, and at last, in a puzzled, dizzy sort of way, he stared at me, suddenly grasped my hand, looked eagerly out of the window and shouted "Elizabeth!" Then he threw his head back —and Dave Gurney was dead.

But it was all made plain enough at the funeral. I took pains to have the notice of Dave's death published in the Boston papers. I hardly know why, unless it was because I had found so much about the old man that I could not explain. It was well I did so. After the service at the grave was over, an old woman, a stranger, came quietly to where I was standing. It was from her that I learned all about Dave Gurney.

He had been a brilliant young man, had established himself in business in the city of New York. His engagement to the daughter of a well-known lawyer of that city had been duly published. One day his unconscious body was taken from the ruins of a building which had gone down in a raging storm. He was taken to a hospital, and gradually recovered. But his entire past life was blotted out; he remembered nothing. Friends cared. for him, but that became unnecessary after a few years. They told him his name, and he accepted it. Then, in

the course of time, he went his way. For a few years some of his old associates kept sight of him, but at length he disappeared even from themperhaps even from their thoughts. He must have drifted about until he came to Cliffboro, where he had lived for twenty years.

"I am so grateful to you," said the old lady, "for having the notice of his death published!"

I saw that her lips trembled. Then I asked her if she would tell me her Christian name; and she replied: "They call me Elizabeth."

"Our policy in regard to Europe, which was adopted at an early stage of the wars which have so long agitated that quarter of the globe, nevertheless remains the same, which is, not to interfere in the internal concerns of any of its powers." That is a part of the Monroe doctrine. It is a sentence from the same famous message of 1823, in which President Monroe declared that "the American continents are henceforth not to be considered as subjects for future colonization by any European power," and that "we should consider any attempt on the part of the allied powers to extend their system to any portion of this hemisphere as dangerous to our peace and safety."

The two parts of the doctrine were intended in the minds of the framers to balance each other. "Europe for Europeans" was the correlate and condition of "America for Americans." We would have nothing to do with European concerns; and by the same token-that was the dictum-no European power should have anything to do with matters on this side of the Atlantic.

It would seem to be the very irony of fate whereby it has come to pass that at the precise time when we have been

listening to such a shriek of "America for Americans" as was never heard before, and witnessing an attempt to push the Monroe doctrine, on its one side, to the extremest applications and to such definitions as would have made its mild and prudent author turn in his grave, we have been forced by the sheer exigency of cruel facts and the pressure of public opinion, finding expression from one end of the republic to another, to exert our influence in the concerns of Europe in a sharper and more significant manner than we have ever done since Monroe's own time. The passage of the resolutions by Congress, reciting the horrors of the atrocities in Armenia, rebuking the great European powers for not putting an end to them, directing attention to what we conceived to be neglect of their treaty obligations in the matter, and instructing the President to forward the resolutions to each of the governments concerned, was indeed a noteworthy departure from the letter of the Monroe doctrine and from our traditional policy of non-intervention and silence regarding the doings of the nations of Europe.

More noteworthy than the formal resolutions of Congress, couched as