"Robertson," and they played games and variations by the dozen. And pretty Edna seemed to find the atmosphere conducive to study, for she mastered the refractory grammar lesson thoroughly.

The next day Edna said:

"Teacher, I can study after school better than any other time. May I stay tonight?" And so the programme was indefinitely extended.

Now a young man cannot play checkers with a pretty girl night after night without coming to give fully as much attention to her as to the game; consequently the schoolmaster felt as though a great blank spot had moved into his life one afternoon when Hattie, without looking at him, left the house immediately at the close of school.

The following afternoon a big, freshfaced young fellow, whom the schoolmaster had never before seen, called for Hattie, and took her driving in a very dashing equipage. Edna volunteered an explanation after school. "That's Bill Keeler," she said. "He's Hattie's beau, and he wants her to get married. His mother has promised to give him the farm if he'll get a wife before Christmas."

This news threw the schoolmaster into the sulks. The young farmer visited the school, being received with bashful cordiality by the big boys and girls, and with cold civility by the teacher. He took Hattie to the Thursday evening singingschool, and was driving with her and Edna every day.

This week was one of misery for the schoolmaster, though his checkerboard was some consolation. But sitting alone in the darkening schoolroom, while the snow whirled high around the windows, he would imagine that vivid face, lit by great, luminous eyes, opposite him. Or, as he looked from book to board, he would see the swift flash of a slim, white hand above his

own.

The week ended at last, and the young farmer returned to his home.

"He's coming again Christmas," Edna said to the schoolmaster.

Monday evening Hattie stayed after school was dismissed, bending a flushed face over a perfectly recited algebra lesson. After a long silence the schoolmaster said, with stiff dignity:

"I am glad, Miss Bates, that you still retain some interest in your studies." There was no answer.

"I fail to see," persisted the teacher, "what there is so remarkable in that

The question meant a good deal. With a reckless flash of her great gray eyes, and dropping into the Michigan country dialect, which the schoolmaster had labored months to eradicate, she answered:

"'M h'm. Beat the boots off'm you!" The schoolmaster was furious. He took the checkerboard and flung it into the stove. The books were about to follow, when he felt a little hand laid on his arm, and, turning, saw Hattie, with tears in her eyes. "Don't!" she said. "I should be lonesome without-without the books." The schoolmaster dropped the books and kissed his pupil.

Then the little hypocrite assumed an air of mighty dignity, and said: "The school laws don't allow that form of punishment!"

"Are you going to marry that fellow?" he asked, peremptorily.

"I don't know."

"Will you marry me?"

With a droll little smile she replied: "If you please, Mr. Field, that isn't in to-day's lesson."

As that was all the satisfaction he could get, he went to consult with her father.

"Well, Schoolmaster," said the old gentleman, finally, "Hattie has explained the hull thing to me. When Bill is here she thinks she likes him best, and when you're here she sort o' cottons to you most. Now, why don't you and him play a game of checkers to decide it-winner take the girl-eh?"

"I agree to that," replied the teacher. The proposition was submitted to Hattie, and she, after some consideration, accepted it.

64

Now, you mustn't take no advantage of Bill," said the farmer. "He's comin' Christmas eve, an' we'll have the game then, an' the weddin' afterward. You mustn't keep Hattie after school, nor come here to see her till then."

The schoolmaster got a new checkerboard that night, and every evening he studied alone, carefully noting the moves of the great games in his book "Science will tell,"

"These games were played by champions, and the results are certain as fate."

At last the eventful day came, and at five o'clock the schoolmaster went to the Bates residence.

There was a jolly crowd of neighbors present. The old house was overflowing. Mighty preparations were going on in the kitchen, and the smell of roast turkey and coffee was everywhere.

The minister was there-a nervous little man in an uncomfortable black suit. The teacher's rival came a few minutes later.

Then Farmer Bates took the floor. "Neighbors an' friends," he began oratorically, "I s'pose you know that the schoolmaster and Bill Keeler here are goin' to play a game of checkers for my girl Hattie. Now, I'll 'point Dave Nash an' Uncle Tommy Bilk to be empires, an' you all understand that if any one makes any suggestion on the game it'll all have to be played over. The weddin' 'll be right after the game, an' then we'll have supper. Place your men, empires!"

The rivals were seated, and the board placed between them.

"Here, Hattie," the farmer called, "you set here where they can both see you, an' then they'll know what they're playin' for."

Hattie gave a timid greeting to the two young men, and took the seat indicated. Then the great game began.

The schoolmaster played slowly, relating every move to some game played by the old champions. Bill Keeler played with a dash that had carried him off victor in countless contests.

The spectators crowded around them, breathless at first, then as the game slowly progressed, making whispered comments. One of the older women sang a little, softly, and some one in the background whistled part of a popular air. The empires" watched the board closely.

It was a great game, and it is a pity that a record of the moves was not kept. When the thirtieth move was made, the old farmer blurted out: "By gum! 't'll be a draw!"

Now the schoolmaster, who was playing the black, was preparing to move 1-5, for his thirty-first move. His hand hovered over the piece, but still he hesitated. Just then Hattie began whistling a queer little

tune.

Much surprised the schoolmaster paused. "Well, Hattie, that is the dumdest tune I ever heard," said her father.

That is a tune," replied Hattie, slowly

and distinctly, "that has fifty-nine variations."

The schoolmaster was just touching the piece, but that word "variations" stopped him. He stole a quick glance at her, but she was looking resolutely at the carpet.

Must be the tune the old cow died on," laughed the farmer. "Which variation was you whistlin'?"

"I was whistlin' the fourteenth variation," she answered.

The strong color surged up over the schoolmaster's pale face. "The Laird and Lady" had fifty-nine variations given in his book, and there on the board before him was the identical situation that he and Hattie had noticed and studied in the fourteenth variation.

Now he remembered Wyllie's wonderful play of 16-20, and black to win.

Holding his breath, he made the move. "Lost the game, Schoolmaster! shouted the old farmer, but the schoolmaster controlled the moves.

Again, 14—23, and every checker-player stared in amazement. Again, 20-27, and then it slowly dawned on them that the teacher had won the game by a series of remarkable moves.

One more move, and then the piece on 2 went the long jump," removing three pieces and winning the game.

The players rose, and the people crowded around the successful one, with hearty congratulations.

Bill Keeler slipped into the hall unobserved, and after putting on his great overcoat, cap, and huge lambskin mittens, made his way out and started for the stables. As he passed the kitchen door Edna came out and stopped him.

"Are you going home, Mr. Keeler?" she asked.

"Yes; I haven't anything to stay for," he answered.

"You'll be lonesome drivin' that twelve miles, all alone," said Edna, sympathetically.

"Yes," he answered, "considerin' that. I expected to take some one with me, it'll be dum' lonesome!

The contrast between that moonlit drive as he had pictured it to himself and as it would now be, struck him with full force. He pulled his cap over his eyes. His vocabulary was not extensive:

"Dum' it!" he said; and it is doubtful if any fate could have got more than that from him.

"I'm awful sorry for you, Billy," said

Edna, softly; and then he saw that the pretty, foolish creature was crying.

She had thrown a white woolen "diamond-dusted" thing over her head, and her blond hair blew around her face. The sparkling moonlight fell on snow crystals, diamond dust, and tears, making dazzling brilliants of all.

Bill Keeler's mind moved slowly, but when she repeated "I'm awful sorry," he realized that sympathy is a blessed thing. He took her hand-she slipped into his

arms.

The small boy who saw this scene from a "proscenium box" behind the rain barrel could never go on from here in his report. "They stood close together," he said afterward, "an' they jest whispered."

"Where on earth is Bill Keeler?" asked Farmer Bates.

"Guess he's gone home," suggested Uncle Tommy.

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"Don't let him go!" exclaimed the hospitable farmer. Here, Ernest, you run an'-" The kitchen door opened, and there in the doorway stood Bill Keeler with his arm around blushing Edna.

"I come for a wife, an' by jing! I guess I got one," was all he said. There was a double wedding and a supper to be remembered.

Sometimes in these later days, when Professor Field finds his wife's country wit too sharp for him, he says:

"You know you really proposed to me, for if you hadn't helped me to win that game you would have married Billy."

To which she replies, sedately: "It was purely my interest in checkers, dear. I couldn't bear to see a good game lost by a foolish move."

IN

IN illustration of your papers on General U. S. Grant, you give a very good likeness of Col. F. Dent, his father-in-law. I think, however, that your account of Col. Dent gives a wrong impression of his character. I spent the summer of 1858 at Whitehaven. Col. Dent was a remarkable man. He was one of the pioneers of commerce in the Mississippi Valley, and the training of his life made him firm and strong, not "irascible." He had the kindest of hearts, and was justice personified. He, Captain Grant, and myself spent hours at night on the "gallery" of the Whitehaven house, and I, a boy getting my first knowledge of the world, listened eagerly to Captain Grant's discourses, whether narrative, descriptive, or expressive of opinion. When Col. Dent began to talk, Grant became the most attentive of listeners. Col. Dent had been a close observer, and had an excellent knowledge of affairs, and a memory like a written record. Born in the last century, he remembered Washington, who placed his hand on his head and said, "Is this your son, George?" (the elder Dent's name was George), and on receiving an affirmative reply, added, “Ah, he is a fine boy!" Being the first child born in the town of Cumberland, Maryland, he was selected for the ceremony of planting the first stone in the National Road.

Early in the present century he started in life for himself. His commerce on the rivers entailed trips to the Atlantic cities on horseback. Once while east of the Alleghanies, on his way home, he passed a remarkably fine field of corn. At that time but little attention was paid by farmers in the West to selection of seed or breed of stock. Col. Dent jumped over the fence, pulled off two or three of the best ears, and carried them home to St. Louis in his saddle-bags. His farmer planted them the next year, and the product exhibited a still further improvement. All of it was distributed for seed, and

this is the origin of the "Dent corn," which you see quoted in the Western markets.

On one of his Eastern trips Col. Dent found leisure to visit the Capital. Pennsylvania Avenue was a mud-hole at that time, and when riding on horseback from Georgetown to the capitol one day, he was passed by the British minister, also mounted, and followed by a single attendant, on his way to call on the President. The minister, either ignorant or careless in his manner of riding, bespattered Col. Dent plentifully with mud. In the course of his ride back to Georgetown, Col. Dent fell in with the minister again. Putting the horse to his best speed, Col. Dent gave a yell like that of a Comanche, pulled a slight turn on the reins, drove the spurs anew into the horse's sides, and splashed by. When he looked back he saw that the debt of the morning had been paid with interest.

"Where were you at the time of the New Madrid earthquake?" I once asked him. "On a flatboat below the mouth of the Ohio," was his reply; and then he continued with a graphic description of the scene. The crew were panic-stricken and, falling on their knees, commenced to pray. Col. Dent, realizing the need of immediate action, ordered them about in a manner beside which the movements of the earthquake seemed insignificant, and soon had them hard at work with their oars. The consequence was that his boat was saved, while many others were lost.

Col. Dent acquired title to many small tracts of land near St. Louis-perhaps five hundred_acres within five or six miles of the Court House. But all were wrested from him by legal process, on the plea of defective title. On the Whitehaven estate he lived the typical life of the Southern gentleman. He owned a few families of slaves, and was a kind and just master. AS SI

made a fool of himself, and not for the first time; and your friend Sir Thomas had the best of it, so far as there was any best. He is a brave and ready officer. "Now, then, you will understand!' said the boy. "I wish to please Sir Thomas: what would he do?"

"Well, I can tell you a story," said I, "a true one too, and about this very combat of Chiclana, or Barossa as you call it. I was in the Eighth of the Line; we lost the eagle of the First Battalion, more betoken, but it cost you dear. Well, we had repulsed more charges than I care to count, when your 87th Regiment came on at a foot's pace, very slow but very steady; in front of them a mounted officer, his hat in his hand, white-haired, and talking very quietly to the battalions. Our major, Vigo-Roussillon, set spurs to his horse and galloped out to sabre him, but seeing him an old man, very handsome, and as composed as if he were in a coffeehouse, lost heart and galloped back again. Only, you see, they had been very close together for the moment, and looked each other in the eyes. Soon after the major was wounded, taken prisoner, and carried into Cadiz. One fine day they announced. to him the visit of the general, Sir Thomas Graham. 'Well, sir, said the general, taking him by the hand, I think we were face to face upon the field.' It was the white-haired officer!"

"Ah!" cried the boy,-his eyes were burning.

"Well, and here is the point," I contin ued. "Sir Thomas fed the major from his own table from that day, and served him with six covers.'

"Yes, it is a beautiful-a beautiful story," said Ronald." "And yet somehow it is not the same--is it?"

"I admit it freely," said I.

The boy stood awhile brooding. "Well, I take my risk of it," he cried. "I believe it's treason to my sovereign-I believe there is an infamous punishment for such a crime—and yet I'm hanged if I can give you up."

I was as much moved as he. "I could almost beg you to do otherwise," I said. "I was a brute to come to you, a brute and coward. You are a noble enemy; you will make a noble soldier." And with rather a happy idea of a compliment for this warlike youth, I stood up straight and gave him the salute.

He was for a moment confused; his face flushed. "Well, well, I must be getting you something to eat, but it will not be

for six," he added, with a smile: "only what we can get smuggled out. There is my aunt in the road, you see," and he locked me in again with the indignant hens.

I always smile when I recall that young fellow; and yet, if the reader were to smile also, I should feel ashamed. If my son shall be only like him when he comes to that age, it will be a brave day for me and not a bad one for France.

At the same time I cannot pretend that I was sorry when his sister succeeded in his place. She brought me a few crusts of bread and a jug of milk, which she had handsomely laced with whisky after the Scottish manner.

"I am so sorry," she said, "I dared not bring you anything more. We are so small a family, and my aunt keeps such an eye upon the servants. I have put some whisky in the milk-it is more wholesome so-and with eggs you will be able to make something of a meal. How many eggs will you be wanting to that milk? for I must be taking the others to my auntthat is my excuse for being here. I should think three or four. Do you know how to beat them in? or shall I do it?"

Willing to detain her a while longer in the hen-house, I displayed my bleeding palms; at which she cried out aloud.

"My dear Miss Flora, you cannot make an omelette without breaking eggs," said I; "and it is no bagatelle to escape from Edinburgh Castle. One of us, I think, was even killed."

"And you are as white as a rag, too," she exclaimed, "and can hardly stand. Here is my shawl; sit down upon it here in the corner, and I will beat your eggs. See, I have brought a fork too; I should have been a good person to take care of Jacobites or Covenanters in old days! You shall have more to eat this evening; Ronald is to bring it you from town. have money enough, although no food that we can call our own. Ah, if Ronald and I kept house, you should not be lying in this shed! He admires you so much.'

We

"My dear friend," said I, “for God's sake do not embarrass me with more alms. I loved to receive them from that hand, so long as they were needed; but they are so no more, and whatever else I may lack— and I lack everything-it is not money." I pulled out my sheaf of notes and detached the top one: it was written for ten pounds, and signed by that very famous individual, Abraham Newlands."Oblige me, as you would like me to oblige your brother if the parts were reversed, and take