that side turned toward himself so that the brokenly; "he was wondrous kind to me, exothers could not see. son, "Come, come, Will," broke in Master Jon"don't be all day about it!" "The more haste the worse speed, Ben," said Master Shakspere, quietly. "I have a little story to tell ye all." So they all listened. "When Gaston Carew, lately master-player of the Lord High Admiral's company, was arraigned before my Lord Justice for the killing of that rascal Fulk Sandells, there was not a man of his own company had the grace to lend him even so much as sympathy. But there were still some in London who would not leave him totally friendless in such straits." "Some?" interrupted Master Jonson, bluntly; "then o-n-e spells 'some.' The names of them all were Will Shakspere." "Tut, tut, Ben!" said Master Shakspere, and went on: "But when the indictment was read, and those against him showed their hand, it was easy to see that the game was up. None saw this sooner than Carew himself; yet he carried himself like a man, and confessed the charge without a quiver. They brought him the book, to read a verse and save his neck, perhaps, by pleading benefit of clergy. But he knew the temper of those against him, and that nothing might avail; so he refused the plea, quietly, saying, 'I am no clerk, sirs. All I wish to read in this case is what my own hand wrote upon that scoundrel Sandells.' It was soon over. When the judge pronounced his doom, all Carew asked for was a friend to speak with a little while aside. This the court allowed; so he sent for me we played to gether with Henslowe, he and I, ye know. He had not much to say for once in his life," here Master Shakspere smiled with gentle pity, "but he sent his love forever to his only daughter Cicely." Cicely was sitting up, listening with wide eyes, and eagerly nodded her head, as if to say, "Of course." "He also begged of Nicholas Attwood that he would forgive him whatever wrong he had done him." cept that he would na leave me go." "After that," continued. Master Shakspere, "he made known to me a sliding panel in the wainscot of his house, wherein was hidden all he had on earth to leave to those he loved the best, and who, he hoped, loved him." 66 Everybody loves my father," said Cicely, smiling and nodding again. Master Jonson put his arm around the back of her chair, and she leaned her head upon it. "Carew said that he had marked upon the bags which were within the panel the names of the persons to whom they were to go, and had me swear, upon my faith as a Christian man, that I would see them safely delivered according to his wish. This being done, and the end come, he kissed me on both cheeks, and standing bravely up, spoke to them all, saying that for a man such as he had been it was easier to end even so than to go on. I never saw him again." The great writer of plays paused a moment, and his lips moved as if he were saying a prayer. Master Burbage crossed himself. "The bags were found within the wall, as he had said, and were sealed by Ben Jonson and myself until we should find the legatees; for they had disappeared as utterly as if the earth had gaped and swallowed them. But, by the Father's grace, we have found them safe and sound at last; and all 's well that ends well!" Here he turned the buckskin bags around. On one, in Master Carew's school-boy scrawl, was printed, " For myne Onelie Beeloved Doghter, Cicely Carew"; on the other, " For Nicholas Attewode, alias Mastre Skie-lark, whom I, Gaston Carew, Player, Stole Away from Stratford Toune, Anno Domini 1596." Nick stared; Cicely clapped her hands; and Simon Attwood sat down dizzily. "There," said Master Shakspere, pointing to the second bag, "are one hundred and fifty gold rose-nobles. In the other, just three hundred more. Neighbor Attwood, we shall have no paupers here.” Everybody laughed then and clapped his hands, and the London players gave a rousing cheer. Master Ben Jonson's shout might have Why, that I will, sir," choked Nick, been heard in Market Square. At this tremendous uproar the servants peeped at the doors and windows; and Tom Turnspit, peering in from the buttery hall, and seeing the two round money-bags plumping on the table, crept away with such a look of amazement upon his face that Mollikins, the scullery-maid, thought he had seen a ghost, and fled precipitately into the pantry. "And what's more, Neighbor Tanner," said Master Richard Burbage, “had Carew's daughter not sixpence to her name, we vagabond players,' as ye have had the scanty grace to dub us, would have cared for her for the honour of the craft, and reared her gently in some quiet place where there never falls even the shadow of such evil things as have been the end of many a right good fellow beside old Kit Marlowe and Gaston Carew." "And to that end, Neighbor Attwood," Master Shakspere added, "we have, through my young Lord Hunsdon, who has just been made State Chamberlain, Her Majesty's gracious permission to hold this money in trust for the little maid as guardians under the law." Cicely stared around, perplexed. "Won't Nick be there?" she asked. "Why, then I will not go-they shall not take thee from me, Nick!" and she threw her arms around him. "I'm going to stay with thee till daddy comes, and be thine own sister forever." "See the "Thou 'lt do it, Attwood — why, of course thou 'lt do it," said Master Shakspere. "'T is an excellent good plan. These funds we hold in trust will keep thee easy-minded, and warrant thee in doing well by both our little folks. And what's more," he cried, for the thought had just come in his head, " I have ever heard thee called an honest man; hard, indeed, perhaps too hard, but honest as the day is long. Now I need a tenant for this New Place of mine some married man with a good housewife, and children to be delving in the posybeds outside. What sayst thou, Simon Attwood? They tell me thy prentice, Job Hortop, is to marry in July—he 'll take thine old house at a fair rental. Why, here, neighbor Attwood, thou toil-worn, time-damaged tanner, bless thy hard old heart, man, come, be at ease thou hast ground thy soul out long enough! Come, take me at mine offer - be my fellow. The rent shall trickle off thy fingertips as easily as water off a duck's back!" Simon Attwood arose from the chair where he had been sitting. There was a bewildered look upon his face, and he was twisting his horny fingers together until the knuckles were white. His lips parted as if to speak, but he only swallowed very hard once or twice instead, and looked around at them all. "Why, sir," he said at length, looking at Master Shakspere, "why, sirs, all of ye, I ha' been a hard man, and summat of a fool, ay, sirs, a very fool. I ha' misthought and miscalled ye foully many a time, and many a time. God knows I be sorry for it from the bottom o' my heart!” And with that he sat down and buried his face in his arms among the dishes on the buffet. "Nay, Simon Attwood," said Master Shakspere, going to his side and putting his hand upon the tanner's shoulder, "thou hast only been mistaken, that is all. Come, sit thee up. To see thyself mistaken is but to be the wiser. Why, never the wisest man but saw himself a fool a thousand times. Come, I have mistaken thee more than thou hast me; for, on my word, I thought thou hadst no heart at all—and that 's far worse than having one which has but gone astray. Come, Neighbor Attwood, sit thee up and eat with us." "Nay, I'll go home," said the tanner, turning his face away that they might not see his tears. "I be a spoil-sport and a mar-feast here." "Why, by Jupiter, man!" cried Master Jonson, bringing his fist down upon the board with a thump that made the spoons all clink, "thou art the very merrymaker of the feast. A full heart 's better than a surfeit any day. Don't let him go, Will—this sort of thing doth make the whole world kin! Come, Master Attwood, sit thee down, and make thyself at home. 'T is not my house, but 't is my friend's, and so 't is all the same in the Lowlands. Be free of us and welcome." "I thank ye, sirs," said the tanner, slowly, turning to the table with rough dignity. "Ye ha' been good to my boy. I'll ne'er forget ye while I live. Truly, sirs, there be kind hearts in the world that I had na dreamed of. But, masters, I ha' said my say, and know na more. Your pleasure wunnot be my pleasure, sirs, for I be only a common man. I will go home to my wife. There be things to say before my boy comes home and I ha' muckle need to tell her that I love her I ha' na done so these many years." "Why, Neighbor Tanner," cried Master Jonson, with flushing cheeks, "thou art a right good fellow! And here was I, no later than this morning, red-hot to spit thee upon my bilbo like a Michaelmas goose!" He laughed a boyish laugh that it did one's heart good to hear. "Ay," said Master Shakspere, smiling, as he and Simon Attwood looked into each other's eyes. "Come, neighbor, I know thou art my so do not go until thou drinkest one good toast with us, for we are all good friends and true from this day forth. Come, Ben, a toast to fit the cue." man 66 Why, then," replied Master Jonson, in good round voice, rising in his place, “here to all kind hearts!" a 's "Wherever they may be!" said Master Shakspere, softly. "It is a good toast, and we all will drink it together." And so they did. And Simon Attwood went away with a warmth and a tingling in his heart he had never known before. "Margaret," said he, coming quickly in at the door, as she went silently about the house with a heavy heart, preparing the supper, " Margaret." She dropped the platter upon the board, and came to him hurriedly, fearing evil tidings. "Why, Will," said Master Burbage, slowly setting down his glass, "'t is altogether a midsummer night's dream." "So it is, Dick," answered Master Shakspere, with a smile, and a far-away look in his eyes. "Come, Nicholas, wilt thou not sing for us just the last few lines of 'When Thou Wakest,' out of the play?" Then Nick stood up quietly, for they all were his good friends there, and Master Drayton held his hand while he sang: So they all got up softly and went out into the garden, where there were seats under the trees, and talked quietly among themselves, saying not much, yet meaning a great deal. But Nick and Cicely said "Good-night, sirs," to them all, and bowed; and Master Shakspere himself let them out at the gate, the others shaking Nick by the hand with many kind wishes, and throwing kisses to Cicely until they went out of sight around the chapel corner. When the children came to the garden-gate in front of Nick's father's house, the red roses still twined in Cicely's hair, Simon Attwood and his wife Margaret were sitting together upon the old oaken settle by the door, looking out into the sunset. And when they saw the children coming, they arose and came through the garden, to meet them, Nick's mother with outstretched hands, and her face bright with the setting sun. And when she came to where he was, the whole of that long, bitter year was nothing any more to Nick. For then-ah! then -a lad and his mother, a son come home! - the wandering ended, and the sorrow done! She took him to her breast as though he were a baby still. Her tears ran down upon his And after a while, "Mother," said he, and took her face between his strong young hands, and looked into her happy eyes, "mother, dear, I ha' been to London town, I ha' been to the palace, and I ha' seen the Queen; but, mother," he said, with a little tremble in his voice, for all he smiled so bravely, "I ha' never seen the place where I would rather be than just where thou art, mother dear!" The soft gray twilight gathered in the little garden; far-off voices drifted faintly from the town. The day was done. Cool and still and filled with gentle peace the starlit night came down from the dewy hills; and Cicely lay fast asleep in Simon Attwood's arms. THE END. HELEN KELLER AND TOMMY STRINGER. BY WILLIAM T. ELLIS. A LITTLE child lived in black silence. There the touch of this Something that cared for never was midnight so dense as the darkness his wants. that enveloped his mind. Sight and hearing The merest babe knows the sunlight and its were gone utterly and forever. The child knew mother's voice and face. Five years had passed absolutely nothing, except that sometimes from over this little boy as he lay on his hospital cot, somewhere Something put food into his mouth, but he knew less than a month-old infant— and moved him about when necessary. His less, indeed, than the least of the beasts of the world was limited by as much of his little field. He was completely shut up in a living crib as he could feel with his hands, and by tomb of flesh, with no communication between |