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plans, and noted with delight she was in no hurry, as on previous evenings, to grasp his day's earnings to satiate her miserable appetite.

One evening a month later, Tobe came home delighted with his report, showing the marked improvement he had made since entering school, and his enthusiasm caused even sluggish Mrs. Gray to respond cheerily. Tobe poured out his hopes and fears, his desire to be something in the world, his hatred and shame of his mother's weakness, and in a flood of tears threw his arms around her and begged her to give up the degrading habit of drink. His vehemence in her new softened mood stirred the depths of her soul, and in a passionate outburst, she cried:

"Tobe, would to God you were my boy! I've deceived you and rightly your noble nature rebelled against the thought of one so weak, holding so holy a relation to you. I'm not your mother. Your mother died in Nashville, Tenn., during the Centennial Celebration. She dwelt in a cottage not far from a medical college, in which another son, your brother, was a student. She was a widow, and with her husband's insurance was educating your brother and supporting herself and you. You were then a child of about two years, a bright, winsome lad. I had lost my husband six months before, a man tender and kind, and with whom I had lived happily. I had some education, was a good housekeeper, and so concluded to find a place in some home and support myself. Chance threw me in your mother's way. She was a good woman and felt sorry for me. She offered me a home with her which I gladly accepted. I never left the house without your little fingers holding to my skirts or clasped in mine, and when tired, your baby arms would twine around my neck, and the love buried in the grave was resurrected and given to you. My life was happy now, filled with simple duties well done. Six months thus

passed and your dear mother died, after a two weeks' illness of pneumonia. Your brother had gone on a visit to a college chum and though your mother notified him of her illness neither he nor she thought it serious. Death came unexpectedly; pneumonia is a disease that gradually and imperceptibly saps the life-blood of its victim, and my heart was crushed at the suddenness and shock of my good angel's taking away. I was

thus bereft of husband and best friend in one year. I was never 'sociable,' even when my husband lived, and made few friends, but I loved you and your mother dearly. Your brother was telegraphed the sad news, and answered, 'Would leave immediately,' but I knew at the earliest twenty-four hours would elapse before he could reach the scene of sorrow. My heart was breaking, and the thought of his coming, which would separate you and me, filled my cup of bitterness to overflowing. Your baby mind, unaware of the great grief befallen it, was occupied with its toys, or following as usual its 'Auntie Tate,' as your baby lips lovingly lisped my name. My heart was in a storm of grief and passion, and bitterly I rebelled against my unhappy fate. I know not how I conceived the plan, but Satan, the arch-enemy, must have been the instigator. I washed and dressed your mother carefully, got the doctor who had attended her, but who like myself was unprepared for her death, to send for an undertaker. I had taken charge of your mother's money as I had her full confidence, and had everything prepared for your brother's arrival and her burial. When all arrangements were completed I left the neighbors in the parlor with her remains and retired to her bedroom on the plea of looking after you and resting, as though thoroughly exhausted by my long watching and care at the sick bedside, but in reality to pack my belongings and yours; and with you in my arms, I slipped out unobserved and de

parted on an early train for Washington. Nashville was crowded with strangers, visiting the Fair, and all I met were unknown to me. I had left a sealed letter to your brother, explaining his mother's circumstances, for I was a good, systematic housekeeper, and a glance at the tabulated items would tell him how he stood financially. But I left no hint of my plan about you or myself, nor any clue for a detective to work on. I never heard what became of your brother, or what efforts were made to find us. I was too rejoiced at first with the possession of you to care for aught else. But time dulls all things; joy gave way to fear, and when I'd return from my work in the afternoon (I'd been lucky in securing employment in a hotel as assistant matron), I'd tremble at the thought of your not being there, of my being nabbed as a common thief and kidnapper. Then when I'd find you well and happy, the load would be lifted and I'd feel free again. Thus passed four years, when one day passing through the diningroom of the hotel, my glance fell on a handsome young man about twentyeight-your brother, Harvey Wright. With the speed of a gazelle I took flight unnoted, but frightened beyond belief, and unrecognized by him. I resigned my position at once and with you came direct here to New York. Satan once more took hold of me, and with constant dread of detection, of being found out, of coming face to face with your brother, developed this weakness you so despise, and kept me confined to the house. He would never recognize you, as you were so young when he last saw you, but I had no such hope. The love for you that had made of me a criminal has not died, but the demon that lodges in whisky tramples down one's better nature, and only an act of Providence can revive it. Father David's talk and kindness roused my dormant conscience, and for the past four weeks I've lain awake each night thinking of how I'd wronged

you in robbing you of your rightful protector and of the advantages you should now be enjoying."

Tobe had listened to this long experience with eyes opened wide in astonishment, dismay and fear. He loved the woman and had really never doubted her authority, but his pride rebelled against her weakness; he was ashamed of it; and in his heart he rejoiced that such a fault belonged not to his real mother. There's an undercurrent of joy in every boy's heart at the thought of his mother, his particular possession. No matter how many sisters or brothers he may have she is his individually-his mother. A thoughtless boy may refer disrespectfully to his father as the "old man" but his mother is always his "mother," the one next to his Creator he loves to honor and respect. Tobe had lately learned to pray, and silently he lifted his eyes to heaven and thanked God that his bitterest trial was over, but the thought came to him how many children had drunken parents to contend with, who were really their parents, and how nobly they bore the shame and consequent suffering; and he regretted his weakness in wanting to disavow her who had taught him to call her mother. The lesson of Noe he had learned at Sunday School the previous Sunday, and he felt like Cham who, finding his father drunk, laughed at his condition, while his nobler brothers, Sem and Japheth, with the reverence and filial love due a parent, covered him with a cloak, and in his heart he asked God not to punish or curse him as Noe did Cham and his descendents.

Mrs. Gray reflected a moment before continuing, Tobe heeding every word in silence. "I'll send for Father David, tell him your true history and get his help in restoring you to your brother, and then it matters little what becomes of me."

Tobe's heart overflowed with compassion for her, and throwing his arms. around her, he cried out, "I'll always be

true to you, mother." The drawn, tense lines of Mrs. Gray's face relaxed, and gathering him to her, she kissed him passionately. "I must redeem myself while I have the courage," she exclaimed, "I'll see Father David to-night."

While she was preparing for her visit to Father David, a gentle knock announced the reverend pastor accompanied by a gentleman. Mrs. Gray recognized the stranger at once, and a pallor overspread her face. The keen eyes of the priest noted this, but saw that his friend was unacquainted with her.

"I was just going to call on you, sir, 'but am glad you've spared me the trip," remarke Mrs. Gray.

"I had no intention of coming, madam, as I had other business to attend to, but my friend, Dr. Wright, is interested in your son. The doctor is the owner of the automobile that came near killing a little child some weeks ago, and made a hero of your son here." "Yes," interrupted the doctor, "Tobe prevented my being a murderer, and though doctors and auto fiends haven't the reputation of being chicken-hearted, it was a great relief to me that the child's life wasn't sacrificed to my pleasure. I know Father David well and to-night in discussing the narrow escape, I told him I would like to meet my little soldier, so he brought me here. Madam," he went on, "I see your circumstances and feel I owe your boy an indebtedness, which I hope you won't refuse in my offer to educate him. Father David tells me he is unusually bright and clever, and after school hours he can earn a salary by taking care of my office, and thus give up his exposed life as a news-seller. I have no family. My mother, to whom I was devotedly attached, died several years ago, and an only brother was mysteriously lost at the same time. I have no other ties, so I feel free to adopt Tobe as my protegé. Some men prefer dogs or horses to care for," he remarked

laughingly, "but I would like to try my hands on a human being," and he drew Tobe towards him. "I'm not altogether in sympathy with the Roosevelt administration, but I feel the nation owes him a vote of thanks for his outspoken words of praise for home life and family ties, particularly his love for children.'

"I second the motion," cheerfully responded Father David; "our President is ideal where home and the family are concerned. Tobe, do you think you would like to be adopted by Dr. Wright?"

Before the boy could reply Mrs. Gray, whose wistful countenance had im

pressed even the priest's genial nature,

threw herself at the doctor's feet and pleaded for forgiveness, her incoherent words flowing like a stream from a fountain, so steadily and swiftly, that she seemed to gasp for breath. All at once the doctor realized the import of her words, and gathering the frightened child to his breast, exclaimed, "My brother, my dear little brother." Tears flowed down the strong man's face; the reverend Father looked from woman to child in amazement and incredulity. Tobe was overjoyed at the tender embrace of the big, manly man, but his child heart was dreading the loss of her whom not long since he would have. been glad not to acknowledge as mother. In the excitement of the confession, all had risen, and Mrs. Gray tremblingly awaited the thunder-bolt she expected to be hurled at her, and wished an earthquake might engulf her.

"My poor, misguided friend," spoke the priest, grasping the situation and wishing to give the doctor time to control himself, and fearing also for the weak woman's reason, "your sin has been great, your conduct criminal, but your acknowledgment makes amends in part at least, and let us hope that the improvement in your future conduct will fully atone for the misdeeds in the past."

Checking his angry thoughts, the doctor said: "The bitterness has not all gone, Mrs. Gray, but I see you, too, have suffered, so we'll let the 'dead past bury its dead.' 'Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof,' shall be my maxim. I'll take you again into my confidence, and trust you as housekeeper, so you'll not be separated from our little Robert, or Tobe, as he hast learnt to know himself. I trust our forgiveness, mine and his, will give you no excuse to relapse into the habits of the past."

Pressing Tobe to her bosom she promised faithfully never again to taste the cursed liquor that had dragged her down to shame and disgrace.

"I have acknowledged no God, have thought of none," she added, "but now I know there is a God, a merciful, forgiving God, or His creatures would not exercise mercy."

The doctor extended his hand to the erring creature, while Father David feelingly observed, "To err is human, to forgive divine."

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T

HE accompanying illustration is a faithful picture of a sixteenth century adobe church. This structure, the central feature of the village of Opede, Mexico, is more than three hundred and fifty years old, having been erected by the Spanish pioneers of that distant day.

Since its dedication, the natives assert, there has not passed a Sunday without the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass within its sacred precincts. The village of Opede is now far inland, and is of smaller importance than of old. It occupies a picturesque site on the margin

of the San Mignee river, one hundred miles south of the United States, and thirty miles from the nearest railroad. More than half the distance from the railroad lies through a desert, so that not only do few tourists pass that way, but the village has lost importance with the years.

In the long ago, when Opede had a resident priest, the little pioneer church was the scene not only of the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass daily, but of Vespers on Sunday and feast days. Opede is now a mission, the village having not more than three hundred souls resident there.

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I.

By P. J. COLEMAN

T had been a week of excitement in Derreen. The quiet little town had been proclaimed from Dublin Castle as a "disturbed centre"-the disturbance being caused by the campaign of eviction inaugurated by Viscount Loughglynn against his impoverished tenantry.

It mattered not to his lordship, frittering his people's money away in the Riviera, that his estate was in the heart of the Congested District of the west; that the crops had failed the previous autumn; that goods and chattels had been mortgaged to the last farthing to meet his extortionate demands. Money he must have for his yachts and hunters, his champagne and venison, his lackeys, his carousals, though the people starved at home and famine sat, lean and holloweyed, at every hearthstone in Costello. What cared he if the brave men of his estate-poor tradesmen of the towns and small farmers and cottiers of the country villages-had to go to England every summer as harvest menspalpeens in local parlance-to scrape together the rent that would keep the thatch over the heads of their wives and children? What cared he for the hardships and sufferings of those heroic men, leaving their loved ones at home the greater part of every year, while they toiled by rising sun and setting moon in the wheatfields of Cheshire, the collieries of Lancashire, the fens of Lincoln. or the grimy potteries of the Black Country? That was their lot in life, and if Providence had ordained it so, far be it from him to question the decrees of Providence. If hunger and heartbreak, pestilence and famine were their portion, it was the fortune of their caste. What

were tenants for but to support their landlords? His caste-the caste of the intruder and usurper, of the Cromwellian and Williamite-might not forego an iota of their privileges, nor curtail their luxury or pleasure by so much as the buttons of a single livery or the price. of a single race horse. He had his mansion in Belgravia and his castle on the Thames to maintain in state fitting one whose ancestors had been favorites of Elizabeth and Lords Justices of Ireland.

The palatial house at Loughglynn he seldom saw. But it had its uses; for it gave free quarters on a magnificent scale to his Irish agents, and it was the treasury whence twice a year his diminishing revenues were renewed from the pockets of his impoverished tenantry. So to Sandford he left the management of his estate, placing absolute reliance on his word and leaving him sole and unquestioned arbiter in all disputes as to rents and reductions thereof. And Sandford, entrenched like a pasha in his master's favor, wielding all the arbitrary powers of a pasha over the Barony of Costello, made him a faithful servant, wringing the last penny from the tenants and only under sternest compulsion granting such leniency to an exasperated people as prudence, not humanity dictated..

But now Sandford, smarting under some very caustic telegrams from Belgravia commenting on his late dilatoriness, had instituted a campaign of eviction against the stiff-necked generation who either could not or would not pay the current "gale." So the hamlets and farms around Derreen had been deluged with "notices to quit." "It had snowed processes" on the estate, said a local agitator, and Derreen was in a state of siege.

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