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Conversation ceased. They leaned on the counter, listening with strained nerves to a rustle on the other side of the door. At last it ceased, and with positive relief the young man saw the door open and the lady emerge. She was fully dressed, and in spite of the cold gleani in her eye, he noticed the bit of ribbon round the neck, the cheap gold bangle, and a brooch at the throat. And seeing all this, he took heart. He spoke quickly, taking off his cap.

"I can't tell you how sorry I am to have disturbed you," he said. "I will go immediately, if you won't forgive me. I am a friend of your husband's." He paused.

"I see the drunken swine," said the lady, placing her hands on her ample hips. "Go on."

The young man turned to the brakeman. "Will you introduce me to your wife?" he asked.

"What's yer name?" asked the brakeman, bluntly.

The young man blushed. "I'm learning railroading under your husband," he said hurriedly. "My name is West. My father considers Mr. -, your husband, one of the best men on the road to give instruction to a novice. We've been wandering round the mountains all the morning; but when your husband told me that you were at Red Rock, I insisted on being presented. I am extremely sorry to have troubled you, but it is so seldom of late that I have had the opportunity of enjoying ladies' society that"-he stopped, for he was being interrupted.

"You're lyin', sonny," said Sylvia. There was not the shadow of doubt or hesitation in her tone; her manner was quite final, and the young man, abashed, was silent. Then he raised his head with a jerk, and laughed, heartily and unaffectedly.

"You're quite right, Mrs. Sylvia," he confessed. "But if you're not very angry, I'd like to explain; I'll tell the truth this time."

It may have been the collar; perhaps it was the creased trousers; more likely it was the frank, eager face; at any rate, Sylvia smiled, a grim smile, but sufficient. She opened the door of her private apartment. "Come in," she said, almost graciously. Then, as the brakeman

shifted uneasily from one foot to the other, "Come in," she snapped. "Don't stand there like a fool!"

Within, the young man explained, carefully omitting the brakeman's version of his wife's disposition. And Sylvia, with a queer smile twisting her lips, listened, and brought forth viands from a private store. She made no comment on the story, but talked to the young man of other things, of Denver, of the mountains, of the traveling public. The brakeman, sitting apart, listened and said no word till, standing on the platform, they made ready to return to the freight. Then, "I'll be back by Friday, Sylvia," he ventured.

"Come sober, if you can," said his wife. And, shaking hands with the young man, "Give up the tramp job and don't lie, young man," she said.

"I will," promised the young man, fervently. And as they tramped back to the curve, "Your wife's too good for you," he told the brake


"Sure," said that individual, cheerfully.

It was 3.30, and the shadows of the cars stretched far up the mountain-side, when the returning engine puffed round the curve. The fireman only stared at finding two waiting instead of one, but the engineer expressed his surprise audibly. "An' who in hell's that?" he inquired, politely.

"This is a particular friend of mine, Mr. West," said the brakeman. "He's goin' to Salt Lake with us."

The engineer gazed with much disfavor at the dapper figure. "An' what's he do for a livin'?" he demanded.

The brakeman chuckled. "Lord, Jim," he said, "he don't have to work, he don't."

Kenneth Brooke Townsend.


SCENE: Mount Ida. PARIS on a litter, surrounded by numerous



PARIS, husband of HELEN OF TROY, mortally wounded by the arrow of PHILOCTETES.

NONE, a demi-goddess-who can heal mortal wounds-and the former love of PARIS until he saw HELEN.



It is a sombre way from dream to dream,

And the road swerving deathward wounds the feet,
Where no cool meadows are-O my breast, my breast!


Now is the wounded side no house for life,

Or the soft flame that frets and will not stay.

The morning shines. Now has the dream been dreamed.


It is not yet. I will not have it so

To swoon out of this brightness and this day,

This June-time into darkness-O Enone,

A bitter memory push back from thy brows.

O banished love and bitter, bitter hate!

These things have been. I pray thee, hear me now.

Lift me up from this barren bed of death,
That am not weary yet nor sleepful grown!
O hear, for thee the immortal essence fills-
Godlike that canst heal up the mortal wound.
O give me life, if in thy memory

Still there is sown the memory of that dream
Wherein we loved, ere that this hate was born,
Wherein we loved, ere that new face was thrust
Laughing, between my passion and thy pain,
A new and a woman's face, human and glad;
But thine was godlike and imperious,
Diviner and more calm-yet Helen, Helen,
O woman's face that laughs and weeps again,
I loved thee more!


Thou speakest wittingly.

Stern are the gods and beauty is their throne,
The love they love with is implacable,
But a man's love is sorrowful and short joy-
Passion and birth-pang of the flesh that hurts
And a grave pity hurrying to the doom.
Therefore we love it because it is pitiable.


My heart, my side ache with a dreamy pain.
Wilt thou desert me?-for that I have not loved,
Wilt thou not come?-for that I love thee still,
Wilt thou not come? If thou deny, I sleep,
And wake not ever, then shall I sleep indeed.
Then shall I sleep, and sleep is dark and drear.
O my flesh aches-how may I bear the pain!
O my head wearies-who shall lift it up!


Alas! Alas!

ENONE appears.


That was a human cry,

Paris, is it thy voice I hear again?


Art thou none, whom I once have loved?


I am that Enone; but, Paris, where art thou?


My life ebbs slowly and through a wound my breast Is emptied of her dream. O make it whole!


Is this that Paris that was proud with love?


My body aches. O heal me, make me whole!


Alas, where is the tall, the Trojan queen!


Nay, do not vex me! Heal me or I die!

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