knows what ghosts and goblins? No, thank you. Of the two, I prefer to lose the infant if either must be sacrificed. But starvation is not imminent, my best of sisters. Such vigorous lung powers testify to abundant vitality."

This time Miss Bertha laughed outright, a hearty, sweet little laugh. And she made no more suggestions to her brother, but devoted herself to quieting the baby. In course of time Rand was heard returning, and an extraordinary appearance he made as Mr. Adams opened the door for him. His clothes were covered with cobwebs and dust, a dozen or more straws stuck at all angles in his hair, and one cheek was ornamented with a long smut mark. That he had been prosecuting his quest under difficulties was evident; but it was also to be seen that he had come off victor, for he carried an immense tin pail, holding about three quarts of milk, and one nearly as large filled with water. These he gravely deposited on the floor at Miss Adams' side, and then produced a small box of sugar from his pocket and laid it on the table.

It required all Bertha's self-control to repress a smile as she glanced at the bountiful supplies and their bearer, particularly as she saw her brother apparently examining a cabinet, but really shaking with laughter.

“Thank you. Now, I shall have to trouble you for a cup and spoon," she said pleasantly, after a minute. Rand turned to the cabinet, and, after unlocking a few doors and drawers, brought forth a cup of dainty egg-shell china, of veritable baby blue, with a large gilt K delicately traced upon it; also a case of gold-lined spoons with the Kennedy monogram.

By Jove, Mr. Kennedy!" cried the irrepressible George, drawing near, "you don't do things by halves, do you? That set out is fit for a princess!"

Rand glanced up in surprise.

"It is for my guest," he began with some haughtiness; and then, with a sly twinkle in his eyes and a broader smile than his face had known for years, he added dryly: "One visit to the lower regions is enough."

By this time baby's supper was ready for her, and as she was quite ready for it, the meal was soon dispatched. But she did not go to sleep again, as Bertha had expected. She seemed restless and feverish, and required constant soothing. So an hour passed, and it soon became evident that the little thing was very ill. Once more Rand made an expedition out into the storm to bring a doctor, who pronounced the trouble scarlet fever, aggravated by exposure and the milk to which it was unaccustomed. It was not until the next afternoon that the weather allowed of the baby's being taken to the hospital. Rand accompanied Mr. and Miss Adams and saw that every possible care should be given to the little waif. Then, having expressed anew his obligations and gratitude to both brother and sister, he bade them adieu, and took his way back to his home.

It was not yet twenty-four hours since that ringing peal of the bell had startled him, but it seemed a lifetime almost, so much of new emotion and experience had been crowded in. He could define nor explain nothing; he did not even attempt to philosophize on the matter; he only knew that he seemed to be living in a dream, a pleasant, alluring dream, and he dwelt again and again upon each little incident of the lately passed hours.

In such a mood he reached the house and entered the library. His glance rested upon the deep old rocker which had been brought down from some long unused chamber, and in which Bertha had sat with the child upon her knees; at the screen which she had made of

some shawls which had been his mother's; but the memories they awoke in him extended no farther back than that very morning, when Bertha's hands had pinned them there; at the cups and bottles which disordered his writing-table; at the pillows heaped upon the lounge; at the tiny sock which must have been dropped from baby's foot at the last minute. I think the master of Kennedy Park had never before seen just such a looking room, but he made no attempt to arrange it. He put on his dressing-gown and drew his own easy chair nearer the fire, and sat there trying in vain to convince himself that it was not lonely and desolate.

Suddenly his eye fell upon a strange object lying across his sleeve-a long hair of a soft golden brown color. Staid old bachelor that he was, he blushed like a girl as he took it gently in his fingers. Then he fell to remembering how sweet and womanly Bertha had looked, sitting in the deep old chair with the baby in her arms; how gentle and tender she had shown herself to the poor, little forsaken thing; how bright and charming and capable she had been in a thousand little ways. He never knew how long he dreamed there, still holding the brown hair as tenderly as though it could feel his touch, and 'Demus hardly knew whether to be most alarmed or distressed when his master bade him, next morning, leave everything just as it was in the

room.

"Pears like Massa Rand done got right smart 'fobulated wif all dis yer 'motion 'bout dat misabul pore white trash. He ain't nebber ben hisself sence old massa died, do'! Praise de Lord! in his marcy he done spare ole 'Demus to tend on de dear boy-and he need tendin' now fur shore." And the faithful old creature hobbled down to confide to Aunt Cleo his dread suspicions that their beloved "young master" was slowly but surely taking leave of his senses. And confirmation strong" was not wanting within a week.

Going to call Rand to dinner one evening, 'Demus found him forever disappeared, and in his stead a fine looking gentleman some fifteen years younger in appearance than the late master of the place.

The long straggling beard and the bushy hair were trimmed quite short, the gold-bowed spectacles replaced by eye-glasses which it seemed need not be worn constantly, and so allowed a good view of a pair of keen, kindly, dark gray eyes; the rusty old clothes had been superseded by a quiet, stylish suit. But the greatest change of all, and the one which poor old Demus felt most surely, was in the air and bearing of the man himself. He seemed to have awakened from a Rip Van Winkle sleep and to feel once more the youthful blood coursing in his veins. A new interest in life, a consciousness of his own needs, and bright hopes for the future, showed themselves in every movement.

'Demus waited upon Rand in silence, though his heart was full to bursting. But at length the younger man felt something breaking in upon the brightness of his own musings, and looked up quickly to see great tears rolling down the black, wrinkled cheeks beside him. He sprung up in alarm.

"Why, 'Demus," he cried, "are you suffering? What can I do for you ?”

'Demus gave a mighty gasp and made a brave effort to control himself. But it was of no use. He broke down utterly, and clasping Rand in his arms as he had done many a time when he was, a little fair-haired lad, he sobbed forth all the misery and pity and loving sympathy of his faithful soul.

At first Rand was bewildered and utterly at a loss to

comprehend; but as 'Demus became calmer, and was able to speak more coherently, he came to know the full weight of the burden his devoted old friend had been carrying. His own eyes were dim with tears as he gently disengaged himself, and holding both the hard black hands closely in his own, said affectionately:

"No, dear 'Demus, your young massa' has not lost his mind. Think rather that he has found it, and that the long years of darkness and desolation in this home are at an end. For though it may not be for me to win the brightness I covet, thank God I have been awakened from my selfish living, and we shall all be better and happier henceforth I trust."

It was not long after this that Miss Bertha Adams received a call from Rand Kennedy. Of course she was surprised to see him at all, still more so at the change in his appearance, but most of all at his errand; for Rand was exceedingly straightforward, and so, with manly frankness, and withal a certain chivalrous delicacy, he told her the story of his life, its sudden clouding, its loneliness, its morbid selfishness, and his recent awakening to the need of something nobler and sweeter.

Then, having laid his heart open before her, he begged her to allow him to become her friend, and, if he might, win her for his wife.

It was all so unexpected, so strange, so unlike anything which had occurred in Miss Bertha's quiet life, that she sat quite overwhelmed, unable at first to reply. But that she did so in time may be inferred from the fact that Rand made frequent journeys from home during the next six months, and one lovely September evening he did not return alone.

This all happened several years ago. Kennedy Park is now beautifully kept, and the old house has come to be a happy home. And almost as dearly loved as his own two little ones is the blue-eyed damsel who creeps into Rand's arms when her long play-day is over, and falls asleep there.

"Our Theodora," he sometimes says softly to Bertha as he kisses the dimpled cheek. "Truly she was to me a 'gift of God' which, being accepted, brought all other blessings."

But to 'Demus, loving and faithful still, the old, silent, quiet years seemed best.

Titania and her long-eared love

Are here beside a Venus lying; And wan Mazeppa, just above, Before the wolfish pack is flying.

S

And here's the mighty student-bowl,
Whose tutoring, in and after college,
Has led me nearer Wisdom's goal

Than all I learned of text-book knowledge.

"It taught me." Aye, to hold my tongue,
To keep alight, and yet burn slowly;
To break ill spells around me flung,
As with the enchanted whiff of Moly!

There was a lesson in its smoke

Too volatile for earth to fetter:

Its fire, which ashes could not choke;

Its worth, which age but made the better!

This narghileh, whose hue betrays
Perique from soft Louisiana,
In Egypt once beguiled the days

Of Tewfik's dreamy-eyed Sultana.

PERIOD III-CHAPTER III.

AND what was it Mrs. Forth saw over Bellairs' shoulder? What is the sight that, now that the temporary call upon her attention is withdrawn, is riveting into such an agony of search the lovely cold eyes, to which so few things seem worth looking at? Fortunately for her, a new batch of undergraduates has hurried up to be presented to Sarah. Never since the days of Dresden and the German army has Miss Churchill had her hands so full. Belinda is free to send her gaze unnoticed round the hall, in a silent, breathless, passionate quest. Quest of what? She does not ask herself how much the better off she will be if she succeeds in finding the object of that quest. To find it! to find it! Come what may of the finding, to find it! Most people would feel sure that she has been deceived by an accidental resemblance to Rivers in some stranger; men of his size, complexion and bearing being, though unhappily in a minority, yet still numerous among two thousand youths of the English upper classes. But Belinda would laugh to scorn the suggestion that at any distance, or in any glimpse, however momentary, she could have mistaken any other for him.

There exists in her mind no smallest doubt that the

face seen in that one lightning flash, and then instantly hidden by twenty other intervening faces, was his-his or his angel's! Perhaps he is dead, and that he has come to tell her. A mute sob rises in her throat. Whether in the spirit or the body, she must find him! At intervals of every few minutes she is interrupted in her search by the greetings and observations of passing acquaintances. She answers them politely and connectedly, but with a brevity that does not encourage a prolongation of their civilities; a brevity that will the sooner leave her free.

The room is thinner than it was, or rather the crowd is distributed more evenly over its whole area. Since the supper-tables sprang into sight-even loyalty giving the pas to hunger; the uncertain hope of a bow from the Duke, to the sober certainty of lobster-salad-the packing about H. R. H. is less dense. The guests are extended along the line of tables. Of Sarah, indeed, scarcely a vestige is to be seen, so closely is she hedged' in by a wall of boys. At something she has just said they all laugh rapturously; those who did not hear it -so firmly assured already in her character as a witas well as those who did.

The signalman's biographer has descended from his

estrade, and is talking as commonplacedly to his hostess as if he wotted nothing of parental agonies or points, and as if the rosy babe had been sent to bed with the whipping it deserved. Through the slackening of the press it has surely become easier for one seeking to discover the person sought; and yet for a while she seeks in vain. How many heads there are! heads bald as Cæsar's; heads thickly clad as Absalom's; heads white, heads brown; sandy heads, pepper-and-salt heads, gold heads; long heads, round heads, knobby heads! And how they shift and move! Will they never stay quiet for a moment? And among them all, he is not! He must have gone-gone without ever conjecturing her nearness!

Again that mute sob rises chokingly. Why should he not be gone? Why should she wish that he were not gone? Why should she wish to see him? What has she to say to him when they meet? But she pushes roughly aside Reason's cool pleading. Why does she wish it? Why-why? There may be no why, but she does wish it; wishes it with such a compelling frenzy of wishing, as seems as if it must produce the fulfilment of that wish. And it does. Its might prevails. Ah-h-h! For in a moment she has seen him again. He is nearer now; so near as to be recognizable past mistake or misgiving, even by eyes less acquainted than hers with every trick of lip and brow. If he continues to advance in the direction at present taken by his steps, it is impossible but that in one minute or less-in perhaps fifty seconds, perhaps forty-she will come within the range of his vision. He will be aware of her as she is aware of him.

"Are you ready to go home ?" says a voice at her elbow.

She turns suddenly; eyes alight and heart madly bounding, to find her husband at her elbow. The revulsion is so hideous that speech wholly fails her.

"I should be obliged if you would tell me where I am likely to find your sister," he continues, taking her silence for assent, since she is never very prodigal of her words to him; "so that I may let her know that we are going."

66

we

But at that she finds voice. "Going!" she says, flashing one look of passionate dissent at him. "Why should we go? Impossible !” "I see no impossibility," he answers captiously; have already amply satisfied the claims of civility. The impossibility, as you are perfectly aware, lies in combining such late hours with early rising in the morning." "Then why should you rise early ?" answers she, with tremulous rebellion. "It is no use talking-I cannot come away. You forget Sarah; it-it would not be fair upon Sarah; I have neither the wish nor the right to spoil her enjoyment.

“I should imagine that nothing would be easier than to find a chaperon in whose charge to leave her," rejoins he persistently; "if indeed," with a slightly venomous look in the direction of his sister-in-law, "she considers one necessary."

But Belinda only observes a silence which he divines to be mutinous. He is accustomed in her to sullen compliance, uncheerful acquiescence, loth obedience; but to open revolt he is not accustomed, and, on the spur of the moment, and in so public a place, he is not prepared to deal with it.

"Since you manifest such an avidity in the pursuit of pleasure," he says resentfully, "I will indulge you with another half hour, at the end of which time I must beg that you and your sister will be prepared to accompany me without farther remonstrance."

He does not await the answer, which perhaps he knows he would not receive; but turns on his heel and leaves her leaves her free to pursue that feverish search which his coming had so rudely interrupted.

It is some moments before she again finds the object of that search; moments long enough for her to tell herself in heart bitterness that she has pushed against her fate in vain. But then, all in a moment, she has found him again. He is farther off, indeed, than he was some trifle must have diverted his steps from the direction then pursued by them; and he is still, in his unconsciousness, slowly widening the distance between

them.

Is it possible that he is tending toward the door? that she, unable by word or sign to arrest him, will see him go? Oh, but life is a hard thing! Knowing as she does that at one lightest cry from her he would turn ; to be no more able to utter that cry than if a real material gag were choking her utterances! Can it be, then, that her soul's cry has reached his soul's ears? for he does turn suddenly and smiling. Has he seen her, that he smiles? Ah no! Would he indeed smile if he saw her? She has not given him much cause to smile at the sight of her. Well, he is wise. He has again averted his look. And the half-hour, the inexorable half-hour is passing! How much of it has already gone? Ten minutes, at least, must by this time have passed.

There are only twenty minutes for hope to work upon. Twenty minutes!-and then the close fly, the Early English Villa, Professor Forth, and the Fragments of Menander! To the end of time Professor Forth, and the Fragments of Menander!

Again her thoughts are broken in upon by a voice— Sarah's this time; Sarah having shaken herself free of her disciples; Sarah with a solicitous look and an anxious eye.

"I think it best to tell you," she says hurriedly, and narrowly watching the effect of her words upon her sister's face; "I was afraid lest you might hear it sud- · denly from some one else-some stranger. I suppose you have not seen seen him yet, but he is here!"

"I know it," answers Belinda shortly, and very low.

"You-you are not going to faint ?"

"Faint! why should I faint?" with an accent of intense impatience, her eyes still riveted on the now again approaching figure; "do I ever faint ?" Would you like to go home ?"

"Go home!" echoes Belinda, in an accent of fierce desperation; "why do you all sing the same song? why are you all determined that I must go home ?"

"I thought you would wish it," replies Sarah anxiously. "I should if I were in your place. Do you not think it would be better?"

But she speaks to deaf ears. Her eyes, still fastened on her sister's face, see that face's lilies suddenly dyed with a most happy and loveliest flush.

The sun has risen; he has touched the sunless snow on the Jungfrau's crest, and all the world is rosy red. So then he has seen her! There is now no longer any fear of his departing unintentionally ignorant of her neighborhood.

There is indeed time for one short pang of alarm lest he should do what in her heart she knows if he were wise he would do-and who knows how much of wisdom these two years may have lent him?-turn away, and knowingly avoid her! But apparently he is not wise.

In a moment he has pierced the small portion of